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.
___________________________________________________
To read about an MBI alumn who went to court on felony charges, check out The newest Son of A Beach.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Sunday, July 09, 2006
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.
----------
Find out the next big thing in Texas at Son of A Beach.
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.
----------
Find out the next big thing in Texas at Son of A Beach.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
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/ .
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/ .
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
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.
____
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.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
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.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
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.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
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.)
(And if anyone knows of Gluttony and Adventure in Dallas, leave a post.)
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, March 27, 2006
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
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
Friday, March 24, 2006
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
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
Saturday, March 18, 2006
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
Thursday, March 16, 2006
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 Pt. 2 will run after the memorial ends.
Monday, March 13, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, February 13, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, February 10, 2006
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.
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.
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