Mark... my words!

Amazing Grace, Pt. 1

2006-07-06T09:25:00.000-05:00

This past year, we in my church's men's bible study group went through the book of Leviticus, verse by verse, digging into the guts of it all. The intended purpose of it was to show the guidelines and expectations of men today in the home, church and community by looking at the roles of the priests and laws of Mosaic times. It did this, certainly. But just as strongly, I came away with two other important lessons. First was the significance of everything Jesus did for us when being tortured and crucified when looked at from the standpoint of Him being the Ultimate Sacrifice. But even more strongly impressed upon me was a greater appreciation of God's grace, that by which we are saved and forgiven through Jesus' Ultimate Sacrifice and how we should extend that same grace to each other.

My pastor posed a question a short time back when preaching on this subject. If you were arrested for something (DUI, soliciting a prostitute, caught in a drug bust), and your picture was plastered on the front page of the paper because of it, would you show your face in church the next Sunday? To me, the truly sad part is that this question would have to be asked in the first place. It seems like it should be a foregone conclusion that in a time of trouble, in a time when you need forgiveness, when you need grace, when you need to feel the support and love of your community, your congregation should be a place of refuge for you. To have people pray with you and over you. To let you know you are still loved. So why is that not the case?

You may remember Amy Grant, a talented and popular Christian singer from the late 70s and early 80s. I can remember being on youth group outings or at Church Camp and hearing El Shaddai, Sing Your Praise to the Lord, Fat Baby and other songs of hers always playing on someone's boom box. She sold out concerts all over the place. Countless numbers of people were led to Christ through her ministry. Then word came that she was divorcing her husband and collaborator, Gary Chapman. Adultery was thrown about as a posible reason. Instantly, church choirs and soloists stopped singing her songs. Christian radio stations stopped playing her music. You couldn't buy her tapes in Christian book stores any more. All because of what? She was human? She committed a sin?

Is this the way God works? Does he strip you of all His blessings when you stumble? Is this what Jesus taught us to do? Are we to turn the other cheek when an enemy smites us and give a theif our shirt when he takes our coat as well but ostracize our own Christian brothers and sisters for any offense?

Over the next few posts, I'd like to discuss the concepts of grace, forgiveness and how we are to treat those who have stumbled and how we do treat them. I'll be talking about such hot button issues as teen pregnancy, divorce, homosexuality, adultery, and even false accusations. Perhaps we should discuss how we are more willing to extend grace and community forgiveness to those who commit non-sexually based sins than those who do. I really hope those of you who read my blog will feel free to join in and share your viewpoints. I feel strongly on this issue and believe it has been placed on my heart to address it on whatever level I can, locally, nationally or even globally.

The long and short of it is this: The extention of grace from God to us or from us to each other is an expression of love. God grants us grace and forgiveness because He loves us. We should grant it to each other because God loves all of us and we are to love each other through God, even as we love ourselves. What enticement is there for someone who is unsaved to enter the fold of Christianity when they see how we can callously through our sick and wounded to the jackles?

The big boom

2006-07-05T10:02:00.000-05:00

In honor of the North Koreans testing of missiles that could, possibly, potentially carry a nuclear war head to somewhere on the western seaboard of the United States or Canada, I have decided to postpone my topic scheduled for today and write this one that has been on my mind quite a bit lately anyway.

First, this whole scenario reminds me of when I was living in Turkey during the first Gulf War. Will the day come when that conflict will be referred to as GWI and the current one as GWII? Anyhow, I was in the Air Force and stationed at Ankara Air Station. During the war, it was determined that if Saddam took the warhead out of his SCUD missiles (nuclear or otherwise) and filled hem from nosecone to tail fin with rocket fuel, placed the launcher on the border of Iran and Turkey and had a decent tail wind, the whole contraption would run out of gas somewhere over our city of 5 million and land on our heads. Rediculous, yes, but we got combat pay for it so no one cared.

Second, for those of you living in Anchorage, Fairbanks or Juneau, Alaska, I would be irate at the media if I were you! You're a lot closer to the Korean peninsula than Seattle or San Fancisco, yet all the media can talk about is how this missle they launched (which immediately blew up, resulting in a failed launch, by the way) could strike one of those or other west coast cities. No one mentions y'all! The missiles actually could strike up there! Not to give you anything to worry about or anything.

But that's kind of my point today. I resolutely believe that none of this will come to pass -- at least not for a while. These billions of dollars being spent world wide on nuclear weapons and how to stop them is just billions of dollars wasted. And believe me, that is a pretty bold statement from the guy who as a kid had reoccuring nightmares about the aftermath of a nuclear war from the time he was in junior high until his early college years.

Measures have been in place for decades concerning how a nuclear war would be carried out. What missiles would be fired first and what would their targets be. What would be the response to someone firing the first missile at us or our allies in another part of the world. In the end, it all comes down to the same thing: The end of the world.

But we know that is not the case. We can read the Bible and get a picture of how the world will end. Almost all Christians, regardless of their Biblical knowledge, has heard something about the Rapture, the Antichrist, the Tribulation... None of these things will be able to come to pass if the world is destroyed by a former Soviet republic, China, North Korea, Pakistan, India, France, England or anyone else firing a nuclear weapon at anyone. That would mean the Bible is wrong and the implications of that...

"But Geek, the US has already dropped two atomic bombs, what about that?" Those bombs were dropped before systems and computers were put in place to gurad against any further mushroom clouds ever appearing over any city of the world.

"But Geek, what about someone like Iran? They don't care about our Bible and would think it a great reflection on them if they fired a nuclear warhead at Israel like they have been threatening to do." Yeah, so? I say we call their bluff. We already know this won't happen for the very reason I stated above. But lets take the Bible out of the picture for a moment. Iran won't fire a nuclear weapon at Israel. Why? because Jerusalem is one of the most important cities in Islam (at least since 1923). The second most important mosque in Islam is there. A nuclear warhead detonating over Jerusalem would destroy all of these important sites. Don't forget, Iran is a theocracy. The danger to religious sites would be taken into consideration first.

A missile fired anywhere else in Irael would risk too many other places and things important to Islam. Not to mention the fact that the West Bank and the Gaza Strip would be destroyed. Millions of Palastinians would die. And what if the missile missed its mark? Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, Egypt and Saudi Arabia would not take kindly to Iran nuking them, either. Not to mention the enormous backlash from the entire Muslim world should anything important to them be hit. It's not worth the risk.

God may use nuclear weapons during the Time of Tribulation, but I believe he will not allow them to be used before then. Not from Iran or North Korea or anyone else. That's just my opinion, mind you, but I pray I'm right.

Note: Sorry for the heavy topic today. This whole blog has been percolating in my mind for the fast couple of weeks and I had to get it out.

Where we are and where we should be

2006-06-29T13:10:00.000-05:00

Note: This post is in response to something Jules at Everyday Mommy wrote. I was going to leave it in her comments, but it grew too large :)

Jules talked at length about what she sees as a growing trend in churches today, having vistited many of them in the last four years and found them to all to be almost identical in that they seem more wrapped up in activities and functions than in teaching The Word and doing what it says. I agree with Michelle (a pastor's wife and one of the people who left a comment on Jules' site) that a lot of churches seem to be using these non-worship activities to lure non-churched, non-saved people into their "safe camp." But therein lies the problem with that philosophy: Jesus commanded us to go out into the world, not bring the world to us.

"But Geek, we're supposed to be fishers of men and fishermen in those days cast out nets and drew the fish into the boat." Yeah. But first they had to go where the fish were. You can cast your net into the sand as much as you want, but you won't catch nearly as many fish as you would by going to the water. And you'll catch more by going out into the water than by standing at the edge of the water.

The outreach pastor in my church has openly disparaged "churchy stuff" saying that's not what the world flocks to. The pastor at my old church in Charlotte, NC (H. Loran Livingston at Central Church of God) threatened to shut down all activities when he felt they were getting in the way of what we were supposed to be doing.

For centuries, churches, cathedrals and other holy buildings have been used to provide shelter and sanctuary, protecting those within from that which was outside. Today, we as Christians do not case persecution (In North America) like the Christians of old did, but we have still turned our churches into fortifications, providing the facade of protecting those inside from The World, outside. Only instead of ramparts, balustrades, palisades, portcullises and other strategic architectural accessories to make those within feel safe, too many churches today resort to alternatives to public schooling, alternatives to the Boy and Girl Scouts, alternatives to civic groups. They rally to help the elderly, infirm and destitute within our ranks while providing not even one tenth of the same support for those who are not.

The American Church (for I cannot speak for those churches of other countries with certainty) has become self inclusive. It has become isolationistic. It has reverted to the strategy of the pre-Reformation Catholic Church of essentially trading favors for salvation. "Yes, we will help you, but as we do not wish to step outside of our comfort zone, you must step in, first."

Does this mean I think churches should not have activities and groups outside of worship services? No. Not at all. Some of them, many of them serve a great purpose in developing new and young Christians, training each other, providing each of us with an opportunity to serve God in the way in which he mades us to serve Him (and others). But not to the point where activities become, as Everyday Mommy speculated, 75% (or even 100%) of our Christian life.

Essentially, it has come down to this: The church today (at least in America) is exactly where Satan wants us. He has backed us into a corner and made us cowardly and ineffective. He has made the ground around us so muddy, we are afraid to step out and face him lest we get our shoes dirty. So we stay in our nice, clean church with our nice, clean Christian friends and celebrate ourselves and how Godly we think we are while Satan is having his way with the rest of the world and worse, the people in it. We have to leave the compound. We have to walk out the doors. We have to get our feet muddy and our hands dirty.

So does that mean we should stand up and rail against pornography and gambling? Do we attempt to ban books and put warning labels on records and CDs? Does it mean that we should defend ourselves against the crippling tide of Secular Humanism and other anti-Christian schools of thought? Should we fight evolution and abortion and the right to sing Christmas carols?

Yes, but only after you’re done with your primary job. These crusades (or as the 80’s Christian rock group Petra called them, Witch Hunts) have their place but can also be tools of the devil. Yes, Satan can and will entice and encourage Christians to fight against his own work (remember, a house divided…) because if we are focusing on all of these witch hunts, we are not focusing on what Jesus called us – no, commanded us to do: “Go to the people of all nations and make them my disciples. Baptize them in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and teach them to do everything I have told you.”

That is the ball the American church needs to keep its collective eye on. Stop worrying about having bookstores and coffee houses on your “campuses.” Instead, go to the bookstores, coffee houses AND campuses (as well as everywhere else). You don’t have to preach or proselytize. Just let them see Jesus in you. To quote a saying from several decades ago: “You are the only Bible some people may read.” Don’t judge, don’t condemn and by all means don’t persecute. Remember God’s grace that He gives unconditionally and that we are supposed to also. To quote from an old church camp song “They will know we are Christians by our love.”

The church I attend now has the motto of "Know, Grow, Go." We've got to know Jesus. We have to grow as Christians (on many different levels) and last, but certainly not least, we've to to go.

Introducing: Geek Puppy!

2006-06-29T09:15:00.000-05:00

Yeah, we couldn't wait until Saturday. We went ahead and adopted her Tuesday and had her spayed then picked her up from the vet Wednesday evening. Yes, she's a she. According to the folks at the SPCA, she's a beagle/Jack Russel mix. Officially, her name is Sally (My oldest who's present she is gave her that name -- don't know where it came from), but she will hereafter known as Geek Puppy.

In the first 12 hours she only pooped on the floor twice and peed on it three times (that we know of). We were told she was "pretty much" house broken which sounded suspiciously like "kinda pregnant". Either you are or you're not, right? So we have to work on that and leash train her. Right now if you try to take her for a walk (say into the back yard to potty), it's like walking a boat anchor.

But everyone loves her, including my wife who claims to not like dogs. My 3 year old (in the picture on the right with her) has decided she is HIS puppy, by golly and refuses to share. We should have gotten two.

It's 5 o'clock somewhere, darn it!

2006-06-28T10:13:00.000-05:00

I've learned one thing about being a blogger in the short time I've been doing it. If you are stuck for an idea, wait five minutes and life will throw one your way.

First, for those of you who don't know it, I own and operate my own retail store. I sell baby products. I'm kind of a small town Babies 'R' Us. I opened my doors October 1, 2004. My business license and retail license were issued in September of 2004. I applied for my business loan August 20th of that year and received it a few days later. Remember that piece of information, if you will, for just a moment.

This morning, I'm tooling around the blogosphere, reading all my Mommy Blogs (oh, hush!), a few Daddy Blogs and basically trolling for ideas for today's installment. Coming up dry, I decide I'm going to tag onto Whitney Matheson's 40th birthday tribute to John Cusack over at USA Today's Pop Candy blog. Maybe I'll talk about my favorite John Cusack movies or something lame like that (For the record, it's Better Off Dead, Serendipity, Grosse Point Blank and Con Air -- the last two best viewed on commercial TV with all the cussing cut out).

So I disconnect (yes I have dial up, hush! My wife's too cheap for cable or DSL) and check what voicemail came in while I was cruising around. Just one. Probably my wife. Maybe she's offering to bring me some Mexican food for lunch? No such luck. It's some lady calling about my Home Depot account.

URNF? (That's supposed to be my spot-on Scooby impersonation. It's much better if you actually hear it as opposed to reading it.)

I don't have a Home Depot account. So I call, thinking this is just some scheme to get me to call a number so they can offer me one. Boy was I wrong!

"Yes, we called you inreference to your Home Depot acount which is now in collections for $9,261. Are you prepared to make payment on that today?"

Charging to one-50. Charged. Clear! KA-CHUNK!

Home Depot account? I don't even have a Home Depot account. There's not a Home Depot within an hour of where I live. I try to explain this to the lady but she, of course, having heard it all before, proceeds to get seven shades of pissy with me and threatening law suits and all other kinds of garbage. I try to tell her this is identity theft and can I get a copy of the application and history of the account?

"We don't have that information. You'll need to call the Home Depot Accounts office. But bear in mind that [the major credit card group who handles Home Depot's accounts] will take everoy measure to collect from you if it turns out this is your account."

"Look, there aint no "if" about it, lady!" I tend to revert to my West Virginia roots when on the verge of anger or a panic attack -- both of which were racing each other to see which would hit me first. "This isn't my account!"

I hang up with her and call Home Depot accounts. Now, I have not disguised Home Depot's name because I wanted to make sure I mentioned that the ladies I spoke with at their accounts division were extremely nice, polite and helpful, even though, as it turns out, they couldn't help me at all. I just wanted to give props to these people.

So, I call back Miss Sunshine and explain to her that Home Depot said she already has all this information and could I please get it from her so I can persue action to have this case of identity theft resolved. She proceeds to go into her spiel again and explain that I need to make restitution because this account has been in collections since August 24, 2004.

ding!

If you have forgotten the dates of certain milestones of my business, you may wish to scroll back up at this point. "Excuse me? This has been in collections since when? I don't really see how that could be since my business didn't even have a checking account until the day before that. My business didn't even officially exist until two weeks later. I fail to see how it is that Home Depot could have issued me a card, I used it to the tune of $9,261, failed to pay for at least 4-6 months before it was sent to collections when I didn't even know what I was going to call the business until two weeks prior to me getting the loan!

"Well none of that's really my concern, we're just trying to collect the money. Let me let you talk to my supervisor." And that was the last I heard of Miss Sunshine. The supervisor came on the line and in less than five minutes, we discerned that a man two hours away in another part of the state has a business with the same name as mine. When the collection agency's letters did not pan out, they tried to call but, surprise!, the number was no longer (if ever) valid. So they Googled the name of my business and the state it's in and came up with me!

The supervisor exhonorated me, appologized for any inconvenience and undue stress (pant, pant) and promised to delete my information from the record with a note that that guy and his business is not the same as this guy and my business.

In all, it turned out very well, wasn't a case of identity theft as much as it was a case of mistaken identity. Everyone involved (except Miss Sunshine) was very nice and helpful. Even I (through the grace of God alone, I assure you) remained calm.

But now I need a beer!

The countdown begins

2006-06-27T10:37:00.000-05:00

This past weekend, He Who Will Be Seven informed me that he was officially bored with all his toys. “Read a book,” said I, the voracious reader. “Reading is boring,” he replied, breaking his father’s heart. So, employing my parental wisdom, fortified with several semesters of college-level armchair psychiatry, I suggested we give away or throw away all his toys. “Or we could sell them in a yard sale and use the money to buy new toys,” he parried with expert skill. Drat.

Until my laptop arrives (soon, I hope), I have no spare computer for him to play on. We do not own a PlayStation, Nintendo, X-Box or anything like that so he can’t play on that. Not because I fear it will turn him into a zombie-eyed, game freak. After all, I played Atari and IntelliVision in my youth as well as sinking enough quarters into video games to feed a small nation. Yet I also played outside, read and did other activities. We don’t own a console game because my wife is too cheap to buy one. He does have a GameBoy, but we reserve that for long car trips. Otherwise, if he played it all the time at home, it may not hold his interest on the way to where we’re going.

However, unbeknownst to him, just the evening before my wife and I had been discussing whether or not he was ready for one of the all time great kid presents. One he had hinted about, begged for and attempted to reason us into submission over, but had not mentioned at all for at least four months, thereby employing his own armchair psychiatry and trumping ours. Actually, he trumped my wife. I was ready to give in on this one long ago.

Therefore, this Saturday, on his birthday, He Who Will Then Be Seven his first ever puppy.

YES!

I am so stoked! I can’t wait! I’m excited for him. We are adopting one this week from the SPCA. Now we just have to convince my wife that it will be allowed indoors and is not just an outdoor dog.

He's a fussy eater...

2006-06-26T10:10:00.000-05:00

George Carlin once said "He's a fussy eater. Fussy eater is just a euphamism for 'Big Pain in the Keister'." OK, George Carlin didn't put it quite as nicely as that, but when has he ever? One would hope that during the time he played the role of Mister Conductor on Thomas the Tank Engine, but I digress.

I guess I was a fairly fussy eater as a kid. I went through my "Foods can't touch!" stage. "But they get all mixed up together in your stomach," my dad would say. Yeah, but I can't see it there. Then I decided that all the foods I used to like, I didn't any more. Mushrooms, my dad's chili and broccoli just to name a few.

Now I'm ~~grown up~~ older and have started to enjoy foods I had avoided for years. Granted, I only like broccoli steamed and I still don't like mushrooms but will eat them if they are small and sufficiently covered with marinara sauce, mozzerella cheese and other pizza toppings. Now I have a (almost) seven year old who has decided he doesn't like "squishy food," mashed potatoes and a host of others.

But I still have stuff I will not eat. Last week, Mom-101 put out a clarion call to other bloggers to share their food foibles. Not one to turn down a request to talk about food, here's mine.

1) Guacamole -- Look, I don't care how sweet it is, if it comes from a can or was hand made just now by a sweet little old lady from the Andes Mountains who lovingly and personally smooshed each and every avacado, if it looks like someone's dog just puked on my plate, take it away from me. And don't try to hide it in a salad or a burrito. I will find it!

2) Refried beans -- If it looks like same said dog has the piles, please keep it away from my plate as well. And don't hide this in my burrito, either unless you want to see what refried beans look like raspberried all over the wall next to my booth. You can frame it and call it avante garde art for all I care, just get it off of my food.

3) Peanut butter in chocolate -- I love peanut butter. I love chocolate. But the two are not supposed to be mixed together. "You got your chocolate in my peanut butter!" "You got peanut butter on my chocolate and now you owe me a buck twenty five for a new candy bar 'cause I'm not eating that!"

4) Boiled peanuts -- I love peanuts salted, dry roasted or just about any other way you want to prepare then except boiled. I don't understand how people here in the south eat those things! Why don't you just put a big ol' juicy bug in my mouth and make me munch down on that. Ewww!

5) Almost all other nuts -- To be fair, I don't dislike all nuts. I love cashews and pistachios. But keep your almonds, walnuts, pecans, chestnuts and every other kind of nut out of my chocolate bars, my brownies, my banana bread and my carrot cake. Which means, since I am in a part of the south where every other house has their own personal pecan tree growing in the back yard, I am safe from spending any money at church bake sales because everything is infested with nuts!

6) Kidney beans -- I found out why I didn't like my dad's chili. It wasn't that he put spaghetti in it. And no, that had nothing to do with the fact that we lived a half mile from Ohio and that's what people in Ohio do. It had to do with my dad recycling his (awesome) homemade spaghetti sauce and turning it into chili complete with any left over spaghetti that may have been in it. No, I didn't like it because I can't stand kidney beans! Even now, when we make chili, we have to make two pots. One for my wife (who puts in double the amount of kidney beans my dad did) and kids and a second pot (sans kidneys but loaded down with cayenne, cajun seasonings, cumin and chili powder -- at least dad would have been proud of that!) for moi.

7) Oysters, clams, mussells and any other bivalved critter -- If the dog in numbers 1 and 2 had a sinus infection... OK, this illustration is just getting too nasty...

8) Eggplant -- Beautiful from the outside, open it up and you realize it's actually an alien seed pod and if you eat it, one day one of the ugly little critters will rip its way out of your belly button, making you spill your canister of Cheerios all over the galley of your space ship.

9) Peaches -- Again, yet another of the daily torments I face living in the south. I can't stand the taste, I can't stand the smell, I can't even stand the color! Is it pink? Is it orange? Tell it to make up its mind and come back later. But I still aint eating it.

10) Okra -- Will someone please tell me what the heck I am doing in the south? Huh? Oh yeah, barbecue! The one, single redeeming culinary factor here. But keep the okra away from me. Boiled or fried, I don't like it. I will accept it in my gumbo, but will just as likely discreetly spoon it out and flick it across the room.

Paging Rodney King...

2006-06-23T10:39:00.000-05:00

You know, I’ve been doing this blog thing for a couple of months and have yet to live up to one of the promises listed at the top of the page, discussions of sex, politics and religion. Mainly, it is the religion and politics part I have avoided out of concern of alienating large chunks of my multitude of readers. All four of them. And since I know at least two of them personally and know they won’t be scared off, I figure the worst I can do is lose 50%, right? So here goes.

If you now or have ever attended a Christian Church, chances are you have heard reference made at least once to “The Body of Christ”. There are a couple of different definitions for this phrase depending on your denominational upbringing, but for the sake of this discussion, we’re going to talk about “The Body of Christ” as an illustration of a healthy, well functioning church (or other organization, but more on that in a minute).

If you will allow me, here is a 30-second Bible lesson for those who may need a refresher. The illustration reasons that in the same way the body has different parts that are separate of each other and don’t look or act like each other, so are people. They each have different functions. The heart can’t do what the brain does. The eyes can’t speak and the mouth can’t hear. Likewise, a compassionate person is not likely to be a good leader or money manager. Someone who loves to help and serve others may not do as well in the role of teacher. We each need to find our place, our function and do it. It’s not the place of the “hand” to be jealous of the “foot.” Neither is it the ears’ place to criticize the way the mouth is doing its job (unless the mouth just isn’t doing it).

OK, Bible study over. The great thing about the illustration given in the Bible about The Body is that it is so easily transferred into our every day lives. Take your job, for instance. You have people who make better managers than others. You have people who are creative where others are not. Or how about the home? The husband may be good at cooking but can’t balance the checkbook. Were it not for the wife with a mind for these things, they would be in serious financial problems. We can apply the template to the economy. I can’t grow fruits and vegetables. Neither can I repair my car. I turn to people who are adept at those things to provide for those needs and services.

Where’s he going with this?

I have no idea but let him talk. There’s cookies after.

Even on the political front we see this but we selsom recognize it. The Democrat and Republican Parties are two separate parts of the same body. Each has a distinct role to play. Without going into the perceived idealogies of each, let me just say that the two (or three) party system of government is crucial to the best interests of the people it governs. Look at single party governements around the world and compare their stability and freedoms with ours. Cuba, Iraq (pre 2002), Iran, Cambodia, the People's Republic of China. Look at historical examples like the USSR, Germany in the 1930s.

Yesterday, I was lamenting the fact that so many of the blogs that I read (I seem to have developed an addiction to mommy-blogs and daddy-blogs in particular) seem to be written by left-leaning people. Actually, that’s being very conservative (pun intended) in my description. Some have outright expressed a level of dislike for conservatives (and the conservative-associated Republican Party) that borders on hatred.

I understand and support voicing your opposing view, but such anger, such seething rage is unhealthy on so many levels. I remember studying about the concept of liberalism and concervatism in my philosphy of government class in college. The professor did an excellent job of showing how liberalism left unchecked will give way to what we would today call Marxism, Maoism, Socialism, Communism and, ultimately, anarchy. Likewise, conservatism left unchecked evolves into nationalism, fascism, totalitarianism and, again, anarcy.

So next time you find yourself feeling ashamed or embarrased of your little brother who, despite growing up in three generations of Democrats still somehow became a conservative, the next time you feel yourself filled with rage over someone of another political camp expressing an opinion or performing an action that is contrary to your beliefs, chill out. That person and all who think similarly are responsible for making sure your side of the political landscape doesn't go spinning out of control. That's their job.

You can always disagree, but do so amicably. The eye does not hate the ear because it cannot see. The mouth does not hate the heart because it cannot speak. God gave us our personalities and He did so for a reason. Liberal minded people have an outlook that allows them to see needs, problems and solutions that a conservative may not and vice versa. It really is in our best interests to get along. We will get so much more good accomplished if we walk side by side instead of pushing against each other.

Get my agent on the phone!

2006-06-22T09:32:00.000-05:00

OK, after a string of technical difficulties and a chronic state of sleep deprivation that resulted in a not surprisingly non-creative near catatonic state for me, I am back at the keyboard. You know, what with my bouts of sleeplessness, Dooce's chronic constipation, I feel strangely inspired. I think perhaps a rap song.

The Blogger's Lament

'Sup, y'all.

Word to ya muthuh

Been constipated
Dehydrated
Now I am sleep deprivated
Got hem'roids
And halitosis
Take altoids.
Got deep thrombosis
In my thigh,
I would not lie.
Migranes form behind my eye.
Got pasty skin,
stay in my home
Got carpal tunnel syn-der-ome.

I'm a blogger, yeah
I blog like crazy
I'm a blogger, yeah
Folks say I'm lazy
It's a blogger thing
Y'wouldn't understand
That's why I'm sayin'
Across the land
I'm a blog-ger, yo!

I am addicted to caffine
I eat Reece's Cups
And jelly beans
I live on corn chips,
Pizza pies
I can't believe
My butt's this size.
This is my job
I don't get paid
No social life
I aint been laid
Since winter nineteen ninety-eight

I'm a blogger, yeah
I blog like crazy
I'm a blogger, yeah
Folks say I'm lazy
It's a blogger thing
Y'wouldn't understand
That's why I'm sayin'
Across the land
I'm a blog-ger, yo!

I write whatever
I'm inspired
Don't understand
Why Dooce got fired
Just for writin' about her job.
This is the end
I got to go
It's almost time
For my fav'rite show
Then I think I'll take a nap
This is my life
You re-alize
At least until my laptop dies.

I'm a blogger, yeah
I blog like crazy
I'm a blogger, yeah
Folks say I'm lazy
It's a blogger thing
Y'wouldn't understand
That's why I'm sayin'
Across the land
I'm a blog-ger, yo!

Word!

I shoulda been gonged...

2006-06-14T12:30:00.000-05:00

Looking back, it was some wierd, karmic, kismet kind of thing. It was like a synergy of likeminded people the world over. There must have been some kind of perfect conjunctuons of stars or something. Or maybe it was the chip the government implanted into the base of my skull activating. Whatever the reason, I could not get the movie and book "Confessions of a Dangerous Mind", game show host Chuck Barris' memoirs on how his life on TV was really just a front for his real job -- a spy for the CIA! Then, as I'm getting ready for work, The Today Show has this really cheesy mini-version of The Dating Game (a Chuck Barris brainchild along with The Newlywed Game). And then I come in today and read on my "This day in History" web pages and e-mails that it was 30 years ago today that The Gong Show premiered!

Spooky, huh?

Man I loved The Gong Show when I was a kid. Maybe in part because my dad hated it and watching it was my first real act of rebellion against him, but I don't have the strength to get all Freudian this morning. Besides, it's the Gong Show's birthday!

How much has this show, which only lasted two seasons and then had a very strange movie made about it, how much has it affected our culture? Aren't shows like American Idol and Last Comic Standing just the natural evolution of The Gong Show? Some of the most watched episodes of those shows are when the really bad people get their 15 seconds in the spotlight. We watch because we enjoy seeing people who are worse than us in particular talent arenas making fools of themselves. You can thank Chuck for that. And have you seen the previews for the new show with Simon Cowell, America's Got Talent? All that show is missing is the gong!

How can anyone who was alive during that time look at someone on a commercial or in real life with a paper sack over their head with eye-holes cut out NOT think back with fondness on The Unknown Comic (who still performs, I understand). Or Gene Gene, The Dancin' Machine? And what do Simon, Paula and whats-his-name have on Jaye P. Morgan, Jamie Farr and Arte Johnson? Besides, if nothing else, "The Gong Show" gave us another great American icon, Paul "Pee Wee Herman" Reubens.

Shunned and censored in its time, "The Gong Show", along with its sister in cime-time TV, "The $1.98 Beauty Show" with Rip Taylor, is probably responsible for (or to blame for, depending how you look at it) for the emergence of our modern day "Reality TV" shows than any other nuggets of TV's past.

They probably have a lot to do with my sense of humor, too. Some might say that's not a good thing either.

Revealing Questions

2006-06-13T09:09:00.000-05:00

Some of you may not know this, but I own and operate my own store. We have been lucky enough to get a space in our local mall and so that is where I sit 65-70 hours a week, watching people walk by and staring across the hallway at the Victoria's Secret store. Really, I don't know that I could have picked a better place for my store.

But as I sit here, marvelling at the recent advances in lingerieic engineering (I made that word up my self, if you have a better word for the science of creating underwear, let me know), I can't help but be struck by some curious thoughts.

Why is it that an exposed bottom half of the breast is so much sexier than an exposed top half? Is it because a hearty sneeze will reveal all?

Why is it that an entirely exposed breast is considered nudity, but if you put a tassle or a pasty over the nipple (ala Vegas show girls or J-Lo at an awards show), it's ok to be on commercial TV?

Is it really the most effective use of marketing dollars and the best possible way to display your product to put push-up bras on mannequins? What are they going to push up? Victoria's Secret should have special female mannequins made with water balloons for breasts so that the features of their wares can be properly demonstrated. Either that or hire live mannequins. That would probably result in a pretty dramatic increase in traffic in their stores.

And now that I think about it, why is bra singular and panties plural?

Lord of the Dance - NOT

2006-06-12T15:51:00.000-05:00

(NOTE: Sorry I'm late with today's post. I HAD to finish reading an excellent book I picked up over the weekend. If you like Michael Crichton, read "The Footprints of God" by Greg Iles. It's a very good read.)

By now, you may be one of the couple of million internet users who have seen Judson Laipply and the Evolution of Dance. This guy is a motivational speaker and comedian who chronicals dancing from the 1950s through today. I was watching this and it brought to mind a rather painful memory from not that long ago. A day of humiliation and shame that I may very well pass down through the next several generations to come just because I can. It was:

The day I got banned from dancing! (cue melodramatic music)

This story I am about to tell you should in no way lead you to believe that I can't dance. Because believe you me, I... aww, who am I kidding. I can't. I mean, not by any real measure of dancing. If I ended up on the stage of that reality TV show, So, You Think You Can Dance? I would be like, "No, not really. I was looking for the Last Comic Standing auditions and must have made a wrong turn." Let's just say my dancing, much like everything about me, has its own unique flair to it. The kind of flair that makes women pretend they aren't actually dancing with me but just near me. The kind of flair that scares small children and animals. The kind of flair that makes people ask if I've skipped my medication.

My wife and I were visiting her hometown of Augusta, Georgia one weekend, visiting with some friends and family. We were hoping the Soul Bar downtown was hosting its weekly Disco Hell night that night but had to settle for a nearby establishment called Time Pieces, a retro music bar. There weren't many people there yet, it still being early in the evening, and that was probably the first ingredient in the recipe for the evening: I was allowed to enjoy myself.

Normally I don't care much for going dancing in bars and clubs because they're so crowded and the music is so loud that if you don't feel like dancing, that's too bad because your only other alternative is to pack together like sardines at one of the tables and either read lips or put your mouth one inch from someone else's ear and scream. Coconuts, another bar in Augusta was notorious for this. I think the fire marshall there determined maximum capacity as how many people could be crammed in there with a crow bar and a shoe horn. It's insanity and it's not fun for me. Give be a high school cafeteria, gymnasium or hotel ballroom to cut loose in. It's probably safer for everyone involved, anyway (see below).

The second ingredient was, of course, the alcohol. I remember we ordered the special for the night which was rum runners. I had never had one, but since it did have the word "rum" in the name, I figured it couldn't be that bad. I would drink rum mixed with just about anything in those days. These particular drinks were served in glasses the size of fish bowls. Now I know that's becoming a pretty common term when it comes to describing large drinks but I'm serious. I could have fit this sucker over my size 7 7/8 head and worn it as a hat had I so desired (or had a little more to drink).

Then came the music. As I said, the place was just about empty and so the dance floor was empty. The DJ had not arrived yet so a random sampling of 80s music was blaring from the CD player. Whoa! Flashback to 1986! High school dances, me watching guys enviously do the worm, the coffee grinder and other "cool" moves. Meanwhile, I'm dancing all alone in a "safer" area of the room. But this night was just me and my wife, out on the dance floor.

First came Wham's "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go." I flailed about the dancefloor in perfect imitation of George Michaels. I'm not proud of this. OK, yeah, I am. My wife was slightly embarrased, but also kind of amused (and dare I say, impressed? Nah, probably not.)So, I have the adrenaline going, mixing nicely with the copious amounts of rum runner sloshing around inside me. That's when the unmistakable sounds of Soft Cell's "Tainted Love."

Now anyone who knows the song, and if you were any larger than a zygote in the early 80s you do, will remember the BOMP BOMP. "Some-times I feeeel I got to -- BOMP BOMP -- run away..." And when you are on the dance floor during this song, everyone must stop what they are doing and stomp on the floor or risk having the alligator ripped from their IZOD shirt. We started out stomping on the floor just fine but, and I can admit this, my stomping may have gotten a little, shall we say, overly exhuberant by the middle of the song. I am being told to cut it out and settle down during the rest of the song, but of course, that only fuels my fire.

It is the next song, the fateful song that seals the fate of my (public) dancing forever. The Violent Femmes, "Blister in the Sun" pours out of the speakers and drives me into a Quasi-Punk, Pre-Grunge, Alternative Rock frenzy. I mean, honestly. How do you dance to the Violent Femmes? Stepping side to side "this is my home, stay in my home" dancing? No. You thrash. And when I mean thrash, I mean "Get my chiropractor on the phone and tell him to be standing by because they're playing the Violent Femmes" thrashing. There is no other way. Anything less would be an insult to these pioneers of their movement.

So here I am, looking like I just grabbed hold of a 20,000 Watt power line and I'm in for the ride, screaming out the words "Let me go onnnnnnnnn... Li-yke a blister un the-uh sun... Lemme go oh-oh-onnnnn..." when "Get off the dance floor and do not come back on! You are not allowed to dance ever again!" cuts over the music. I open my eyes, wait for the room to stop spinning and see my wife standing like an enraged statue with one arm shot down by her side ending in a clenched fist, the other pointing straight out like it was made with a 2x4 ending in a long, skinny finger."

"But, it's the Violent Femmes. You're supposed to dance to them lik..."

"Go!"

Broken, dejected and more than just a little bit mad, I made my way back to the table where our frineds, who had worn out half way through "Tainted Love" consoled me and told me how much they liked my dancing. Of course, this is the same couple with whom I got into a lengthy debate about theoretical mathematics while a group of about twelve of us sat in a restaurant and he and I were told by everyone else, in unison, to "shut the hell up!" So, as a fellow geek, he may not have been the most objective judge of my dancing. But nonetheless, I showed her! I drank the rest of her rum runner!

Sometimes bad is bad...

2006-06-09T09:05:00.000-05:00

I just finished reading a really bad book. I had read another book by this author back in 1997 and found it thoroughly captivating, fun and enjoyable to read. So when I saw a book on the New Fiction rack at my local library that used the same theme for the cover art of the earlier book (hereafter to be known as Book 1) was implemented with this newer one (Book 2), I had to pick it up. Yes, Book 2 was of the same author and upon reading the inside flap of the dust jacket, yes, Book 2 had a similar setting as Book 1.

Sold! I placed it on the stack of other books I was checking out and made my way to my vehicle with an armload of reading material. Minutes later, upon reaching my place of work I chose Book 2 as the one to take in with me. After all, I had read this author before and enjoyed him. The other books were from authors I had never read but having judged the book s by their respective covers decided I would give them a shot.

Boy was I wrong. Either I had gilded my memories of Book 1 into something much better and more glamorous than it really was or the author just missed the mark on this one. As I got further and further into the book, I found myself astounded at just how bad it truly was. But I couldn’t put it down.

Due undoubtedly to some kind of printed word subliminal text imaging or perhaps anagrammatic codes in the text of an insidious Dan-Brownian nature that did not register with my conscious by was instead picked up by, interpreted and executed by my cerebral cortex, forcing me to read this book despite my fervent desire to distance myself from it as much as possible. By the time I was halfway through the book, I knew that I must finish it. I must learn the correlation behind the seeming randomness of the text.

Imagine 100 random postings from 100 random blogs collected and assembled into one literary volume and then finding a way to tie them all together into one oddly woven, far fetched, unlikely and bizarre plot that is brought to a conclusion 250 pages later. THAT was this book.

So why am I not revealing the name and author of this book? Because by the time I finished it, I knew it had to be made into a movie. This book was so bad, the movie could be nothing else but bad also. But if properly written, if properly laid out and directed, this movie could be bad on an inverse scale. Not bad like Ishtar and Gigli. Bad like Fargo and Rush Hour. So bad that they’re good.

This, then, is my newest project to be started and not completed (along with my other two screenplays, a novel and a web site. But I still want to keep it under wraps, just in case. But if anyone knows of a literary agent in Hollywood, New York or Ontario, let me know! Maybe this will finally be the one!

Word Searching

2006-06-08T07:23:00.000-05:00

I am constantly amazed at how the mind works. Why is it that a memory that we didn't even know we had, something we did not make a conscious effort to remember, something that we felt was so insignificant that we didn't even feel it was worth remembering suddenly pop to mind after 25 years? At least that's howmy mind works.

Thirty years before Jon Stewart began his irreverent reviewing of the news on Comedy Central's "The Daily Show," HBO had a semi-regular show called "Not Necessarily The News." Same type of comedy but without the actual tongue-in-cheek interviews with newsmakers. On each episode, comedian Rich Hall introduced a group of Sniglets, "words that you never knew existed" which were usually made up for each of these bits. For instance, Aquadexterous: The ability to turn the bathtub faucet on or off with your feet.

The other day, I was writing a check and I remembered a sniglet meaning "the line you draw on your check between where you write the dollar amount and the cents amount so someone can't turn twenty-five dollars into twenty-five hundred." Problem is, I can't remember the actual freakin' word! Now it's going to bug the carp out of me every time I write a check until I remember the name.

Please help! I can't afford (more) sleepless nights and angst! Does anyone out there remember this word? How about other Sniglets? What ones were your favorites? Are there any you still use?

Spending the hours reminiscing

2006-06-07T09:00:00.000-05:00

Not only is today my 38th birthday (Thank you very much), but it is also the 20th anniversary of the day I left the house and town I grew up in and moved to South Carolina. I haven’t told you much about where I grew up so I thought I would take the occasion today to wax nostalgic a bit.

I am originally from a tiny town called Ravenswood on the western border of West Virginia. I will pause here to allow the jokes to be told. Yes, I’ve heard them all. Yes, even that one.

Ravenswood is a nice, quiet town on the bank of the Ohio River. The population is around 1,000 people, I would estimate. Though when the aluminum processing plant there (that my dad retired from) had problems a few years after we left, I imagine the population dropped some.

Up until a few years ago, my town had only one stoplight and it got turned off after 10 pm. Our town paper came out twice a week and our phone numbers were only five digits long. Well, not exactly. They were seven digits long but you only had to dial five. Our telephone exchange was 273, so if you lived almost anywhere within the county and you wanted to call someone in Ravenswood, you would dial 3-0000. If you wanted to call our neighboring town of Ripley (and rival high school) where the exchange was 372, you would dial 2-0000.

We had no skating rink or movie theater, but we did have two swimming pools. Across the street from the grade school and in the shadow of the palatial JayCee’s building (in the basement of which the annual haunted house was held every Halloween) was the “Old Pool.” It always needed to have cracks repaired, the bottom felt like stucco in places and the water was nearly always cold. It was smaller than the other pool so that those who went there felt more of a kinship with the others, but it was big enough that you had room to enjoy yourself. It has since been filled in, covered with dirt and made into a park. Such a shame.

Up the hill from the elementary school was the “North Pool.” Stretching 100 meters from end to end, it hosted a spring board two stories high that has since been removed for insurance reasons. I probably still am suffering neck injuries from some of the stupid stuff I did off of that thing. But we had to try to get the lifeguard who sat nearby wet so he would get pissy and bench us for 15 minutes. For some reason, that seemed cool.

One of the monumental occasions of my childhood there was in 1976 when a 7-11 opened across from the library. Oh rapturous day when I tasted my first Slurpee (my mom still has some of the plastic “collectors cups” these came in with super heroes and sports figures on them)! Oh the sinful extravagance of my first 32 ounce Big Gulp! Now I couldn’t imagine having anything less than 32 ounces to drink. And Lord knows how many quarters I wasted in the video game room in back over the years. I could hardly walk in that store without buying a Big Gulp, a pack of cheese-on-rye or cheese-on-wheat crackers and plunking money in those things.

Speaking of video games, we used to have a restaurant there called the Cinema, if I recall. They had the best crinkle-cut fries there. The owners had also rented out an empty store front next to them and filled it with video games and showed movies on the projection TV. Then there was Ike’s pool hall. Ike got smart in the 80s and turned his “den of sin” into an electronic “den of sin” by adding a host of video games to his pool tables. It was the place every mother didn’t want their kid to go. So of course, we all did.

But we were a small town in West Virginia, so we had small town amusements, too. It was almost considered a test of your coming of age if you jumped off the railroad trestle over Mill Creek (I never did). In the winter, we would ride our sleds down the small but steep hill behind my friend Lisa’s house or down the much longer but not as steep hill next to the North Pool. From the top of the hill where the picnic tables are, you could conceivably (If you could keep your momentum over the road leading to the pool and miss the tennis courts) ride a good quarter of a mile on the snow.

I could go on for hours reminiscing (and probably will over time). But I’ll save more tales of growing up in a small, West Virginia town for another time. Instead, I’ll leave you with my own West Virginia joke:

A guy dies and goes to Heaven. St. Peter is waiting for him when he arrives at the Pearly Gates to give him a tour. The guy is astounded at what he sees. Beautiful blue sky, with perfect white clouds that never block the sun. Gorgeous white sand beaches, and crystal blue water. Wonderful gardens like you could never imagine.

As the tour progresses, the guy spots a wall off in the distance. He turns to Saint Peter and says "What's on the other side of that wall?"

Saint Peter responds: "That's where we keep all the people from West Virginia."

"West Virginia?" the man replies, "Why do you keep them walled up like that?"

"We have too", responds Saint Peter. "If we didn't, they'd all try to go home on the weekends."

Amen to that.

Six-Six-So What!

2006-06-06T09:27:00.000-05:00

Hey! It's 6/6/6.

BIG FREAKIN' DEAL!!!

I am so sick of all the hype about this. I'll be glad when midnight comes tonight and we can all return to our senses. This is rediculous.

First off, the Biblical "Number of the Beast" in the Book of Revelation isn't six-six-oh-six, it's six-six-six. Secondly, according to the context of the description of the number, it's an actual mark on the body (either on the forehead or the right hand) that will be used for purposes of buying, selling and trade. Without taking The Mark, you can't do any of those things. It has nothing to do with a date. When I see even "religious authorities" ranting about the day of the devil, it makes me want to rip their diploma off the wall and beat them about the head and shoulder with it.

You would think that all these people who are railing about the supposed significance of this date might actually read The Book about it so they can know what the Hell (pun intended) they are talking about! But where would the fun in that be? You can't use your influence to scare the masses and whip them into a needless, frothy, hysteria if you portray the actual TRUTH!

Geez!

You want significance for today? Fine. Today is the 62nd anniversary of D-Day when the Allied Forces stormed the beaches at Normandy. Today is the 38th anniversary of Bobby Kennedy being killed by Sirhan Sirhan in California. The First Drive-In theater opened in 1933. The YMCA was founded in London in 1844.

It's the birthdays of Bjorn Borg (Tennis Star), Sandra Bernhard (Comedienne/Actress), Dana Carvey (Comedian/Actory), Harvy Firestein (Actor), Robert Englund (Freddy from Nightmare on Elm Street)

There's nothing evil about this day at all! OK, the Robert Englund thing is kinda creepy, but we'll ignore that one.

Physically Pfffft!

2006-06-05T11:28:00.000-05:00

I was flipping through the channels Sunday and I came across the women's French Open quarter finals. On the screen, I see this chick named Patti Schy-something-or-another giving Venus Williams a run for her money. The thing that really caught my eye however was that Patti was playing bra-less and her sweat-soaked white tennis top had pretty much turned into a one-woman wet t-shirt contest.

So I'm sitting there watching this and think to myself "I need to learn how to play tennis!"

Honestly, though, I used to be pretty good a raquetball and handball. I could give tennis a shot, dontcha think? I mean, sure, my knees are not the best and I used to get shin splints every time I played handball, but aside from that, you know...

I start yet another attempt at a diet tomorrow. I've decided on the changes I'm going to make on the eating part, now I just need to figure out the exercize part. I tried the Y for six months one time and didn't lose a pound. Maybe I'll ride my bike, but I don't know if I have anywhere to get up enough speed to make it worth my while, you know?

What I need is a good case of appendicitis and just have them vacuum out 30 or 40 pounds of fat while they're in there. Then they could sculpt the rest into a nice six-pack like I saw them do on the Today Show and voila! I'd be skinny and sexy again! (He says "again" as if he ever truly was sexy even when he was skinny, but let's humor the poor guy, he's going on a diet.)

Actually, the diet part's not bad. I mean, I still get to eat don't I? And some of this diet stuff isn't bad. I will be eating lots of salads and carrots and whole-fruit smoothies. And yogurt! I love yogurt and it's a diet food, isn't it? This morning at 9:30, I went to the grocery store and bought an arm load of yogurt. It's now 11 am and I've already eaten two of them. But I can't help it. The Orange Creme flavored Whipped Fluffy Texture Yogurt is like eating heaven! And don't even get me started on the Raspberry flavored ones. But they've only got 2.5 grams of fat each so I can eat like ten of these and not even come close to, say, a Big Mac.

Then there's the salted stuff. I haven't put salt on any of my food since my dad's health problems started 23 years ago. But the body needs salt and so I end up having salt binges where I'll eat a whole bag of Doritos or Tostitos or Lay's Potato Chips in one sitting. But that's not good, right? That's almost certainly on the list of things I can't do on my diet. So I have a 1 pound bag of sun flower seeds sitting at my desk. Granted, they aren't the best diet food either but I'm only eating about a quarter of a serving size each day. I'll put a few in my mouth, suck off the salt, break open the hulls with my teeth and eat kernel inside. This way my mouth gets a workout like I actually ate something substantive, my body gets salt and I continue to successfully delude myself.

It's the working out part of diets that I don't like. I never have time for it unless I get up at some obscenely rediculous hour before the sun has even started thinking about Jimmy Dean sausages (Mmmmmmm....) and go to the Y or something. And as I mentioned before, working out did nothing to help me to lose weight. I don't jog. I mean, my knees are bad enough already and when professional athletes die from jogging, when even the guy who championed jogging dies from a heart attack while jogging, well I think it goes without saying that jogging is not a good idea.

I could walk for hours without really breaking a sweat, so I don't see how that would help. You have to ride your bike something like 5 miles or more uphill both ways before you get any benefit from that. And since where I live is only 14 feet above sea level, we aren't really known for our abundance of hills.

But I must find a way! I must prevail! Part of my midlife crisis involves changing my current way of being. Since I can't afford a BMW Z-4 roadster, I must find a way to return my body to its former state. I just wish I could find a diet that involved copious amounts of Goldfish crackers, sweet tea and video games.

There's always the Keith Richards diet: Jack Daniels and heroin. Nahhh. I really don't care for burboun that much.

Parental Advisory: Graphic Pizza Content

2006-06-02T10:00:00.000-05:00

Pizza is like sex. When it's good, it's effin' good (pun may or may not have been intended -- I'm not telling)! When it's bad, hey, it's still pizza. It can never be too cheap, too fancy, to fast or last too long. It's great at night and just as good in the morning.

Such describes my love affair with the perfect food. Pizza is number one on my list of foods I will always eat and never be able to turn down (followed closely by barbecue, sushi and my Mom's salmon patties or her meat loaf). If I were to be a character in one of those goofy 70s live-action Saturday morning shows, I would be the good guy who is always thrown off the trail of the bad guy buy a strategically placed pizza.

My pizza fetish goes back to my youth when the only pizza you could get in the tiny (and I do mean tiny) town we grew up in was from Gino's. Fortunately, my dad was always willing to throw together a Chef Boyardee pizza in a box for us. Unfortunately, he would top it with whatever was in the fridge. Thus, I am one of the few people in America, I am certain, who has an affinity for hot dog slices and green olives on their pizza.

But it was when I was in middle school that my pizza horizons truly expanded. A pizza Hut opened next to the post office. It was there that my pizza proclivities took their first walk on the wild side: Thick and chewy crusts! Then deep dish and personal pan pizzas swayed me easily to become a practitioner of their ways. That is until I reached the pizzaic nirvana of my youth. The pizza perfection, the pizza resistance. The meat lover's pizza.

Sure, I still frequented Gino's for the pizza equivalent of a quickie, pizza bread. But to fulfill my deepest, most primal pizza desires, I looked no further than the darkened, red accented room and the red roadside light of Pizza Hut. Life could get no better. Until I was in high school, that is, and Domino's opened across from my friend's dad's barber shop.

It wasn't better and it wasn't cheaper. But they brought it to you. A simple phone call, conveying of coded words and the object of my desire was delivered to the door of my house, church, school or work. A late night urge that could not be satiated before was now fixed in the privacy of my own home. No longer did I need to worry about who might see, what may be said. The doorbell would ring, money would be exchanged, blinds pulled, curtains drawn and, well, you know the rest.

After high school, my family moved to South Carolina and a much larger town. They only had one Pizza Hut and one Domino's, but there were also other choices. And it was these choices that proved to be the next life changing pizza event for me. For the first time, I fulfilled every adolescent and young man's fantasy: I had twins. My new home town had a Little Ceasar's pizza establishment where, for the price of a single pizza at other locations, you got two.

While Little Ceasars opened my eyes to a more exotic pizza lifestyle, it did not stop there. A couple years later I moved to the San Francisco Bay Area and experienced pizza like I had never before, like I never even knew was possible. In my wildest pizza dreams, I would never have thought that such experiences were even possible. I had the most mind blowing pizza ever and found a new favorite that even today is my preferred pizza of choice: Hawaiian Style.

In Ankara, Turkey, in the Calais district (inside the walls of a 2,000 plus year-old Roman fortress), is a restaurant inside of a three story former house. From the top floor, you have a magnificent view of the city to be enjoyed while you dine upon a three-foot long pizza. The most exotic pizza I have had the pleasure of knowing, this pizza is eight inches wide and covered with beef sausage on one third, lamb on the other end and just cheese in the middle third. Before they cook it, they make a drepression exacly in the middle where, when the pizza is pulled from the oven, an egg is broken and it's contents poured in. By the time you reach the middle, the egg is completely cooked.

Papa John's, Godfather's, Pizza Inn, Cici's, and countless locally owned pizza establishments all have catered to my pizza needs throughout my life. But the singular greatest pizza experience I have ever had, the pizza experience by which it us unfair to measure any other pizza experiences against as they will never measure up, happened in Aurora, Illinois.

It was a one-night pizza that I knew would never go beyond that. But it was a magical, almost mystical experience as only a one-night pizza can be. Nearly two feet in diameter and two full inches thick with an extra layer of crust on top and filled solid with meats, onions, peppers and more, this true Chicago Style pizza, not the pizza poseurs some establishments try to pull off, it changed my life. My pizza eating will never quite be the same. Sure, I still enjoy pizza and will do so at any opportunity. But I have experienced the ultimate and am a changed man because of it. More often that not any more, I am content to stay at home and make pizza myself, every one a tribute to, but never as good as, that magical night outside of Chicago.

What brought this recounting of my pizza awakening and history? Lately, there has been a twist in my pizza life. It is as though the pizza gods have smiled upon me for my pizza perseverance, passion and prostheletizing. The last three times I have ordered the business-man's special from a local pizza establishment, either my order has been screwed up or they have been so late (an hour and a half to deliver a pizza three blocks!) that I swear, if this keeps up I will order my pizzas from them for the rest of my life! Why would I do this if their service is so bad? 'Cause they gave me my pizzas for free! Did you hear me? Free! Free pizza! Do you understand what I'm saying? It's only two of the greatest words in the English language that could be uttered side by side in the same sentence! Free Pizza! Free!

So, was it good for you?

The Class of '86

2006-05-31T08:49:00.000-05:00

Twenty years ago today, twenty freakin’ years, I graduated from high school. Like, O’migod! I can’t believe it. It sill stuns me. I just sat here for three minutes staring at my screen in awe, wonder, disbelief and abject fear at what I just wrote. Wow. The Class of ’86, without question, the best class there is, has been out in the world for 20 years now.

Granted, this didn’t just hit me. The realization that I’m getting older has been hitting me upside the head for a few years now. I’ll be watching a movie, say Karate Kid or Ghostbusters, or we’ll be driving down the road and Van Halen’s "Panama" comes on the radio and I’ll turn to my wife with the horrified realization that “This is years old!” to which she won’t even lower the newspaper when she mutters “Yeah, so?”

Nostalgia geeks are so unappreciated.

My latest voyage into the depressing realization that my youth and I are getting further apart when The Go-Go’s were on the Today show a week or two ago to promote the twenty-fifth anniversary of "Beauty and the Beat". What? I can still remember Paul Poole telling an inappropriate joke based on a song from this album to Ms. Coker, our art teacher in 8th grade (Why can’t the Go-Go’s have sex? Their Lips Are Sealed.) Who approved my youth to be relegated to reunion/anniversary tours, VH-1 specials and horrid attempts to recreate the past (we won’t even go into the remaking of Revenge of the Nerds – yet!).

I mean, just look at what happened in 1986 alone! In January, the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded. A friend of mine named David Chapman who wanted to be an astronaut was in morning for days from that. The nuclear reactor at Chernobyl reignited nuclear anxiety for some of us. I can remember Greg Drake coming into our classroom and saying “See you in Libya!” after the United States bombed Tripoli. Corizon Aquino and her yellow dresses takes over the Philippines.

Our TV sets, on which we had been watching "The Cosby Show", "Family Ties" and "Cheers", now played host to an overweight, Oscar-nominated actress named Oprah Winfrey. A whole new network was born that thumbed its nose at what was considered “decent,” drawing the ire of religious leaders and airing cutting edge shows, thereby cementing FOX, the bad boy of the networks, as a lasting incarnation on our TV. That is, when we were watching TV and not playing our new Nintendo Entertainment System which also emerged that year, bringing about the logical evolutional step from a nation of coin-operated video game fanatics to console-game fanatics.

In the theaters, we watched Top Gun, Ferris Beuller’s Day Off, Aliens, The Golden Child (my first date with Sheila Pack), Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home (and best of the Star Trek movies), Karate Kid II (why didn’t they stop there?). We the radios, we had Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love”, Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach”, “Kiss” by Prince & the Revolution, Falco’s “Rock Me Amadeus” and oh so many more! Not to mention that weddings and music recitals were forever more to be plagued by Whitney Houston’s “The Greatest Love of All”, number one on the charts the day we graduated. On behalf of the class of ’86, let me offer a collective “Sorry!” to all future generations for that last one.

I learned some very important life lessons in 1986. Never drink Bartyls & James wine coolers on an empty stomach. Never drink any wine cooler that comes in a two-liter bottle. Never take Alka-Seltzer for a hangover. Needless to say, I got drunk for the first time in 1986. Not the first time I had drank, just the first time I regretted it.

One week from today will mark 20 years from the date I said goodbye to the house I had grown up in as we moved 400 miles away to South Carolina on my 18th birthday. I was supposed to come back and go to college with about one third of my graduating class who were all going to the same school, but I was tempted away with the promise of a car should I stay in South Carolina. I can’t help but wonder how my life would have been different had I gone back. Then again, that fall I met a bunch of guys in college who, twenty years later, I still call all of them friends.

We all always have regrets about things we could have or should have done or said. I never learned to play a musical instrument. I never got involved in sports. I let people walk all over me and didn’t stand up for myself. I graduated never having told that one girl that I had a crush on her since I was four. We all had dreams and plans and visions, most of which were never actualized. At least not yet. I suppose there’s still time for me to become an actor in the movies. And write a book. Travel the world.

Maybe there’s still time for some of these things. I hope. I’m have dozens of writing projects going on. Maybe one of them will turn into a book. Or I could finish one of my screen plays and make my way to Hollywood. Then I could travel the world. Who knows what else? I’m only 38 for crying out loud.

I think that’s the secret of nostalgia. It’s OK to look back, just never stop moving forward.

For Vic...

2006-05-29T10:05:00.000-05:00

Fifteen years ago, I was in the Air Force and stationed at Ankara Air Station in Ankara, Turkey. It was a tiny little place the size of two city blocks by three city blocks. The total number of people assigned there was about 300 and most were sent there without their families for a short period of time. My two best friends there were Staff Sergeants James “JR” Rhiddlehoover and Victor Dean Marvic.

JR was tall, lanky and seemed to always be on a hair trigger, just waiting for a fight to break out. He was divorced and had been in country for a while. When I met him, he was living with a Turkish girl in an apartment. Vic, who had a much lower center of gravity and a black belt, was always smiling, joking and laughing. He was everybody’s friend. He had been lucky enough to be stationed there with his wife, Lucinda, who was also a Staff Sergeant.

I was a few years younger than both of these guys, but we had a lot of common interests and so they took me under their collective wing. Vic and JR both worked in the computer repair section of the Communications Squadron. Due to a bureaucratic snafu, I wasn’t allowed to work in that department despite having considerable knowledge (at that time) of computers. All three of us played MechWarrior (a strategy game using miniatures and played on a tabletop) and spent several Saturday afternoons in JR’s apartment doing just that. They introduced me to Macintosh computers, darts and Efes, a Turkish beer. We had our own little clique and I was proud to belong.

When we weren’t working or at JR’s place, we could usually be found at a bar in downtown Ankara called Papsi’s. It sat in the shadow of the Hilton and Sheraton hotels on Kennedy Jaddesi, across the street from another bar called Marilyn Monroe’s and down the street from the American Embassy. Marilyn’s was more popular with the Americans who worked at any of the four US military installations around the area as well as embassy staff. Several Brits, Scots and Irishmen also hung out there from the Great Britain Embassy staff or British Petroleum who was laying natural gas lines throughout the city.

Papsi’s was much smaller and not as popular with the natively English speaking visitors to the country, but JR’s girlfriend tended bar there so that’s where we hung out. JR had convinced the owner of the bar to let him turn an unused storage room in the basement into a place to throw darts and so that became our little kingdom. We were there nearly every night after work and were widely known by the locals. Ken, Orlan and other US military members would join us there occasionally. So would Sean, a cocky, obnoxious little guy from Ireland who worked with BP, and Patrick, an American from Boston who was a journalist for the English speaking newspaper there. Ahmet, a driver for the Jordanian Embassy and “Steve,” a charming, handsome guy born in Tehran but educated nearly his whole life in London also joined us occasionally. More would come and go. Some would come and stay. But trough it all, it was ours. Our special place.

One night, in October of 1991, JR was hosting a dart throwing competition in the basement of Papsi’s. Some dozen or so people had signed up to win the prize, a $20 dollar bottle of scotch. Vic was expected to enter, but he didn’t show up on time. An hour into the competition, he and his wife showed up having just enjoyed a nice date night together. They stayed long enough for a mug of Efes before leaving to walk back up the hill to their apartment, the fall weather that night being perfect for such a stroll high in the Anatolian Mountains.

The next morning, he and his wife leave their apartment to come to work. Vic does a full security sweep of his little Chevy S-10, checking it for tampering or suspicious wires or devices they way we had all been taught in our personal counter-terrorism classes. They get in the truck, fasten their seat belts and Vic turns the key in the ignition. Immediately, an expertly designed and expertly hidden shaped charge of plastic explosives detonates under Vic’s seat, killing him instantly while leaving Lucinda with minor injuries.

JR and I along with a half dozen others who had been known to hang out at Papsi’s were restricted to base for the next two weeks for our own safety. By the time we could go back out, “Steve,” the nice guy who I had had dinner with a few weeks before and had even been to JR’s apartment had disappeared. An apparent operative for the Islamic Jihad, who claimed responsibility for Vic’s death as a protest to mid-east peace talks being held in Greece that day, “Steve” had been responsible for scouting out the Americans for a good target. He did his research well. He couldn’t have found a nicer guy whose senseless, brutal death had a greater impact on our little community than Staff Sergeant Victor Dean Marvic.

The three of us had been there through Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. Vic was the last American killed by the enemy during that time period. It would be several years before another was targeted even for kidnapping, let alone murder. Vic (posthumously) and his wife each received Purple Hearts for their injuries and sacrifice against the enemy. Vic, Lucinda, thank you.

Happy Memorial Day.

And now, a [bleep] from our sponsors

2006-05-26T07:00:00.000-05:00

On the list of my favorite pastimes, movies and music are in a veritable dead heat. I proudly consider myself both an audiophile and videophile (two fancy words meaning "music geek" and "movie geek"). If asked to choose my favorite movies or music, I cannot do so unless the question is qualified by genre. I cannot justifiably rate movies by, say, Billy Wilder, Steven Spielberg and Alfred Hitchcock against each other. I have lists of favorites, not just a list.

I also have a list of movies that are not necessarily favorites, but that I will take the opportunity to watch any time they are on. It’s like eating steak. I’ll cook a random slab of meat on my grill any time and do a pretty good job of it. As good as that steak is though, it can’t compare with a steak cooked by a master. While I’ll eat the lesser steak any time and not grow tired of it, eating the better steak is something to be savored, appreciated and not taken for granted.

Recently, I was watching one of the movies on my “Never Get Tired of Watching” list (the lesser steaks cooked by me) on the cable network, Encore. Normally when I catch these movies it is on one of the commercial movie networks like TNT, Turner South, USA or something. As it was, I was somewhat taken aback to hear the amount and degrees of foul language in the original cut of the movie. It had been so long since I had seen the original version of the film I had grown accustomed to the “family friendly” dialogue I heard on commercial TV.

Now, I am not so arrogant to insist that the movie industry conform to my Christian beliefs nor am I naïve enough to wonder why it doesn’t when 99% of the people in it hold beliefs other than evangelical Christianity. I’ll leave it to the people at PluggedIn (Focus on the Family’s excellent online and print entertainment magazine where they review movies, TV shows, music and books based upon the “family friendliness” of each) to tilt at that windmill. Nor do I ask the obvious question: “If they can edit the movie for TV and it still be a great movie, why can’t they just release it in that same format in the movies, lower the ratings and increase ticket sales.”

Even though I view foul language as a crutch used by writers who are mediocre at best I the same way I blame directors and producers when it comes to nudity for nudity’s sake. Perhaps the singular exception of this being American History X where foul language was a powerful tool used to illustrate the lessening of hatred in one character by removing it from his vocabulary and increasing it in another character’s whose hatred began to grow. No, what I want to know is why can’t they include the “Edited for TV” version of the movies on the DVD versions of the theatrical release?

For many years now, any movie that is made for theatrical release has an extra voice recording session wherein the actors and actresses in the movie record the toned down lines that will be dubbed over the original socially offensive dialogue when the movie hits commercial TV. No longer do network studios need to bring in impressionists to dub lines or use a recording by the original actor but of a different quality when they are editing a movie for TV, resulting in some infamously bad editing. Therefore, since the movie studios are already essentially making two different versions of the same movie at the same time, go ahead and release it with the original on DVD so we can choose what we want to hear.

I understand that Shawshank Redemption is a prison movie and White Men Can’t Jump takes place in Watts and other “inner city” areas of Los Angeles, each of these locales being a place foul language is an integral part of the area’s lingua franca. Some may even argue that editing that out takes away from the biting realism of the movies. I don’t happen to agree, as both movies are excellent and rank high on my “Never Get Tired of Watching List” with the caveat that they be on a commercial channel. But do movies like My Cousin Vinnie, Coming to America, Nothing to Lose, The Matchmaker, ConAir and many others gain anything by incorporating foul language? The movies are just as good (if not better, in some cases) on commercial TV where the language has been removed.

I know the DVD companies are not going to release two separate versions of the DVD in two different boxes. Again, I’m not that naïve. However, since most of the “Twelve hours of bonus footage and material” you get on some of these DVDs is crap anyways. I’d gladly sacrifice some of the filler material they put on these things (Personally, I believe if you’re going to have a blooper real, it should at least be funny), for the opportunity to watch my movie during the daytime when my kids are awake and could watch it with me.

What's in a Name?

2006-05-24T09:06:00.000-05:00

This morning's soundtrack for getting ready to face the day was the brassy, jazz-rock sounds of Blood, Sweat & Tears as led by the gravel-voiced David Clayton-Thomas. BS&T is one of those groups where you are either a fan or you have no idea who they are. Every self described audiophile and possessors of an "eclectic music collection" should have at least their greatest hits CD.

They had a lot of mainstream hits in the early 70s that still get airplay from time to time but because their cross-genre style makes them hard to fit into most radio stations airplay formats, you don't hear them much. Their unique sound included a large brass section similar to Chicago's, but with a more upbeat, jazzy sound. Bland that with a soulful singer, rock rhythms and catchy lyrics and you have a great listening experience.

And this morning, they made me giggle.

In 1990, I was a reporter for the newspaper on Travis Air Force Base in Fairfield, CA, just outside San Francisco. I was writing a story on the weather squadron there and interviewed an airman who was assigned there. I don't remember her name or much else about her except that she had beautiful, long, thick, brown hair and a really great body. The things that stick in our minds, huh?

After our interview, I asked her if she would like to go to a concert with me a few nights later. She asked who was playing and I told her Blood, Sweat & Tears, a great group from the 70s who were still performing. The band, which had enjoyed such great success and fame twenty years earlier had been humbly relegated to playing lowly venues such as the county fair in Vallejo, not far from where we were stationed. Still I jumped at the chance to see one of my favorite groups performing live. She said yes and a few days later we found ourselves taking our seats after blowing money on rigged games and eating over priced fair food.

The first wave of confusion probably swept over her when we took our seats at the outdoor pavilion where the show was to be. To a one, every audience member there was either (at that time) 35 or older or their preschool aged children. Then there was us, a couple in their early twenties. Comically, we drew several looks as we took our seat and I'm sure more than one person wanted to ask if we were sure we were in the right place. But the music soon started and with the first brilliant, brassy trumpet note, I began enjoying a show like I'd never experienced before.

One disappointing factor I had discovered in attending concerts was that I always came away disappointed that I didn't hear more of my favorite songs. When I saw Billy Joel a few years earlier, my date and I talked the whole way home about what songs he didn't play that we wished he had. However, he had a new album to promote at the time and had to plug those songs as well. But that wasn't the case with Blood, Sweat & Tears. Shoot, I think they were just happy to have a paying gig. I grinned broadly as they regaled me with Spinnin' Wheel, Lucretia McEvil, Ride Captain Ride, Hi-di-ho, God Bless the Child, Go Down Gamblin' and every other great song they ever recorded. And I proudly sang every word of every song right along with them. The questionable looks I had received from the older fans when I first sat down had changed to smiles of acceptance as they, too, joined me in singing along with the band.

During the first couple of songs, my date watched in confusion as the band played and I sang. She smiled half-heartedly, almost apologetically at the people around us. By the third song, she was definitely wondering what she had gotten herself into and I firmly believe when they started playing And When I Die (an old negro spiritual they had jazzed up and infused with riffs reminiscent of the soundtracks of old cowboy movies -- I kid you not), she was hoping to do just that.

After the concert, as we were walking back to the car and I was basking in the afterglow of finally getting to see Blood, Sweat & Tears in person, my date remained silent. I asked her what she thought and her reply was "It wasn't what I thought it would be." Incredulous, I turned and looked at her as I asked what she meant. "With a name like Blood, Sweat & Tears, I thought they would be a heavy metal group. Not... this."

I looked at her with my mouth open for about two seconds before laughing out loud. Strangely, we never went out again and she wouldn't even return my phone calls. I'm quite certain I didn't even get a good night kiss.

It could be worse. Yesterday's soundtrack was ABBA and I suffered a horrible flashback to the movie Muriel's Wedding. Tomorrow should be safe, though. The Cars are on tap. That should be safe, right? Then again, there was that really, really bad Legend-esque video...

A few good books

2006-05-19T09:36:00.000-05:00

Maybe you can help me out with something. I love to read and am quite voracious about it. I have always been that way. Seldom was the time you would not find me with my nose stuck in a book. More than once as a teenager I was actually grounded from reading, not TV, because I would get so lost in a book that I would not do my chores.

Lately, however, I am in a reading rut. I have read all my favorites so many times that they don’t captivate me. However, I hate reading bad books and so I am hesitant to just go out and pick up random novels at the library. I could use the New York Times best seller list as a guide, but I’m afraid it’s not a true bellweather of good literature any more when tripe like The Da Vinci Code can stay on it for 2 ½ years just because of the combination of sensationalism over its content and the exhaustive performance of Dan Brown’s publicist, despite it not being a good book.

So I ask you, my faithful minions, to recommend some summer reading. They don’t have to be new books, just captivating. I want to enjoy the book and I want to want to read it again. Let me give you a sampling of the books and authors I like and dislike.

John Jakes – I have read North and South, Love and War, and Heaven and Hell a few times each but one of his book Homeland about an immigrant boy’s experiences in Chicago in the late 1800s and early 1900s is one of my personal favorites. Unfortunately, its sequel was not quite as good.

John Grisham – Although some of his later books have been rather formulaic (King of Torts, for example) and his earlier ones tainted by their movie versions, the man can tell some good tales. The Partner is an outstanding book with a delicious twist at the end of it. The Testament is one of his best stories that rarely gets mentioned when discussing his works. And The Last Juror is a nice story that is also a pleasant departure from the usual courtroom/law office dramas we have come to expect from him.

The Left Behind series – The twelve book series is a captivating read for Christians and non-Christians alike. I’ve read the whole series so many times I practically have it memorized.

Harry Potter – One of my deep, dark secrets. I like the series. Hey, I’m a geek, remember? Used to play D&D and all that? I still am a fan of fantasy and sci-fi, but there is just so much of it out there and very little of it good.

Steven King – Uncle Steve’s early works were amazing. His stories written under the pseudonym of Richard Bachman were also excellent. Unfortunately Misery was the last really good book he wrote, in my opinion. With Tommyknockers, Insomnia, Gerald’s Game and so on, the books got worse and worse (ok, Insomnia was pretty good, but it may have been that one final death spasm before his works finally crawled into the grave – so to speak). Earlier this year I read the first two chapters of his new book, Cell, in Entertainment Weekly Magazine and decided he may have finally lost it altogether.

Patricia Cornwell – My wife had some of her books and in desperation, I picked one up and read it. I think she puts subliminal messages in her writing because even though they aren’t great books, I can’t stop reading them. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I am enough of a man to admit it.

Reading back over my lists, it seems to me that what entertains me the most is when an author builds an entire world around his or her books. There is so much depth to them because so much back story has to go into them. Even King and Grisham have characters or passing mentions of events from other books that are like a secret inside message to loyal fans. It’s like they have to put so much thought and work into the continuity of their books and the worlds they are set in because there are people out there like me who will notice and call them on it, but more on that later. But with all that richness of world development, the story almost can’t help but be good.

Leave me a note and give me some ideas ‘cause between CSI reruns and Kay Scarpetta (Patricia Cornwell’s forensic pathologist character), I think I could just about pass the coroner’s exam!

The Da Vinci Hype

2006-05-17T07:00:00.000-05:00

It’s here, it’s here! It’s really, really here! The day I have been waiting on for months, months I tell you, is finally here! The Da Vinci Code will hits theaters Friday and finally, finally everybody will shut up about it! At least until Oscar time (ugh!).

I haven’t seen this much hype, this much controversy, this much discussion over a movie since Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ came out a couple years ago. Hmm. There’s probably a pattern there we could explore. I know! Let’s devote an entire hour of "Dateline" to in depth reporting about the parallels of the controversy and media hype between the two movies! We can get Chris Hansen to stop doing the online sexual predator stories for one night to hide behind the ticket booth at some rural Cineplex. Then he can jump out as unsuspecting would-be movie goers walk in with ticket stub and Jujubees in hand, shove a microphone in their face and say “What do you think you’re doing here?”

Everywhere you look, you see this book, books about the book, books about why you shouldn’t read the book, magazines, TV specials, documentaries, protests rallies, sermons… Somebody stop the insanity! I am waiting to see my local bookstore displaying a book about hidden messages and anagrams within the text of The Da Vinci Code. They’ll call it Unlocking the Da Vinci Code Code. Dan Brown will be exalted as a modern day prophet! Whole religions will form around his very existence. People will fight over his trash that they might touch one of his used Kleenexes. Women will throw themselves naked at his feet that they might one day bear his child!

People. PEOPLE! It’s a book, for crying out loud! It’s a piece of fiction! And it’s a not very well written one at that! Sure, the geek factor on it is pretty high when he goes into his detailed descriptions of the conspiracy theory surrounding his book. But between the lengthy expositions on the Knights Templar and the number phi (which rated very high on my geek scale, by the way, and was my favorite part of the book) is some very weak sinew holding the musculature of the story to its skeleton-thin premise.

It wouldn’t bother me so much that this book has been read by approximately one-third of all Americans and has spent 2 ½ years on the New York Times Best Seller list if there weren’t so many people out there who are buying the whole story hook, line and sinker. They are taking a fictional work and attempting to factualize it. There are people who think this is the biggest expose’ since Woodward and Bernstein blew the lid of the Republican National Convention scandal thirty some odd years ago. Think I’m kidding? Then why are pastors across the country (including mine, I’m sorry to say) devoting weeks of Sundays to preaching the fallacies of this book instead of the infallacy of The Book?

I know there are Christians out there who have read The DaVinci code from cover to cover who have not read the Bible and now are in doubt about their own faith because of their ignorance as to what they believe. I’ve met a few. Even some who do know what the Bible says are questioning what they believe all because of a piece of mediocre fiction that is backed by a good agent and publishing house. Dan Brown’s book isn’t the first to throw out these theories either. Many others have said the same thing either outright or wrapped in fiction like his. But they didn’t get to go on the today show and talk about their book or have Ron Howard and Tom Hanks make a movie about it

Now I’m just speculating here, but I think some of the glamour surrounding this book is because so many people want to doubt. They want to believe Jesus of Nazareth wasn’t who the Bible says he was. Let’s face it, if you can destroy the credibility of the Teacher, then you can destroy the credibility of what He taught. And if the only way to get to Heaven is not through Jesus through the forgiving of your sins, then we can all just walk around doing what we want so long as we are basically good people and don’t hurt anyone, right? It’s just an excuse to live without the annoying burden of responsibility for your own actions.

Unfortunately, while he didn’t write his book well, he did lay the groundwork for public acceptance of one of the greatest conspiracy theories of all time. To embrace it is to feed it. Even though it may never be proven true, if enough people believe in it, it is implied to be so. To rail against it creates the kind of paranoid suspicion that Dan Brown describes the Church as having. Why would someone be so angry about what the book says unless it hits too close to the mark, right?

Personally, I welcome the theatrical release of the movie. Let it come out. After this weekend, the only discussions we should hear about it any more is how it did at the box office over the next few weekends. By Tuesday morning, the media will have focused all its attention on more important topics like Katie Couric leaving the Today Show and we can get on with our lives.

So, if I’m so against all the hype about the book and the movie, why am I writing about it? Isn’t this just further legitimizing the book and movie by spotlighting it in this form of electronic media? Well sure, but what good is a having a soapbox if you can’t stand on it?

Strange Laws of Attraction

2006-05-15T11:00:00.000-05:00

It’s a strange effect the passing of time has that as you become further removed from something, the more attractive it becomes. Memories become happier. Relationships don’t seem as bad. Your teenage years were not the paragon of self loathing and angst that you experienced. You actually look back at them with fondness and laughter. Colors are brighter, teeth are whiter and what the heck were we fighting about anyway?

I can’t go onto an Air Force base now without thinking “Man, if only I had stayed in. This is such the life.” I hated the Air Force when I was in it! The only part of the Air Force I liked was when I wasn’t in uniform. I hear a song or see a picture or talk to a friend and wish I was back in High School. High School was not a happy time for me. I have mentioned I was a geek. I was insecure, lonely, confused and all the rest of the typical teenage crap. Why would I want to relive that?

What is it about nostalgia that makes us remember with fond affection that which, well, sucked! We go through a strange cycle about these things and much of it has to do with Madison Avenue, I think. For example: One day, Dee Dee Ramone wore a T-Shirt proclaiming “Disco Sucks” and all stuff we thought was “groovy” in the 70s was the butt of jokes in the 80s and early 90s. But by the late 90s, clubs were having Disco nights and packing the dance floors. Kids started wearing bell bottoms, elephant legs, hip huggers and afros. How did this happen? I think it was the kids who were into these things thirty years ago are now advertising agents and clothing designers. So does that mean that Izod shirts, Members Only jackets, stirrup pants and big hair are just around the corner?

That’s all understandable (to a point). But what is it about our past that makes us stop while channel surfing and say “Oh, wow!” with a reverent, longing, emotion laden voice when we see Karate Kid III or Ice Pirates is coming on? These movies were horrible then and have not aged well. But we will sit and watch them with the blissful, adoring look reminiscent of a teenage crush when they come on.

We will plan our social schedule around marathons of ALF or Webster. TV shows that were jokes back then are endearing now as they remind us of days when we didn’t know then what we know now. We get pleasantly sentimental about our old high school (a place we couldn’t wait to get out of when we were there) and treat people we couldn’t stand as long lost friends when we see them at a reunion. Maybe we even find ourselves wishing we could move back to our home town to raise our kids there despite the fact that the mill shut down and there are no jobs to be had. Diplomas should come with a warning label that reads “WARNING: Objects in rear view mirror may appear better than they were.”

My friend Katherine tells me it’s just all part of getting old. Gee, thanks, Kath. And might I remind you that you’re exactly six months and one day older than me? But I guess she’s right. There’s something about growing up and getting older that makes our earlier days appeal to us. Maybe it’s a longing for simpler days? Wishing we could recapture the innocence of our youth? Desperately trying to propel ourselves back in time to right wrongs, choose different paths or offer advice to our younger selves?

It’s an interesting phenomenon, nostalgia. It’s not a bad thing. It can actually be a lot of fun to go back and take another look at our youth and do it objectively, without the jaded glasses of adolescence muddying it up. But as evidenced by the resurgence of bell bottoms and hip huggers, some things should just stay in the past. If I see a magazine ad promoting a new line of sky blue and lime green polyester leisure suits, I may just snap.

I do wish jams would come back, though. Maybe next year.

Young Geeks in Love

2006-05-11T15:18:00.000-05:00

Andrew McCarthy did it to gain Molly Ringwald’s attention in Pretty in Pink. Anthony Edwards won over Michelle Meyrink by doing it in Revenge of the Nerds. In Wargames, Matthew Broderick did it and ended up with Ally Sheedy. Johnny Lee Miller ended up marrying Angelina Jolie because he did it. Shoot, Anthony Michael Hall didn’t even know what he was doing in when he did it in Weird Science and he landed Kelly LeBrock! I do it and what do I get? Nearly suspended from school!

Since the introduction of the home computers from Tandy/Radio Shack and Texas Instruments in the late Seventies, movies have shown that the only thing a geek needs to do to end up with a hot chick (or even a moderately cute one) on his arm is hack a computer. A simple enough premise and, for the geeks of the world, one that must desperately be believed wholeheartedly if we are to ever convince ourselves that we may ever procreate.

But this tale does not have a happy ending for our hero. In fact, a bit of innocence was lost 20 years ago when the plan so attractively laid out by writers and directors of 80s movies blew up in my face and I finally had firsthand information of an irrefutable truth I had denied myself acknowledgement of.

Movies lie!

For those of you under the age of 30, what I am about to relate to you may sound like ancient Science Fiction on par with Jules Verne or Isaac Asimov, but you have my word that every word is true.

It was a time of carefree innocence in the days when computers did not have hard drives. The computer’s operating system was embedded on each and every 5 ¼ inch or 8 inch floppy disk you put into the computer. If you were lucky enough to have a floppy drive, that is. TRS-80 Model I and some Model IV computers ran off a cassette tape that you put into a portable cassette player (Radio Shack brand, of course) that plugged into the computer. Any time you saved a file, you had to keep a careful watch on the tape counter to know where on the tape it was stored. God forbid you tried loading your own version of Windows that you had been programming from the ground up only to have the tape player eat all your work. Many a would be gazillionaire are probably working the rental counter at the video store even now because of just such a technological glitch.

Oh, but we were high tech at my school. Our computers all had 5 ¼ inch drives. In the programming courses that were taught there, each of us had our own disks that were kept on the teacher’s desk so that he could go back and test the functionality of our homework project. Now I had been teaching myself the Beginners All-purpose Symbolic Instruction Code (BASIC) for a few years by the time I took these classes so I and a friend of mine who was also adept with programming were rather bored in this class. If our homework called for a program with a difficulty level of 3, ours were at least a 5 if not higher. If we were assigned to have the computer display a picture of a flower, rest assured our flower would be animated. He and I were just beginning to delve into the mysteries of hexadecimal assembly language (the actual programming that makes the computer work) when fate intervened.

A girl. A relatively cute girl had caught my eye and had the misfortune of becoming my latest crush. And she took the computer class before mine. It took little time and no effort to find her floppy disk in the disk holder on our teacher’s desk. A little deft sleight of hand and I had it at my terminal where I began my magnificent, sure-fire, charm-her-ankle-socks-off plan! I would hack her disk!

The plan was fool proof. Using a little known command, I would instruct her disk that when ever it was done booting the computer, it would immediately display a text message on her screen alerting her to the fact that she had a secret admirer. Two days later I would leave another, further enhancing the intrigue. By the time I revealed my true identity on the third message, she would be so impressed, so charmed that she would have no choice but to go out with me. Victory would be mine!

Unfortunately for me, while my plan was fool proof, it was not jerk proof. Someone else in the same computer class as her discovered what I was doing when she had to ask for assistance to exit out of the note so she could get on with her class work. This villain then hacked my hack! He edited my cleverly laid love trap to something foul, disgusting and pornographic.

Next thing I know, I am in the principle’s office being threatened with suspension for leaving such a foul message on someone else’s disk It took effort on my part and corroboration from my teacher, but I eventually exonerated myself and walked back to class with my tail between my legs, humbled and defeated. Turns out she never would have gone out with me anyway because she thought I was a geek. Well, duh!

I never knew for sure who did it, but I had my guesses and am pretty sure I’m right. Still, that was a long time ago and we are adults now. I long ago forgave him for the humiliation he caused me. I don’t hold a grudge for being the catalyst that stopped my becoming the next Steve Jobs or Bill Gates.

But forget the fact that he cost me my chance to marry someone like Angelina Jolie? No, I don’t think so, man!

Travels With Dad

2006-05-05T16:24:00.000-05:00

Shortly after posting this, I’m going to be loading up the minivan and driving the family off for a fun-filled week in Florida. We’re getting the TV/VCR combo ready along with a DVD player, just in case. Videos, DVDs, a Game Boy, a Magna Doodle, a couple of books, toys, multiple changes clothes, a case of Huggies Pull-Ups, gallons of juice and other snacks will all be loaded with textbook precision. Before we are five miles away from the house, it will all be all over the van. But when you’re traveling 14 hours with a 3 year old and a 6 ½ year old, you have to plan for anything. And that list doesn’t even include the books for me, Dr. Peppers, a laptop, magazines, brochures, my wife’s box-o’-bills and a calculator so she can spend the drive balancing our checkbook.

Admittedly, this may sound extreme, but you have to understand: In my family, ever since I was a baby, road tips have always been a very serious business.

It was often said when I was growing up that my family could not drive around the block without a cooler and a camera. There were times that was not far from the truth. You see, my dad, who was the primary driver, hated to stop. My mom and I on the other hand would stop for just about anything. My dad knew that in order to maximize the efficiency of his drive time, he had to employ a little strategy. A cooler full of sodas and (ahem) other beverages were always on hand, no matter how short the trip. But that wasn’t the only trick up his sleeve. Each of his ploys would rear its time-saving head during various vacations, but all of them may well have been employed on the infamous “Trip To Tulsa”

We most likely started out with The Midnight Ride. This was my dad’s favorite trick. We couldn’t ask him to stop if we weren’t awake so he drove while we slept. For the longest time, my dad worked a swing shift at the plant. This meant he would work one week of days, one week of second shift and a week of midnights. He would almost always schedule his vacations to begin the day after he ended a midnight shift. The following night between 10 pm and 2 am (depending on our final destination), we would depart. I was trying to sleep in the back seat, mom would be dozing up front and dad drove through the night. Many a trip started out with me listening to a pre-CNN Larry King doing his midnight to dawn radio AM talk radio show. We’d get where we were going, Dad would sleep, mom would read a book and they would send me out to play in the pool or arcade until dad rested enough to officially continue the vacation.

“The Supply Line” involved the aforementioned cooler and other food stores. One would have thought we were a rolling survivalist group with as much food as we stockpiled for our trips. A large green metal Coleman cooler which could have doubled as a bathtub in a pinch held a half gallon of milk, two or more six packs of soda for me (this particular trip was during my Pepsi Free kick, if I remember correctly) two or more six packs of beer for dad, a bottle of water, a few 7-Up’s and Tab’s for mom, a bag of ice, packs of bologna, American cheese, Kraft Miracle Whip, pimento cheese spread, pressurized cheese spread in a can, summer sausage, pepperoni, a block of Cheddar, and more. Also cleverly hidden away in the cooler was the inevitable fifth (or half gallon) of Jack Daniels. A separate box held Saltines, Ritz crackers, Nabisco Sociables crackers, bread, a butter knife, a sharp knife, cereal, bowls, spoons, plastic cups, plastic plates, napkins, a jigger for mixing the Jack Daniels and water (dad) or 7-up (mom), a carton of dad’s cigarettes so on.

All of this, of course, was to avoid the unnecessary stops for such minor inconveniences as breakfast and lunch. Just eat on the road! But wait, you say. Such eating and drinking must have invariably led to the requisite pit stops, right? Oh, but not for a keen mind such as my father’s. Introducing the “Yes, You CAN Take it With You” plan.

This would be a good time to tell you that we were making this expedition in a conversion van complete with rotating captain’s chairs for the driver and passenger, cruise control, two bench seats, windows around the complete circumference of the van and a large cargo area behind the back seat. A cargo area which just happened to be the perfect size for a leftover relic from our camping days: The Porta Potty.

Oh. Yes. He. Did!

Two and a half feet on all four sides and two feet high, this handy device resembled, for all intents and purposes, an airplane lavatory. Why stop for bathroom breaks every half hour and waste all that valuable time when you can climb over the back seat, moon every trucker on Interstate 64 and do as nature intended without ever leaving the air-conditioned luxury of your car. It was only during the occasional stops for gas that we had the luxury of privacy when partaking in our daily constitutionals between hotels. No more “Ya shoulda gone before we left!” arguments! I tell you, the man was a genius.

Finally, there was the “Ol’ Switcheroo.” As I noted earlier, the van was equipped with captain’s chairs in front. Both of these could swivel completely around to face the rear if need be. While probably not a benefit considered in the design of the chairs, the swiveling action did allow for the driver to set the van on cruise control while a passenger grasped the steering wheel firmly. The driver would then swivel, exit his or her seat and allow the person now holding the wheel to sit down and swivel back in place as the former drive held the wheel for them. I kid you not. Thus, even stopping to switch drivers became a needless waste of time.

I tell you, if my dad could have tapped regular unleaded off of passing gas trucks, we probably would have never stopped the whole way to Tulsa and back. Meanwhile, I sat in the back with my walkman, my weight in books and magazines and pretended not to think about the “Death on the Highway” movie I had watched in Drivers’ Ed class the previous spring.

But we made good time!

Geeks Anonymous

2006-05-03T10:45:00.000-05:00

Check my closet, if you must. You will not find a single pair of plaid, polyester, high-water slacks. My button down shirts have never borne a pocket protector. Never have my dress shoes been worn with shorts and as God as my witness socks have never covered my sandle-clad feet. Yes, I do wear glasses occasionally, but only for reading or computer work. However, they are fully intact without any electrical, Scotch or duct tape holding them together. I promise.

Why am I telling you this? What is the point? Because, in spite of my vehement efforts to avoid external stereotypes, I cannot deny who or what I am.

My name is Mark. I am a geek.

I have been a geek all my life. From my earliest days throughout High School, the development of my geekiness haunted me. My nose was always stuck in a book. I was not very good at athletics. I was not a good dancer. I had no fashion sense whatsoever. I played Dungeons & Dragons. I was in show choir. I was into computers (if you have never stored your data on a cassette tape with a portable recorder…). I was fanatical about Star Wars and Indiana Jones. I was, in all senses of the word, a geek.

Even today, my geek factor remains high. I am a trivia fiend. I can quote lines from movies and TV shows, the names of the characters who said them and the actors who played them. I am very prone to pop up with random facts of (sometimes quasi-) related information to whatever is being discussed on TV, in a movie or in person (otherwise known as Cliff Clavin Syndrome – and if you don’t know who Cliff Clavin is, your geek factor is severely lacking). My interests and amusements leave my wife and others who know me slowly shaking their head sympathetically and muttering “Geek” under their breath.

But I am not offended. It is a badge of honor that I wear with pride. I have even adopted it as my nickname and am known both in my household and on bulletin boards across the net as “Geek Daddy.” I am a geek, and I am not ashamed.

I used to work with a guy named Shane who was constantly aghast at my pride in being a geek. He steadfastly believed being a geek was a bad thing. Despite the fact that he had a degree in computer science and could quote off the top of his head technical information, proper configurations and hardware specifications that would make your eyes cross. He partied hard. He lived the life of a playa. But all the while, he was denying his inner geek. I believe he will never truly be happy until he unleashes the geek within.

Being a geek isn’t a bad thing! Sure, we geeks have been picked on, insulted, even abused because of our geekiness. But those who would stand against us are just denying their own inner-geek! Is the guy who memorizes the episode name, plot line and guest stars of every Star Trek episode from all five series plus the movies really all that different than the guy who memorizes starting lineups and player stats from the sports pages? They’re both geeks! So you can name the size engine and other specific facts of every Ford vehicle made in the last 50 years? Great! I can name every album Queen ever released, the featured songs, and the solo albums of each band member. Welcome to the Brotherhood of the Geek!

It is time we stand up for our geek selves! Be proud of who we are! Rejoice in our geekiness!

To paraphrase from 1984’s Revenge of the Nerds, “There’s a little geek in all of us. Join us, ‘cause no one’s gonna really be free until geek persecution ends.”

Shane? If you’re out there, buddy: Be true to your geek.

Daddy Knows... nothing?

2006-05-01T09:20:00.000-05:00

As I have mentioned before, I am the father of two young boys, ages 6 ½ and 3. They are both at the age when it is the greatest time to be a father. For at this time, I am all knowing. I am all powerful! I can do anything!!

I don’t know how it is with daughters and their mothers, but for sons and dads, there is a strange evolution of the fathers’ intelligence that follows the path of an inverted bell curve. This is a natural progression that, I’m sure in God’s great plan, has a reason for being the way that it is. But it would be so much easier if someone would just tell us as we’re being loaded onto the stork, “OK, there’s going to be this goofy guy who always hangs around and makes weird faces and noises and disappears any time your diaper needs changed. This will either be your uncle Phil or your dad. If it’s your uncle, ignore him. You’ll be better off, trust me. But if it’s your dad, listen to everything he has to say. I know he acts like an idiot, but this will pass and he actually has some useful stuff to teach you.”

This all starts when the son is a toddler and first learns the question “Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?” At this point the father’s intelligence begins creeping slowly downward as the barrage of this three-lettered question saps what remaining brain cells that weren’t irreversibly damaged by sleep deprivation the first three years of the child’s young life. To the child, this man is the font of all knowledge. He knows everything!

Alas, this façade does not last. By the preteen years, the son’s appraisal of the father’s intelligence is beginning to falter. I am seeing how this will come about already. I just finished reviewing my older son’s homework for the day and saw that in math, he is learning about lines of symmetry. What? I didn’t learn about lines of symmetry until 10th grade in Geometry class! He’s in first grade! At this rate, by the time he’s ten I’ll need to break out my college texts just to keep up!

Fathers, by this point, realize that there is the strong likelihood that the day is fast approaching where they will no longer be able to answer their sons’ homework questions and so they switch tacks to proclaiming knowledge that their sons cannot possibly have already learned or surpass their fathers any time soon. We will impart Life Lessons! Yeah, it sounds good at the time, but we all know the plan falls flat.

By the time fathers are in full gear dispensing unsolicited advice and information, the sons are in their teens. Puberty, girls, angst, girls, confusion, girls, hormones, girls, peer pressure, girls, zits, girls and girls will be waging a constant war against their young minds and you, dear father are incapable of understanding what it is like being a teen in today’s world. It just isn’t the same. You have no idea what is going on, why should I listen to you?

“Because I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did,” we reply naively.

Then they say it. They say the single stupidest phrase ever uttered. The stupidity of which is on a level which can only be mastered by a teenager and made to sound insightful and intelligent. The syntax varies from situation to situation, but the essence is always the same. “How am I going to truly learn these lessons you keep preaching unless I have the ability to make the same mistakes on my own.?”

This is when some timely advice imparted before the stork took off would be very helpful. If only we had listened to our fathers in those years. We know that now in retrospect. At the time, our fathers were meddling buffoons out to make our lives boring and keep us under their thumb. Then we went out and had our wild years, ignoring every nugget of wisdom our poor oft maligned fathers shared with us.

But as we got older, as we got further from our teens, a strange phenomenon happened. Our fathers started getting smart again. Around the time our minds and emotions finally caught up with our bodies degree of manhood, we started thinking our fathers might not have been all that stupid after all. By the time we have kids of our own, our fathers were freakin’ geniuses! Why the hell didn’t we listen to them all long? Their wisdom is to be exalted! They are to be venerated!

And so the bell curve is complete.

Unfortunately, my dad died just as I was getting to the age where I began to realize that maybe he did know a thing or two. Now, as I teach my kids and answer their questions, I wish I could tell him how smart he really was. But the thing is, he knew. He had gone through the same process with his dad and so on down the line.

Now I have to go read my son’s text books so I know what he’s learning about before my few remaining active brain cells go into hibernation for the next twenty years until he realizes maybe I wasn’t a complete moron.

Good for you, I think?

2006-04-28T09:15:00.000-05:00

News blurbs were splashed all over the internet lately about something that twenty years ago would not have been news. For those of you who missed it, Hillary Duff, an 18 year-old actress who became the idol of every girl aged six to fourteen when she starred in the Disney Channel’s original series “Lizzy McGuire,” has vowed to not remove her clothing for any movie she may ever appear in. My first two thoughts upon hearing this were 1) That’s a sad commentary on what entertainment in the American culture has come to and 2) I’ll believe it when I (don’t) see it.

After my last blog, some of you may be wondering why I seem to have a problem with nudity. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no prude. My eyes have fallen upon the nude female form on occasion in my life. OK, many occasions. No, I’m not going to say how many occasions. Look, the number is really not that important, alright? Let’s just drop it. The point is yes, I’ve seen naked women before. But there’s a difference when it’s nudity in a regular movie versus, well, you know. Is it me or is this hole getting deeper?

I have been acting since I was six. While I have never been in any movies (yet), I have great respect for those who have. I want to respect an actor or an actress for the job they do on the screen and not for whether or not they took of their clothes. If they have to show skin to get parts, perhaps it is time they found a new vocation? Many an actress has fallen off my “favorites” list because I lost respect for her for showing skin.

And it’s not just how I would feel, you know. How does her family feel about going to see a movie where a part of an actress’ body they may not have seen since puberty is now on display for the world. Did Uma Thurman's dad say to his poker buddies, "Hey! Instead of playing cards tonight, let's go to the movies and you can see my daughter completely naked from all camera angles (Mad Dog & Glory and others)! You can see everything and let me tell ya, she looks great! C'mon! I'm buyin' "

I don’t blame the actresses solely, either. Granted, no one makes them take off their clothes for a film, but I believe just as much at fault are the writers and directors who include such scenes in the films. In almost all cases it adds nothing to the film to have nudity in it. Don’t believe me? Then take a simple test. Picture any movie that either briefly or prominently features nudity. Now, imagine that movie when it is played on commercial TV (the big four networks, TNT, USA, etc…). Whether they cut the scene completely or edit it so that the nudity is not shown, is the quality of the movie or the basic plot affected by that? Is there any one movie that has to have nudity in order for the basic storyline to be understood?

OK, maybe Porky’s, but that’s not exactly the caliber of movie I’m talking about here. In almost every movie where nudity is shown, the same scene can be shot to not include nudity without losing anything. Let me give some examples of movies where the nudity is understandable and possibly integral to the story and others where it is simply gratuitous and could easily be done without.

Nell – Jodie Foster’s title character strips down to go skinny dipping in the pond next to her house. Understandable? Yes. This scene shows Nell’s child-like innocence resulting from her secluded and sheltered upbringing. Could the scene have been shot without showing any nudity? Maybe, but it may not have been quite as effective.

Swordfish – Hugh Jackman walks out to where Halle Berry is sunning herself. When he gets close enough, we, the audience, see that she is topless. Understandable? Not really. Sure, this scene may have played into Jackman’s character’s seduction into John Travolta’s scheme, but it could have been shot differently. In the Edited-for-TV version, her top is on and the scene loses nothing.

Movies have been made for entertainment purposes for more than 120 years now. The second known one featured nudity in it. Since then, most “real” films did not include actual nudity until the late 1960s. Dozens if not hundreds of respected actresses never showed flesh on screen and no one thinks lesser of them for it. Katherine and Audrey Hepburn, Barbara Stanwyck, Grace Kelly, Lauren Bacall, Liz Taylor… the list goes on and on.

But today, it seems nearly every movie tries to show as much skin as possible and almost none of them have a plot requiring it (teenage party fests and slasher films excluded). Sure, we have respected actresses today who have never shown actual nudity (Michelle Pheiffer, Meg Ryan, Alicia Silverstone, Winona Ryder). But the lists grows smaller and smaller as fewer directors and actresses rely on their ability to make and perform quality work and instead rely on skin to sell tickets.

While I applaud Hillary Duff for her decision, I am ashamed that I would have to.

The One With the List

2006-04-26T09:02:00.000-05:00

Before you begin reading today’s blog entry, this would be a good time to cue up your mp3 of Beck’s Loser. C’mon, you know you have it, you may as well play it.

It was between 8:00 and 8:30 pm on Thursday, October 16, 1996 when I proudly learned that one of my more loser-esque quirks was not simply a product of the combined ingredients of a pathetic love life, an over active imagination and romantic idealism. In actuality, said quirk was raised, if ever so briefly, into pop culture status with the airing of an episode of the NBC sitcom “Friends.” I feel obligated to point out that I can quote the time and date only because I looked them up on TV.com. I’m not that much of a geek. No really!

The quirk being discussed was simply a sub plot for five of the characters in that show to discuss while the sixth dealt with family issues. One of the male stars had created a list of the five celebrities he would most like to have sex with. Why, I had one of those lists! Soy un perdedor… But being the romantic idealist that I am, my list had more to do with which celebrity I would like to romance, to attempt to have a serious relationship with and not just bed. I suppose then that my list would be more like Five Celebrities I Would Most Like to Marry. Soy un perdedor… I’m a loser baby…

I see this as the natural progression of teenage crushes. I kind of graduated from magazine pictures of Brooke Shields and Kristy McNichol (before I knew of her lifestyle choices) on my bedroom wall to mental images of romantic moments with other starlets. But not just any actress would do. There must be standards! There must be rules! We have to maintain integrity in our pipe dreams Soy un perdedor…

Mark’s qualifiers for inclusion onto his List:
- I must find them attractive (naturally).
- They must be of comparable age.
- They must be natural women. So silicone, collagen or other enhancements allowed. Just as God made them.
- They must not have appeared nude in any movie, magazine, internet site, “secret hidden camera sex tape,” dancing on David Letterman’s desk or other such stuff.

Now some may laugh at number four, but I’m serious. Let's say I get out to Hollywood one day, leaner, fitter, and I manage to score a date with Lea Thompson (topless in All the Right Moves, bottomless in Casual Sex) or some other starlet I have admired. And here we are walking along the Boardwalk in Santa Monica, enjoying an ice cream cone when some half-sloshed bozo comes up and slobbers "Hey dude! I saw your girlfriend in that movie! She's got the best [blank] I've ever seen!" Not only would I have to then clock the guy, I would be mortified to know that potentially every guy in America if not the world knows what my girlfriend's [blank] look like. Soy un perdedor… I’m a loser baby…

And so, without further ado (because, let’s face it, dozens of Hollywood starlets are reading along with cell phone in hand just waiting to call me if they are on this list – Hey! It could happen!), I present to you my (current) list.

Alicia Silverstone – The bottomless scene in The Crush was a body double. C’mon! She was like 16 for crying out loud! There was the Spandex workout outfit she wore in Clueless, but we will count that in her favor rather than against her. I know she’s married now, but this is my fantasy and in it she’s not! Plus my first true love looked just like her.
Winona Ryder – OK never nude that I know of, but she did suffer a nip-slip during a red carpet moment, but all other pictures you find of her on the internet are, I believe, fakes. Not sure how I feel about taking seconds to Johnny Depp, but...
Emily Proctor – She’s why CSI: Miami is a must watch show for me! The eyes! The dimples! The walk! I would bet she’s a cuddle on the couch kind of girl. And she seems bright enough to be able to carry on intelligent conversations. Of course, she shouldn't be on my list due to a very brief nude scene in Breast Men, but she's just so freakin' adorable and has the most perfect... But I digress.
Kristin Chenoweth – Two petite blondes from West Wing on my list? Wow, I’m going to miss that show. She’s a cutie, she can sing, she’s a Christian, she’s six weeks younger than me… Operators are standing by, Kristin!

Yeah, I know. Soy un perdedor. I’m a loser baby…

Lemmings rule!

2006-04-24T07:01:00.000-05:00

I am not an aggressive, dominant, competitive kind of guy.

There, I said it.

OK, some of you are snickering entirely too much.

While that fact may come as no surprise to some of you who have known me for a long time, others are still trying to catch up, so let’s help fill them in on what they may have missed over the last 30+ years. After all, to understand much of who I am and what I am saying in these and future blog entries they need to understand what I am.

When it comes to personalities, I am definitely not Type A. I’d rate myself more of a B-/C+ kind of person. The overall philosophy of the Type C+ personality can be surmised in three words: “I don’t care.” That’s why the C+’s will live longer than any A and will eventually rule the world while the A’s are consumed from within by rampaging mutant ulcers straight out of a Sam Raime horror movie.

Now when I say “I don’t care,” I’m not saying “I don’t care.” I’m saying “I don’t care.” OK, without the benefit of speech, tone and inflection of voice, that kind of loses something, doesn’t it? Let’s try this. I’m not saying I don’t have compassion, sympathy, empathy or anything like that. I’m saying “Yeah, OK.” “What ever.” “I don’t care, what ever you want to do.” The official mascot of Type C+ personalities is the lemming.

Lack of an A personality or even a solid B+ pretty much precludes me from qualifying for Alpha Male status. If I find myself amidst any group of guys, I won’t even try for the position. I don’t have the competitive personality required to establish myself in such a way, so why humiliate myself and embarrass others by my feeble, half-hearted attempt. In the world of Alphas and Betas, I figure I rank somewhere around Mu Male.

Even in one-on-one settings where it’s just me and another guy hanging out, shooting the breeze, drinking a cold one or two, displaying how pathetically limited my knowledge of pro football really is, eventually one of us is going to try to establish superiority over the other. And when I’m with my pack of males, lounging in our natural environment of the back deck, rehashing old stories, talking about politics or computers, it doesn’t matter. Every joke, every raucous tale, every friendly jibe and insult, every belch and every passed gas are all an attempt by each of us to establish our position in the pecking order.

But not me. I sit back and watch and listen and laugh. I’m not consumed by the desire to prove myself or to be leader of the pack. I don’t have to elicit the biggest laugh or create the most pungent odor. I just enjoy being with my friends and watching them clamber over each other (figuratively speaking, thank God) to see who will sit at the top of the heap that evening.

I know it will never be me and, you know what? I don’t care.

Lemmings rule.

Harry and Sally must die

2006-04-19T21:07:00.000-05:00

There is a reason that all men hate the movie, When Harry Met Sally. Even if a guy adores Meg Ryan as I do (and let’s face it, who couldn’t? She’s just so darned cute!), he still hates this movie. Why? Before this movie, the idea of a man and a woman being friends didn’t seem to be a big deal. Now, thanks to Nora Ephron, Rob Reiner, Billy Crystal and Meg (sigh), any interaction between a male and female representatives of the human race that goes beyond a simple “Hello. How are you doing?” or “Pardon me, Miss, you seem to have dropped your tiara” is suspect.

Where is it written (outside of the script of the aforementioned movie) that two people who enjoy each other’s company, that have various and sundry commonalities and like interests and that share the ability to communicate on a level mutually agreeable to both parties are disqualified from doing so simply on the basis that one party has a Y chromosome and the other possesses two X’es? Does this rule only apply if the two would-be friends are also of comparable ages? Would it be OK if a man was friends with a woman whom other women should not perceive as a threat because the age difference is too great? Could I be friends with Liz Taylor but not Liz Hurley?

OK, bad example.

My point is that these things are subjective. If a woman is viewed by other women as someone a man might find desirable, then any man who wants to spend time with that woman even for the sake of platonic friendship is automatically viewed as suspect and it is assumed that he is secretly enacting a plan to get into her pants. However, if the woman in the picture is not what other women would describe as desirable, a man trying to be her friend is given much more credit and leeway.

“But wait,” you say. “What if said man is actually gay! Would he not then be given free pass to befriend any female he so wished as the matter of sexual attraction would become moot?” Ah ha! You have fallen into my cleverly laid trap! For you see, this is yet another of the many paradoxes of the cross-gender friendship debate! If a gay man had a male friend who was straight, no one would think that relationship as inappropriate.

Why? Well, I could go on and on about society’s stereotypes based upon sexual identity. Suffice it to say, I can’t think of a single woman who would have issue with such a relationship. By the same token, most women I know would not have a problem with a gay female befriending a straight female. But let a straight male attempt to befriend a straight female and watch out.

I ask you, what is the difference between a gay female befriending another female and a straight male doing the same thing? OK, besides the obvious of course. That really went without saying.

My point is this: We are all grown-ups, people! We have the ability to make grown-up decisions! Just because one person is a guy and another is a girl it does not automatically mean that said guy has only one thing on his mind when it comes to said girl. That’s an unfair stereotype. It’s prejudiced. It’s hypocritical and it’s wrong.

I mean, just because we look at pretty much every pair of boobs that passes by us doesn’t mean we’re complete lechers. Right?

To Blog or not to Blog...

2006-04-18T15:45:00.000-05:00

People often ask me, “Mark, why are you writing a blog?” OK, they don’t often ask me that. Actually, to date, no one has asked me why I am writing a blog. This is, after all, my first blog and as such, there is no past history of blogging for people to question. However, for those who will, at some future point in time, ask me, “Mark, why are you writing a blog,” I can respond with this answer that is as true now as it was then. Or, is as true then as it will be. Or, as true… You know what? Whatever.

My answer is simple. “Because it’s cheaper than therapy.”

Here I am, closing in on 38, two kids, a mortgage, early stages of a mid-life crisis holding me in its throes and my mind is filled with more angst, turmoil and confusion than when I was going through puberty. And so I need to empty it. My brain, that is. Besides, blogs are cheap, easy and fun.

Dear God! My blog is my Senior Prom date!

The second question people often ask me (OK, will ask me one day) is, “Mark, why should I read your blog?” Not an unfair question, that. After all, while some of you will be reading this because you know me and therefore realize that it is important to your role in bolstering my ego to be aware of what I have blogged so that you may then comment on it later and thereby reinforce my sense of self-worth, many others will inevitably struggle to justify their desire to read the thoughts, emotions and deep-seated psychological issues of a man whom they have never met and are not likely to.

I can only assume that one reason is for the privilege of reading insanely long sentences the likes of which would make every English teacher and professor I have ever had pull their hair and throw grammar texts at me. Perhaps your reasoning is because something I have said strikes true with you as well. Or maybe you are one of those slightly disturbed people who actually seem to understand and appreciate my sense of humor.

You could be sitting at your desk, reading my blog because it’s either this or work on the inane project your boss just dumped on you in a feeble attempt to draw attention away from the fact that you just walked into his office and caught him looking at porn on his computer. Fact of the matter is that it doesn’t matter to me why you are reading it. If you have made it this far, I can only surmise that you are hooked and will be back for the next installment.

In the mean time, don’t forget to leave a comment and tell me how great my blog is. My ego is feeling a bit peckish today and could use some feeding.