Holiday Rain

This is a photo from a potted plant on our our front steps. I took it while it was raining. I like the way it makes the leaves glisten in the light.

Relics

I came to a sudden realization as I was reading the Gospel of Luke the other day. Christ really lived and walked on this earth two thousand years ago. Now, I did not suddenly become a christian several days ago. I truly believed before this time that the Deus homo lived and walked on the earth, was crucified and resurrected on the third day. I simply had not thought of it in quantifiable terms. After reading nearly exclusively ancient history for a term, two thousand years does not seem so long.

The thought just struck me-

Christ did not burst into an alternate reality. He did not descend on a distant planet which was purer than our own. He walked on the good firma terra, and died on the cursed tree.

Relics begin to make sense to me. I can understand how, if someone believed that he is in the presence of a cloth that touched God he might get just a bit excited.

But why isn't every rock a relic; every grain of sand, and every leaf revered because it is God's handiwork? Why not frame every rainbow, or write poems praising every sunset? Such would be the response of a consistent relicist. But thankfully we are incapable of being consistent relicists, and this for the same reason we are incapable of being consistent God worshippers. But we are not called to praise every sunset. We are called to let every breath praise the LORD. So let's get started.

Praise the LORD!

When (God willing) I have a daughter . . .

I will do my best to sing this to her; because it kicks "Butterfly Kisses" in its proverbially cliched hindquarters. It is "Father and Daughter" by Paul Simon.

I believe the light that shines on you
Will shine on you forever
And though I can't guarantee
There's nothing scary hiding under your bed
I’m gonna stand guard
Like a postcard of a Golden Retriever
And never leave till I leave you
With a sweet dream in your head

I'm gonna watch you shine
Gonna watch you grow
Gonna paint a sign
So you'll always know
As long as one and one is two
There could never be a father
Who loved his daughter more than I love you

Go out and listen to "Father and Daughter". Or anything else by him (you have my permission). This blog is not sponsored by Paul Simon (or U2).

Finals

Finals. . . aren't. If NSA has taught me one thing, it is that work is never done. Work is cyclical. I'm finished with that history paper, but I will be writing another history paper shortly. Then, I might be done with writing history papers (hopefully this sad state will never happen), but I will be writing more papers and taking more tests. Also, let it be known, I plan to teach a bit after college. What does this mean? I'll be assigning and grading papers. Where does it end? Not in academia.

The lawn does not stay mowed, the leaves don't stay off the lawn, and the dishes certainly don't stay clean. C.S. Lewis aptly described the sequence of life (in I think "Surprised by Joy"). Term, holidays, term, holidays, till we leave school, and then work, work, work till we die.

I can only think of two times in all of history when an act was justly declared completed; unique and never to be repeated. One was at the very beginning of history, one was right in the middle.

"And on the seventh day God ended his work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made" Genesis 2:2 (KJV)

"When Jesus therefore had received the vinegar, he said, It is finished: and he bowed his head, and gave up the ghost." John 19:30 (KJV)

There it is. That is finality.

Practical Jokes

I have made a rather stunning discovery, which I would like to share. Someone showed me how holding down the shift key on a mac will make everything slow down. So what you can do is hold down the shift key and hit an expose button over and over. Then close down the computer and later you'll have to wait until the windows stop bouncing at their extra slow pace. He said you can do that to other people and it's a lot of fun. I am too lazy to attempt it on other people, I did it to myself. Then I had to e-mail something and was really mad at myself for doing that earlier.

As I was watching the windows bob up and down rhythmically I thought to myself: self, I was just the victim of a retroactive auto-practical joke. I could do this sort of thing all the time. Right before I drift off to sleep I could tie my legs together. If all goes according to plan (fall asleep within five minutes of the event), the memory of tying my legs would never make it past the very-very short-term memory phase. I would wake up the next morning with no idea of what I'd done the night before. What a pleasant way to start the day.

When you think about it, it isn't fair at all. You see, what makes a practical joke sort of alright is its tit-for-tat nature. If you play one, then you are asking for it. Not so if you play one on yourself. A self inflicted practical joke will always be past-self playing a trick on future-self. The future never gets its own back.

And this is the case with everything, not just practical jokes. Take politics. Clinton left behind a load of troubles for Bush, who left an even bigger mess for Obama to make worse. Leaving politics (I hate politics), just look at life in general. We are always doing things to ourselves now which we will regret later. What's a tattoo but a nasty trick a twenty year old is playing on a fifty year old? You can laugh at your past self but you can never give it a good talking to. Hm, I'm sure there's a moral in there somewhere.

Our "Where you people at"-map no longer looks like it has a nasty case of the chicken pox. Although I am happy that it's feeling better, I am a little sad that you can no longer see the various locations of our visitors on its diseased skin. It just shows a measly eight visits in the United States. Oh well. At least now we can see better where new blotches are going.

Also, you may have noticed that our hit counter is down. I know many of you are distraught right now with thoughts of all the hypothetical donuts you will miss out on (we were getting close to 7000 hits). It was about this time last year that Kaleb decided to not give out Krispy Kreme donuts on a monumentous hit count landmark. Alas, we are going to have to cancel that tradition.

The Romance of Language

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that rail along the floor -
And this, and so much more? -
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
'That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.'

- T.S. Elliot excerpt from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

"It is impossible to say just what I mean. . ." Ironically, I know just what J. Alfred Prufrock means. Speech is a burden to my soul. I believe I accomplish it as well as the next man, and perhaps better on paper but it frustrates me just the same. I do not wish I were better at speaking or writing; I wish it were not necessary. And it is not the action of speech itself that galls me. I am not a lazy communicator. If anything, I am too much of a perfectionist. So what, then, do I mean? That if I had my way in the world (thank goodness I do not) you would never have to ask this question of anyone. Minds would meet in the absence of all things besides perfect being and its expression in perfect thought.

If you are reading this, then my wish has not been fulfilled. You still have the wonderful freedom to misinterpret me, and I have the privilege of writing ambiguous sentences. Praise be to God, for leaving the romance in our language.

Yes, there is romance in our language, and it is the romance that flusters. Every sentence flirts with a host of different meanings. Some words are associated with one another so that they can best be called friends. Others will court one another until they become synonymous, and then finally philander into entirely different meanings. This is the way of words and who am I to stop them?

I, like Big T, have a wise younger sister.

As has already been said by better men than I, my sister is smarter than me. And sweeter. Which, if you know me, you know isn't that hard, and if you know my sister, you know how much of an understatement that is.

Don't forget that sleep is not a sin. Please get some rest.

(from an email)

Purification in Delos

I was just reading in "T-Diddy" (our good friend Thucydides, Book 3.104 if you want to know) how the Athenians purified Delos.

"All the remains of those that died in Delos were removed, and for the future it was commanded that no one should be allowed either to die or to give birth to a child in the island; but that they should be carried over to Rhenea" which is near to Delos.

What I'm really concerned about is that part about people not being allowed to die or give birth on the island. This raises a few questions in my mind, and I'm sure it does the same in yours. The birthing part is pretty simple, it's weird but it's simple. They just put all their maternity wards on this island of Rhenea, problem solved. Also, people generally know when they're going to have a baby. There's a few signs to look out for (but keep your guesses to yourself). So, when those signs present themselves they send them over to that other island. But what if the signs were just missed? This happens you know.

Delos Purification Authority: Excuse me maam, you aren't about to have a baby here are you?

Woman in labor: I know, I know I saw the leaflets; I'm not supposed to give birth here. But I didn't know I was, and now I am.

DPA: I'm sorry maa'm but you are going to have to go to Rhenea for that. I can't allow you to have a baby here.

Dang, shucks for her. What a hassle.

And what about people dying? There had to have been more cases of ambiguity then. I mean, after a certain age I guess they just ferried the old people to Rhenea, and the same with the sick. I'm guessing there were no beds designated as "death beds" in Delos. But what about the odd person who started dying unexpectedly.

DPA: Um. . . Sir, you look like you could die any minute now. When did this start?

Dying man: About. . . ten minutes ago. . . I can hardly breathe.

DPA: Well dying's not allowed here, you're going to have to go to Rhenea. I shouldn't have to tell you this.

DM: Rhenea? I heard it's terrible, I want to die here.

DPA: Too bad, that's the law.

I make irrelevant comments because it's late.

Read somewhere between tonight and tomorrow morning:

The remaining cells die via apoptosis (programmed cell death).

Yeah, biology textbook. Point is this:

wouldn't Programmed Cell Death be the greatest name ever for a Techno Punk Rock Band?!

I know, right? Now you can return to what actually matters in your life.

A return to definition guessing

Well, it's been a pretty long time since I've contributed anything either. You could almost say I'm in danger of becoming a non-contributor. But that would be weird wouldn't it? Who would run this sanctuary for absurdity if Kaleb and I both left? I have another post running through my head but for now I have a weird word from Mrs. Byrnes. Try to figure out what it means but don't look it up. If you figure it out you earn some flabbergasted respect.

hereism

If that's too easy and you want another one here is: lethonomia.

I need to work up to this ...

So I haven't posted on Flabbergasted in so long I can hardly even be called a contributor. Yes, you say, I know, what gives? To which I would hem, haw, and give you much of what elsewhere is called nugarum about time and my lack thereof. In any case, I figured the best thing to give you in the short time I have until Natural History would be an obituary I wrote recently. For myself. For declamations. Things you should know about this particular item: it's not serious. Not even hardly. Also, look on YouTube for "Most Interesting Man in the World." These are some of the greatest commercials of all time. Period.

Kaleb A. Trotter: Jan 2 1990 – Sep. 25, 2080.

Kaleb Trotter, explorer, art critic, Presidential candidate, and wealthy eccentric, was found on his private yacht today off the coast of Tasmania, south of Australia. His wife found him lying in bed, his favorite Irish wolfhound lying at his feet. Doctors have been unable to determine the cause of death, and when his widow was asked if she believed it was a heart attack, she replied, “his heart wouldn’t nearly be foolish enough to attack him.”

It is unknown where Trotter acquired his fortune, but black market deals in ancient artifacts were suspected ever since his expedition into Ethiopia in the early 2040’s. Before 2020, Trotter was unheard of, growing up in relative obscurity in the southern part of the United States. He became a household name almost overnight after discovering the Maasacani, a primitive tribe living near the mouth of the Congo River in West Africa. Out of supplies and having lost his entire safari due to malaria, quicksand, and the previously unknown ratus africanus, the African Swamp Rat (a rodent of rather unusual size), Trotter reportedly happened upon a tyrannosaurus rex, most likely the last of its species, which he famously claimed to have killed, “with one disarming look and a broken pocket-knife.”

After returning to America, Trotter ran for President on the Independent ticket in 2036. Though caucuses were promising, he withdrew in September of 2035, allegedly because he couldn’t stand a third interview with the aging Bill O’Reilly. Said Trotter, “you’d think the man would realize that sometimes all it takes are roguish good looks.” When asked about what an Independent candidate thought of the two party system, Trotter immediately replied, “the after-party is the one you want to attend.”

Trotter turned his attention to art next, acquiring and donating hundreds of pieces of Ancient and Neoclassical art to museums in America. Most famously, he convinced the President of Greece, Alina Nicasopolis, to allow him to break the Acropolis down and send it to the British Museum, so that he “could see the completed artwork without having to go to Greece. I don’t prefer long plane rides.” When asked how he could possibly have effected this astounding event, Trotter said, “well, I didn’t the pocket-knife. Just the look.”

Trotter faded into relative obscurity afterwards, purchasing an island in the Caribbean, formerly one of the Bahamas. Once a year he hosted the world’s elite at a legendary private New Years Eve party. Said one attendee, “things got fuzzy after I jumped into the Jack Daniels fountain, but I distinctly remember Trotter commenting on how drunk I was. Things got very quiet, and then he laughed loudly and said, ‘so that’s how an awkward moment feels. I’ve always wondered.’”

Trotter’s family could not be reached for comment, although a nephew said that the millionaire was circumnavigating the globe to make sure he hadn’t missed anything of importance. 


Absolute nonsense- nugarum

In sophomore declamations now we are given different themes to write about and we declaim in groups of 15 or 16. My last declamation I had to imitate Dr. Seuss. Here's what I came up with:

One fine sunny day I asked a guy from the tram, how many flimples will it take to feed a grown man. I’m not quite sure said the man to me, but come to my flat and we shall see. But what is a flimple? So glad you asked. It’s hard to say, but mostly they’re fast. They run hither, oh yes they run thither, they get pursuers into such a ridiculous dither. So how do you catch them? Well you have to be cautious, because if you find them asleep they’re really quite nauseous. But plug up your nose and give them a rub, they’ll drop in your hand, then give them a scrub. They’re tiny brown lice that cook ever so nice, teach them to stir, they take advice. They do everything fast, just leave them alone, they’ll sweep up your floor they’ll clean up your home.
So I open the door according to plan, and what do I find but five thousand flimples, a whole flimple clan. So I said to myself “Now I can know how many flimples it takes to feed a man full grown.” So I asked them quite nicely “could you try a meal out? I’m famished tonight, I could eat a whole trout.” Well, funny the way it all just worked out, trout’s what precisely they planned to try out. The meal that night was such a treat, it was quite a to-do, a fantastic feat. The flimples stood up on shoulders, they worked flimp-on-flimp, they cooked the fish, they constructed a blimp. Just kidding, no blimp was involved, but by working together the problem was solved. So many a flimple, six hundred flimps bold, fed one single man, and this story is told.

6000 hits

Be one of the next two people to look at this blog. Get us up to 6000 hits. Get a hypothetical donut. That's it.

Good luck!

Why I don't listen to Green Day

Yes, you read the title right. The time for hypocrisy and rebellion is at an end. I've ignored God on the issue of my music for too long. I can't fool myself anymore that Green Day's rebellion is only against what's wrong with America, the fundamentalists, and the socially dead Christians. No, theirs is the original rebellion. They have thrown out the baby with the bathwater. They have thrown out Jesus Christ.

I do not mean to say that there is no legitimate reason for anyone to listen to Green Day. There may be, I just haven't found it yet. And I don't know what others do when they are listening to Green Day, but I was rebelling against the light. I was loving darkness.

So now I repent of recommending Green Day, approving what they are doing. I still believe that God has a purpose for bands like them, but this doesn't give me a reason for listening to them.

Thank the Lord for all his tender mercies. Amen.

My condition

I feel the need to explain some things about myself. Why, for example, I am not in choir (this should become plain). This is mainly for my friends here in Idaho, since most people who know me from back home know of my diagnosis. I'm not writing about it now because it's gotten worse, but only because I was reminded recently of how good God has been to me through it.

I have had a fair number of health problems. I started having migraines and chronic dizziness (all the time) when I was about 13. Before that, I had stomach trouble and had passed out a few times when I was forced to stand for a long time. I went to very many doctors and had myself tested for all sorts of diseases and abnormalities, etc. but they couldn't find anything wrong with me. Then, I found out that I had severe allergies and started to have allergy shots. These helped, but not as much as we would expect if all my problems were due to allergies. Then my allergist told me that he think I might have dysautonomia. He referred me to a doctor named Randy Thompson, who has dysautonomia himself. After looking at the list of symptoms for dysautonomia (specifically POTS) I was pretty sure before I even saw him that I had dysautonomia. The first thing he had me do was take a tilt table test. In a tilt table you get strapped to a bed that moves from supine to upright. They tested all sorts of things on me, but the whole time they took note of my blood pressure and my heart rate. When the bed went upright my heart rate went up, my blood pressure went way down (60/40), and I only stayed conscious for about 5 minutes. So, I tested positive.

Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS) is defined by an increase of over 30 bpm from a supine to an upright position. It's basically a battle between the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems. When I stand up, the sympathetic nervous system raises my heart rate, and the parasympathetic lowers my blood pressure to counteract this. Since the two systems are at odds, my body isn't always able to attain homeostasis. The imbalance causes way more problems than you might think - headaches, dizziness, visual disturbances, anxiety, depression, syncope (fainting), and many more I don't care to mention. Some people can't even stand without fainting, they are often confined to wheelchairs. There is no cure for POTS.

Thankfully, my condition is mainly under control with medication and exercise. It used to be a lot worse, but through the grace of God I now know much of what I need to do (and not do) to make it better. I'm still not sure what I'm going to do when I'll have to be in the NSA choir. I know that I am not able to stand up for as long as I would have to. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I would like more people to be aware of this disorder. It's often called an "invisible" ailment. Many people who have it are labeled hypochondriacs, lazy, or otherwise unstable because doctors aren't able to find what's wrong with them. Is it any wonder that so many are depressed? There are so many diseases, disorders, syndromes, etc. but I would appreciate prayer for those who are stricken with dysautonomia. Pray not necessarily for healing, but comfort. I was blessed with parents (and doctors to a large extent) who believed that I was telling the truth about what I was experiencing and were dedicated to finding the source. I wish that everyone had the same.

What is happening to the church? U2charist?

I sometimes joke around that I have to be careful about leaving places, because bad things (or just things) happen while I'm gone. For example, I leave home for one week in the summer and my parents sell our car. I leave home for 3 months at college (up until fall break) and they change the wallpaper on the first set of stairs. I leave Moscow for the summer and the Bucer's "smoking room" is no longer a smoking room! You get the idea.

Now, I've only been gone two weeks and the First United Methodist Church of Pensacola does something crazy. And apparently they are not the first.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm a huge U2 fan. It's almost ridiculous how much I like them. But the reason that I like their music is exactly because their music does not sound right as a praise chorus. The music was not designed for any kind of corporate worship - except if you can call a concert that (which you can't by the way, not even at a "Third Day" concert).

It's quite ironic that U2 songs are going to be sung in a church service. U2 is a very individualistic band when it comes to church affiliation. They intentionally separated themselves from the contemporary Christian scene, at a time when they would have gained lots of fans quickly from that medium. That's a very good thing, because that would have killed their music.

The PNJ says that the church will be singing "Beautiful day", "Where the Streets have no Name", "One", "With or Without You", and "Still haven't found what I'm looking for." One? That's a great song, but it's about breaking up (just ask Bono). If you are going to sing U2 songs in church, why not sing "40" or "Yahweh"?

And it's called a U2charist. That's catchy, but I don't approve of turning the Lord's Communion into a pun.

It's an interesting idea, but I get nervous anytime I hear of a novel idea for a worship service. And when I hear the idea I almost always think "what the heck are they thinking?" Here we go again.

Why am I here?

Last night I visited Aspen Medical Center with Ty, Kaleb, and Robert (Bobby Lee). Every Tuesday a few students try to get together to talk/sing to the residents of this nursing home and play Bingo with them. Last year (for various reasons) I was fairly sporadic about going to these. I'm going to try to be better this year about going to things like this because every time I do I am simultaneously sobered and blessed.

I walked around trying to engage in conversation with different residents. I found I struggled talking to them by myself (if you know me, you might be aware that I am not the greatest conversationalist; especially with people who have no interest in conversation). I saw my classmate Robin Bowe talking to a lady named Dorothy at the Bingo table, so I walked over and tried to see if I could add anything to the conversation. Dorothy was more sharp than many of the other residents. After a while though I could tell that something was wrong. After talking to us for a while she said "I don't know how I got here. I don't know how I ended up here." Robin tried to distract her by pretending to misunderstand her and said that, personally, she got there by car. I got there by bike, so I added this. The distraction worked for a while, we moved to another topic. 

Then she asked "why am I here?" I couldn't answer her, not what she's really asking. I am just 2o years old. So I said that we wonder the same thing about college. What did we get ourselves into? How did we end up so far from home? So that's what we talked about. It at least distracted her. If I were more on my feet, I could have given her a biblical exhortation and perhaps some comfort. Next time perhaps.

Please pray for Dorothy and all nursing home residents. In the same way she does not understand why she is in a nursing home, pray that she has a peace that she does not understand.

Ocean's refrain

I was recently commissioned by a friend to write a new stanza to the old hymn "How Great Thou Art." She loves the hymn, but wished that there were a stanza about the ocean. Here's what I came up with:

When I look out and see the ocean’s rolling,
Over the sand, O Lord it’s you I see;
You wave your hands, the waves are gently flowing
Pushing the shells onto the sandy beach

"Then Sings my Soul. . ."

I had to hum the song to myself to make sure the words fit the melody. I doubt if it will ever be added to the hymnal, but I like it nonetheless.

Hannah Montana in New Orleans

So, yesterday I was in a small cajun cafe in N'awlins (New Orleans for the unititiated). Kaleb, Ty, and I decided to go there for the day and explore the place. This particular cafe we were in did not look too wholesome from the outside. The place itself was very seedy looking and its neighbor establishments did not help it much (a gentleman's club, a gay bar, etc.). Kaleb was against going in but Ty and I wanted the experience.

When we walk in I am instantly reminded of "DJ's" (where I worked, until this morning around approximately 10:03 - but that's another story). There's a bar where a couple of old guys are planted. And what could they be watching on TV but "Hannah Montana"? It's terrible, we started watching it too. It was completely involuntary. I kept looking away but I could still hear it, so it would bug me until I looked back.

And Kaleb did not want to go in! Just think about what we would have missed.

Action Figures

I have a wad of 2o dollar bills on my dresser. It staggers the mind how many action figures I could buy with that money, if only I were eight again. When I was eight, every time I got a bit of money I would go to Target and buy an action figure. Usually it was "Star Wars", occasionally it was some other random thing that looked cool at the time.

I was just thinking about why I don't get action figures any more. Their are a couple reasons I can think of:

1) I'm saving up my money for something big (like a wife)

2) I just don't have the imagination

That second reason is the one that really intrigues me. Why can't the proverbial grown ups, twenty-somethings, and teenagers play with action figures? I'll tell you - it's not because we are too old, it is because we are not young enough. We've been thrust out of the land of Narnia and black suits guard the entrance.

You can actually see it happening slowly. When kids are really young, all they need is one action figure for a good dialogue, and two for a war. Then they need the bigger sets with the plastic bushes and whatever else helps out the scenery. Finally, they need something that moves. Oh, I don't know. . . robots (Lego makes "robots" now you know).

I really wish I could go back to the point where I can play with Playmobil the way that Ben does. He goes up there and he fights wars. He actually fights along with his men. He has a whole army of Playmobil guys, but only one of them represents him. This guy is the leader, and his name is Nadar (for whatever reason Ben really likes this name). I think most kids set up their guys and make them kill each other (that's how I did it anyway; I was ruthless). But for Ben, it's like he's one of them. Of course, this is the one character that never dies. All the projectiles just seem to miss him.

Another update on my movements

Hello people,

If you are from Moscow, ID please know that I'm already missing you people. If you are from Pensacola, Fl I hope that we can hang on the beach. And if you aren't from either of those places move as soon as possible, because those places are the bomb-diggity.

Guess what? I now have a job on the beach. Faced with an option of being:

1. Unemployed in Greenland

2. Got a job on the friggin' beach

. . . I choose the latter option. You can drool if you want but it's not really as good as it sounds. It isn't that great being on the beach if you are stuck in a hot kitchen. It's a job, is what it is. A job is a job (even if it's on the beach). Anyway, it's a lovely place called "DJ's Beach Cafe." If you are ever there stop by and give me a shout.

Another hypothetical Donut

Yeah, if you are the 5000th visitor you will be rewarded with a hypothetical donut. It is an award that most people only dream about.

Israel's plight- My plight

Deuteronomy 30:1-4 (ESV): "And when all these things come upon you, the blessing and the the curse, which I have set before you, and you call them to mind among all the nations where the Lord you God has driven you, and return to the Lord your God, you and your children, and obey his voice in all that I command you today, with all your heart and with all your soul, then the Lord your God will restore your fortunes and have compassion on you, and he will gather you again from all the peoples where the Lord your God has scatterd you. If your outcasts are in the uttermost parts of heaven, from there the Lord your God will gather you, and from there he will take you."

I was reading over this passage for my Lordship class, and the grace of God struck me full in the face. Here is something Mr. Appel pointed out to me in class, God said
"When all these things come upon you. . ." God knew that Israel could not keep the terms of the covenant. Again and again Israel wandered far from the Lord. And again and again the Lord restored them.

This is me I tell you. I am Israel. I am the prodigal son.

This is bad, certainly. But I'll tell you what's worse. When I am not being the prodigal son, I am being the elder brother. I forget that, just a few days ago, I was wallowing with the pigs.

But God is gracious. He convincts me. And He forgives me even for this.

Praise Him!

If I didn't share this. . .

I would be quite heartless. I want you to prepare yourselves, because (obviously I have no idea, but) I think this is how music in heaven will be.

This is Hoppipolla and með blóðnadir by Sigur Ros.

In a doctor's office for 2.50 hours

I have little to do but observe people. There's a woman sitting a couple seats down from me. She looks like she could be in her late twenties, perhaps early thirties. She has three children with her. A baby girl stays perched in her arms, probably about 5 weeks old (I don't really know). She keeps pulling off the bracelets on her mother's wrist and throwing them to the floor. I never found out her name. "Seth, share the blocks with Eden." Seth is about five I think, Eden about three. She reads to them "Green Eggs and Ham." I remember this one. And then "The Cat and the Hat." I remember that one too. The mother is tired of reading stories to them. So they read to each other.

Seth and Eden are looking at a book full of animals. Seth is naming the animals for his little sister. This animal to the left is an. . .





eel.

And this:









Is an even bigger eel.

I love it. I can imagine myself reading to my little sister. I am six and she is three. I cannot read, but that really does not matter at all. Like Seth, I am an excellent interpreter of pictures. And I am quite confident in my assertions.

Or, the more likely scenario is that my sister is reading to me. Even as a three year-old my sister is quite brilliant. She says "And all these words are what they say" as she turns each page. There is no arguing with her logic. She does not like it when I say "uh huh." I must say, my sister's whims are really quite arbitrary. She would rather I just say "yeah." So I say "uh huh" a lot, just to get on her nerves (I really haven't changed much since then). And I pretend to not listen. So she says "Robbie, if you keep doing that then I'm not reading."

Ah, timeless.

I am continually amazed by Easter

So I learned a verb for Latin today. Shocking, I know. Anyhow, this verb is "pasc," and it means basically to bring livestock to food. Being the diligent (albeit ignorant) Lordship student that I am, I wondered if this was where we got "Pascha" from. Pascha, in case you don't know, is another name for Easter, used frequently in the Orthodox church. So I jumped to Google and typed in Pascha. According to OrthodoxWiki (which any Greek person can edit, so you know it's right), it's a transliteration from the Greek, which is transliterated from the Hebrew for Passover. Cool. Yet still I wonder. So I break out ye olde Whitaker's Words (a free Latin translator) and typed in Pascha. It popped up with "Easter, Passover." Yea, verily, this I knew. So I typed in "pasca" on a whim. Pasca means water mixed with vinegar, a traditional drink of Roman soldiers in the field and the drink of slaves. 

If your reaction at learning this is at all similar to mine, you're clapping hands over mouth in wonder. Because Easter is all of these. Easter is the new Pascha, the true Passover, when the blood of Christ, the Lamb of God, is poured out on us and protects us from judgment. It is the time of pascamur, when we are led like sheep to the manger, to eat of the Body that was placed there for us. It is when we remember that Christ drank pasca for us on the cross, when He took our place, the place of a slave, and drained the bitterness from our cup. Yet we also remember that He drank the pasca because He was the conquering Warrior, who was in the field because His work was not yet finished. 

Anyhow. Our God has an incredible way of tying things together. He is the Master Storyteller. 

Beach Walking- My newest assigned poem

I would have presented this poem at rhetoric declamations today, but I was sick (am sick). Therefore, I shall present it to you.

"Beach Walking"

I am walking across the Ft. Pickens buried road
With a kayak slung . . . DANG! on my shoulders
And a crab just took claw and it grabbed
My big foot so you must please forgive me.
I am lucky that no cars are going by me,
cause I dropped that big bulky friggin’ bark
And it landed right CRAP! on my other foot.
So I hobble fast across this barren beach.

It's obviously not a great poem or anything, but I am rather proud of the meter. It is anapestic, which means that it has three beats per foot going "unstressed, unstressed, stressed." The meter itself is almost like taking two steps and encountering something painful. I wouldn't want to use it in a relaxed poem, but it works well in this situation.

An update on my movements

So, I'm back into biking (as in bicycle, not motorcyle) now that it's spring. I've biked some 70-0dd miles over the last three days. I've found out some things. First, that the old man in the kilt also walks down the trail to Troy. This guy gets around. Second, Pit bulls like to hang out on the sides of the trail and scare its users. This is the second time I've been unnerved by the sight of a pit bull wandering free. The first time it was on the Chipman trail and I was even more afraid, because it looked like a mountain lion. Third, a gas station at the end of an eleven mile trail is a beautiful thing. Fourth(ly?), I shouldn't keep my phone in my pocket while I'm riding. It fell out and I thought I lost it for good, but someone picked it up and called the number my dad texted to it. It was quite providential. Finally, the Palouse is so beautiful. The hills just seem to roll on forever. It's quite a sight for a guy who is used to oceans and flatlands.

Well, that pretty much sums up my weekend. I hope yours was good too.

Chaining down the muse

I still haven't mastered the art of producing poetry on demand. Yeah, go ahead and tell me to produce a couplet. No problem. I'll produce something that is totally stupid, but is still totally a couplet. To the skeptics "You see this? Is anyone here prepared to argue that this is not in fact two lines that rhyme? I rest my case."

Couplets aren't that hard. You can mass-produce those little buggers. But you definitely can't tell me to produce a sonnet. Of course, sonnets don't come about naturally anyway. I've never been just sitting on my bed (my preferred poetry workstation) casually writing a poem and suddenly realize that, lo and behold, I've been writing a sonnet. "Well I'll be a monkey's uncle. Hey check this out - it's a sonnet! What should I call it?"

I am a self-motivated person. Which basically means that when I don't want to do something, I don't do it. What I need to do is realize that I really, deep down want to write a sonnet. There is nothing in the world I wish for more, than to write 14 lines -three quatrains and a couplet - in iambic pentameter using the rhyme scheme abab cdcd efef gg.

Oh well, the couplet will be easy.

P.S. Couplets can be hard if you do them right

What hurts the most

So, I made a rather bold resolution the other day. In a bizarre sort of reverse, mid-lent declaration the other day I have resolved to try to listen to more country music.

Now, those who know me well will know how much of a stretch this is. To my ears, the twangy whining/wheezing/wailing of a country singer is no more musical than nails on a chalkboard. I'm doing my best to fix this though. I recognize it as a gap in my musical palate. To this end, "Project Densensitisation" is underway.

The smart thing to do would to start with some "Southern rock." After all, rock is what I would consider to be my native genre. So, the natural transition would be to move into something that's a bit more southern but is still rock. It's sort of like easing your way into a freezing cold bit of water.

But that's not how I roll. I jump (headfirst when I know it won't kill me). Right now George Strait is singing something about Cowboys. Just a minute ago Kenny Chesney was saying something about how his wife (at any rate, the woman who hands him the jug of sweet tea) thinks his tractor is like, attractive(?). Right before that Rascall Flatts* was whining about something hurting really, really bad (the most in fact).

So I'm thinking. . .
- Yeah I guess cowboys have fun. Chasing the wind and all that jazz.
- Sure, I bet some women are attracted to tractors.
- What's that Rascall Flatts? Oh PLEASE. Stop the whining, will you? I really don't care how bad it hurts. The most, eh? OOOOO It can't be worse than what I'm suffering right now, listening to your whining. Like hitting yourself in the head with a hammer. . .

You know, I think I'm beginning to get acclamated. I can't say I like country music, but I have made progress. Now, instead of running away screaming, I just laugh at it. Seriously, this stuff is hilarious. What's even funnier than the actual music is the fact that I am listening to it. Me. I keep looking around to make sure I'm not actually sitting in Lone Star Steakhouse with waiters dancing around and tripping on the peanuts.

P.S. My apologies to any "Rascall" fans. *Cough* Bobby Lee.

*Incidentally, I have found this equation to be quite helpful in understanding this band:
Boy Band + Country= Rascall Flatts

I am back, like a famine.

Wow guys. I am sorry. I think it's been nearly a month since I posted anything. Yikes. And I dare to call myself a contributor to this blog! Anyhow, here I contribute.

1. I do have something of an excuse, as this is the first weekend in the last three or four weeks that I've had a functioning power cord for my laptop, so I've been bumming off of other people and therefore trying to cut things as short as possible.

2. Today was the first day Moscow broke 60 degrees!! Truly a red letter day, since it also marked the first day we've had a full day of sunlight! It was glorious. Two and a half hours of soccer make any day better, even, nay especially a day like this.

3. Want to read something that will blow your mind, change your life, and make you wonder where in the world you have been all these years? Try Surprised by Hope, by Bishop Tom Wright, or Heaven Misplaced, by Pastor Doug Wilson. We've got some work to do, people.

4. On a note that is not totally different, you can go here and see some other stuff by me. I'll be posting poetry, art, commonplaces, and some random ideas. Don't be fooled, though. It is but a sideshow, a halftime performance when compared to the Flabbergaster.

5. [a preview for #4...] A short poem I wrote recently. It's called the ocean. It's got some things going on with the rhythm and meter, so watch for that. It's also not just about water. In case you were wondering.

you know i always miss the ocean

on stormy days i miss its waves

and on the clear days too

cause three thousand miles are just

too many for my toes to trip

when we've just got a weekend.

i know the gut-punching sickness

that comes on darker nights

when i wake up and there you

aren't.

and how i've wished to weep

for now i know how it is to be alone

the slap of water in the sink,

any mirrored flash of light,

the frozen fountain in

-

the frozen square below

they all remind me of the ocean

and of the suns embrace

and loneliness loves to gnaw at my guts

its chewed all through my

heart

for you are gone so i'm not here;

pray God someday

that all of that will change

is this what earth feels like to heav'n

(now am i not absurd?)

but i say sometime in the sunlight

when on the highest crest of hills

when dancing with our life's true love

we long for what we do not know.

6. I have a fruit that I like now (don't read a lot into that statement; it's kind of a long and

somewhat embarrassing story that involves me not liking most fruits): the orange. It kind of makes my day.

7. What is it about the song Drift Away that makes anyone in the room sing along? I think it's kind of amazing how music does that to people.

8. One wonders if "sheds crystal shells" is not one of the best phrases in the English language. Props to Robert Frost.

9. People, this kind of makes my day. If you don't know where it's from, click here, and laugh.

10. Although it's not because of any of the typical pop culture reasons, College Spring Break is amazing. So are my grandmother's mashed potatoes, fried chicken, and biscuits and gravy. There is quite possibly a causal relationship there.

11. I broke the 10 item barrier. Rad. Now I look ridiculous and long-winded, instead of the usual, which would be just ridiculous. Oh well.

Let's pretend this is a diary. . .

. . . and that I am eight once again.

Yesterday I went on a bike ride. It was fun. I saw an old man in a kilt walking down the bike path. That was weird. I ate at Arby's because I was super hungry and it sounded good. I was right, it was really good. Then I went home and did nothing. Then I went to Ty's house and we cooked burgers. I ate a burger [yes, I did actually eat a burger] because they forced me to. Later, I felt a little sick because I haven't had red meat in a long time because it upsets my stomach.

[end diary]

The interesting thing about reading old diary entries is the perspective I get. In one sense a diary is good to help you remember something. Its mainly good, however, as a help to remember things in a certain way. For example, I remember when I was about eight (whenever I imagine myself really young I am always about eight) seeing a water moccasin in Georgia. It was somewhat sensational. So it made it into my diary with just the bare facts and the customary summary, "it was cool." Even more sensational I remember learning, approximately 11 years and 9 months ago, that my mom was going to have a baby. I just wrote something about how I hoped for a boy and Hannah hoped for a girl. Of course, it was a boy. Benjamin Edward Noland. Ben. His birthday is tomorrow, 11.


I was a different person then, and the world was a different place. I can never return to the time of 1997, or '98 or even fifteen minutes ago. When I remember things now, I can't help but remember as a 20 year old in college. Unless. . . I read it in that old diary. Then my mind is thrust into the unsteady pen of a freckly too-tall eight year old who hoped for a little brother. For a moment, I remember myself as the boy who wrote down those things.

Retroactive "hypothetical donut" award

That's right folks. We've let the great 4000 pass us by. Even though we haven't posted in a fortnight, somehow you are still visiting us.

However, all is not lost. If you were paying really close attention (and were familiar with the rules of "Hypothetical Donut") then maybe you took a picture of it.

That would be awesome. If you did, then you get like two hypothetical donuts (because you've gone above and beyond the call of flabbergastetry).

Smacking (Why I hate it)

In the Oresteia when Clytemnestra binds her husband in his bathrobe and murders him, we hear Agamemnon say with great feeling (and pain): I am stabbed. I am stabbed again.” This signifies to the highly intelligent audience that Agamemnon has been murdered. Presumably, the audience knows, and can imagine for themselves what this looks like. It might have ruined their enjoyment of the play had they seen the actual pool of blood accumulate around his lifeless body, his bathrobe stained in his life’s juices, his faithless wife holding the knife that took his life. Such a spectacle is said to be “obscene”, or literally off-stage. It is off-stage because it is unseemly.
In the same way, when someone is chewing his food we know that the digestive juices are flowing. We realize that food is actually getting mixed with spit as it swishes around his mouth. However, we are not supposed to hear it. The smack as the wet food sloshes around the mouth is not a pleasant sound. Nor is it at all, appetizing to see the extremely unaesthetic state of his partially undigested food. Food in the mouth is always disgusting. It does not matter if it is the most exquisite entrée on the menu of West of Paris. And look, how beautiful it looks on the plate when it is served. In the mouth it will look like the same kind of mush that saltine crackers becomes, and I can guarantee it will make a similar noise.

Scariest word in the English language. . .

Oops [!]

Usually accompanied with an exclamation point when it is written,* "oops" has long been considered the scariest word in the English language. At just four letters it packs a mighty punch. Although, its true strength can only be measured by the context in which it is uttered, "oops" is never a good thing to hear.


Close cousins to oops [excluding vulgarities]:
Whoops
Whoopsies
Whoopsiedaisies
Crud bucket
Shucks
We're in a tight spot
Did I do that?


*Depending on the enormity of the disaster. If it's a fairly harmless mistake, such as when a few innocent hairs are plucked out of existence, then only one is necessary. However, if it is a disaster of nuclear proportions, two or even three exclamation points may be necessary to convey the utter badness of the situation.

What I don't understand (greatly abridged)

I don't understand:

1. Why it is suddenly snowing in Moscow. It's not strange for it to snow up here; it's just that it was showing signs of being a bit like Spring. Oh well, I've heard that the winter plays tricks on people.

2. Why I limp, and must now walk with a cane.


I'm a little more prone to complain (to God, not to you) about the second on this list, because it was completely unexpected and makes no sense to me at all. I want to ask, like Tevye in Fiddler On the Roof - "Dear God. Was that necessary?" It seems like a just question. I already went through this three years ago; during my junior year in high school I needed a cane to walk. I went through months of physical therapy to walk without it. Why, dear God, again?

But I already know the answer. I have it in 2 Corinthians. Paul asked the Lord to remove the thorn in his flesh, and He answered "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness" (2 Corinthians 12:9 ESV).

So far from understanding why I have some malady that causes the limp, I don't even know what malady it is. Three years ago I went to every doctor that could possibly give an answer. I took tests confirming that I do not have Multiple Sclerosis, or Early Onset Parkinson's disease, or any of the other diseases that plagued those around me with worry. Thank God, I have none of those.

Here's what I do have:

1. A Loving family
2. A good church
3. A gracious God

Of course, I already knew this. There is no kind of confirmation though, like hardship. And it's enough to turn my complaining into sincere gratitude. Indeed, His grace is sufficient for me. Praise the Lord!

Favorite lyrics from U2's "No Line On the Horizon"

Yeah, I know I just posted on U2's new album but I've got to share some more of my favorite snippets of lyrics.

"Moment of Surrender": At the moment of surrender / Of vision over visibility / I did not notice the passers-by / And they did not notice me / I was speeding on the subway / Through the stations of the cross / Every eye looking every other way / Counted down ‘til the Pentecost /

"I'll Go Crazy if I don't Go Crazy Tonight": The right to appear ridiculous is something
I hold dear / Oh, but a change of heart comes slow / It’s not a hill, it’s a mountain / As you start out the climb / Listen for me, I’ll be shouting / We’re gonna make it all the way to the light

"Stand Up Comedy": The DNA lottery may have left you smart / But can you stand up to beauty, dictator of the heart / I can stand up for hope, faith, love / But while I’m getting over certainty / Stop helping God across the road like a little old lady / Out from under your beds / C’mon ye people / Stand up for your love / Love love love love love… / I gotta stand up to ego but my ego’s not really the enemy / It’s like a small child crossing an eight lane highway / On a voyage of discovery / Stand up to rock stars, Napolean is in high heels / Josephine, be careful of small men with big ideas

"White As Snow": Once I knew there was a love divine / Then came a time I thought it knew me not / Who can forgive forgiveness where forgiveness is not / Only the lamb as white as snow [. . .] As boys we would go hunting in the woods / To sleep the night shooting out the stars / Now the wolves are every passing stranger / Every face we cannot know / If only a heart could be as white as snow / If only a heart could be as white as snow

"Breathe": I’ve found grace inside a sound / I found grace, it’s all that I found / And I can breathe / Breathe now

"Cedars of Lebanon": The worst of us are a long drawn out confession / The best of us are geniuses of compression

You've got to hear this

Because this is "Magnificent": I was born to sing for you / I didn’t have a choice but to lift you up / And sing whatever song you wanted me to / I give you back my voice / From the womb my first cry, it was a joyful noise… Only love, only love can leave such a mark / But only love, only love can heal such a scar / Justified till we die, you and I will magnify / The Magnificent


Only U2 can pull off this kind of cultural subversion. At the end of this month they will go on tour, and they will sing this song. And tens of thousands of people will be singing these verses. And they will return to their cars, still singing the refrain. I think it will be glorious.


Perhaps the fools among them will think that this is just a normal love song. About just a normal, perishable lover who causes Bono to sing these words. It does work on this level.

Maybe they know that U2 is a christian band, but love the songs and are prepared to ignore the "religion." This is good music.

It really doesn't matter. The very stones themselves are crying out. Don't let them outdo us. Praise the LORD!

I wish you a happy holiday

Happy Casimir Pulaski Day. 

In other news, this should surprise anyone who has spent their entire lives locked in the storm cellar. As a side note, I just love it when the BBC gets all self-righteous on American news. It is really, truly amusing.

And the other breaking story in "New News," da Dow is doing not so good. 7000 is, apparently, the bottom of the bucket for stock markets. And Washington is giving another $30 billion imaginary dollars to AIG! Which also makes me laugh.

By the by, Slumdog Millionaire is incredible. Danny Boyle is among the greatest directors of all time. His ability to tell a story is simply unfathomable. I'll be posting a more substantive review soon.

You can hear the difference. . .

So, I am a big fan of Elton John. Here's a picture of him, to make sure that we are thinking of the same person:








Incidentally, I could have gone my whole life without seeing Elton John in a Donald Duck costume (and you could have too, had you not read this post). However, there is no going back; that time has past. We all have seen it, and it is time for us to just move on.

[The article I ripped this picture out of made me laugh. It's just talking about Elton John's latest trouble related to perversion, and then it includes that picture right in the middle like an illustration. There was no warning, nothing like "Speaking of Elton John, here he is playing the piano dressed as Donald Duck." It just pops it in and carries on as if nothing had happened. "Boom! Here he is!"]

Right, moving on. . . I was just comparing Elton John's song "Believe" with U2's "God Part 2." It's amazing to me that they can say essentially the same words "I believe in Love" and yet mean something completely different.

Elton John is essentially despairing with a smile on his face. Bernie Taupin writes "I believe in love/it's all we've got" and Elton John sees the tragedy. He puts it into a minor key. The kind of love that Elton John wants "don't mean a thing" (cf. "I want Love). This love can't be a reason for joy. It can't really be a reason for anything, if you aren't willing to give anything up for it.

U2 sings about a love that means everything. It's a powerful antidote to all the poisons of the world, and it is a perfect preamble to "Bullet the Blue Sky."

I got crucified in ashes.

So tonight I went to my first Ash Wednesday service ever. Some people may wonder how this could possibly be the case. To them I say, visit a Southern Baptist church and you will begin to realize. We are really good at emptying bathwater, and especially good at the accompanying activity of baby-chucking. 

Anyhow, for you all tonight on this Ash Wednesday, I present a multivarious fare of life lessons and observations from the past weeks. 

1. I miss seeing news footage of Mardi Gras in Mobile, especially the mug shots. 

2. This shouldn't make me laugh, but oh how it does!  

3. Sir Joshua Reynolds, master British painter and President of the Royal Academy, writes the following: One advantage, I will venture to affirm, we shall have in our Academy, which no other nation can boast. We shall have nothing to unlearn. (Discourses on Art, Discourse 1) And that makes me smirk the wise, knowing smirk of one who knows something the speaker doesn't. 

4. My favorite two commonplaces from week-before-last:

Swede: The [Lordship] quiz is so simple and my mind is just so complex!

Swede: The lordship quiz is like coming in here with all your armor on and ... well ... 

Claire: You realize it's a sumo wrestling match. 

5. Well, now, who'd have thought?  The funniest thing is that you can hear the indignation in the cracking of their voice. 

6. This may become the goriest action movie ever made.

7. I don't even believe this mess. For crying out loud.

8. You know you've been doing too much school work and too little sleeping when you start responding to people in Latin, only stopping when you realize that you don't know the word for narrative. This is, of course, a purely hypothetical situation. 

9. I found this very interesting. 

       Gen. 3:7 (ESV) Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked. And they sewed fig leaves together and made themselves loincloths. 

      Matt. 21:18-22 (ESV) In the morning, as he was returning to the city, he became hungry. And seeing a fig tree by the wayside, he went to it and found nothing on it but only leaves. And he said to it, "May no fruit ever come from you again!" And the fig tree withered at once. 

      Matt. 25:41-46 (ESV) Then he will say to those on his left, 'Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me no food ... and these will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life."

10. I'm just glad that the little sidebar of followers now calls itself Google Friend Connect. Otherwise, who knows how I might try to connect with them. 

11. Ladies and Gentlemen, I announce, with great trepidity and hopeful expectation, the appearance of an incredible blog. Behold the Jons.

12. A quick little free-verse I jotted down at some point during week-before-last's Disputatio. Not good but begins to get my point across:

sprinting with a leather bag

slosh-burned

two til and sprinting past waiting hatchbacks

a dollar lighter

but it's this heavy water 

gives me wings. 

Thank God for Americano Fridays. 

You might say I'm convinced. . .

About his posting. He hasn't convinced me that I should post that way, but he certainly can if he wants. That way, if he does talk about the death penalty he doesn't lump me in with him. Like he said, I am a little iffy about the death penalty (and he certainly isn't).

I've pretty much gone in a complete circle over the issue of capital punishment. Four years ago I probably would have been in favor of capital punishment for murder and treason. I was 16 and probably was just going along with conservative Christian bandwagon without giving it much thought.

Last year I would have been unequivocally against capital punishment. It is a merciless system, and to me it needs to be absolutely foolproof. We should never hear about someone convicted of a capital crime being acquitted on the basis of DNA evidence. That should not happen. It means we could have wrongfully put other people to death. Yes, the Old Testament mosaic law required capital punishment for a myriad of crimes. But that was a theocracy; and even then charges could only be upheld on the basis of two or three witnesses. I would have definitely told you that in our present situation, capital punishment just isn't justified.

Now, I don't know. I hear the arguments; theological, pragmatical, and otherwise. It is clearly mandated in mosaic law (and Kaleb could tell you a lot about that); penologists will tell you about the problems of recidivism; forensic psychologists will tell you that most murderers and rapists are psychopaths who are incurable and unable to re-enter society; etc. etc. And yet, I must say that it would take more than arguments alone to convince me. It isn't a logical problem I have with it. It is more like an emotional barrier.

I don't want to agree with implementing capital punishment. But I am starting to see the merit of capital punishment in clear cases of 1st degree murder. It would be stubborn for me to continue to insist that it isn't justice. And as much as I dislike America (and I do, I really do; it's an abomination), I will concede that treason is a legitimate capital crime.

I don't have the time (and you don't have the patience, I am sure) to go through all my problems with theonomy. I'll just say one thing. Theonomy sounds great at first - the Word of God is authoritative and should be carried out in all areas of both private and civil life. That isn't too hard to swallow, until you think about all the people we would have to put to death (the list is substantial).

I am just me

So. I start every post I write with "I . . . " followed by some action verb. Rob has indicated that this at times grates on his nerves, and asks me why I do it. Now I think this question answers itself, but I wanted to give a public defense of my habit because it says something about me and about how I blog. Here goes. 

Josh Gibbs' The Cedar Room influenced how I think about blogging more than I can really say (thus Rob's jab about copycat-etry). It was the first real blog I ever read, and I read it for nearly three years. It was cool, smart, well-written, and only rarely got above itself. Yet Josh always started his posts with the phrase "We are." At least, after he was married. Before that it was "I am." In a post I've long since lost track of, Josh talked about why he did this, and said that it reminded him of what he was supposed to be doing while typing away on the internets. 

I think this is very wise, and so I copied him. See, when I say "I ..." what I'm trying to do is make the reader realize that this is not some sort of encyclopedia, some vault of knowledge, some authority sitting in cyberspace. It's not even as trustworthy as Wikipedia isn't. It's just me, a very, very white freshman in college sitting in a two-bedroom apartment typing away just for the heck of it. My words are more often than not rash, foolish, and startlingly ill-informed. They're just that: my words.

Why is it "I" and not "We?" Well, like I said, when Josh used it it was because he got hitched, so I just avoided it cause that's not me. A friend of ours  already introduces us as "Rob and his partner Kaleb," so I get skittish around these sorts of things. And besides, if I make some absurd claim that Rob doesn't agree with, you can't expect him to go to the stake defending it. I've probably said or will say at some point that I believe that the death penalty should be used in America pretty much exactly like the Old Testament says it should be in Israel (yes, rebellious kids, witches, adulterers, and homosexuals all come under that). Rob doesn't agree with this, so I'd title the post "I call for blood" or something, because it's not "We call for blood." It's just little old me. But if this habit is indeed bugging everyone, I'll shut-up already and move on. What thinkest thee? 

You might have heard from me earlier. . .

. . . If Kaleb hadn't objected to that particular post. Of course, I say that Kaleb objected but the reason I didn't post it immediately was because I was nervous that it could be misconstrued. He merely concurred. It was a bit of satire about obscenity (in which I make up my own absurd non-obscenities and suggest uses for them). If you want to see that post (which was really quite excellent and original) send me an e-mail at rob.noland@gmail.com and I'll send it your way.

Alright, on to the second order of business. You may have noticed that I purposefully avoided starting the post with "I." Then again, you might not have noticed. Well, this is your chance to notice. This is a protest against Kaleb's titling method. I have taken digs at it before. I think it is sort of egotistical (and bordering on the annoying) to start every post that way. After all, it isn't all about me is it? It's about YOU, my readers. Therefore, until Kaleb offers a good explanation for his titling (that involves more than just wanton copycatting of another esteemed blogger) I will start every post with either "you" "he" "she" or "they". If he isn't very persuasive then I will keep my titling.

NB: I don't really think Kaleb is being egotistical; I just want to see his reason for starting every post on a two-author blog with the pronoun "I".

I know what is.

Mongol General:  Hao! Dai ye! We won again! This is good, but what is best in life? 

Mongol: The open steppe, fleet horse, falcons at your wrist, and the wind in your hair. 

Mongol General:  Wrong! Conan! What is best in life? 

Conan: To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of the women. 

Mongol General:  That is good! That is good. 

This makes me laugh to nearly no end.