Storyteller's Hand-Me Downs

East of Eden Part One

2011-02-03T21:19:00.001-08:00

East of Eden by John Steinbeck

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

A good friend of mine once told me that you know you're onto a good book when you are sad to see it end. As much as I will miss my time spent with the Hamiltons, the Trasks, and most of all, Lee, I am more surprised than saddened to see that I have in fact, arrived at the end. Though I'm off to a good start as far as improving my reading habits for this year, I hardly expected to push through Oprah's pick for June 2003 so quickly.

The majority of this book was read over the last three days in my living room as my wife and I were snowed in during what is already being dubbed "Snopocalypse" or even "Snomageddeon 2011." And someday, when the ghosts of this unmerciful blizzard return, I believe I shall read it again. For I have never come across a story that mixes and crossbreeds metaphors and symbolism more than East of Eden. The hard part is deciding which ones are deliberate and which ones are the result of some sort of random, playful brushstrokes carelessly put to canvas by the author.

Anyone even remotely familiar with John Steinbeck knows his writing is prone to sermonizing and East of Eden is incontestably his most unrivaled admonition. In spite of this, with obvious nods to the stories of Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, and even Jacob and Esau, John Steinbeck manages to create some of the most memorable characters ever conjured and composed. Each page is rich and I drank up every word. I've heard people complain of his excruciating descriptive tendencies, burning page after page over details that hold the narrative firmly on a short leash, i.e. spending entire chapters talking in generalizations about the landscape and culture of the day. For these reasons I remained vigilant. As each page turned upon itself, I could feel all the more, the rain falling on the Salinas Valley. I could despair along with Adam Trask as his beloved Cathy deserted both he and her newborn sons. I could smell all the sweet fragrances of the seedy whorehouses and the rotten breath of the men who frequented them. East of Eden was not just a casual sidelines read, it was an encounter.

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Crazy Love: Review from Goodreads.

2011-01-31T05:22:00.000-08:00

Crazy Love: Overwhelmed by a Relentless God by Francis Chan

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

My actual rating for Crazy Love would have been 2 1/2 stars but Goodreads and Francis Chan, for that matter, would prefer nothing to be done half-way. I will admit, I did have high hopes having read many reviews hailing Crazy Love as a ground-breaking, life-changing book. I was anticipating something more akin to The Ragamuffin Gospel or even Blue Like Jazz. Boy, was I ever wrong.

First, the title is a bit misleading. One could expect "Crazy Love: Overwhelmed by a Relentless God" to be more or less a collection of stories primarily concerned with the grace of God. If anything, Crazy Love was more of a call to arms as well as a beckoning for self examination. My expectations notwithstanding, I digress.

Chan sets the stage with two main points: the omnipotence of God, as evidenced by His creation. Second, the frailty and vulnerability of man. Both valid points and a decent opening to emphasize the audacity of an "all-powerful, all-knowing, holy, eternal, fair and just God" bestowing love upon mankind and our obligation to do likewise. Basically, a Jesus-ey Pay It Forward.

Most of the remaining pages deal with the responsibility of believers to the rest of the world, helping the poor, living below our means and maintaining a lifestyle "obsessed" rather than "lukewarm." The better parts of Crazy Love were the stories of those who lived outside the box in an effort to be the hands and feet of Jesus. I was caught off guard around Chapters 4 and 5.

Having graduated from Masters Seminary, it should have come as no surprise to me that Francis Chan is an unapologetic proponent of the Lordship Salvation doctrine. Popularized in the book "The Gospel According to Jesus" by Masters president, John F. MacArthur, the doctrine states that while salvation is by grace through faith alone, redemption is evidenced by obedience or "good works."

Chan starts by defining the lifestyle of those who are "lukewarm", an obvious nod to the church in Laodicea mentioned in Revelation 3. He goes on to plainly state that "churchgoers who are lukewarm are not Christians. We will not see them in heaven." (pp. 84)

While I understand the need for the Church (especially the American Church) to get outside of the comfort and complacency of their Sunday morning routine, I was particularly disturbed by Chan's statement. Anytime a qualification is added to the requirement for salvation, it begs the question, "how much?" And while most Calvinists will eagerly espouse "perseverance of the Saints," there always seems to lurk this backdoor clause that brings into question whether or not salvation was present to begin with. How many short term mission trips, monies raised and given away, and ladles of soup for the homeless are necessary before one can finally declare themselves "the good soil" Francis Chan warns us not to assume we are? The danger lies in the application. While the Bible says to work out you own salvation with fear and trembling, I believe that placing this power in the hands of others results in nothing less than Pharisaical indulgence.

I highly recommend "The Screwtape Letters" for more self examination.

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Memoir Project: Bookends part II - Combed Cotton-Candy

2010-10-26T14:59:00.000-07:00

My father was my world. I used to love the days when he would take me to work with him. It was a giant warehouse full of appliances and furniture stacked floor to ceiling. Within these walls raged a daily war as the Soviets had aligned themselves with World War II Nazis who were being led by the big three: Darth Vader, Lex Luthor, and Skeletor. I stood alone as the only hope for the world against this axis of evil. Armed with a green broomstick and a broken, battery-powered drill, I beat back the forces of evil and drove them once again into the hell from whence they came. Just behind the warehouse was a graveyard for rusted out appliances and burned up motors. It was the perfect setting to reenact the junkyard battle scene from Superman III. It was here that I was also able to hone my fighting skills thanks to the training I received from Rocky, The Karate Kid, and Shane.

At some point during the workday, my father would come find me and we would walk next door to the Quality Liquor tavern where I was allowed to go to the cooler and pick one candy bar and one can of soda. To this day, nothing beats a cold Butterfinger chased with a can of Barq's rootbeer. My dad sits at the bar and I walk to the poorly lit backroom and seat myself at an old card table. Above me hangs a framed velvet picture of dogs playing cards. The dealer is a powerful looking boxer wearing a green visor and chomping on the last remnants of a fat cigar. Every now and then a lanky cowboy briskly walks past where I am sitting, turns a corner and slams a door. When he returns, now a bit more spring in his step, he stops and loudly demands, "You Joe's boy?" Holding on to my rootbeer with both hands for dear life, I only nod timidly. He laughs, "Hmph, yeah, yeah you are! You look just like your old man!" I kind of shrug. The cowboy, satisfied with having scared the hell out of me, returns to his place in the room with all the neon lights. Moments later, dad returns and we slip out the back door and return to the warehouse. I smell refrigerant. There's only one smell like it in the world. It's a damp, musky, chemical odor that brings me right back to that place to this day. The radio in the room is soft but I hear the songs; "Purple Rain," "Scarecrow," "Born in the USA," "In the Air Tonight," "Billie Jean." These were the soundtrack to the days when innocence still hovered above my bed every night.

Outside, the sky is turning purple and a golden hue covers the brick spines of Quality Liquor and June's Tavern across the street. It's time to go home. The old white pick-up roars down Piper Road, headlights cutting a path to our home as the corn fields rush by and blur to the left and to the right. Rolling to a stop in our driveway, I sort of slide, sort of fall from my seat to the ground below and slam the truck door with all my might. It fails to catch as is evidenced by the still burning dome light and my father walks to where I am sheepishly standing, having surely disappointed him in my weakness. He pulls it open only inches and looking down to where I am standing, careful not to crush my ambition, gives me a second chance to push the door closed. It slams shut and we walk inside to where mom and my sister, Jamie are waiting.

I’m sure if I visited there today, the old house on Piper Road would feel compact and miniscule and barely livable for a family of four. But for a six year old boy full of energy, the only thing that mattered was that our back yard stretched out for what seemed like miles, lined on either side with trees and shrubs. Summers there would find Jamie and I taking turns chasing and being chased by a large yellow lab named Maytag, or flying at breakneck speeds across a yellow Slip n Slide, or riding our bikes down Ida-Mae Lane. One summer, in a stroke of genius, my father used the air blower attachment from our Kirby vacuum to inflate several empty waterbed mattresses, which happened to be lying around the garage. They looked like large, golden, rubbery, clouds and our backyard became a scenic wonder of laughing children bouncing here and there without a care in the world. The colder months found me busying myself with action figures in my room and forming adventures based on hours upon hours of Superstation T.B.S. At this early age, there was very little restriction on what movies and television shows I was allowed to see. My favorites were of the Action/Adventure genre and my heroes were John Wayne, Sylvester Stallone, John Voight and Burt Reynolds. Night after night, hours after I should have been asleep, I would leave my room and walk to where my father was sitting in his chair in front of our TV, sit down on the floor next to him and take it all in. Looking back on it all, this was probably a bad idea considering my ADHD tendencies and I really made most adults in my life miserable. But not my dad.

One night as I took my place at his feet I noticed a different sort of programming was on the screen. In place of my beloved action heroes was a man on a stage. He wore a simple suit and tie combo, his hair was puffy like combed cotton-candy, his eyes were teary and sweat was pouring from his brow. His booming, Southern voice was crying out across a football stadium somewhere across the planet and a more reserved man with darker skin echoed every sentence in a foreign tongue. The cameras moved from the madman on stage across the crowd and focused in on their responsive expressions of approval and conviction. Something from this spectacle tapped into something inside of me and I loved to watch this man preach on stage. At this point, the only preaching I had been aware of was that of the priests at my school but this… this was something else. Like the first time a young boy stumbles across his father’s stash of Playboys, the passionate preaching of Jimmy Swaggart stirred something inside of me. Fear for one, but not the kind of fear that causes one to hide far beneath layers of blankets while their imagination turns the settling of the house into monsters in the closet. This was the kind of fear that produced an adrenaline rush much like any forbidden fruit would. Following his program was a gentler type of televangelist, the grandfatherly, Pat Robertson, host of the 700 Club. If Jimmy Swaggart fed my adrenaline lust then Pat Robertson surely fed my heart and my mind. His explanation of things seemed more tangible; his manner was kind, and his heartfelt sermons from a chair quite moving. He was the first person who ever told me that Jesus needs to live in your heart in order to forgive you for your sins. Not being quite sure what that meant, I listened all the more intently at what this man was saying.

I learned that in addition to quieting storms, searching for lost lambs and holding children, Jesus came to earth in order to die for my sins and save my soul from Hell. Now sin was something I was aware of by now. I had sat in a small room with a priest once and told him that I had told lies and hit my sister. Father Jeff told me to pray the rosary but according to the man on the screen, I needed to pray for Jesus to come and live in my heart. So I did. Without even understanding what it was I was asking for or being saved from, I prayed this prayer. A prayer that I would continue to pray every now and then for years to come:

Dear Jesus,

I know that you are the Lord of Heaven and Earth,

Come into my life,

Forgive me for my sin,

Make me more like you.

Amen, and Amen.

For months I continued to maintain a steady diet of televangelists and the 700 Club. I even called their prayer line once and offered to send them the money from my Mr. T bank. I think I only had $1.30 but they still sent me a Holy Spirit lapel pin and devotional. Little did I know that at the time, my father had been praying right along with me. His dark past had brought him to the point of desperation with nowhere else to turn. In order to make this story more exciting I’m sure I could go on and on about those darker years fueled by alcohol and drugs; the screaming; the crashing of dishes flung across the room in anger and in hatred; waking up to a house filled with strangers passed out in your living room, curious cigarettes still floating in half empty glasses of beer at noon on Sunday. But then again, why go there? Suffice it to say though, my father prayed over and over again until those darker things passed on. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of all of this but I was happy that, at least for now, the noise was quieter. Jesus had taken the rage of our home and brought his love into the picture. He had saved us all from both Hell and hell on Earth- at least for now.

Memoir Project: Bookends part I - Rigatoni and Macaroni

2010-02-21T20:13:00.000-08:00

Special thanks to those of you who have been reading along since the early days when an unnamed Xanga site appeared on the web. Some of what you will read here is a reimagining reminiscent of those days.

Faith to Faith Broken Down:

1. (1979? - 1987) Because I'm a child - Matthew 18:3
2. (1987 - 1989) Because I don't want to go to hell - Luke 12:20
3. (1989 - 1992) Because I'm sorry for my sins - Psalm 51:10
4. (1992 - 1998) Because I'm really sorry for my sins - Psalm 51:17
5. (1998 - 2000) Because He is the propitiation for my sins - Romans 3:25
6. (2000 - 2004) Because it all makes sense - A bunch of apologetics cassettes
7. (2004 - 2006) Because I have nowhere else to go John 6:68
8. (2006 - 2008) Because - John 20:29
9. (2008 - 2010) Because it makes no sense at all - Ecclesiastes 2:15
10. (I'll get there) Because I'm a child. Romans 1:17

Part 1: Rigatoni and Macaroni

I'm sure there's much theological debate to be had 'round here, specifically dealing with the nature of sin, age of accountability, the doctrine of total depravity and so on. But for now it might be a good idea to just focus on the nature of children and return to floor of the Coliseum down the road.

My earliest recollection, stretching all the way back into those memories that have long been covered by new drywall and matching paint, is a scene where I am learning some colorful language from my father and his friends. They all seem to get a kick out of me repeating them and I do not disappoint. In that moment I am completely free of any inhibition or insincerity. I know not the law nor sin, only the pleasure of firing off some four letter offerings as I stand confidently before the gods of my little world. My sacrifice is acceptable, the aroma pleasing and I know what it is to be loved.

The next scene takes place at Lake Mead just outside of Las Vegas. My parents and their friends are eating, drinking, fishing, and enjoying the day. The hot desert air is unbearable and the cool water corralled by the nearby Hoover Dam is inviting. If my memory serves me correctly, I'm in the care of a teen-aged sitter who is becoming bored with chasing me. As the sun sets behind the Nevada mountains I finally make my move and enter darkness of the lake still fully clothed. Lake Mead caresses my small frame and my toes bounce upon her mossy floor as I feel gravity shedding itself from my shoulders, down past my knees, over my sopping wet tennis shoes and vanishing into the shadows below. My elation is short lived, however, as reality overtakes my mind and I realize that I have drifted too far. I now have to bounce just to keep my head above the surface and my clothes are weighing me down. I turn to look back to shore which is miles away from where I am now. I suddenly know guilt and regret all at once and I'm too ashamed to call for help. Then suddenly in the distance, a figure appears and breaks across the reflection of the affluent moon who is quite entertained by it all. My wild imagination morphs the harmless turtle, or bass, or drift wood into a horrifying crocodile and with every ounce of energy I have left I cry out into the darkness. I stand completely still and wait as my mom rushes across miles lake water to pull me to safety. On shore, most of the adults seem amused at my expense. Except for the sitter. I hope they fired her. And my mom. In her arms I learn to trust. The water has taught me the extent of my limitations and the even greater strength and love of my mother. I stay on shore. For now.

I was shocked to learn later that my mom had a mom as well. Even better, her mom was the lady I called "Grandma." Grandma lived in a two story mansion across the street from a baseball field I was convinced is where the Cubs played. Days at Grandma's house were spent digging in dirt and sand, running the bases at "Wrigley Field" and drinking milk from blue plastic cups. The man she lived with, "Grandpa", would make all these wonderful meals that kids love to eat like rigatoni, macaroni and peas, and peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches (right?). Grandma was also the first person to really introduce storytelling into my life. She taught me the difference between "Once" and "Once upon a time" and how all fairy tales should end with "and they all lived happily ever after", (Flannery O'Connor she is not). The first story I can remember hearing was Jack and the Beanstalk. I sat wide-eyed next to her on the couch as the rise and fall of her inflection guided me from Jack's home to a castle in the sky. I would later meet two infamous trios of bears and pigs, a long haired princess trapped in a tower and an old Irish Setter named Big Red. Grandma never used books when telling stories. Even when I found a large book laying on her coffee table full of old stories and pictures from far away, Grandma still relied on her own ad-lib style for storytelling. That's when I met David. It seems he had some "Giant" problems as well. Then there was Samson who killed a lion and Noah who had this power over the animals. And although these stories were exciting and full of adventure, Grandma insisted on starting them with "Once." She told me that the reason that David and Samson and Noah were able to have such great powers was because "they were being helped by God."

And so I learned that there was an invisible person out there who you had to believe in and He would help you and that good people go to live in the clouds with Him when they died. During a sleepover, my cousin would inform me that there was a tails to that coin and that bad people went to live with the devil underground. I wasn't sure who he was yet but that night as I lay in bed, I was sure I could hear the devil climbing stairs from deep below the earth's surface.

And so my first exposure to invisible things was pretty cut and dry. And as everyone who has ever heard a good story knows, you have to choose the right side before you can begin your journey. I was going to believe in God. He was big, He was old, He was powerful and He lived in the sky. And He was real. My Grandma told me so.

Memoir Project: Band of Brothers

2010-01-21T07:54:00.000-08:00

If you ask most any breathing American these days where he or she happened to be on September 11, 2001, most of them can recall, with vivid detail, stories of horrific realization as the first images of a smoldering North Tower gained omnipresence on CNN. The days and weeks that followed would turn out some of the most iconic images captured as the first heartbeats of the still embryonic new millennium found their rhythm. Two mortally wounded structures bleeding smoke into the Harbor. New Yorkers, coated in dust and human ash fleeing the noise as their kingdoms tumbled from the sky. Firefighters hoisting American flags amongst the twisted, skeletal remains of the World Trade Center.

As for myself, I happened to be cleaning out Mrs. Garner's garage. She had passed away only days prior to that fateful Tuesday and thus, never experienced Post 9/11 America. This is unfortunate as she would have seen America at it's most patriotic since she had tuned in as a child to FDR's fireside chats in the days following the attack on Pearl Harbor. I was 22 when the towers fell. As I was loading the last evidence of Mrs. Garner's existence into the back of a trailer, a neighbor from across the street came running out of her front door in hysterics shouting something about a bombing at the World Trade Center. My fist response was to assume she was watching a rehashing of the WTC bombing from '93. Of course, I had assumed wrong and for the next decade I watched as the America I knew growing up changed dramatically.

We declared war but not necessarily a war on anyone in particular. We just declared war on the "bad guys", terrorists if you will, and anyone who happened to support them. I think at first there seemed to be a lot of support for this type of reckoning but as the number of soldiers killed in action climbed into the thousands with no end-boss to ultimately defeat, Americans began to grow weary. Now, as we stand shoeless in line watching as our Diet Coke and Purell pulled from our carry-on, we are constantly reminded of our fears.

It seems like every decade has them. In the 1940s it was the Japanese. Much of the 50s and 60s were spent looking under rocks for communists. The children of the 70s not only faced an energy crisis but also began to grow suspicious of their own government. Though the 1980s proved more optimistic than it's dark and dismal predecessor, many Americans feared our beloved nation was having more of an identity crisis and before long, the political players were engulfed in a religious holy war as the Moral Majority sprang to life. As the final decade of the 20th century opened, the Religious Right was at the zenith of its existence. Now as you may know, any movement that wishes to create any sort of longevity must either search out or create for themselves an antagonist to contend with and ultimately stir up passion within their numbers. Enter Bill Clinton.

It was during this time that my family staked its most consistent claim on one of the larger Baptist churches in our area. We rarely stayed anywhere more than 6 months at a time before moving on (Oh how my father loved to move on). Growing up in a Christian home in the 90s could have any number of incarnations as I learned during our stay at Cherry Hills. Some were conservative, hard lined, fundamentalists whose holiness radiated from their brown suits and dated hair styles. They often home-schooled their children, more out of fear of evolution and sex education classes than out of concern for the quality of education offered by public schools. Others were more trendy yet cautious of too much worldliness, thus plunging their families headfirst into the ever expanding phenomenon of Christian culture (see previous entry We're Lifting Up Jesus). Still, there were others, who by most cultural standards appeared as normal and trendy as one would expect any upper to middle class Midwestern family to be. This was the group most feared by my father. He despised their mini-vans, was appalled by their apparel and sat high up on his perch in judgment of their ignorance of the latest boycotts he was blindly following. The more this group gained prevalence in my life (mostly because the cutest girls at church resided in these circles) the more my father reigned in his children. Once the pressure became too much, we moved on.

Over the next several years my father plunged our family into as many right wing, home schooled, extremist camps as he could locate. None of them more bizarre than the stars of this story, however, the MacArthur family.

They lived on the outskirts of Springfield in a large farm house in the middle of nowhere. Their presence in my life couldn't have come at a more opportune time. The nightly news was filled with stories of militia groups popping up all over the country. Much of this was fueled by hysterical claims ranging from sightings of surveillance seeking black helicopters to murderous corruption within the White House courtesy of The Clinton Chronicles, a documentary which claims the former president was a coke snorting anti-Christ. The tragedies of Waco, Ruby Ridge, and the Oklahoma City Bombing gave America poster boys many infamous right wing wackos who were devils to some and heroes to others.

The MacArthur family was as far to the right as you could go. Six boys all relentlessly devoted to their causes from states rights (including secession) to gun owner's rights (no matter the size or caliber) to the preparation for an imminent Armageddon (where the "true Church" would welcome Christ back into the world as they slew the anti-Christ and his minions). How I came to befriend these guys is simple: I really had no friends at this point in my life. So on Thursday nights I would make the drive to Elkhart to attend their Bible studies.

I soon learned that, according to their beliefs:

Catholics go to hell and the Vatican is the Great Whore of Babylon mentioned in the book of Revelation.

Christmas is evil.

Bill Clinton was evil.

All music except for psalms of wrath were evil.

Jeans and t-shirts can be evil.

Abraham Lincoln and Dr. King were evil. (Boy did they ever pick a good spot to live.)

It's O.K. to be gay if you were a crazed Russian composer but that was the only exception.

Psychology, Psychiatry, and the like are all evil.

All movies are evil except for Where the Red Fern Grows and Braveheart.

But more than their beliefs, I was impressed by their arsenal. AK-47s, multiple shotguns and rifles, and in their upstairs closet, 900 rounds of ammo. One night when I arrived at their home I was treated a U.N. flag burning as it was the 50th anniversary of its inception. "Who keeps track of that?" was my first question.

So after a couple of months of hanging out with this insane but well meaning group, they started to grow on me. They were at least kind if nothing else, and although they really wanted to kill heretics (according to them it was justified by John Calvin) they really did their best to follow the teachings of Christ as much as their twisted outlook would allow.

I suppose the pressure of trying to hold onto their beliefs while living in society began to prove too much for them and they eventually began looking for somewhere to get away. Within weeks, their father was hired to work in Fairbanks, Alaska and so they purchased three school buses, painted them white and covered them with Bible verses, loaded the interiors with as much canned food as they could carry, shot all of their cats and drove off into the sunset. I only saw them once more after that about a year later. It seemed that Alaska, with all of it's beauty, grandeur, and seclusion lacked one important thing: women. I was shocked to see them wearing t-shirts and jeans and singing along to of all things the Backstreet Boys (talk about misguided). It would still be a year before I was able to catch up to them in regards to freedom (which is another story).

If I learned anything at all from my time spent with the MacArthur family is that people are just trying to find their way home. We all do it differently. Not trying to jump on the universalism band wagon here, just saying that unlike their formerly held beliefs stated, there are going to be a lot of different* kinds of people in Heaven. They all will have found Jesus; some just take some really weird ways to get to Him.

*note for the doctrine police. Yes, Jesus is still the Way.

Memoir Project: We're Lifting Up Jesus

2009-11-13T01:08:00.000-08:00

I don’t really know how I found my faith. Looking back it all seems like a three ring circus but somehow, I made it through.

Intro
In an effort to better acquaint you, the reader, with a bit of my history, I think it would be wise to begin with a touch of education, specifically, a brief survey in regards to the Christian sub-culture. My wife doesn’t understand Christian sub-culture. Her upbringing was Catholic and just for clarification, that’s not a slick way of saying “before she was saved.” It’s an odd thing since most world religions really haven’t learned how to shape their belief system into a multi-billion dollar marketing juggernaut. As far as I know there are no lines of Hindu-wear, no Buddhist skate nights or Muslim Discount Days at Six Flags. I suppose none of this is news to anyone but if you will forgive my indulgence here, it might do some good to go over a few highlights. So this is sort of a primer on Christian Rock.

Somebody’s Gonna Praise His Name
The foundation of the Prairie Capital Convention Center is shaking as the subs buried beneath the stage assault the very core of 6,500 teenagers gathered here to rock out...and oddly enough, their parents as well. It's November 1991 and I am standing in awe of the spectacle before me. The lead singer is running back and forth to opposite ends of the stage, his mane of wildly unkempt hair bathed in blue light. He wears an over-sized, white pirate shirt complete with purple spandex that are tucked into suede cowboy boots. The keyboard and bass players share an equal taste in style as well as hairspray. As for the lead guitarist, he appears a good ten years older than the rest of the band, comfortable in his leather vest, acid-washed blue jeans, and semi-permed micro-mullet. Lead singer John turns to the smiling drummer, happy in his signature Mickey Mouse muscle t-shirt, and asks, "HEY LOUIE, IS IT GONNA BE YOU?" With this, Louie Weaver, long-time drummer for Petra, launches into his time-honored traditional drum solo of praise as the band riffs through the fan favorite, "Somebody's Gonna Praise His Name."

I am 12 years old and this is my first Petra concert. Though the scene is at least reminiscent of a show by Warrant that took place at this very location only weeks earlier, the spirit of tonight’s event is quite different. Though the occasional whiff of cigarette smoke is evident, possibly the result of a misguided roadie or an unsaved friend, the usual aromas of weed and overpriced beer are strangely absent. As one would expect, the arena is full of teenage boys in logo-heavy black t-shirts. What is missing are the usual wardrobe tributes to Metallica, Guns N Roses and Bon Jovi. Most are gimmicky knock offs of popular advertising giants such as Coca-Cola (Jesus: Eternally Refreshing), Jack Daniels (Daniel and the Lions Den) and Gold’s Gym (the infamously awkward Lord’s Gym featuring a fallen image of Christ in the push-up position with a rugged cross on his back labeled “sin of the world.” The t-shirt challenges the bewildered gawker to “bench-press this.” ) Also missing from the scene are the hundreds of “rock sign” hand gestures typically associated with any rock show. A few well meaning concert goers make a less than successful attempt and wind up displaying the “I love you” sign while most in attendance, likely heeding a warning against Satan worship inspired by Jack Chick, prefer the simplicity of “one way.” Throughout the night, lead singer John encourages his audience to clap their hands for Jesus, a tradition that will eventually be commonly referred to as a “clap offering.” Occasional random shouts of “JESUS” are encouraged as well. About an hour in, the band exits the stage, leaving only their leader to stand in a single spotlight. He begins to talk in a more reserved tone about the band’s real purpose for being there that evening. In addition to rocking out, their main mission is to glorify Jesus Christ and through their music, bring people to Him. This segue ways into about a 20 minute sermon, culminating in an actual altar call.

How to Get Saved
In case you missed that, an altar call is a technique that was made quite popular during the Second Great Awakening (1790-1850) by the famed evangelist Charles Finney. During a sermon, one which focuses heavily on either the crucifixion, the fire of hell, the sinful man or any combination thereof, the preacher invites those in need of repentance to leave their seats and walk to the front of the room where he is standing in order to get saved. Most modern versions involve a preliminary raising of hands among closed eyes before the actual invitation is given. It is a very emotional moment and I must admit I have walked my share of aisles in an effort to restore myself.

Once those who are down front have met with counselors and prayed, the band kicks back into high gear. Before leaving they tell us that we are the best audience they have ever played to and I, for one, believe them. They were, without a doubt, the biggest Christian rock band of my youth. That is until three young men from Liberty University arrived on BET with a little video known as “Heavenbound.” For the next couple of years I became a disciple of the Christian rock scene, always trying to convince my secular music friends that dc Talk, The Newsboys, and Whitecross, were every bit as good as The Spin Doctors, Scarface, and Crash Test Dummies. Of course I could find a little acceptance with a few of the crossover artists such as Amy Grant or Michael W. Smith, but by the time they reached mainstream radio, my father discovered the writings of a man named Jeff Godwin.

Instability
Godwin was the author of several anti-rock books published by the infamous Chick Publications. His most well known work was What’s Wrong With Christian Rock? Once the UPS guy dropped off ten copies of this little gem at our front door, my life would never be the same. I arrived home one day to find every cassette and VHS tape owned by the Reynolds family had been boxed up and “victoriously” tossed into our dumpster (why we had our own personal dumpster will be covered later.) Dress codes quickly changed and for the next several months I lived in adolescent misery. Then, out of nowhere, random Christian Rock cassettes (and eventually CDs) would show up in the tape player of our van. I had hoped that the last episode of my father impersonating the prophet Elijah on Mt. Carmel had been a passing phase but that was not the case. Just as I began to settle with the idea that I could be a somewhat normal Christian teenager, the bottom dropped out. This cycle continued for the rest of my teens until I finally moved out. I’m not sure why my father just couldn’t decide what version of a “Christian family” he wanted to be. I would have gladly settled for stability, to the left or to the right, but even that was too much to ask for. For as soon as we would establish ourselves at one church, they would suddenly become too liberal…or too legalistic…or they supported the Disney corporation (remind me to tell you the story of the day we packed up every video, book, or item that was of Walt Disney and mailed it to our local newspaper in protest of Gay Day. Thank-you, Dr. James Dobson.)

Some History
During the late 70s and most of the 80s, there was a movement specifically targeting the notion of Rock n Roll music for Jesus. The roots of this movement date back to 1966 when John Lennon, in a typical overstatement, declared The Beatles “more popular than Jesus Christ.” Infuriated affiliates of the Bible Belt took to burning albums by the truckload. On an interesting side note, one of the biggest groups to speak out against The Beatles and rock music in general was the Ku Klux Klan. Thus a new form of transgression was born out of this dichotomy and united the famed unholy trinity of sex, drugs and rock n roll. It wasn’t long before rock music began finding its way into the sermons of evangelicals who, though well meaning, would inadvertently paint some very unflattering caricatures of Christianity in general. It didn’t help matters much that around this time, trends in rock were veering toward much heavier and darker tones which only contributed further to theories of rock n roll as a portal into Satanism. Rumors of backmasking, a technique where sound clips are inserted backwards into music tracks in order to reach the listener’s sub-conscious added to the hype. Renowned fundamentalists such as Bill Gothard and Bob Larson began writing articles and holding anti-rock seminars geared toward youth. In 1973, Dorothy Retallack gained notoriety for her experiments involving houseplants and their negative response to music by Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix. Another story that began to circulate church circles was that of missionaries, claiming to have their children rebuked by recently converted tribesmen for listening to “drum beats” that were used to call up demons. It was becoming clear that Rock n Roll was not going to have an easy time in old-line churches. On the west coast however, the Jesus Movement was gaining momentum. Former hippies, who had little use for doctrinal wrangles, were “turning on” to the pacifism and love offered by Jesus. Rock n Roll was not only embraced, but was becoming an integral part of church services. Before long, the first members of Jesus Music were beginning to gain momentum, including Larry Norman, Keith Green, Randy Stonehill, and Phil Keaggy. Needless to say, they were not always welcomed with open arms. Norman only added fuel to the fire when he released his defiant, “Why Should the Devil Have All the Good Music?”

Evangelism
One of the first “Christian Rock” bands to appear around this time was founded by Ohio native, Bob Hartman. With their first release, Petra drew comparisons in style to The Eagles and The Allman Brothers Band. Though only met with moderate success throughout the 70s, the next two decades would solidify Petra’s place as Christian rocks biggest act as they would gain acceptance among youth looking for a sound that was not only mainstream, but allowed by their parents as well. Christian Rock gained ground when the focus shifted toward evangelism. A Christian Rock concert wasn’t just a safe place to drop your kids off; it was a battlefield for the souls of unsaved youth. Soon it was common for bands to be accompanied by youth pastors who would bring a gospel message to every show. In a way, the Great Commission was a justification for the worldy style. As Christian Rock surged in popularity, so did the other genres of music willing to profess Jesus within their lyrics. Soon, Heavy Metal, Rap, and Country were categories at the Dove Awards, the Gospel Music Association’s answer to the Grammys and the inevitable began to take shape.

Crossing Over
In the early 90s, a young woman by the name of Amy Grant was enjoying her place as CCM’s (Contemporary Christian Music is much friendlier than Christian Rock) first lady. The album, Unguarded, spawned her first mainstream hit with “Find a Way.” In 1991, Heart in Motion hit the airwaves and whatever Christian college swear word you can come up with hit the fan. While the tracks on the album focused more on relationships between men and women rather than “JC”, it was the music videos that really set off the alarms. In some sequences, Grant playfully dances with a man who is clearly not Gary Chapman, or Vince Gill for that matter. Thus the term “cross-over” became a negative term in some circles. Heart in Motion went on to sell 5 million copies, unheard of in the Christian music industry. While Amy Grant was holding her own, label mate Michael W. Smith was making his run at super stardom as well. Having struck platinum once with the single, "Place in This World”, Smitty was ready to once again bridge the gap with his sixth studio release, Change Your World. Not everyone was unhappy with the cross-over phenomenon. A lot of kids who were restricted to only what was sold at
Christian bookstores were finally able own albums that were played on the radio. Of Change Your World, CCM reviewer Chris Well wrote “Here's an album by a Christian that you can play for any of your friends.” Another modification noticeable within the industry was the lack of “Jesus’ per minute” within songs by artist who had always been explicit of their intentions. Now it seemed as if many of the lyrics dedicated to Jesus, Lord, and Creator had been replaced by slick pronouns, almost like a girlfriend song for God. To add further confusion to the situation, some mainstream bands were releasing material that was oddly Christian in nature. In 1987, Irish rockers U2 released The Joshua Tree, an album that was actually #6 on CCM Magazine’s list and later book titled The 100 Greatest Christian Albums of All Time. All in all, once the dust had settled, both Grant and Smith moved sheepishly back to their comfort zones to reign once again within CCM.

Safe Alternatives
The 90s were good to CCM and two names that were responsible for this were dc Talk and Jars of Clay. dc Talk, broke into the market as a response to the increased popularity of Rap. Oddly enough, two thirds of the band are white. As tastes evolved, dc Talk developed their style into more of a modern rock sound, the culmination of this being their 1995 release, Jesus Freak. At a time when most of America had their eye on the Pacific Northwest for the next big thing, many comparisons were drawn in relation to bands like Pearl Jam, Nirvana, and Alice in Chains even though only two tracks on Jesus Freak remotely resemble the Seattle Sound. Besides resurgence in flannel, another trend spurred on by the Grunge movement was the return of the acoustic guitar. The 80s had been split pretty even between hair bands and pop. The 90s welcomed a return to more roots type music with artists like REM, The Wallflowrs and Hootie and the Blowfish. In 1993, Nirvana raised the bar further with their live release, Unplugged in New York. At Greenville College, another band was making use the acoustic renaissance along with sampled drums and the music department’s string section. Jars of Clay released their self titled debut within weeks of Jesus Freak and oddly enough, had enormous cross-over success with the single, “Flood” on modern rock radio. Sixpence None the Richer also found mainstream success when the wistful, “Kiss Me” was included in the film, She’s All That. As CCM was becoming a major player within the music industry, (at one point matching Country music in terms of sales) it was also becoming more and more acceptable as an alternative form of entertainment. Christian bookstores began to hang posters near the music section, listing secular artists along side their supposed “Christian counterpart.” For example, if you like The Dave Matthews Band, then you will also like Steven Curtis Chapman or if Pearl Jam is your thing then Third Day is the way to go. And just as it was at it’s pinnacle, it all began to slide downhill.

We Are NOT a Christian Band
It stands to some irony that the only Grammy the King of Rock n Roll ever received was for his Gospel releases. U2 was able to keep their following despite their religious inclinations. Even prog-rock veterans Kansas had brought issues of faith to the forefront of their music. During the turn of the millennium, spiritual talk was surfacing within the industry; most prevalent of this was in the Hard Rock genre. Though time and again the lead singers of their bands were firm in their denial of being associated with anything CCM, their lyrics were hard to ignore.

My soul cries for deliverance
Will I be denied
Christ
Tourniquet
My suicide
Evanescence, “Tourniquet” from Fallen

I hear a thunder in the distance
See a vision of a cross
I feel the pain that was given
On that sad day of loss
Creed, “My Own Prison” from My Own Prison

You are the light
To my soul
You are my purpose
You’re everything
Lifehouse, “Everything” from No Name Face

This strategy eventually rubbed off on a few bands who had been touring the Christian market for years. Switchfoot was another “dime a dozen” punk band with three releases from Sparrow records before their music was used in the film, A Walk to Remember. Their release, The Beautiful Letdown featured the smash hits, “Dare You to Move” and “Meant to Live” and much like Jars of Clay, Switchfoot was thrust into the mainstream spotlight and overnight they were the biggest name in Christian music. Unfortunately for CCM fans, lead singer John Foreman was not happy with his crown. During interviews, he began to emphatically deny the Christian tendencies of his lyrics, stating that they were still open to interpretation. In a further snub to the Christian music proper, Switchfoot was suspiciously absent from the 2005 Dove Awards even though they had several nominations and even won Artist of the Year. Seeing the success of The Beautiful Letdown, many other artist tried their hand at mainstream breakthrough, though not with near the desired results. By this time, the generation that had taken its stance against the evils of rock music had all but faded into the shadows. Gone were the days of awkward altar calls and preachy hair bands. Most parents were becoming indifferent as to what music their children listened to, be it Christian or secular and thus, Christian Rock was no longer an umbrella that anyone saw the need to raise. Without souls to save or children to shelter, CCM needed to find new purpose. And find it they did.

Come, Now is the Time to Worship
From the very first days of the Jesus People, the blending of sacred and secular music for church services was imperative. Within the Jesus Movement, when an acid freak would come out of their addiction, rather than cut out their personality along with the old self, there was a sort of re-imagination of the soul that took place. If you painted before, you painted for Jesus now. If you played guitar, you played for the Lord and His Church. If you were a hooker or a Satanist, you went on a speaking tour. Hold that thought.

This is how modern worship music was born. We had the Psalms. There were 150 of them and they worked out fine. After Jesus left the Middle East and returned to the streets of heaven, the church aligned itself with Rome, which eventually became the Catholic Church. A lot of monks had a lot of time on their hands and so they wrote a lot of chants. There were passed onto priests who kept it real by singing the mass in Latin, i.e., the Kyrie, the Gloria, the Sanctus, etc, etc. After Martin Luther split off, he decided that the common people should bring it back down by singing as a congregation so he wrote songs for congregational singing, many based on old tavern standards. For the next 450 years, all sorts of composers contributed hymns to the church including Bach, Beethoven, Charles Wesley, John Newton, Fanny J. Crosby, Phillip Bliss, and George Beverly Shea. For the most part, there was very little change in the structure of hymns. Written almost exclusively in four-part harmony and scattered with deep theological teachings, the family hymnal was nearly as precious as the family Bible. During the Second Great Awakening, evangelists introduced another form of music known as gospel. Inspired in part by the old Negro spirituals, gospel music was much more emotional than a hymn and much simpler at that. When Jesus music began to spread in the 1970s, anyone who could pick up a guitar was viewed as contributing to the tradition that dated back to the time of David. As CCM gained in popularity, many of it’s artists contributed to this tradition as well. Sandi Patti released the popular “How Majestic is Your Name” while pre-crossover Amy Grant wowed the church with Rich Mullins’ “Sing Your Praise to the Lord.” Mullins had a massive hit himself with “Awesome God” which became the most sung “modern day hymn” in the American Church during the 1980s. As worship music (also referred to as Praise Music) became increasingly desirable, a few acts would try their hand at releasing entire albums for congregational singing. Petra was the first Christian Rock band to release the modern equivalent of a worship album with their bold, The Rock Cries Out. The tracks from this album eventually became commonplace at youth groups across the world. 2000 saw this method explode as virtually every CCM artist released a worship album in some form. Two of the most successful of these were Offerings by Third Day and Worship by Michael W. Smith, back in the Christian zone for good. The movement has become such a force that some artists have resigned themselves to just writing and performing worship music. In fact, in some ways they have become the biggest names in Christian music and all without crossing over (ah, how times change). Hillsong United began to acquire a following when Darlene Zschech released her global phenomenon, “Shout to the Lord.” More recently they have solidified their place in the industry with “Mighty to Save.” Louie Giglio and his Passion members have had more than their share of achievement as artists such as Chris Tomlin, David Crowder, Matt Redman, Steve Fee, and Charlie Hall, have been models of structure as practically every church on the planet seems to be adding a Contemporary service. As for the Christian music industry, it seems to have taken a bit of a nosedive. After 30 years, CCM Magazine released its final issue as sales and interest have been declining. Groups who once sold out arenas are retuning to clubs and churches. And yet, the music has found its purpose within the service of the Church, as it began in storefronts all those years ago.

Wrapping Up
So here I am, more or less a product of all of that. Looking back over my formidable years it seems pretty trivial to have made such a fuss over it. After all, it’s only music, and some pretty shoddy music at that. It seems like Christian Rock was sort of a flash in the pan that had its 30 years of fame and then it was gone. We’ve all moved on. I rarely spin my I-Pod near anything remotely resembling CCM. If anything I’ll throw on some worship music but there’s only so much of that I can take. The other day, Laura and I were out for dinner when I suddenly had the urge to relive some of my youth. Landing on Petra, I pulled up their worship album. My wife is now hooked on the 1989 cut, “King of Kings.” She says it makes her want to get out there and run. The other morning she was listening to it before school while I was still asleep.
I like to hear her sing. After all, that’s what the music is there for.

Memoir Project: Getting Ahead of Myself

2009-10-25T18:05:00.000-07:00

There is really no easy way to begin this. At times I think I might have made some of it up in order to fill in the gaps but, as the few who were there will tell you, the stories are true. We wrapped the frozen body of a Shetland pony up in a blue rain tarp and tossed him into a dumpster; it took 28 fully packed trailers to excavate the last memories of Jack Honula from his widow's home, and yes, my friends finally purchased three school buses, covered the exteriors with scripture, shot their cats and drove to Alaska. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The consensus seems to be that mankind shares a commonality and that most people, when pressed, generally feel about things the way most people do. We share common scenarios that are relatable, which incidentally is the secret to any good comedy. In spite of this common thread, I find it difficult to believe that there is anyone out there who is going to be able to find any familiarity in these stories at all. And that has always been my greatest fear, that I would be different; that I would stand out; that I would be odd. Much of that fear was exploited for years in ways I'm only now beginning to understand but once again, I appear to be getting ahead of myself.

In sitting down to look over the last 30 years of life and pull out what I think might be worth reading, I've noticed that I'm only able to playback certain scenes in an outdated format. Meaning that whatever I experienced at the ages of 6, 12, or 16 was written to a hard drive that could only be read through the eyes of its current model. Therefore, when I look back on the only memories I have of my late Uncle Rick, I can only see him forever as a 5 year old boy would see such a man: a real life giant whose beard covered his chest and whose voice boomed like rolling thunder. I have seen old pictures of myself being held by this man. They were taken in that hazy area of my recollect where memories are only partially formed. There must have been something about him that yielded me to trust him because the only emotion I can relate to my Uncle Rick is fear. Like a lot of adults will do near the end of a visit with family, he asked me if I wanted to come and live with him. I told him that I preferred our house on Piper Road. His response terrified me. "You don't want to live on Piper Road. There's tornadoes on Piper Road." I'm sure everyone in the room laughed since adults are inclined to do so at the sight of a child possessed by irrational fear, but I spent the next several months keeping a vigilant watch on the skies over Piper Road just in case. Nevertheless, I’ve seen the pictures of us together and I assume we got along well. Today I have nothing in my heart but love for this man even though I haven’t seen him since he went missing in 1986. This is the rationale I hope to use while excavating my own past. I know I’m inclined only to see things though the eyes of whatever age events occurred but the job of any writer is to approach memories as objectively as humanly possible. I’m curious to find out what 2009 me thinks of the events in the life 84, 85, 91 and 97 me and so on. Have I correctly placed my angels and demons on correct sides of the chessboard? Are my assumptions, upon assumptions, upon assumptions rooted in logic or fear? Are DC comic books really color coded by the publishers in order to determine which contain the most amount of satanic influence? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

The Wild, The Innocent, and the I-Pod Shuffle

2009-10-19T13:28:00.000-07:00

Lucy and I went for a walk this morning. She is what is referred to as a “pocket” beagle although at just over a year she would do well to fit inside of a saddlebag, much less anyone’s pocket. Over the weekend, Laura mentioned more than once that she thought that Lucy was getting a bit on the fat side as a result of my overfeeding her and her lack of exercise. Somewhere in the back of my mind I imagine this is my wife’s sweet way of encouraging me (and Lucy) to become more active participants and less garbage disposals. So moments after Laura left for work, I decided to grab a leash and take a walk around the neighborhood. It was a brisk October morning and the first time I pulled my coat out of the closet since last February. I don’t usually take my I-Pod on walks with Lucy but then again I usually have Laura to accompany me. Since Lucy seemed not so much in a talkative mood I put in my headphones and let her begin to more or less pull me along.

Over the summer, Laura and I had taken Lucy through an eight-week course of basic training for puppies. Judging from the way Lucy pulled and jerked and jumped on the poor child carrying a trombone to school this morning, I suspect that the files in her brain labeled “obedience” have long been deleted. The interesting thing about walking a disobedient dog to a soundtrack is the fact that mankind has yet compose any piece that can rhythmically prepare one for the stop and go, jerking and sniffing at every turn, lie in the grass for a minute, let’s chase that skunk, I’ll go ahead and cross through your legs and trip you now, pace that Lucy so effortlessly holds. For this reason I decided to throw caution to the wind and start the morning on shuffle.

For someone with 19.81 gig of music (4384 songs to be exact) with everything from Abbey Road to Zooropa to preachers to lectures to self-help pod casts to comedians who would make the cast of Deadliest Catch blush, shuffle can be somewhat of an embarrassment. People acquire music for all sorts of reasons. One night I was running sound and lights for the Chippendales (funny how Word never questioned that one) and my meager collection of house music was not satisfying the women drinking themselves into a frenzy while awaiting the main act. Realizing this I quickly began downloading anything that resulted from my Google search of “hot club music 2008.” Thus I became the proud owner of "Apple Bottom Jeans." There was this other time where I was recruited to play bass for an 80s themed musical and I had to download an assortment of classics such as "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go," "Never Gonna Give You Up" and "Centerfold." I also came by a few of my selections in an effort to impress a few girls while others (mostly hair-bands) were picked up on pure adrenaline lust.

Arriving home I tied Lucy outside and began filling the dishwasher while reflecting the morning’s playlist. Things had started out alright, "Come Together" to be exact, but that was followed by "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" which was skipped over to Katt Williams who was articulating the art of spelling. Even I have a limit as to how many times I can stand to hear “mother f***er” at 7:30 in the morning and Katt was skipped as well. Ironically, it was during Barry White that a very large Husky appeared out of nowhere and attempted to “seduce” Lucy. I kindly refused his advances on behalf of her, knowing that such a match would be anatomically unpleasant.

I began to wonder how it was that I-Pod shuffled my music. Is it shuffled all at once or does it shuffle on the fly? When I manually skip a song, does it go to a predetermined next song or is I-Pod just as surprised as I am to hear the next selection? And if a predetermined shuffle does exist, is it because I-Pod shuffled the songs how I-Pod thought best or is I-Pod merely aware of the order resulting from the songs having been shuffled? A closer look at my I-Pod revealed that some kind of order does occur in shuffle. After all, "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite" is 21 of 4384, implying an arrangement already exists having never been played. Though the songs to follow have yet to emerge, they already exist as far as I-Pod is concerned. I-Pod, however, exists outside of the realm of song comprehension. All the song knows is its existence within the shuffle. If songs are indeed aware of past songs they might try to understand their purpose as part of a playlist but they will never be able to understand how I-Pod can exist in songs past, present and future at the same time. I-Pod created the shuffle and therefore is not bound by the same rules as shuffle. A timeline created by I-Pod does not have to exist in order for I-Pod to exist. The songs may wonder at this and theorize for 12.7 days as to the nature of I-Pod but they will never fully comprehend. After all, I-Pod was there before "time" began and exists even now, long after the shuffle has run its course.

The thing about metaphors is that they eventually break down. If I-Pod is God then what is I-Tunes? What do the ear buds represent? Is that like the Trinity? But I suppose that what it really comes down to is a realization that I don’t get it. And that answers don’t really matter. As a song, nothing is going to make sense and every answer I come up with to reassure myself will eventually crumble simply because I’m just a song. My mind cannot grasp what is too wonderful and too terrifying by definition. My heart feels only tremors, my soul hears only echoes and my mind sees only in a shattered visage. Only the eyes of the full glory of what is behind the veil.

Murder One

2008-10-23T14:22:00.000-07:00

In trying to trace it back to where it all went wrong I am more and more comfortable with the inclination that everything is just fine. That this is just a part of that undulation so hailed by Lewis' Screwtape. That you must go through the valley in order to see the mountains or cavalcades of darkness before the dawn jargon rushing through the caverns of my mind.

I recall the good times. The times when I was so motivated. So close to your heart. I cared. Music was magical with endless possibilities. Literature an undisturbed chest of treasures just waiting. Creativity was just as easily to be found in the dusty bottle of experience and all I needed to do was live life and write it out. Philosophy and beauty were found in the simplest forms and God, you were a close friend rather than an abstract concept to be shared with the ages.

I had the courage and the audacity to believe that if I just went for it, everything would fall into place. I could change the world if I could just tap into that universal voice central to all humanity.

I was wrong. So terribly wrong.

And so here I am. And I'm still wrong.

Any good that I am currently dishing out is merely an echo of the me that once existed before... before what? That's the problem you see. I just can't figure out when everything started to collapse. Somewhere along the line I was being chased in the mall parking lot by the Libyans and now I'm stuck here in with no plutonium and to top it all off I'm taking my mom to the school dance. I could reconcile it all if I could just find out when and where I dropped the ball.

It's a murder you see. My own mysterious death and we have no weapon, no motive and no witnesses.

You've got to get yourself together
You've got stuck in a moment
And now you can't get out of it

Introit

2008-10-08T07:00:00.000-07:00

So I was apparently so excited about expression, I waited a whole month to get started.

Prelude

2008-09-12T15:39:00.000-07:00

So I suppose I shall lean towards this avenue of expression for a while...