Fact or Fiction

I finally finished Tom Clancy’s Teeth of the Tiger over Christmas.

I was reading it on the flight to Ohio when the guy sitting next to me on the plane asked me if I was a Clancy fan. I told him I was a fan of how technical and elaborate his novels were. Once bit of chit chat led to another and the guy, named Matt, told me that he worked for the space intelligence department of the Air Force.

Now, having forsaken all my reporting instincts and put a lid on my curiosity, I merely sat back and listened to all kinds of interesting facts about space intelligence.

Matt pretty much sits at a computer and keeps up with what’s going on around Earth’s space. And naturally, since Matt was part of the intelligence community, there was only so much he could tell me. Any reasonable person, though could guess what his work covers.

One could guess that since there are millionaires now paying to get shot into space, then there is much more space activity going on in the private sector than is publicized. So our government needs people to keep track of it so that they can keep up with it. One could also guess that there is also much more going on at the international space station than is publicized.

One thing that Matt didn’t keep a secret was that the space intelligence community regularly sends things into space with shuttle launches. Although the launches usually take place very early in the morning, they are not a secret. Only the specific equipment sent up in those launches are kept secret.

A humorous side to the launch site in California is that the beaches near the launch site have been closed off to the public because a rare species of bird lay their eggs in the sand. Foot traffic on the beaches would crush the eggs, so says PETA. Some of the more militant PETA members have swam up to the beach to “protect” or protest any use of the surrounding areas. They were promptly arrested and charged with endangering wildlife, as well as trespassing.

Perhaps one of the craziest factoids I learned was about ICBMs (intercontinental ballistic missiles). The military test launches these missiles to remote islands in the Pacific. And, according to Matt, these missiles can reach anywhere in the world in about a half hour.

All this talk about intelligence made me wonder how much of Clancy’s novels were fiction. In Teeth Of The Tiger, a covert intelligence community is set up to accomplish what the CIA, FBI, NSA couldn’t. I wondered if Clancy’s novels became the what ifs that made the government think in a certain direction. An uncle of mine, who is a retired police officer and gun enthusiast, told me that Clancy spends so much time at the Library of Congress researching everything for his novels. Clancy has become so knowledgeable about the military, government and everything related to both that the U.S. hires him as a consultant.

And on a completely unrelated note, an older Clancy novel, Debt of Honor, published in the late 90s, seemed to eerily predict 9/11. At the end of the novel, a Japanese patriot flies a jet liner into Congress, killing most every elected official and leaving Clancy hero Jack Ryan to become president.

Creepy.

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I posted an article on bi-polar disorder by Sarah that defines potent last week on The Brew. I also posted an article by Trent that tries to create a position on mental health and spirituality that is in the middle. It’s worth a few reads (because after the initial read, most will be too pissed off to see the wisdom in it).

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I also updated The Beach Picayune so that you can look up posts by topic, making it easy to find older Real Crime Stories, posts about Clark Stacy or posts about depression. Check it out.

A Quickie

A Quickie
I had some Costa Rican coffee this week that was smoov as butta. Tasted like bittersweet cocoa and was delicious.
Also got a free sample to brew of some Ethiopia from Dunn Brothers Coffee. I had to compare it to the Ethiopia at the Coffee-Chain-That-Shall-Remain-Nameless, which I'm used to. The sample, which was not roasted as dark, had smack-you-in-the-face grapefruit flavor; the stuff I'm used to has more of a lemony flavor and an herbal smell.
And yeah, you really can get all this just from drinking coffee. Kinda like getting an earthy flavor or roundmouth feel in wine. And, yeah, 'roundmouth' is truly a word.
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I posted the full version of my article, Re-Entering the Faith, which I previewed this past week, on The Brew. I also posted an article by Lonnie Smith (Mishraile) on figuring out the balance of focusing on God and yourself when trying to heal from a mental health issue. It's pretty solid.
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I'm working up another Real Crime Series installment about a drive-by in Chicago that I covered. I updated to the beta version of Blogspot and began categorizing the blogs so you can look up certain ones by theme. For a listing of all the Real Crime series, check out the "Coming Soon" post from Feb. 10, '06.

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Watched the first disc of 30 Days, a tv series by Morgan Spurlock of Supersize Me fame. Pretty well done. The episode on Muslims in America (Disc 1) is certainly worth a view.

Pho For All

Had some amazing pho (pronounced 'fa') today after church. It's about the third or fourth meal at a Vietnamese restaurant since I moved here. And there seems to be no shortage of Vietnamese restaurants around the NW Dallas area.

I found out that during the Vietnamese war, Dallas was one of the cities that they evacuated Vietnamese people to. Apparently they settled down in and around Richardson, TX (near NW suburb of Dallas) and there's plenty of restaurants.

My buddy and I were the only white people in there for a while (which means you're in the right place for real Vietnamese food). I had some great coffee, which they drip-brew in a small cup at the table. The coffee drips through a small filter onto a bunch of sweetened, condensed milk, which you mix together while it's warm and then pour over ice. Oooohhh, is it good.

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Got a little frazzled this weekend over Christmas plans. And then I realized that I write best while I'm frazzled, pissed off or depressed. Realized that I hadn't worked on my novel for a while, either; it's probably because I hadn't been frazzled, pissed off or depressed enough recently.

So I stopped by the DPL and picked up some music to help me write. I found Eminem's Curtain Call; Foo Fighter's There is Nothing Left To Loose; and Elliot Smith's From a Basement On The Hill. We'll see what happens. Maybe I'll finish the chapter I started six months ago.

Thanksgiving and The Brew

So I know it’s been a long time coming but I’m finally writing about my drive to Ohio and back for Thanksgiving. But, hey, you can’t rush perfection.

So here goes.

So there were three nuns in a van driving down I-40 in Tennessee.
No.
Really.

They were behind me in traffic for about a half hour while driving up on Nov. 22. That’s when I got out my digital tape recorder from my reporting days to entertain myself on the trip. “A van full of nuns is tailgaiting me…I just passed a brown pickup truck with a fish symbol on the back and…Oh crap! The nuns just ran him off the road. Well, not really. But that would be something to see.”

The nuns stayed behind me for a while but then passed me going about 90 m.p.h. “I’m sure they’re [passing me] ‘cause they know they can get away with it. They’ll get pulled over and say, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. How fast were we going? My speedometer’s on kilometers because that’s how it is in Rome’ or something like that. I’m sure that’s how they get out of it. Or like, ‘Son, have you been going to church? Or blah, blah, blah.’”

Other religious experiences on the trip included passing a white church van emblazoned with the words, “Special Forces for Jesus Ministries.” It was as real as the nuns going 90.

Driving through Tennessee was the highlight and downside to the trip. On the drive up, I counted 17 Tennessee State Troopers between Memphis and Nashville.
17.

Traffic also sucked on the way up because I hit Nashville about 5 p.m. (this was after leaving Dallas at 6:30 a.m.). Yeah. I was about ready to call it quits then. But I plowed on, frazzled and cussing at rush-hour traffic for the next two hours. Some clips from the tape recorder would not be suitable for this blog.

But driving back through The Big T on the way home was great. I enjoyed the Smoky Mountains and the fall colors, all while listening to the O, Brother Were Art Thou soundtrack. That was ideal.

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The Dec. issue of the Brew is up and running. I posted an editorial on Mental Health and Spirituality tonight, with an article by Lana Wood to come in a few days. You can still submit article for Dec. Go to www.thebrewmag.com and click on the ‘Contribute’ link at the bottom of the page.

Consolidating...

So I started a Myspace account to help promote The Brew. That makes my blogs three-strong and me content-weak. So I'm not going to try to keep up three (which means neglecting one or the other to maintain them all) but post the same things on all of them.
So if you don't like blogger, I'm at
www.xanga.com/sonofa3

www.myspace.com/sum

And coming soon, how I fared whiled driving to Ohio for Thanksgiving.

Giving Up On Answers and Suspending Judgment

I finished God in the Dark by Os Guiness this week and was humbled and changed. Reading Guiness’ answer to the question of ‘Why, O Lord?’ put something into words that I had been struggling with for a while. It was an idea that helped me deal with the suicide of a friend a year and a half ago.

Clark Stacy killed himself in March of ’05 while I was still a crime reporter in Chicago. Two years prior at Moody, I was his resident assistant but kept up with him after I graduated. I was naturally shocked when I heard the news on my way to work the overnight shift.

During a lull around 2 a.m., I did what I could to corroborate the news. I found online the small newspaper in Tennessee that ran his obituary the day after the suicide. I instantly thought of what I could do to find out more. I could look up the local medical examiner, hospital, or sheriff’s office. A friend had called me to fill me in but any news story had to be corroborated. I had to get the facts myself.

An hour later, I realized that I wouldn’t be able to get any info. Why would anyone from small-town Tennessee talk to some small newswire reporter from Chicago? And if this was a suicide, no one would be talking about it anyway. I considered all the other roadblocks to getting information. I also considered my need to direct a sole reporter to best cover the city for the next 7 hours.

I stopped trying to find answers through reportorial means. Instead, for about two months I turned to the community that he and I used to be part of: Moody Bible Institute. I went to a sort of memorial chapel, talked to his friends still there and then listened to some crazy drama involving professors at MBI and Clark’s parents.

The man who counseled Clark at MBI was just as dumbfounded. I didn’t ask but the counselor gave me his professional opinion (which I wasn’t going to ask about for obvious reasons). I felt privileged that he told me what he did but I still didn’t couldn’t figure out why it all happened.

More months went by and I gave up trying to find answers. My anger burned out and I knew that I would never have the answer that I wanted. I was just going to have to accept that and, somewhere in the back of my head, try to accept that God was all that I was taught he was.

And then comes Guiness to tell me this:
“It is difficult to hold an impersonal universe personally responsible, and nothing less than personal responsibility will do. The only remaining option is to call God to the bar and charge him with the injustice of suffering that is otherwise inexplicable. Through doubt we can get even with God.”

So where does that leave me? What am I to do? Believe that God is good?

Guiness told me that “To suspend judgement on why something is happening is not the same as denying that something is happening. The former is faith, the latter is repression, which should have not part in the Christian faith.”

His idea is that you don’t know why but you can know why you trust God who knows why. You suspend judgment of God who knows why.

Guiness concludes by stating that all doubts about the Father are silenced in the Son, to which no suffering can be compared.

There’s not much to say after that.

The Brew Served Up

So I moved down here to Texas to try to start some kind of publication with a buddy of mine from college. It's coming together nicely and (if I haven't already mentioned it to you) it is called The Brew.
You can check out the finished product at www.thebrewmag.com when it served up on Nov. 1. (Right now the website is a just a possible logo).
We have all the articles in for the inaugural issue, which features the topic of boredom. The magazine will make money online by people visiting it. So if you like what you read, visit it more or tell others. You can respond to articles, visit contributor weblogs, even by The Brew T-shirts and memorabilia.

Here's a sample of an article I wrote for it on boring people.

So I tried a drink the other day called Sparks. The orange, extreme-looking can boasted itÂ’s ingredients in bold lettering easily read from far away: Premium Malt Beverage With Caffeine, Taurine, Energeene, Awakeene and Yellow Number Five. It seemed oxymoronic to have both a stimulant and a relaxant in the same drink. So what would the result be with both of these in your system? WouldnÂ’t each of the opposing ingredients cancel out the effects of the other? Would you feel relaxed as you stayed up all night to finish that magazine article that is due in the morning? Would you be rehearsing various ultimate Frisbee plays while trying to say the alphabet backwards?

I wanted a little adventure in my life so I closed my eyes and stepped out into the perilous unknown that this beverage represented. I didnÂ’t know if IÂ’d bask in the rich flavor of the energy drink or scrub my tongue to destroy every molecule of malt. I was ready for whatever may come because I knew that it wouldnÂ’t be the end of the world. My life would still go on after the can was empty and my stomach a little fuller. I may be wiser for having guzzled some disgusting combination that nature would never dare to bring together. Or I may discover the perfect liquid indulgence that would calm me down after a hard day of work but conversely propel me into a long night of writing.

IÂ’m realizing more and more that I am one of those restless kind of people. They donÂ’t like getting into ruts or being in the same place for very long. It may have something to do with me being born in between May 21 and June 21 or it could just be me always being curious about how things could be different. Either way, I like testing things out and trying something new.

I like knowing people that also are in motion and up for something different or adventurous. Seeing others move forward challenges me to keep up; not for competitionÂ’s sake but in order to get to where theyÂ’re at. And because of this, IÂ’m not fond of those who arenÂ’t moving forward or are not adventurous, especially in their faith. It irritates me to be around stagnant people, mainly because I used to be one.

Disbelieving For Joy

This seems like a nonsensical idea. But Os Guiness explains it in a beautiful and compelling way in chapter 9 of God in the Dark. The ninth entry is titled Scars From An Old Wound: Doubt from Hidden Conflict.

Man, I sound like a book report. Or a news story. For some reason, I had to find a way to shove as much information possible into the led or the first paragraph. Force of habit, I guess.

Well anyway, it was comforting and challenging to read this (like the entirety of this book). This is one of those books that you either read and change yourself accordingly or you read and completely deny that it has anything for you.

Here’s an excerpt that explains the disbelieving for joy idea:
“That was the moment when Jesus appeared [to his disciples after his death], and he caught them on the raw before the sedative of passing tim had dulled the pain. He stood before them, the sum of all they wanted. But for sheer joy of what it would mean in true, they refused to believe in case it might not be. What they were saying in their doubt is that it was too good to be true, and this way they adroitly protected the wound and refused to risk opening it. The one fact that they wanted became the one fact too much, so they disbelieved for joy.

“This doubt comes from the fear of being hurt where we have the scars from an old psychological wound. It is one to which many of us are prone. Are not most of us wounded at some point? Don’t we all have deep conflicts that are unresolved, perhaps unacknowledged? It is not necessarily that we have conflicts and scars that stand out publicly, livid and unhealed, but that even if our wounds are invisible, we know they are there, and we instinctively know the pain that pressure on them brings.”

This whole book is just what I need read during this time of life. I’m trying to recreate my faith or restructure it and adjust to all the things that have gone on over the last eight years. I think the book would be a polarizing force for anyone who reads it.

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On a much different note, I figured out how to rip off the Half Price Books chain. Read how on Son of A Beach.

Emergent Church and Christian bookstores interview

I wrote a freelance article for Aspiring Retail magazine on how the Emergent Church's use of art and how Christian retailers can reach out to this demographic.
I got some great responses and the article was beautiful.
Here are the questions and repsonses I emailed to Aaron Lindloff, arts pastor at Life on the Vine, a suburban Chicago emerging church.

-How would you describe the role of art in emerging churches?Many evangelicals are suspicious of the emerging church, perhaps because it's a movement and not a denomination that you can pin down. Here we have a Christian movement that wants to embrace all of the arts, not music alone, but poetry, dance, and the visual arts. The emerging church movement elevates art because it respects the imagination, seeing it as a redeemed part of our life in Christ. Surely our imaginations can be used for evil, but also they can help us understand and experience God. Traditional evangelical churches have typically used art to illustrate a point. They USE art. Emerging churches, such as ours, display art and experience it. One might say that we submit ourselves to it, insofar as the art is a window to heaven. True, sometimes our art makes a point, a rebuke of some kind, but the overriding purpose of our art is devotion. Some evangelicals say that we are depreciating the Word of God. Rather, we are complementing the Word of God with the Image of God. We are affirming that God has fashioned humans as both rational and intuitive. Furthermore, our heavy display of Christian images serves to combat the barrage of perverse images we encounter in our culture.

How and what kind of art is used in your services?In our services we rely heavily on digital images. We project images of photos, paintings, sculptures. Some photos we take ourselves; others we find for free online or we subscribe to a stock photo site. Most of the paintings and sculptures that we project are found for free online, because they are public domain, made prior to 1923. Lining the walls of our sanctuary are a series of framed prints which are changed every month or two, depending on our sermon series. These come from art books. The altar is an important and central image. Besides being dressed with a vestment corresponding to the church calendar, we place on it an Orthodox triptych of Christ's resurrection and a cross. We choose different types of crosses depending on the time of year. For example, September is missions month, so we display a Celtic cross with a circle in the middle, representing the world. A green cross is displayed during the rest of green time. A rusty metal cross is displayed on the altar during Lent, along with a crown of thorns or three spikes. Aside from the children parading around the sanctuary in an orderly fashion every Advent and Easter, we do not dance yet. That's a tricky one to do... artfully.

How would you describe good art or how does good art function?Rather than defining good art versus bad, let me describe how some of my emerging generation friends and I define ourselves aesthetically. Post-Kinkadian. Referring to Thomas Kinkaid. Referring to the giant dove with Edwardian scripted Bible verses superimposed. Referring to multi-colored calligraphy on a poster. (Calligraphy can be okay, so long as it is faded and scratched onto some water-stained paper.) Kinkaid is a good example of what happens when a Christian artist hasn't any accountability. Life isn't like that. The Christian life isn't lighthouses and sunbeams breaking through the treetops. This generation wants to be real. That's one of our tenets. Be genuine. That doesn't mean we don't have hope or don't want any happy pictures around. It means we don't decorate our homes or churches solely with the bright side of life. We want crosses, crosses with Jesus ON them, cross with Jesus off of them. The suffering of the Christian life. That's real. Emergents also value community, not just with the like-minded brothers and sisters of our church in our town in our time, but with the multitude of saints who've gone before us, in generations and cultures past. This is why the emerging church throws around the term "ancient/future." This is why we like old stuff. Old stuff has lasted and will continue to last. Old stuff reminds us we're a part of something bigger than our immediate selves.

Although I’m sure Emergent churches are more than young people in their 20s, many Christian retailers see the 20something generation as a large part of this movement. They also know that this demographic is not one that frequents their retail locations. This issue of Aspiring Retail is dedicated to exploring the Emergent church. What could be a first step for retailers to better understand the kind of art that is involved with the Emergent church movement?I suppose the first step for retailers in marketing to the Emergent Church--and here I feel somewhat like a traitor to Emergents--is that we are suspicious of marketing. Most ads on TV are lies inspired by greed, concealed with humor. Another step for Christian retailers is to understand our desire to make things ourselves. If we have an artist in our own little church who can make that, we're not going to buy that. We don't want knick-knacks or clutter. Though we do want a lot of candles. I have to drive 25 miles to a Catholic bookstore in Wisconsin to find a set of candles or an Easter candle.

A better interview with arts pastor David O. Taylor of Hope Chapel in Austin, TX, is posted at Son of a Beach. His repsonses were a little more inspiring.

An Unsafe Book

As I keep reading God in the Dark, by Guiness, I realize how unsafe it is to read this. And I think I’m going to need a Guiness to toss back while sorting through everything it’s throwing at me.

The subtitle is deceptive: The Assurance of Faith Beyond a Shadow of a Doubt. This rings of some kind of fundamentalist apology that might try to convince you with evidences or arguments that disbelieving in God is something for first grade thinkers. But the book is anything but.

Guiness examines doubt itself and all the reasons one would doubt. He also explains doubt as a regular part of faith and shoots down the notion that doubt is a negative part of belief. He then goes through seven ‘families’ of doubt that address various reasons for doubting.

I’ve only gotten through three of those families and my spirituality has already had the rug pulled out from underneath it. I can no longer operate the way I have been for the last three or four years.

I’ve embraced the idea of not trying to make everything work in regards to my faith. I’ve seen the downside to trying to fix everything or the downside of being disciplined enough to be ‘successful’ in my faith. I’ve embraced a sort of nihilistic attitude about achieving anything. I had to give up trying and just be. I had to come to the end of myself and embrace crashing and burning. This might be why I’m come to appreciate Chuck Palahniuk’s books so much. He’s been dubbed America’s favorite nihilist.

Well, I’ve crashed and I’ve burned and my crisis of faith seems to have past. So now what? I’m still alive and I still believe in Christ. Do I have to build some new kind of spirituality? Am I no longer going to be one of those troubled souls whose faith gets them through by the shreds of truth that shine out amongst the darkness? Do I mature in my faith and move on with my life and no longer define myself as one of those who struggle as an occupation?

If I read this book to the end, then I’ll have to.

Remembering

“In keep open lines to the past, the redeemed memory carries encouragement and conveys warnings and lessons to faith as faith is engaged in fighting at the front line of battle that is the present moment.”
-Os Guiness, God in the Dark.

This comes from the third chapter of Guiness’ book, entitled “Forgetting to Remember: Doubt from Ingratitude.” Reading this book has been revolutionary. What’s crazy is that I feel like (and sound like) I did almost eight years ago as I was starting my Bible school education. Every book was mind-shattering and life-altering.

I remember those days and look back fondly on them, though nowadays I’d say I’m very far from them. I don’t long for that pure milk of anything and gasp when some new truth is revealed to me. I more just long to continue on and not be dragged back into a depressed state that finds it’s cure in never-ending entertainment. God is still there and Christ has still saved me; I’m still redeemed and am being regenerated but I don’t quite feel like it. I’m accustoming myself to having feelings again and trying to sort them out after having turned them off.

I realized that my faith somehow keeps going, inspite of everything that I think would shatter it. My struggles with depression, although ongoing, aren’t as crippling as they once were. Five years after I began struggling with it, I see that life has gone on and I’v figured some things out. I’ve become one of those people I knew way back when who inspired me to keep going. I saw them in their darkest times but then later on, I also saw them able to get back to some kind of functioning faith. Somehow, they were able to deal with their depression or whatever other malady and move on. Time and their faith were able to help them grow.

I’ve more than survived the last five years and that’s something I try to remind myself of. I earned a bachelor’s degree and supported myself for going on three years. I was a freakin’ reporter for the Chicago Tribune for a year. Although I didn’t succeed at this and quit after a year, I didn’t let that send running home to Mom and Dad thinking that I couldn’t accomplish anything with my struggles with depression. And now I’ve up and moved to Texas to take a chance on starting a magazine. Who knows what’ll happen next.

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The Next Big Thing in Texas and then some.

Lost and Found

I’ve spent the last week watching the first season of Lost. I don’t remember much of went on during the week except for some mysterious set of numbers that are supposedly bad luck and all the different things the island could mean to the (now) 45 survivors (that’s the tally after the first season).

My roommate says that I spend every waking moment watching DVDs. Now I know that that’s not true; I’ve just spent around 23 or so hours out of the last 143 doing this. I’ve also worked around 40 hours and spent 42 sleeping and maybe 5 eating. That’s about half of the time I spent sleeping and three times the amount that I spend eating (though the eating time would overlap with watching since I usually eat supper or lunch while watching an episode).

Even if one were to consider that I’ve spend an inordinate amount of time watching DVDS this week, some would say that this is a naturally occurring thing, considering the show. Lost is so complex and well written that anyone could lose a week in it’s labyrinthine episodes (and that’s without touching the special features on the disc). It’s a huge hit that everyone loves.

And for that reason, I was wary of admitting that I like it. I have this notion that I’m an artsy kind of guy who likes more complicated and quirky movies. My DVD collection has many films that many people can’t stand or don’t understand. I like to think of myself as a man of refined tastes who may once in a while tolerate some lesser films.

But then reality sets in that it is possible for me to like something so popular as Lost. I look at the movies on my to-see list (Miami Vice, Snakes On A Plane, Prairie Home Companion, Pulse), the movies that I got from Netflix (Carnivale Season 2, Futurama Season 1, The Best of Christopher Walken from SNL) and movies I’ve borrowed from people (The Matrix Revolutions, Superstar) and I can’t keep up that snooty film air. I like popular things and truly enjoy them right alongside more artistic movies.

So when some friends tell me about a Lost Season 2 marathon that will kick off Season 3 (which begins in September), I won’t be sighing. I’ll be saying, “When?” “Where?” and “So what do you think that 3,4, 23,34, and 46 mean?”
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To read about what I should be doing instead of watching movies, read the lastest Son of a Beach.

Anatomy of A News Story

I was chomping down some sugar-coated cereal when I decided to catch up what was going on in the world.

I picked Good Morning America to help me do so for no other reason than someone I recognized from Chicago was now part of the morning team. Mike Barz, former morning sports anchor for WGN Channel 9 News, became the weather man for Good Morning America almost a year ago. Makes you wonder how talented someone has to be in order fill the shoes of the likes of Willard Scott.

There were the usual reports about the Mid-East crisis, some guy named Lance Bass coming out of the closet and tips on how to use dryer lint to fashion winter sweaters for dogs; all presented with equal importance.

Then came the feature portion of the show where the male anchor interviewed someone. This morning, it was Lehigh University student Greg Hogan, recently put on trial for robbing a bank in Allentown, PA. Hogan knocked over a Wachovia branch in order to cover gambling debts racked up online back in January. The reason why anyone should care about Hogan is that he was a class president at Lehigh and also the son of an eponymous Baptist minister.

Both Hogans appeared on GMA to tell their story. The younger Hogan explained that he had an online gambling addiction and that his parents had cut him off financially. Classmates had done the same after lending young Hogan money with no hope of a return. Robbing the bank, he said remorsefully, was a way to pay off his debts. He would stop after this.

I tried to think of why this was even a story. Hogan handed the unfortunate bank teller a note claiming he had a gun, though he never did. No shots were fired, no drama observed during the robbery. Pastor Hogan didn’t even say a word during the televised interview; he merely sat next to his son, a newly convicted felon, and looked stern and serious.

Why is this lumped together with Lance Bass and turmoil oversees? What makes this a ‘can’t miss’ news story?

Then I realized that a pastor’s son (or a university class president) robbing a bank is out of the ordinary.

I realized that Hogan was caught in the lurid world of online gambling that can make even the holy do something human. There’s an addiction that can be blamed.

I realized that the student was religiously repentant and may have thought, “What better way to truly repent than on national television?”

The long-suffering pastoral/parental/religious figure was willing to also be seen by millions, supporting the stereotypical rebellious pastor’s kid.

Monopolizing someone’s repentance, especially those religious people that maybe aren’t so righteous after all, makes for great television.

Hogan had yet to be sentenced when the show aired earlier this week. We didn’t get to hear if a pastor’s kid would serve any jail time. But we will remember long after GMA moved on to rising gas prices is that some crazy religious college kid robbed a bank to curb his online gambling addiction.

So I finish my Cheerios and then go back to hating the news. Until I feel the need connect with my world and see what ridiculous things become news.

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To read about an MBI alumn who went to court on felony charges, check out The newest Son of A Beach.

A French Lesson

The last year and a half of my life I've suffered from boredom. I work my full-time job, go to church, hang out occasionally with friends grab a brew; the usual. But then I come home and have hours to spare. I occasionally write something but more often than not, I just find some way to pass the time. T.V. becomes the easiest time filler and then movies can fill in the rest. I've even come to the point of playing Solitaire on my computer. Nothing says boredom like the most basic card game designed for one.

I'’ve almost become bored with life. Sometimes I wish that some black hole would come along and swallow up where I live and take me to some other dimension. In this dimension, blending a freakin' Pomegranate Frappaccino would be exhilarating and laying out an appointment reminder card for a children'’s hospital would leave me speechless. And interrupting this would be some ace FBI agent who would need my help to solve some twisted homicide in Chicago. And only a veteran of the now defunct City News Service who toured the city and can hear the streets tell him what happened could help solve this case. I would be back in Chicago talking to neighbors and shaking down beat cops when Bryan Singer would drive up in a limo and ask me to screenplay his next movie.

But alas, I live in the everyday world where boredom can strike down the entire human population, where men like Milan and Manesquier, the two main characters of Man On the Train, can forge a friendship and each provide the other with an escape from the boredom that is their lives. If I sound a little like some faux French philosopher, it's probably from watching this 2003 French movie, directed by Patrice Leconte. There's not much action to the movie. Milan, played by French rock star Johnny Hallyday, arrives in a quiet French town to prepare for a bank robbery. He's old and has a headache, which leads him to a pharmacy where Manesquier is waiting for a prescription. Being a retired poetry teacher and having a faulty heart, Manesquier needs medicine for his ailing heart as well as some adventure from retirement. He invites Milan, clad in a black leather jacket, over for a glass of water, hoping for something out of the ordinary.

The movie continues to follow their friendship as Milan tries to teach the old professor how to shoot a gun. Manesquier teaches the bankrobber some French poetry and both bond through their consideration of what their life could have been. However, both are old, tired and resigned to whatever their fates will be when the end of the week rolls around. On this day, Milan reluctantly robs a bank and Manesquier has triple bypass surgery on his heart. The outcome for both men on that Saturday is somehow softened by the time they spend with each other. Their small friendship and sparse conversation throughout this subtle film provide each with the other's perspective of their own lives.

The only downsides to this movie are its subtitles and subtleness. While being a fine film, this is not the movie to watch if undercaffienated.

And while watching this movie cured my boredom for 90 minutes, it also spurred my mind on to consider my boredom itself. Why do I get bored? Should I even be bored? Do I really need T.V. or movies to cure my boredom? And then I realize how philosophically French I sound by asking all these questions and how boring it is to sit around and ask questions for too long.
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Find out the next big thing in Texas at Son of A Beach.

The New Coffee-Chain-That-Shall-Remain-Nameless

So I'm at a different Chain-That-Shall-Remain-Nameless down in Dallas and am adjusting fairly well.

A new store manager took over two months after the previous one was fired. Not sure why but I hear stories of him always eating pastries (from the case and after being put in the trash can, so they say), having emotional outbursts and not keeping the store stocked up. But the new one is pretty cool.

The drive-through store( a horrible idea) is located in a pretty shady neighborhood and is known for it's strip clubs all around. My first day on the drive through I got invited to a member's only sort of poker club. The middle-aged cocktail waitress (who paid with all ones and tried to make a joke about not working at one of those places in the neighborhood; I tried to laugh with her) who came through the drive through gave me a ghetto business card ( 'Sheila's Club' set in front of a black club) and wrote her name on the back of it. "You have to know someone in order to get in," she said. Haven't visited there yet.

Some repeat drive-through customers recognized me and told me they like flirting with me. One car in particular includes a corpulent, blonde woman (looking in her fifties and always sporting an oversized cowboy hat) riding with a young, skinny Asian girl, who likes to buy venti valencia mochas. The third time they came through, they said you should come see us sometime. "We work at Baby Dolls," she said. (I'll let you guess the reputation of a place called 'Baby Dolls' in the neighborhood. This is why I supressed a laugh when she said this.) There was a pause and then "We both wait tables there. We work the day shift." I chuckled and as legendarily (a company buzzword for great customer service) as I could tell them that a place like that wasn't my scene.

And one of the supervisors in the store is a Jehovah's Witness. He comes in frequently dressed to the tee (probably coming from some church service) and might be taking a leave to go on what would be equivalent to a mission trip to NYC to build houses. Everyone jokes around about all sorts of things, including this guy's 'virgin ears.' Then follows other jokes about him not having a girlfriend or not getting 'around'.

No one at the store knows too much about me, yet. Moody Bible Institute means nothing to anyone in the store and I don't mind. But it's odd to hear someone else getting all the religious ribbing that I'm used to getting. I don't know what to think about this.

Superman? Yeah, Superman.

So my buddies and I came out of the movie theater, talking about what we just saw.

One friend said, “I couldn’t believe they would just rip off his suit. I mean, he was dodging bullets with that suit, so how could the doctors just cut it off? I was like, ‘Ahhhh.’ It had to be harder than that.”

“Well it wasn’t the suit that was stopping the bullets,” said my other friend piped in.

“The man makes the clothes,” I said in my faux philosophical tone, trying to turn that old saying and twist it around to make it new.

Director Bryan Singer did a similar twist by remaking Superman and creating a top-notch film that wows and inspires, all the while throwing image and reference after image and reference of Christ at the audience. The entire movie, as cliché as the franchise seems, could be a 2.5 hour long portrait of Christ.

Singer, a superstar director with such varied and intricate features under his belt as The Usual Suspects and X2: X-Men United, continues to use his films to communicate what could be taken as Christian themes. Previous films, specifically the aforementioned features, had bits of theology, some better than others. Usual Suspects explored the reality of the devil and X2 comically portrayed faith. Superman Returns is bathed in Christian imagery, with scene after scene making reference to Christ in either in dialogue or action.

The film is technically brilliant and done in an old-fashioned Hollywood
style. There’s action but not some final showdown or drag-out fight between Superman and Lex Luther, played by Kevin Spacey who somehow recreates Gene Hackman’s earlier Luther. There’s daring rescues at the last minute that you tell yourself you know will come. There’s not a complete swear word in the entire movie despite the earthquakes, plane crashes, and sinking ships that imperil everyone living in Metropolis. A struggling plane carrying Lois Lane, her fiancé Richard White (nephew of The Daily Planet Editor Perry White) and son, possibly fathered by Superman, soars off the end of a waterfall, heading straight for the ground. It disappears into the mist at the bottom of the falls and a second and half later, veers up and out of danger.

And, as already mentioned, Lois Lane is engaged and has a son when Superman returns from his five year hiatus, taken to see his home planet, Krypton, which astronomers discovered somewhere nearby. So things get a little messy for Clark Kent, as well, having to work with Lois, her fiancé, and see Lois' son running around the newsroom. And whether or not Lois Lane did “Spend the Night With Superman,” as one of her columns was titled, becomes a beautiful way illustrate the Father’s relationship with the Son. Marlon Brando’s original voice work is recycled from the old Superman films and used to help explain this throughout the movie.

I’d rather not spoil any more of the movie and let you figure out whether or not Superman actually has a son or if Lex Luther gets killed in the end. It was a beautiful and moving movie.

And if you’re looking for another take on the movie, check out my buddy’s review who watched the movie with me: http://trents.blogspot.com/ .

True Crime Series --- Belmont Avenue Eyeball

This was an actual story that ran at the newswire service I worked for. It could possibly not be for the faint of heart. This is an example of how oddities make the news and (since it is barely a news story) then disappear from existance; except for those who were grossed out enough by it that they may never forget reading the story. Us reporters stopped checking on whether or not it was a human eyeball after a few days and many long sighs from the Cook County Medical Examiner's Office workers when we asked about it.

____

An eyeball was found stuck to the bumper of a Toyota and authorities were trying to determine its source.

Police got the call about the discovery, which happened in the parking lot of a Dunkin’ Donuts at 3801 W. Belmont Av., at about 9 a.m. said a west side police officer who didn’t want to be named. Police did not know if the eyeball was human or if it belonged to an animal.

A citizen called police after finding the eyeball stuck to the bumper of a white Toyota Tercel. The Cook County medical examiner’s office was scheduled to examine the eyeball the next day to make a determination.

The police didn’t know how the eyeball ended up on the bumper and an employee at the Dunkin Donuts had not heard about the eyeball.

______

Check out the next big thing in Texas at the Son Of A Beach.

Crisis Averted

So the crisis was averted, yet again. It almost sounds like the ending of some clichéd movie, where the main character learns some great lesson. Since he was only painted in one broad, monochrome color, he only learned that he was merely selfish or that he should’ve known that his friends would come through. He was not that complicated and so his lesson learned wasn’t that amazing. He was only two dimensional.

I feel like that character because for the last week, I had some financial crisis that propelled me into the realm of disbelief. I didn’t believe that things were going to change. I thought I would never get that refund for self-publishing that journal or that freelance check that would pay my bills during the time in between paychecks. I became angry at individuals, corporations or anyone else that seemingly contributed to my misery.

My bank account went way into the negative digits, throwing an entire toolbox into the machinery of my life. What was in the account would have covered the deposit check given to an apartment complex in north Dallas that secured a pretty sweet two-bedroom, two-bath pad for my buddy and I. Luckily, that check hasn’t been cashed in yet.

My back went out as well, only compounding the situation. Maybe I swam too hard and pushed and pulled that restaurant booth the wrong way while moving it into the graphic design studio. I stretched, heated, iced and just lay on my back, trying to rest it. But it didn’t squeeze back into place until a week later. Makes me wonder if there’s some medical connection between my mental state and a crick in my back that twists a nerve a certain way? I wonder if depression could stem from merely one nerve in the spinal column being pinched the wrong way?

So the week goes on and I continue to go through the motions of my Christianity. I go to church and then grab lunch with the 20 somethings afterward. I went to a small group dinner and tried to contribute something as people discussed chapter seven of Don’t Waste Your Life, by John Piper. Could there be a more appropriate (or inappropriate) book for this week of my life?

In each of these times of spiritual discussion, I felt completely disconnected because I didn’t feel like I had any faith. I just had doubts about all of God’s characteristics that I knew. I felt like I was talking about someone else’s life when I tried to say something authentic. I felt two dimensional. That lesson learned came from someone else’s life, not mine. I wasn’t the person who figured out that wise idea on how to be authentic. I was someone who didn’t know if he had any faith. I was someone who didn’t walk in anyone’s ways or follow hard after anyone. I was just here, groping for some way out of a two-dimensional mess.

I began praying two days ago (one of the things that I remembered from that other person’s life) that God needed to show himself to me again. I knew that I didn’t quite believe that He would take care of me so I told him so. I said this, somehow knowing that he would do what I asked because that’s what He does. I couldn’t say that God would always defend his character and restore the faith of his sons and daughters. But that’s what I pretty much asked him to do in so many words.

And then today happens. I call my parents to check in (and eventually ask for whatever money they could spare). My mom figured out she could wire me some money and did so. While I was talking to her in my bedroom, an overnight UPS envelop came. My boss handed it to me after I went back into the office. Inside was a check for a freelance project that I did three and a half months ago. The amount would bring my bank account back into the positive digits. While depositing this check at the bank, my Mom called while I waited for the teller to deposit the check. “I just wired ***** dollars into your account.” I told her the good news and she was excited. I guess God will come through in situations like this, just like my Mom said in our initial conversation.

I get an email from a friend who’s raising support to work for Campus Crusade for Christ. He’s my age and just had his third child, making support raising all the more interesting. I’ve given him my pittance for the last two years ‘cause were buds and he has the cutest daughter who says, “Hey Beach!” whenever she see me. I emailed him and asked him to pray for my situation. He emailed me today to tell me that he just mailed me a check for $100. That’s unfathomable for me. But not for him. He works full-time on raising support and not in any other job. He lives on the belief that God will provide for his needs and has done so for the last nine months.

He says his mailman took his check to me but then left another letter in his daily mail. He opened a letter to find a check for $500 the same day he sent out a $100 for me.

My current boss also gave me an advance to pay for a small editing job he lassoed for me from one of his clients.

So the two dimensional character realizes that there’s an entire other dimension where things happen and people believe all sorts of things. And then the character starts to see his hand in full color and realize there’s depth to it all.

On Not Being Named Alumnus of the Year

Disappointment abounded this past year when I didn’t get to go up on stage during MBI’s Founder’s Week celebration. Someone else was nominated for alumnus of the year and their deeds were announced to all the eager attendees. People were awed at their ministry prowess and kingdom accomplishments. The recipient (whomever it may have been; I missed that session) surely teared up, said some kind words and thanked God for how gracious, loving and powerful He is.

Maybe next year, I thought.

Or on second thought, maybe never.

I realized this because in the three years since I’ve graduated, a lot has changed in my life, including how I view everything. I don’t have the same goals as when I graduated. Those first dreams and aspirations were crushed once I tried to get out and accomplish them. My beliefs have been put through a blender, leaving me with a glass of smoothie-like substance that I’d have to dig through in order to see what the original recipe was. Am I a Calvinist egalitarian or an ecumenical amillenialist? And can I even give the definition of any of those words to show off my Bible and theology prowess? After all, Bible was my middle name for four consecutive years.
One conclusion I’ve come to is that full-time ministry is not something that God has planned for me. So that, along with earning a black sheep degree in communications, will probably disqualify me for the Alum of the Year. I’m excited for my fellow graduates who have been called to be pastors, missionaries and educators at churches, in foreign countries and in schools, public or private. However, a no B.S. look at my abilities and talents has led me to believe that God has not gifted me with the interpersonal capabilities necessary for a major leadership role in any ministry.

I breathed a sigh of relief when this thought came to me from either common sense or a blessing of wisdom from God. Ministry is rough, messy work that you have to be called to. I remember seeing classmates struggle with ministry because they wouldn’t entertain the idea that perhaps God had gifted them for something other than the typical ministry role.

An honest assessment of my talents led me to take a job as a reporter for the century-old City News Service of Chicago. I’ve always had a thing for writing. I wrote and then edited a newspaper during high school, where I wrote some article regarding spirituality or Christianity in every issue (as well as an investigation into the school selling way too many parking passes for a senior parking lot). I repeated this process while in college with more spiritual topics and a volatile investigation into why nearly a dozen Bible and theology professors left the school over two years. Success in writing on these levels led me to imitate other alumni that got their writing careers off to a great start at City News.

So for a year, I hung out at police stations throughout Chicago and covered the crime beat in city. I saw, heard and wrote about some things that I wish I never had. I became hardened, cynical and got twice the education that I received while in college. After a grating year of realizing more of my strengths, and more importantly, my weaknesses, I realized that I didn’t have what it took to be a reporter in Chicago. I didn’t have enough competitiveness, pluck and interpersonal savvy to make it in a city that is a destination for reporters across the country. I’m happy that another alumnus, Matt Wahlberg, rose through the ranks at City News, got a job at the Chicago Tribune and is now doing leg work for famed columnist John Kass. Walberg won’t get recognized at Founder’s Week either, because he’s just a damn good reporter who probably glorifies Christ through his hard work and skill. However, he was recently recognized and chided by Chicago Mayor Richard M. Daley for doing his job and asking tough questions: Walberg

It’s a shame someone doing a great job at something that isn’t ministry can’t become the famed Alumni. You probably won’t see anyone recognized on stage that makes some great artistic accomplishment or someone who donates a large amount of money to support missionaries or some private school (The people who donate fortunes of money usually become trustees at MBI, though). It sucks that James Schapp or Bob Muzikowski weren’t alumni of Moody because both have achieved great things through their non-ministry-type vocations.

And it will continue to suck because of what kind of school my alma mater is. I remember that Moody Bible Institute is a training ground for students wanting to go into full-time ministry. Knowing this, I am sure that I will never be given an award for whatever achievements God gives me. This is because I know that I am not going to pursue some full-time ministry. Instead, I’m going to pursue a career in graphic design and continue to work on completing a novel. Maybe I’ll go to grad school and pursue a counseling degree.

But I’m surely going to use the artistic talents God has given me wherever they lead me. And if they don’t lead up the isle and into the bright lights of Founder’s Week, I’m cool with that.

For more random Texas experiences, read the lastest Son of a Beach.

Stuff to Chew On...

Here's a couple articles to contemplate while I get another real post ready.

The first is from Books and Culture magazine on spirituality in the suburbs and the other is the Chicago Sun-Times' religion columnist writing about Rob Bell from Mars Hill.

Suburban Spirituality
http://www.christianitytoday.com/bc/2006/003/15.24.html
Rob Bell-Mars Hill
http://www.suntimes.com/output/news/cst-nws-nooma04.html

The Son of a Beach is soon to have some birthday party pics. Check it out.

From Espresso to Graphic Design

So begins the journey of a graphic desinger. While still peddling espresso for the coffee-chain-that-shall-remain-nameless, I'm jumping into the world of graphic design. And so far, it's going fairly well. I created an inspired restaurant tri-fold brochure and it came together nicely. If only there was such a place as Joe's Highway Bistro.
Take a look.

13 Hours Later...

I know. It makes you want to throw up. But this is what my windshield looked like after driving from Chicago to Dallas in 13 hours. There's bug splatters aplenty but this is an anomaly.

The only guess I have is that it came from a bird. While driving through downstate Illinois, I was listening to the best of Prairie Home Companion as I drove through the endless miles of prairie. And then some black bird (indistinguishable at 80 m.p.h.) flew into my windshield.

I didn't notice the mess on the windshield until later. Was it a 1 pound mosquito? Something flicked onto the windshield by a car ahead of me that didn't see one the hundreds of indistinguishable roadkills on I-55? Who knows. But I can wait to get my car washed and let it dry in the 90-degree Texas heat.

For a playlist of my 13-hour drive see the newest edition of the Son of a Beach.

Gluttony

As I leave the city that has shaped me for the last seven years, I’d like to pass on some of the wisdom (grub joints) that has expanded my territory (waistline). This wisdom excludes the common sense (obviously gluttonous joints such as Fogo de Chao, Cold Stone Creamery, or Krispy Kreme Donuts) well known to the common Chicagoan. So here are the places you won’t hear about except through tough lessons learned (heartburn) and sage advice (people who told me about the great food).


My Hood- Lincoln Square

Café Descarte - Corner of Lincoln and Western Avenues - The Oatmeal Latte - Yeah, someone thought of steaming up oats, raisins, walnuts, and dates with milk and espresso. Not for wimpy cappuccino drinkers or those who’ve already had breakfast.


Café Selmare – 4700-ish N. Lincoln Avenue- Rum Balls - rich, chocolate cake soaked in rum and rolled in nuts or sprinkles - Bread Pudding - made with leftover croissants and drenched in caramel sauce-a changing variety of other European and American desserts. Perfect for putting yourself over the edge after eating across the street at…

Garcia’s Mexican Restaurant – 4700-ish N. Lincoln Avenue – The Chimichanga-one of Garcia’s as-thick-as-your calf burritos deep fried and smothered with guacamole and sour cream. Not for the wimpy taco eater.



My (old) Hood-The West Side

Margie’s Candies - Corner of Armitage and Western Avenues-Any sundae off the three-page dessert menu and at least 5 of the homemade turtles.

Feast - 1616 N. Milwaukee Avenue - Anything from the menu.


Work-related Wisdom (places I’ve learned of through jobs)

El Milagro - 3050 W. 26th St. –The Steak Tacos-Two of these will satisfy the buds-delicious steak laid over cabbage, lettuce, cheese, salsa and refried beans. Simple but ohhhhhh, so effective.

The Original Billy Goat Tavern - 430 N. Michigan Avenue (lower Michigan Avenue) - Double Cheese, Double Cheese, No fries – Don’t be scared away by the dismal looking surroundings. This is a must for anyone who knows anything about Chicago, journalism or the news.

Sam’s Grille- 300-ish N. Clark St. – The Philly Chicken Sandwich- a roll overflowing with grilled chicken, peppers, onions and cheese-great downtown greasy spoon that will load you down and have you loving the calories.

Frankie Z’s Clark Bar - 420 N. Clark St.- The Taco Salad- a huge (but not too filling) mix of lettuce, chicken or beef, cheese, salsa, guacamole, sour cream and beans in a fried tortilla shell.


Without Classification

Moody’s Pub - 5900-ish N. Clark St. – The Bleu Cheeseburger- Or any other cheeseburger. Intimate atmosphere with a perfect outdoor seating area.

Portillo’s (maybe this was an obvious one) - Corner of Clark and Ontario Streets - Bacon Cheese burger-This burger has the freshest toppings around and can’t be beat.


Coffee Experiences (always excluding the chain-that-shall-remain-nameless)

Filter - 1585 N. Milwaukee Ave. - By far one of the best atmospheres in the city (and now smokeless thanks to the city ban on smoking)-Low lights, retro furniture and a changing menu of staff drinks

Intelligentsia Café - 3123 N. Broadway – The best lattes or mochas and it shows in the foam. Another great atmosphere and hand-crafted goodness that can only be imitated by some chains.

Café Ballou - 939 N. Western Avenue - Russian tea with raspberry compote-Eastern European look and feel. Closes early.

The Perfect Cup – 4700 N. Damen Avenue – Another of the greatest atmospheres; quaint and simple with great artwork and photography.

Uncommon Grounds – Corner of Clark and Grace Streets. – Any oversized coffee desserts in a two-handed cup. Now has a bar/restaurant with a coffee shop and back room with live music every weekend night.

The Bourgeois Pig Café - 738 W. Fullerton Avenue. – Mexican Hot Chocolate or Grasshoper latte - Two levels of space that makes you want to read books; with one the largest tea selections I’ve seen.

Adios Chicago

The Beach Picayune is now counting down the days until it moves to Dallas (about a month) and planning out the last few issues. The editors wish to leave their wealth of knowledge about Chicago with those in the windy city through a few issues detailing the best spots in the city. So prepare for Gluttony and Adventure, two posts of places to stuff yourself and places to search out in the city. Gluttony and Adventure are two musts for anyone living in the city.
(And if anyone knows of Gluttony and Adventure in Dallas, leave a post.)

John Woo on the Dan Ryan Pt. 2

So I'm writing down details as fast as possible and as legibly as numbed-by-the-cold-fingers can manage while standing in the northbound lanes of the Dan Ryan expressway around 45th Street.

The cutting wind is numbing my face at 3:30 a.m. as the mess that has blocked off the northbound local lanes of highway is explained.

About an hour before, the silver Pontiac-looking car was seen driving "suspiciously" around 50th and Clark Streets ("suspiciously" is one of those vague words that police use to say as little as possible when talking to reporters). When a squad car tried to pull the vehicle over, it sped off toward 47th Street and the entrance to the Dan Ryan Expressway. The squad car "pursued" the silver vehicle onto the expressway ("pursued" is the preferred term used by police instead of "chase," which is way too sensational).

The silver car sped into the express lanes of the Dan Ryan, trying to escape police, who followed it closely. The silver car, being in the far left lane of the express lane, attempted to cross all four of these lanes to enter get back into the two local lanes. The speeding car didn’t quite make it but instead crashed through four yellow sand barrels near the entrance to the local lanes in order to enter them. The silver car lost control as it entered the local lanes, sideswiping the driver’s side cab of a semi-tractor trailer in those lanes.

The car then sped ahead of the truck and then flipped over onto the on-ramp for 43rd Street. It settled right-side up and the passengers fled, obviously dazed. One sizeable passenger wearing a puffy, yellow coat exited the car and stumbled around.

The "pursuing" police officers did not follow the silver car’s drastic moves but instead pulled over to the shoulder of the express lanes across from where the silver car came to rest. The officer hopped over the cement barrier separating the express from the local lanes and drew his weapon. He saw the large, staggering man get out of the silver car and the others run up the on-ramp (The officer by now had already called for backup, who were on their way to the location of the accident).

The puffy-coated man dropped a small, silver revolver on the ground near the wrecked vehicle, prompting the officer (who was crossing the local lanes to apprehend the man) to put his gun away. The officer, seeing the largess of the man, got out his yellow stun gun and ordered the man put his hands over his head. The massive man instead reached into his coat to pull out a silver-colored, semi-automatic assault rifle (the aforementioned silver pencil box with a clip and a barrel shoved into it) and began firing at the officer.

Seeing that the stun gun may not be as effective against this semi-automatic, the officer threw it down, got out his gun and returned fire. The gun battle moved from the expressway to the grassy embankment of the 43rd Street on-ramp, where (by this time) backup had arrived. These officers joined in the firefight from the top of the ramp and fatally shot the large man.

After receiving the explanation from the director of Police News Affairs (who was the authority whenever police fired their weapons), I was led through the crime scene with the freelance videographers. I saw the shells littering the local lanes, the revolver, the stun gun and the shiny semi-automatic. And then there was the yellow, and now red, puffy coat formerly worn by the man shot by police.

During the gun battle, the puffy-coated man was the only person to be shot. Unlike movies like Face Off of Hard Target, people in the heat of a firefight don’t necessarily take time to aim (least of all an untrained man who may have bough the gun off the street). Officers are trained to do so but (without assuming that the man shot was one) gang members are not.

I took in the entire scene and realized that not too many people would be able to say they surveyed a crime scene in the middle of one of the busiest interstates in the country. This was one memory of my City News Days that I won’t soon forget.


Editor's Note: To find out what would happen if a fire alarm went off while swimming at a gym, check out the latest Sonofa3.

Memories of Clark Pt. 3

Clark Allen Stacy

Clark made me feel like one of the guys. Though we only spoke to each other occasionally, he made me feel like a friend.

My first real interaction with Clark was at one of the aforementioned fight nights. I'd just transferred into Moody in the heart of winter and it was difficult to get to know people in the middle of the school year.

Honestly, though, I found that a bunch of guys going at it with boxing gloves and little else to be a little crazy. But Clark's driving encouragement brought a unique atmosphere that drew me in. He danced around the fighting pair, cheering them on and making sure that the flowing testosterone didn't lead to a real fight. It felt a little safer with him watching over it all.

Soon the guys were looking for another victim amongst the new guys on the floor, and they found me. I assured them that I didn't know how to box, but they didn't think that was an issue. Clark assured me that the other guy who'd volunteered didn't know how to box either (he was wrong). So I removed my glasses, put on the gloves and stood there while the other guy repeatedly hit me full force in the face. I don't think I really even hit the other guy once, and I totally lost count of how many times he nailed me. I was glad Clark had bought training gloves.

I walked away with a bloody nose and chipped tooth, but I didn't regret the event. It was good to just let go, to feel the comradeship of the guys behind me, and to hear the empathetic groans. It was a painful initiation to a great floor and a time of healing for me —-from more than just the nose.

Throughout the rest of that semester, I looked up to Clark as a peer. I admired the way he interacted with everyone. He made you feel like a friend even when you didn't really know him well. In many ways, he had it together.

Looking back, I still admire how much of it Clark had together. He had his inner struggles, but his outward life was one that reached out to others that faced similar struggles. He never disappeared into the background but was always stepping forward to take leadership, or to just help out. That smile and that voice cut deep into the darkness. Talking to and being around Clark pushed the oppression of a dark winter away.

Perhaps that is why it was so hard to loose all of that when Clark didn't return. His life meant so much to the whole atmosphere of Moody that the lack of his face left a huge void in the mosaic of the crowd, but I remain thankful for that face that still crosses my memories. There, in the memory of the past, Clark still pushes the darkness away, and makes me feel at home. I can picture him organizing fight nights right now that will initiate me into his world again--hopefully without the bloody nose.

Daniel Morgan

Memories of Clark Stacy Pt. 2

My memories of Clark are brief. And you may be reading this saying, "Lana - Clark didn't even like Lana." I say that because I really don't know what Clark's perceptions of our brief friendship were. So for what it's worth, these are my memories. I met him in the summer of 2003 and didn't have much contact with him after that to be honest. We met during the Moody summer church history tour through Europe. We both gravitated toward the Quiggle family and ended up sharing many meals with them and walking through museums alongside them. I think we found Mary, Greg and the kids to be a stabilizing presence. It was a nice little nitch of family while rolling through Europe and sleeping in a different bed every three nights.

I have lots of pictures with Clark and the kids. One with all of us climbing on the lions in Trafalgar Square. Clark was trying to convince me that I could just leap up on the big slippery back of one of the lions (in the dark, by the way) like it was so easy, after he had already pushed the kids up onto it. I knew there was no way. So I think I am just standing next to it leaning on its back in the picture.

I have pictures of us in Pizza Hut with the Quiggles, laughing. That was one of my best memories of the trip. The picture is priceless, Clark and I holding out our pizza with looks of excitement and hilarity. It took two takes because I couldn't keep a straight face. Why'd we even take the picture? There was something just so pure and joyful about it.

I also ended up sharing a train car with the Quiggles and Clark. You would think that it would have been awkward. But it wasn't. It just seemed like the way it should have been. Me, Clark and the Quiggles. Looking back on it, I think we both needed that stability, that joy of family life while we were both battling darkness. I definitely can see that now, knowing after the fact that Clark struggled with such deep darkness and knowing what I was going through at the time.

Clark and I spent some time walking around alone together too, in different towns. I remember one walk in London, in particular, which led us to a pub. There was that touch of irony, sharing a beer while on a Moody trip. And I can't honestly remember if it was a big deal to him or not.

What I remember from my conversations with Clark was a certain understanding. Conversation didn't necessarily flow the most easily. It wasn't like we became best friends, obviously, because we never hung out after the trip. We did have a few squabbles. But what I remember was walking around London and feeling like there was no need to conjure up something to say if there wasn't. And there was no need to sugar-coat my comments.

I remember a certain grittiness that results when people are real. I remember being uncomfortable at moments and saying things that pissed Clark off a few times. But I remember that even in those moments, thinking, Clark was someone who wasn't going to judge me for not pulling off the "Moody" look or tone. I didn't feel like I needed to try to be something. There was an understanding that we could enjoy 'being' in the presence of the other and appreciate that person without necessarily having anything in common or planning to become best friends. It was peaceful.

But I do remember that even in the quiet we shared that he was anxious about the future and it seemed like the things he was thinking about - the future, what he was studying, relationships, etc. were all one big question mark for him. I remember thinking that there was a lot going on in his head that needed to be sorted out. I was thinking grad school, an internship or some other broadening experience like that would be formative and help sort things out. That's what I was hoping for both of us. I had just graduated and I was thinking, "he only has a couple years left - he'll make it and find himself on the other side."

But I guess I can take heart that he chose to make me a part of his summer and that at least for those 3 weeks I know we shared moments of real happiness and security with the Quiggles - a foretaste of that for which he could not wait.

Lana Wood

Memories of Clark Stacy Pt. 1

Clark Allen Stacy

The best memories that I have of Clark always involve him doing things, getting people riled up about something and staying physically active. He was always a mobilizing force for anyone around him.

Clark transferred into to Moody and was placed onto Culbertson Five, the floor to which I was a Resident Assistant. He helped to start boxing night on the floor by buying some pairs of gloves and egging people into 1-minute matches against someone else. I couldn’t say no to the cheers of all the guys on the floor, spurred on by Clark, of course. He knew the value of camaraderie, the need for a healthy dose of competition and the value of releasing some pent-up anger. I’m sure some of this idea came from the infamous but genius movie Fight Club, which he always lent out to guys who were uninitiated in the ways of Tyler Durden.

If there was any kind of event that was organized, it was often made or broken depending on whether Clark was behind it. If he was, you could be sure that it would be top-notch and well-organized. Such was a floor open house, where all put their efforts into a sketch show of different musical performances. And what put the icing in the cake of that evening was Clark’s no-holding back act as a lost pig that was lamented in song by its farmer (played by Kansas great Will Regier). To prepare, Clark found some ratty pink clothes, a pink pipe cleaner as a tail, and lots of pink paint to transform himself into the best souuuiiieeee this side of the Mason-Dixie Line. Being bald, Clark found it easy to coat his head, not to mention any skin not covered by his small shirt and skirt, with the pink paint. It was an incredible transformation that turned the event from pretty good to perfect.

After I graduated, Clark and I kept in contact by going out to eat with his half-price restaurant coupons (which he got from the internet) and watching great movies, one of which was One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

As time went by, Clark and I would only run into each other at Moody’s gym. He would work out after chapel and catch me right after I woke up (I was working a second shift as a crime reporter at the time and wouldn’t be able to get up until about 10a.m.). Clark had an idea of maybe enlisting in the Marines after he graduated and wanted to prepare as much as he could for it. And so he, and I as his workout partner, reaped the benefits. There were seemingly endless sit-ups, push-ups and leg lifts he put me through; though I never felt better than when I finished working out with Clark.

During those times in the gym, we talked about all kinds of things, one of which being our spiritual lives. He told me of breaking up with his girlfriend and how hard it was on him. We talked of him struggling with depression and other things. We got onto the topic of knowing what to do with all the theology and information that you learned at a Bible school like Moody. Having been out of school for two years already, I had learned a thing or two about real life and how your spirituality changes for the better or worse.

I told him that nothing I learned while at Moody made any sense until I was out. It wasn’t until after the fact that some aspect of God’s character, say his sovereignty, would seem to play out.

And it now being a year after Clark took his own life, I still haven’t made any sense of anything. I'd like to think that sometime in the future it may make sense. But then it might not, either. And I think I'm okay with that.

Eric Beach
4848 N. Rockwell St. #3
Chicago, IL 60625
312-217-0976


Clark Allen Stacy

This is to the memory of my friend Clark. I thank God for allowing me to have a friend like Clark with whom I was able to grow, share, pray, laugh, and just have fun with. And I miss him so much.

The following took place one fall evening in downtown Chicago. Matt Troyer and I went out on the town with Clark many times and this was a memorable one for me. This gives you a taste of how three guy friends communicate with each other.

Clark: Hey guys look (then pointed to a sign that read "CASS"). I can't believe it, those are my initials.

*Matt and Barry give a confused look to each other*

Matt (sarcastically): Yeah, Clark Allen Stacy Stupid!!!

Clark: Uh........ Shut up Matt.

Barry: Hey look my initials are everywhere. BMW there, BMW there.......

Clark: I hate you guys.

There are so many memories that I have with Clark. He was one of my best friends and one of the most difficult roommates I've ever had. I loved the guy and this is harder than I thought because all of my memories are still very fresh in my mind; as I'm sure yours are as well. I will do my best to share some of them with you.

Clark came to Moody when I was a junior and my roommate Matt was a senior. Right away, Matt and I became great friends with Clark. The three of us seemed to be together whenever we could (that is when Matt wasn't out on a date). We did a lot of fun and crazy stuff, but one serious thing we did was we had cave time together. Cave time was a time when Matt and Clark would jump into my bed while I was sleeping or just about to and we would pray together. This was a great time because we were able share how our lives were going and talk about everything and then pray for each other.

Clark and I went on a lot of road trips together. One Thanksgiving, we went to Minnesota with about 10 other close friends. On this trip, Clark walked on a frozen pond for the first time. We all thought it was pretty weird how he was so amazed about walking on a frozen pond. Another trip we took was to Kentucky for Easter to meet up with some friends of ours. We drove with Suzanne Beyer and I thought she and Clark were going to kill each other by the time the trip was through. Another time, we went to Cleveland and some other places that I can't remember right now.

The summer of 2003, Clark and I thought it would be a good idea for him to live with me at my parents’ house in Spokane. Looking back on it, we had a lot of great times. We were able to work together for a roofing company and went to the lake a lot. We worked at a camp for junior high kids as counselors, we were able to spend a lot of time talking and that was the first time he opened up to me about his depression. I remember one talk we had and he actually told me that he had thought about suicide. That really took me by surprise, but I never thought much about it because he told me he knew that was not an option. My favorite memories of our time in Spokane together were when we drove to Seattle and Grad Coulee. In Seattle, we went to a couple of Seattle Mariner games and stayed with my family. In Grand Coulee, he met the Native American side of my family and we went out boating with our friend Joe Hedrick.

I hope this gives you a picture of things that I remember about Clark. There are many more like boxing nights in our dorm, working at Moody Press together, eating meal after meal in the student dinning hall, running along Lake Michigan together, and on and on. But what I will always remember is how Clark challenged me to live out my faith in God day to day. He had a passion for believers to be real and not mock God by pretending their faith is strong and living a lie. And I'll remember his bald shiny head and his big smile that said "I love you man."

I sure miss him.

Now that I have a child, I wonder what he would have said or if he would have been there when he was born? I don't know, and I think the hard part now is that all of the memories I make in life will be without him.

God bless all of you that have read this. Thank you for putting up with my rambling.

With love,
Barry Warren

Tiffany, Barry, and Silas Warren
1670 N. Davis
Cornelius OR, 97113
(503) 992-0316

In Memory of Clark Stacy

The Picayune will pause its normal service to remember Clark Stacy, a friend who is no longer with us, during the next week. Beginning on Sat. the 18th, The Picayune will feature memories of Clark by those who knew him.

John Woo on the Dan Ryan Pt. 2 will run after the memorial ends.

John Woo on the Dan Ryan (Another in the True Crime Series)

That’s what I first thought when I saw a long stretch of the Dan Ryan Expressway (otherwise known as 90-94) blocked off at around three in the morning last winter. Did they just film some over-the-top action sequence from some overblown project by the high brow director John Woo, famous for such masterpieces as Hard Target and Mission Impossible II? Or was this just another night of crime that will fade with time and only be remembered on some reporter’s notepad?

I was working the night shift again at the New City News Service in Chicago when I heard of the police-involved shooting and car chase on the expressway.

I parked my car on a parallel street and walked down a steep embankment to the northbound local lanes of the expressway. These slower lanes, where semi-tractor trailer trucks were always forced to drive, were closed off beginning around 47th Street and off limits until around 35th Street. Squad cars blocked off the entrances to the local lanes while police tape billowed in the wind across the two lanes at least one hundred feet in front of and behind the crime scene.

I took a moment to take in the scene. There was a semi parked on the shoulder of the local lanes with the driver’s side cab smashed in. Ahead of that on the on-ramp to 43rd Street, a silver Pontiac Sunfire-looking sports car lie upside down, looking like someone had just rolled it like a die. Another squad car was parked on the right shoulder of the express lanes, directly across from the crumpled car on the on ramp.

Bunches of numbered cards were being placed all over the expressway, near the car and in the grass between the on ramp and the expressway. Cards were placed near spent ammunition casings, near a revolver that lie next to the silver car, near a semi-automatic Mac10 assault rifle (those guns that look like a pencil box with a barrel sticking out of one end and an ammunition clip shoved into the bottom), next to a puffy, yellow coat that had blood on it and near other bits of stuff that I couldn’t make out.

It happened to be about ten degrees out that crisp morning. I had on some bulky gloves that made it impossible to write with and was also completely bundled up. Past experiences in the bitter cold and piercing wind of Chicago taught me to have a pencil handy during such times. During such extreme cold, the ink in ball point pens freezes up, making it useless. And the only thing that can you can speedily scribble illegible notes with is a good, old fashioned pencil.

I learned this from one of the freelance videographers, who ruled the night shift in capturing the news. Well, that is if us City Newsers didn’t get there first. But more often than not, they would beat us to it. These videographers would call us up and give us tips from the scene and we would even exchange info at the scene (They helped out in the Sheridan Road Serial Killer).

These guys would film the police spokesman as he told us a version of the events while standing on the piercing wind on the Dan Ryan Expressway. They would catch on tape the man explaining the chase, the shootout between a man with the Mac10 from the silver car and other police and how no cops were shot in the gun battle.

And the explanation is just as thrilling as a John Woo movie. Which, since this blog is already too long, will be concluded in our next issue.


Editor’s note: The editorial staff at the Picayune apologizes for the delay between issues. Due to recent events, the home office of the Picayune will be moving to Dallas, TX in June. Much reorganization for the moves has tied up our editorial staff. We regret the lapse in service.

Book Makes Reader Blue In the Face

After many friend’s urgings and hearing about how Blue Like Jazz, by Donald Miller, is the book to read, I finally submitted. While reading it and carrying it around on the el to and from work, I felt like I was part of some club. I felt a little chic, a little part of some ‘in’ crowd, a little like I was part of some group blessed with the special knowledge that comes from reading one man’s attempt at putting his spirituality into book form.

Now all book snobbery set aside, I enjoyed parts of Jazz although I can’t tell you one thing I remember from it. Miller uses and abuses the stream of consciousness writing style where different events in his life lead to reflections on whatever subjects those events deal with. I remember certain anecdotes and things he did, like live in the mountains with some kind of leftover hippie Christians and then returning to the world at large and then speak to the issues that ensue. But I couldn’t tell you any well-put arguments or ideas about faith in the world today and I can’t remember any kind of theme from the book.

Miller gets kudos for pursuing honesty and transparency in his faith and addressing the shortcomings of Christianity, or possibly more accurately, evangelicalism. This honesty is surely what makes this book such a popular read. Anyone who can speak to the hurts, frustrations and disappointments that come with being a Christian today is surely to gain a following since it is becoming rare to find someone who will do so.

But being an aspiring writing, reading the book was in some parts like listening to someone scrape their fingernails down a chalkboard. My beef with Miller, oddly enough, would be his writing style. Looked at as a whole, the book, subtitled Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality, seemed to do exactly what Miller railed against.

One chapter in the book has Miller going to see some “Christian” author of books on spirituality at a Borders-like bookstore. Miller has liked the author but at the current book promo, he listens to the author and is upset to hear the author ‘use’ Mohammedisms and other eastern religious terms to help sell his Christian beliefs. Miller is incensed that the author would need to re-market his books using something that would be more easily accepted by the world at large. I took a step back and thought about this. I thought about Miller’s subtitle, Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality, and thought I saw some similarities. Miller shares the author’s need to re-market his own spirituality to gain wider acceptance.

Now, being an author who has yet to publish, I don’t know the pressure from publishers to market a book a certain way. I don’t know that perhaps authors have to write books with a selling point in mind and have to think of some thirty second tag to sell the book to distributors or book buyers at the Christian Booksellers Association convention. I do not know the evils of the marketing machine that is Christian book publishing. So these criticisms may be thrown at you from the armchair that I’ve been sitting in since I decided to write. But other of Miller’s books, namely, Prayer and the Art of Volkswagen Maintenance, seems to be a complete rip off of the classic volume on philosophy Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert Persiq. Maybe it’s just me but that seems to be trying to again to re-market work for a certain audience.

But Miller’s style still grates on my writing sensibilities. He tries too hard to be ‘random’ like Anne Lamont or Annie Dillard. I hated the two cartoons that were included in the book. I couldn’t stand his obsession with having to make his faith seem exotic and cool. Hence this passage:

“Some of my friends have left their churches and gone Greek Orthodox. I think that sounds cool. Greek Orthodox. Unless you’re are Greek. Then it sounds like that is where you are supposed to go, as though you are a conformist. If I were Greek, I would never go to a Greek Orthodox church. If I were Greek, I would go to a Baptist church. Everybody there would think I was exotic and cool.”

But as I finished the book, Miller addressed some issues that had been piling up through my read. Miller seems like he could be a nomadic-type Christian who isn’t so keen on being part of a local body of believers. He could be a traveling speaker with no real affiliation or be supported by some smaller Body of Christ. I have issue with that, having felt those nomadic longings but then have realized the need for involvement in the smaller Body of Christ at a local church. Miller addresses issues arising out of a nomadic lifestyle in the last three chapters. I was impressed with how he tackled loving other members of the body of Christ and the need for community. Kudos to Miller to wrapping up his book this way but not for making me read through 200 pages to get there.

Coming Soon...

A Review of Blue Like Jazz is soon to to come.

In the mean time, check out some other True Crime stories in the Archives: Under the Radar, originally posted on Tuesday Feb. 15, 2005; Man Shot 9 Times in Good Condition, originally published on Feb. 1, 2005; Crouching What?, originally published on Tues. March 8, 2005; and True or False?, originally published on Wed. Jan. 12, 2005.

Check Our the Picayune's Contributing Writers

In order to better serve our readers ( and give props to fellow bloggers) the Picayune Editorial Board would like to take a moment to recognize (plug) our contributing writers.

A Table For One-Master of Creativity and generous blog creator from Boston but living in Chi-town.

backdrop- Smart, grad student in Chi-area (I'll let you figure out where)

dia blogue-Master of a self-run design company who will kill if you mess with Texas

Lesniewicz Weekly-Polish native heading to Uganda but currently interning at the Beach Picayune and doing some other stuff in Chicago

Nelmezzo-Master of Theology (or soon to be) in Chi-town

Pathos From the Mind's Eye-One of many alias for my roommie

Redemption-Produced by Jameson(not the whiskey) but headed for Perth, Australia

seadonkey21-Sweating over espresso in Minneapolis (ask about the name)

Skofinopolis Recorder- Master Yank in King Charles' court

Touchstone-A great magazine

Two Luther's Collide-Yet another alias

In The Throes of The Winter Blues

It hit me hard last week. In spite of the mild winter in Chicago with 40 degree days at least twice a week and intermittent hours of sunlight. In spite of all that I’ve learned over the last four years about this time of year.

I got depressed and I blamed it on the winter blues. The shorter days and shorter hours of actual sunlight and shorter amount of exposure to natural light which produces melatonin in the brain. With less melatonin, the chemicals in the brain can become unbalanced and make a person more susceptible to depression.

So there I was with the realization that I’d been depressed for a few days. I swore in my head and tried to figure out what to do with it. Go to a tanning bed, said a friend of mine. Tanning is one solution to not getting enough natural sunlight. I haven’t read anything official to say that it is medically proven but I’ve heard people swear by it and others who aren’t so sure. Even black people do this in the winter to help out, said that same friend.

I didn’t have the cash to shell out for this and I leaned more on the skeptical side as to whether or not the bulbs of a tanning bed could be equal to the rays of the sun when it comes to melatonin.

So I did what anyone else in my situation is left with doing: figure out what is screwing up your brain and try to fix it. Although it’s not always easy to get to this point while under the blanket of the winter blues, it is the most effective way to throw off that blanket. What am I thinking that is keeping me from getting up and moving on? Do I feel like there’s some kind of situation that I can’t do anything to change? Is there some person to whom I can’t express how much of an ass they are?

There’s a million questions to ask yourself. There’s also actions that can help out. Put all your strength or effort into getting out and doing something physical. Go work out, swim, run or play ball. Do something to get your blood flowing faster than it normally does. Somehow, a quicker pulse can help out the brain and all the chemicals that are inside. Maybe it adds more oxygen or more chemicals or circulates something else besides blood through your stagnant gray matter. Somehow, it works.

And then I try to do something with God. My relationship with Christ is one of the best ways to get my mind moving again. I intake a little bit of the Bible and stimulate my brain to think of the theology behind a verse or think through why God saved me. I then remember that all who have been saved from themselves by God’s gracious gift were bought so that they could testify to what God has done in their lives. The idea that God is bringing someone through the winter blues or any other hardship or depression so He can show off His power over even psychological ills is one that is encouraging and sobering. I get a little bit of hope from that thought.

And that little bit of hope is what can help me to wake up the next morning and go for a swim or try to tackle my seemingly unconquerable thoughts.



Publisher's Note: For more on Winter Blues, check out Sonofa3

Also, Thanks to Chris K. for all the work of stealing someone else's template and redesigning The Beach Picayune. Check out Chris at A Table For One.

New Look Amazes All

Thanks for your patience while waiting for our construction to finish. The new Beach Picayune will be revealed shortly. Meanwhile, die-hard readers can get their fix at www.xanga.com/sonofa3 by reading, "A Coffee-Chain-That-Shall-Remain-Nameless Moment."
The Beach Picayune Editorial Board