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.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
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.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Check Our the Picayune's Contributing Writers
In order to better serve our readers ( and give props to fellow bloggers) the Picayune Editorial Board would like to take a moment to recognize (plug) our contributing writers.
A Table For One-Master of Creativity and generous blog creator from Boston but living in Chi-town.
backdrop- Smart, grad student in Chi-area (I'll let you figure out where)
dia blogue-Master of a self-run design company who will kill if you mess with Texas
Lesniewicz Weekly-Polish native heading to Uganda but currently interning at the Beach Picayune and doing some other stuff in Chicago
Nelmezzo-Master of Theology (or soon to be) in Chi-town
Pathos From the Mind's Eye-One of many alias for my roommie
Redemption-Produced by Jameson(not the whiskey) but headed for Perth, Australia
seadonkey21-Sweating over espresso in Minneapolis (ask about the name)
Skofinopolis Recorder- Master Yank in King Charles' court
Touchstone-A great magazine
Two Luther's Collide-Yet another alias
A Table For One-Master of Creativity and generous blog creator from Boston but living in Chi-town.
backdrop- Smart, grad student in Chi-area (I'll let you figure out where)
dia blogue-Master of a self-run design company who will kill if you mess with Texas
Lesniewicz Weekly-Polish native heading to Uganda but currently interning at the Beach Picayune and doing some other stuff in Chicago
Nelmezzo-Master of Theology (or soon to be) in Chi-town
Pathos From the Mind's Eye-One of many alias for my roommie
Redemption-Produced by Jameson(not the whiskey) but headed for Perth, Australia
seadonkey21-Sweating over espresso in Minneapolis (ask about the name)
Skofinopolis Recorder- Master Yank in King Charles' court
Touchstone-A great magazine
Two Luther's Collide-Yet another alias
Thursday, February 02, 2006
In The Throes of The Winter Blues
It hit me hard last week. In spite of the mild winter in Chicago with 40 degree days at least twice a week and intermittent hours of sunlight. In spite of all that I’ve learned over the last four years about this time of year.
I got depressed and I blamed it on the winter blues. The shorter days and shorter hours of actual sunlight and shorter amount of exposure to natural light which produces melatonin in the brain. With less melatonin, the chemicals in the brain can become unbalanced and make a person more susceptible to depression.
So there I was with the realization that I’d been depressed for a few days. I swore in my head and tried to figure out what to do with it. Go to a tanning bed, said a friend of mine. Tanning is one solution to not getting enough natural sunlight. I haven’t read anything official to say that it is medically proven but I’ve heard people swear by it and others who aren’t so sure. Even black people do this in the winter to help out, said that same friend.
I didn’t have the cash to shell out for this and I leaned more on the skeptical side as to whether or not the bulbs of a tanning bed could be equal to the rays of the sun when it comes to melatonin.
So I did what anyone else in my situation is left with doing: figure out what is screwing up your brain and try to fix it. Although it’s not always easy to get to this point while under the blanket of the winter blues, it is the most effective way to throw off that blanket. What am I thinking that is keeping me from getting up and moving on? Do I feel like there’s some kind of situation that I can’t do anything to change? Is there some person to whom I can’t express how much of an ass they are?
There’s a million questions to ask yourself. There’s also actions that can help out. Put all your strength or effort into getting out and doing something physical. Go work out, swim, run or play ball. Do something to get your blood flowing faster than it normally does. Somehow, a quicker pulse can help out the brain and all the chemicals that are inside. Maybe it adds more oxygen or more chemicals or circulates something else besides blood through your stagnant gray matter. Somehow, it works.
And then I try to do something with God. My relationship with Christ is one of the best ways to get my mind moving again. I intake a little bit of the Bible and stimulate my brain to think of the theology behind a verse or think through why God saved me. I then remember that all who have been saved from themselves by God’s gracious gift were bought so that they could testify to what God has done in their lives. The idea that God is bringing someone through the winter blues or any other hardship or depression so He can show off His power over even psychological ills is one that is encouraging and sobering. I get a little bit of hope from that thought.
And that little bit of hope is what can help me to wake up the next morning and go for a swim or try to tackle my seemingly unconquerable thoughts.
Publisher's Note: For more on Winter Blues, check out Sonofa3
Also, Thanks to Chris K. for all the work of stealing someone else's template and redesigning The Beach Picayune. Check out Chris at A Table For One.
I got depressed and I blamed it on the winter blues. The shorter days and shorter hours of actual sunlight and shorter amount of exposure to natural light which produces melatonin in the brain. With less melatonin, the chemicals in the brain can become unbalanced and make a person more susceptible to depression.
So there I was with the realization that I’d been depressed for a few days. I swore in my head and tried to figure out what to do with it. Go to a tanning bed, said a friend of mine. Tanning is one solution to not getting enough natural sunlight. I haven’t read anything official to say that it is medically proven but I’ve heard people swear by it and others who aren’t so sure. Even black people do this in the winter to help out, said that same friend.
I didn’t have the cash to shell out for this and I leaned more on the skeptical side as to whether or not the bulbs of a tanning bed could be equal to the rays of the sun when it comes to melatonin.
So I did what anyone else in my situation is left with doing: figure out what is screwing up your brain and try to fix it. Although it’s not always easy to get to this point while under the blanket of the winter blues, it is the most effective way to throw off that blanket. What am I thinking that is keeping me from getting up and moving on? Do I feel like there’s some kind of situation that I can’t do anything to change? Is there some person to whom I can’t express how much of an ass they are?
There’s a million questions to ask yourself. There’s also actions that can help out. Put all your strength or effort into getting out and doing something physical. Go work out, swim, run or play ball. Do something to get your blood flowing faster than it normally does. Somehow, a quicker pulse can help out the brain and all the chemicals that are inside. Maybe it adds more oxygen or more chemicals or circulates something else besides blood through your stagnant gray matter. Somehow, it works.
And then I try to do something with God. My relationship with Christ is one of the best ways to get my mind moving again. I intake a little bit of the Bible and stimulate my brain to think of the theology behind a verse or think through why God saved me. I then remember that all who have been saved from themselves by God’s gracious gift were bought so that they could testify to what God has done in their lives. The idea that God is bringing someone through the winter blues or any other hardship or depression so He can show off His power over even psychological ills is one that is encouraging and sobering. I get a little bit of hope from that thought.
And that little bit of hope is what can help me to wake up the next morning and go for a swim or try to tackle my seemingly unconquerable thoughts.
Publisher's Note: For more on Winter Blues, check out Sonofa3
Also, Thanks to Chris K. for all the work of stealing someone else's template and redesigning The Beach Picayune. Check out Chris at A Table For One.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
New Look Amazes All
Thanks for your patience while waiting for our construction to finish. The new Beach Picayune will be revealed shortly. Meanwhile, die-hard readers can get their fix at www.xanga.com/sonofa3 by reading, "A Coffee-Chain-That-Shall-Remain-Nameless Moment."
The Beach Picayune Editorial Board
The Beach Picayune Editorial Board
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Sheridan Road Pt. 2
So I’m walking towards the groups of detectives at around 1 a.m. outside a building where a serial killer may have struck twice. And it is because of this that there isn’t a single squad car light flashing or police tape around any section of the building.
I just put my press pass around my neck in plan view of CPD’s finest, hoping that they would be willing to talk to a wet-nosed reporter trying to confirm that someone was murdered in an apartment one floor above another murder scene that was barely a month old.
Such things can be expected when working for a 24-hour newswire service in Chicago. After the 10 o’clock news broadcasts, myself and other City News reporters had free reign to any mayhem that took place until about 4 a.m., when the day began again and other reporters began competing with us again.
One detective sees me coming and lets the others know. All look in my direction and they try to casually disperse. I identify myself (standard procedure) but each one ignores me. They walk back to their hibernating squad cars and then drive off, one by one.
No other cops talk to me but then I spot another guy just standing near the building. He’s not huddled up with anyone and I guess that he’s somehow involved with the building. He’s the landlord/handyman. He’s upset because now people will move out and no one will want to live in the building. I eventually ask him about what happened in the apartment the CSIs are looking through with flashlights.
I’ve seen people covered in what look like surgical gowns, along with shoe covers, coming in and out of the building. Make me wonder what it looks like inside there if everyone has to suit up like that.
Yes, the landlord/handyman says. Somebody was killed. His name was this. I didn’t know him too well. He was in apartment 3D or something like that. Yes, about a month ago someone else was killed in 2D.
Bingo. That makes it a story. I get the handyman’s name, thank him for his time and try to empathize with him, in spite of my excitement that I was able to turn a tip into a pretty good news story.
And months later, I was talking to the people at the Cook County Medical Examiner’s office and they mentioned in passing that serial killer on Sheridan.
“The one on the 7300 block of Sheridan?” I asked, astonished and excited.
“Yeah. Oh wait,” they said.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
True Crime Series
Instead of leaving all the wonderful stories of serial killers, dramatic shootings of high school students, or police chases that would put John Woo to shame in the pages of my notebooks from my City News Days, these stories will become part of the Picayune beginning today.
Sheridan Road Serial Killer
I was nearing the end of my mid-shift coverage of the North Side while camped out at Area 3 headquarters (also known as the 19th District of the Chicago Police Department) at the corner of Belmont and Western.
The overnight editor paged me, and I called him back to hear, “You better not screw this up. We got a tip from the ME’s (Cook County Medical Examiner’s Office) that there’s a death investigation in the apartment building where someone else was killed only a month earlier.”
This was an actual tip that a creative reporter had to weed out of people to make a story out of. I couldn’t just show up at some address with my pen, tablet and digital recorder in hand. I had to corroborate the tip through beating the street and shooting the shit with cops who were working that night. This is where I figured out how good a reporter I was.
The apartment building was around 7000 N. Sheridan Rd., placing the crime scene in the Rogers Park District (24). Luckily, a grandpa-like captain was working that night that I had a good relationship with. He would tell me anything that he had in front of him and he always made my job easier. So I call him up and act like I’m making a routine check on his neck of the woods for the typical murder and mayhem that night.
“So what’s going on tonight?” I ask after the usual introductions and pleasantries. “Any robberies, any…investigations?” Investigation was the key word, as homicides are often classified as death investigations until it can be determined that they are suspicious.
“Well, yeah,” said the captain. “They got a death investigation up on Sheridan. And looks like they sent a crime lab van up there.” I could tell he was reading to me right off the paper in front of him.
"Oh yeah?” I ask, trying to hide my excitement. “Where’s that at?” And then the captain confirmed the address.
Bingo.
That was what I needed: confirmation of the address and that something suspicious enough to need a crime lab van had happened there. So my editor sent me to the scene around 1 a.m.
I parked behind a building near the scene, not knowing that it was the building in question, and that cops were already wandering around inside with flashlights. I came around the corner of the building onto Sheridan Road and then realized that it might be smart to wear my press badge. It would probably prevent me from being arrested for appearing out of nowhere at the scene of the crime in the middle of the night.
A group of men I guessed to be detectives were standing in a group near the entrance of the building. As I approached, I noticed that there were three squad cars, two unmarked police cars and the crime scene van at the scene. The odd thing was that not a single light from any of the cars was flashing. There was no police tape roping off the area, no onlookers gawking at the scene, no noise other than the normal silence of the night. People didn’t seem to know that a serial killer had struck the same building twice in a month’s time and the police wanted to keep it that way.
…
Due to a shortage of column space on the page and people’s need to not spend all day reading blogs, the rest of the story will be continued next week.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Adaptation
“The high for today will be about 42 degrees. It’s currently 41 and you’re listening to…” broadcast the radio station at around 4:15 a.m a few days ago. This was the beginning of January for Chicagoans; a mild streak of weather in what can often be the harshest season for this Midwest giant of a city. Business this week was back to booming at the coffee-chain-that-shall-remain nameless. More people were out and braving the Icelandic 40 degree temperatures and even buying frozen and iced drinks (much to the chagrin of my co-workers). People were enjoying the atypical weather.
But not two weeks earlier the city was crippled during the even rush hour by a furious snow storm that unceremoniously dumped at least 8 inches of powder in about four hours. From about 4 p.m. on, blustery winds and blinding snow delayed commuters on their way home. Some driving home on the Eisenhower Expressway reported a four-hour commute that night. I drove downtown to pick up something from my store that night but ended up staying downtown because of the traffic and storm.
Like all who live in this great city, I had to adapt and change my plans for that night. I had planned on going back to my apartment on the northwest side and accomplishing some things that night. But an estimated three-hour tour home on LSD convinced me to stick it out where I was. So I decided to call some friends who were close by and catch a movie. It’s not like I would be going anywhere soon so I adapted to the situation.
Adaptation seems essential to anyone’s life, since nothing ever goes as planned (And even if it does, one must still adapt to things going better than planned). Your checking account is overdrawn; you have to adjust your spending and finagle a plan to correct your account. You figure out that the profession you studied in school is not necessarily what you can succeed at doing. God deals you some kind of malady that cripples your body, mind or confidence. So what do you do? You learn to adapt.
Why? I adapt because I’ve seen what happens to those who can’t. Some revert back to some remedial stage of life and take some dead end job that has not hint of challenging them. Or they give up on using the gifts that God has endowed them with and accept something lesser. Or sometimes they feel it better to take their own life. And while I can understand how someone could get to such a place in life, I am enraged when I see such a situation. I am enraged at God for letting such a thing happen and I am enraged for whatever other reason I can assign for a suicide. Even if I know that these reasons are nothing more than me grasping at straws to try understand something that is incomprehensible.
So many people I know get used to some kind of support system and rely completely on that system, whether they know it or not. And then when they graduate from that stage of life and move out of a certain environment, they feel like they’re drowning because they don’t know how to sustain themselves without that old environment. Sometimes the solution is to just keep treading water. Eventually, the person may be able to see their situation and learn a stroke that will help them to swim on to the next stage of life.
But sometimes the best adaptation to a situation is to stop treading water. Some people need to be brought to the end of their own ability and begin sinking down into the water. Getting to such a point leaves a person one option: hope that something outside of themselves can help save their life. As they sink further under the surface and the water seems to get darker, a person can look to God and pray for some miracle. And then the person begins to feel a strange sensation on the sides of their neck, much like Harry Potter while in an underwater game in the most current installment of that series.
Something begins growing out of their neck and they can’t help but suck in the water that is pressing all around them. Gills appear on their neck and then they open wide their mouths against all their instincts and fill their lungs with water. They slowly begin sucking in water and their lungs somehow grab the oxygen out of the water and keep it flowing through their veins.
An astounding adaptation has occurred that leaves the person in awe that they can breathe under water and in awe of how inventive God can be.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
New Startup Publication Peaks After a Year
So it's already been a year that the Beach Picayune has been in circulation. And thanks to the solid readership and advertisers who kept the Pic going during a time when the printed page seems to be on the out.
A new year brings new offerings and outlets for the Pic. A plan is in the works for readers to subscribe to the Picayune and receive new issues via email. Keep reading for details. And a new look is also under construction by the New Look Development Department.
Future issues that will satiate the insatiable appetites of the Pic readers include:Adaptations, a review of the book Blue Like Jazz, Reflections on Qtting Journalism, City News Days and further flashy, but never, never trashy, content on the Pic's younger sibling publication: www.xanga.com/Sonofa3.
A new year brings new offerings and outlets for the Pic. A plan is in the works for readers to subscribe to the Picayune and receive new issues via email. Keep reading for details. And a new look is also under construction by the New Look Development Department.
Future issues that will satiate the insatiable appetites of the Pic readers include:Adaptations, a review of the book Blue Like Jazz, Reflections on Qtting Journalism, City News Days and further flashy, but never, never trashy, content on the Pic's younger sibling publication: www.xanga.com/Sonofa3.
Monday, December 19, 2005
SAVE CITY NEWS
Chicago will have to expunge a word from it's dictionary at 12:01 a.m. on Jan. 1, 2006: Scrappiness.
And yes, that is a word. And, yes, it is 12:01 a.m. not 12:01 p.m.
The idea of scrappiness originates from the New City News Service, an institution in Chicago journalism for the last century. And this idea will disappear when the service, formerly known as City News Service, electronically sends out it's last story on it's news wire sometime late that Saturday night. The service will be halted because the Chicago Tribune, who owns the City News Service (CNS), is cutting back on some jobs. There was something about CNS providing too much competition with the Trib's internet news services.
City News will define scrappiness for another 12 days but then after that, it will be hard to find some other source to take up that title. CNS has been an historic (yes, it's 'an' rather than 'a') training ground for journalists for decades. Mike Royko, Seymour Hirsch and Kurt Vonnegut were all alum and can credit CNS with catapalting their careers as a columnist, investigative reporter and novelist, respectively. Maybe catapalting would be too yellow a term for these journalists but they can at least say, "Yeah, City News taught me a few things." One of those things would be the importance of checking and rechecking facts. A CNS motto that emobies this principle is, "If your mother says she loves you, kick her in the shins and and tell her to prove it."
That's scrappiness.
And so would City Newsers racing around the city, beating five other newspapers, four t.v. news crews and a 24-hour radio news station to the scenes of breaking stories. Fires, police-involved shootings, bad car accidents, press conferences, etc. One legend has it that one reporter was passed on a tip from the Cook County Medical Examiner's Office that someone was murdered in an apartment building on the northern tip of Sheridan Road where only a month earlier someone else was found murdered a floor below. That reporter called up the kind, grandpa-like Rogers Park District (24) captain who told him that there was a crime scene investigation van sent to that Sheridan Road apartment building. Well to make a long story short, that reporter got to the apartment building before even the freelance videographer with multiple police and fire scanners in his car could (Check future editions of the Picayune for the full story).
Times like that were how CNS, a not-for-profit organization since it's restructuring in 1999 when it was revived by the Tribune, educated it's reporters in the old school methods of fact-finding. City Newsers wouldn't Google some address of a fire, they would know the general area after studying their official city street guide and be able to tell you the right way to get there. City Newswers wouldn't call up a random detective from Area 3 , which emcompasses the Rogers Park neighborhood, and ask about another murder in the aforementioned apartment building. They would shoot the shit with the 24th District captain and then bait him with, "Any investigations going on?"
The Tribune will be losing out on a great source of scrappy reporters who truly know the city when CNS stops broadcasting. All other news outlets will also be without the nitty-gritty, just-the-facts-maam, everyday dolldrums of reporting that followed the smaller crimes and kept track of bigger criminals all the way through the judicial process. All will be losing very cheap labor that does all the dirty work of hanging out in police stations and bond court hearings at 26th and California to know what's going on.
My 11 months there, though ill-fated, were some of the most formative and education of my life. I don't regret them at all.
It's too bad some other news agency, say Medill News Service or some other institution, can't pick up the work of CNS. If this newswire was saved, people would still be able to trace knowledge and scrappy reporters back to their home at CNS.
And yes, that is a word. And, yes, it is 12:01 a.m. not 12:01 p.m.
The idea of scrappiness originates from the New City News Service, an institution in Chicago journalism for the last century. And this idea will disappear when the service, formerly known as City News Service, electronically sends out it's last story on it's news wire sometime late that Saturday night. The service will be halted because the Chicago Tribune, who owns the City News Service (CNS), is cutting back on some jobs. There was something about CNS providing too much competition with the Trib's internet news services.
City News will define scrappiness for another 12 days but then after that, it will be hard to find some other source to take up that title. CNS has been an historic (yes, it's 'an' rather than 'a') training ground for journalists for decades. Mike Royko, Seymour Hirsch and Kurt Vonnegut were all alum and can credit CNS with catapalting their careers as a columnist, investigative reporter and novelist, respectively. Maybe catapalting would be too yellow a term for these journalists but they can at least say, "Yeah, City News taught me a few things." One of those things would be the importance of checking and rechecking facts. A CNS motto that emobies this principle is, "If your mother says she loves you, kick her in the shins and and tell her to prove it."
That's scrappiness.
And so would City Newsers racing around the city, beating five other newspapers, four t.v. news crews and a 24-hour radio news station to the scenes of breaking stories. Fires, police-involved shootings, bad car accidents, press conferences, etc. One legend has it that one reporter was passed on a tip from the Cook County Medical Examiner's Office that someone was murdered in an apartment building on the northern tip of Sheridan Road where only a month earlier someone else was found murdered a floor below. That reporter called up the kind, grandpa-like Rogers Park District (24) captain who told him that there was a crime scene investigation van sent to that Sheridan Road apartment building. Well to make a long story short, that reporter got to the apartment building before even the freelance videographer with multiple police and fire scanners in his car could (Check future editions of the Picayune for the full story).
Times like that were how CNS, a not-for-profit organization since it's restructuring in 1999 when it was revived by the Tribune, educated it's reporters in the old school methods of fact-finding. City Newsers wouldn't Google some address of a fire, they would know the general area after studying their official city street guide and be able to tell you the right way to get there. City Newswers wouldn't call up a random detective from Area 3 , which emcompasses the Rogers Park neighborhood, and ask about another murder in the aforementioned apartment building. They would shoot the shit with the 24th District captain and then bait him with, "Any investigations going on?"
The Tribune will be losing out on a great source of scrappy reporters who truly know the city when CNS stops broadcasting. All other news outlets will also be without the nitty-gritty, just-the-facts-maam, everyday dolldrums of reporting that followed the smaller crimes and kept track of bigger criminals all the way through the judicial process. All will be losing very cheap labor that does all the dirty work of hanging out in police stations and bond court hearings at 26th and California to know what's going on.
My 11 months there, though ill-fated, were some of the most formative and education of my life. I don't regret them at all.
It's too bad some other news agency, say Medill News Service or some other institution, can't pick up the work of CNS. If this newswire was saved, people would still be able to trace knowledge and scrappy reporters back to their home at CNS.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Afraid of the Dark Pt. 2
I was reminded again of how much a person's dark side can define them and help make them real.
I got an education over Thanksgiving of one of the most unpretentious but popular musicians after viewing Walk the Line. I came to see why Johnny Cash earned the name of the Man in Black. He was a normal man whose journey through the dark side began when he and some buddies tried to cut a record. The studio owner, who listened to Cash and friends play an old gospel song, stopped them halfway through the song.
He told Cash that their song was just another version of a gospel hit that everyone else has already sung. Cash asked if the owner was opposed to them singing a gospel song. The owner tried to explain what he meant but then asked Cash this: "If you were lying in a ditch somewhere with five minutes left to live, what would you say to God and anyone else who would listen?"
Cash paused and then began playing, a slow, dirge-like song called "Cry, Cry, Cry," one of the first hits that launched his career. The record owner knew that sometimes rehashed gospel songs wouldn't connect with any but a small group of listeners because they had the tendency to ring hollow. What gospel songs said about God was great but what they sometimes left out was the humanity, the pain, the darkness that so many people could identify with.
The owner didn't want Cash to be afraid of the dark. And to the benefit of the world, Cash didn't shy away anymore. Walk The Line show Cash's journey into drug abuse early on in his career and Cash's later music completes the portrait of the Man in Black, a man who lived in darkness but was still able to be redeemed. Some of Cash's greatest music were his four American Recordings, which were pointedly dark.
Cash was a better man for having ventured down the darker pathways and even into his own dark soul. He knew sin in his heart like a father knows his son and he was all the better a believer because of it.
I got an education over Thanksgiving of one of the most unpretentious but popular musicians after viewing Walk the Line. I came to see why Johnny Cash earned the name of the Man in Black. He was a normal man whose journey through the dark side began when he and some buddies tried to cut a record. The studio owner, who listened to Cash and friends play an old gospel song, stopped them halfway through the song.
He told Cash that their song was just another version of a gospel hit that everyone else has already sung. Cash asked if the owner was opposed to them singing a gospel song. The owner tried to explain what he meant but then asked Cash this: "If you were lying in a ditch somewhere with five minutes left to live, what would you say to God and anyone else who would listen?"
Cash paused and then began playing, a slow, dirge-like song called "Cry, Cry, Cry," one of the first hits that launched his career. The record owner knew that sometimes rehashed gospel songs wouldn't connect with any but a small group of listeners because they had the tendency to ring hollow. What gospel songs said about God was great but what they sometimes left out was the humanity, the pain, the darkness that so many people could identify with.
The owner didn't want Cash to be afraid of the dark. And to the benefit of the world, Cash didn't shy away anymore. Walk The Line show Cash's journey into drug abuse early on in his career and Cash's later music completes the portrait of the Man in Black, a man who lived in darkness but was still able to be redeemed. Some of Cash's greatest music were his four American Recordings, which were pointedly dark.
Cash was a better man for having ventured down the darker pathways and even into his own dark soul. He knew sin in his heart like a father knows his son and he was all the better a believer because of it.
Monday, December 12, 2005
COMING SOON
Due to a sprained ankle suffered while chasing down and apprehending some young punk who stole tips from the coffee-chain-that-shall-remain-nameless, The Beach Picayune was unable to be published for the last month. The editorial board regrets this lapse in coverage but pledges to return the thankless work of publishing the Picayune.
The Editorial Board of the Beach Picayune
The Editorial Board of the Beach Picayune
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Afraid of the Dark Pt.1
(This may seem like it was written in fast forward mode.)
I was scrubbing my dirty bathtub with Clorox bleach cleaner on Saturday. I had a good start to my day with two cups of Arabian Mocha Sanani and my compartmentalized time with God.
I had a rock station playing while I scrubbed. A dark, pulsating industrial tune began playing and I recognized it as "No. 1 Fan" by Garbage. " I would die for you...I would cry for you...I would crawl on hands and feet until I bleed." The words were acidic, gothic and disturbing but the music was entrancing.
I remembered then how much I like darker music like Garbage, Linkin Park or any other secular band that honestly devles into the darkness of this life. I can't get enough of this darker music. I confess that most of my regular digest of music now is not produced by someone who follows Christ. And I'm okay with that.
Naturally, there are dangers to such a diet at this. The constant hopeless messages or depressing conclusions could easily begin to convert one's ways of thinking. A friend of mine realized this and is fasting from secular music for his health (see Trent's blog on the list of links further down the page).
But there is a tendency in Christian music to be afraid of the dark. Afraid of those honest but dangerous expeditions into the treacherous land of human emotion and experience. Sadly, there are followers of Christ who have adopted the ancient idea that the spiritual life should be more important the physical or human life. The messy, the torturous , the mindfield that is our God-given emotions are ignored or suppressed with zeal. And much to the detriment of a person's entire being.
I know this lifestyle all too well, having zealously pursued it for a period of time. But thankfully, I matured in my understanding of theology, humanity and where and how those two things intersect. I am thankful for a high school english teacher, with his long hippie hair and his own rock band, for getting me hooked onto Led Zeppelin. I am thankful for those trepidations first steps of buying a Moby CD and a Radiohead album. I am thankful for the realization that my human emotions need to be included in my spiritual life and should be explored in order to benefit my spiritual maturity.
And not all of my bridges from the world of Christian music have been burned; only about 81% percent of them. Those 81% were bridges that led me away from music that simplified too much; that formulaized too much; that was too afraid to venture out into the unknown territory of emotions. The remaining passages still receive traffic when a band can creatively or honestly sing of the spiritual life and man's eternal crusade to be redeemed.
Christian music that isn't afraid of the dark sits right beside other musicians, like Ben Folds or Ray Lamontagne, who aren't either.
I was scrubbing my dirty bathtub with Clorox bleach cleaner on Saturday. I had a good start to my day with two cups of Arabian Mocha Sanani and my compartmentalized time with God.
I had a rock station playing while I scrubbed. A dark, pulsating industrial tune began playing and I recognized it as "No. 1 Fan" by Garbage. " I would die for you...I would cry for you...I would crawl on hands and feet until I bleed." The words were acidic, gothic and disturbing but the music was entrancing.
I remembered then how much I like darker music like Garbage, Linkin Park or any other secular band that honestly devles into the darkness of this life. I can't get enough of this darker music. I confess that most of my regular digest of music now is not produced by someone who follows Christ. And I'm okay with that.
Naturally, there are dangers to such a diet at this. The constant hopeless messages or depressing conclusions could easily begin to convert one's ways of thinking. A friend of mine realized this and is fasting from secular music for his health (see Trent's blog on the list of links further down the page).
But there is a tendency in Christian music to be afraid of the dark. Afraid of those honest but dangerous expeditions into the treacherous land of human emotion and experience. Sadly, there are followers of Christ who have adopted the ancient idea that the spiritual life should be more important the physical or human life. The messy, the torturous , the mindfield that is our God-given emotions are ignored or suppressed with zeal. And much to the detriment of a person's entire being.
I know this lifestyle all too well, having zealously pursued it for a period of time. But thankfully, I matured in my understanding of theology, humanity and where and how those two things intersect. I am thankful for a high school english teacher, with his long hippie hair and his own rock band, for getting me hooked onto Led Zeppelin. I am thankful for those trepidations first steps of buying a Moby CD and a Radiohead album. I am thankful for the realization that my human emotions need to be included in my spiritual life and should be explored in order to benefit my spiritual maturity.
And not all of my bridges from the world of Christian music have been burned; only about 81% percent of them. Those 81% were bridges that led me away from music that simplified too much; that formulaized too much; that was too afraid to venture out into the unknown territory of emotions. The remaining passages still receive traffic when a band can creatively or honestly sing of the spiritual life and man's eternal crusade to be redeemed.
Christian music that isn't afraid of the dark sits right beside other musicians, like Ben Folds or Ray Lamontagne, who aren't either.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Angst-Fueled Thoughts Lead to Spiritual Revelation
So it was 11:30 p.m. on some weeknight and I was restless. I had an aching to be out doing something late at night again. Being a reporter during the graveyard shift had left me with the need to be up when only a small percentage of the population still is. To be out and conscious while the rest of the city sleeps.
I realized that this sort of restlessness, this angst, is the perfect subject for a blog. It would be a great intro to catch a reader's attention. It's a vague feeling that surely someone else has had and can relate to but, like me, is not quite sure how to put it into words.
So I ask a friend if she knows a coffeehouse that's open all night besides the well-known anchor of Old Town at Piper's Alley, the collossus of coffee, the ever-present espresso pedler, the coffee-chain-that-shall-remain-nameless. This fell0w night-dweller knew of a place: the Pick Me Up Cafe on Clark. I drove there only to discover a line of people waiting to be seated in the not-so-reflection-inducing, sit-down restaraunt atmosphere. I felt a little out of place walking in with a black leather journal, a legal notepad for blog ideas and The Shipping News, by E. Annie Proulx; the materials necessary for reflection and digestion.
This is a good illustration of angst-driven restlessness, that need for reflection and connection with God. People can relate to this common experience.
So I settled on the haven that vampires, homeless men, chess players and procrastinating students can all agree on: the coffee-chain-that-shall-remain. I drove another few miles and parked up the street, only to find that on this night, it was closed. Apparently, a power-washing crew was super-scrubbing the floors to remove the grime that builds up on a continual basis on the floor.
This was a realistic portrayal of a struggle or a Pilgrim's Progress-like journey that readers can be drawn in to. Will the faithful (but Angst-filled) Christian find that much-needed time of reflection and contemplation? Will he be able to not settle for that coffee-chain-that-shall? Will there be some resolution or spiritual revelation?
I was out of options and I've already driven all around town. I gave up and headed back to my apartment. A Burger King with an open-late drive thru got my business that night. I ate my pre-fab Hershey's Pie on my back porch that night and just enjoyed the night sky.
And then I realized that I could have some spiritual revelation on my back porch. I could come to the conclusion that the only place to sooth my restlessness was in fellowship with Christ. Or I could remember that I didn't need a pre-fab atmosphere, or as some would call it the "Third Place," in order to sort through thoughts and see how my faith fits into my present life.
And soon enough, I'll have written enought to satisfy my readers with more angst-fueled thoughts that lead to a spiritual revelation.
I realized that this sort of restlessness, this angst, is the perfect subject for a blog. It would be a great intro to catch a reader's attention. It's a vague feeling that surely someone else has had and can relate to but, like me, is not quite sure how to put it into words.
So I ask a friend if she knows a coffeehouse that's open all night besides the well-known anchor of Old Town at Piper's Alley, the collossus of coffee, the ever-present espresso pedler, the coffee-chain-that-shall-remain-nameless. This fell0w night-dweller knew of a place: the Pick Me Up Cafe on Clark. I drove there only to discover a line of people waiting to be seated in the not-so-reflection-inducing, sit-down restaraunt atmosphere. I felt a little out of place walking in with a black leather journal, a legal notepad for blog ideas and The Shipping News, by E. Annie Proulx; the materials necessary for reflection and digestion.
This is a good illustration of angst-driven restlessness, that need for reflection and connection with God. People can relate to this common experience.
So I settled on the haven that vampires, homeless men, chess players and procrastinating students can all agree on: the coffee-chain-that-shall-remain. I drove another few miles and parked up the street, only to find that on this night, it was closed. Apparently, a power-washing crew was super-scrubbing the floors to remove the grime that builds up on a continual basis on the floor.
This was a realistic portrayal of a struggle or a Pilgrim's Progress-like journey that readers can be drawn in to. Will the faithful (but Angst-filled) Christian find that much-needed time of reflection and contemplation? Will he be able to not settle for that coffee-chain-that-shall? Will there be some resolution or spiritual revelation?
I was out of options and I've already driven all around town. I gave up and headed back to my apartment. A Burger King with an open-late drive thru got my business that night. I ate my pre-fab Hershey's Pie on my back porch that night and just enjoyed the night sky.
And then I realized that I could have some spiritual revelation on my back porch. I could come to the conclusion that the only place to sooth my restlessness was in fellowship with Christ. Or I could remember that I didn't need a pre-fab atmosphere, or as some would call it the "Third Place," in order to sort through thoughts and see how my faith fits into my present life.
And soon enough, I'll have written enought to satisfy my readers with more angst-fueled thoughts that lead to a spiritual revelation.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Donnie Darko enthusiastts-Start drooling
I've done some research on a very well-made but confusing movie. Here's a buddy of Eberts' take on it and a writer from Christianity Today's Books and Culture Magazine.
http://us.f1.yahoofs.com/bc/3f838842_1414c/bc/essays/Donnie+Darko+essay.doc?bf71AUDBC1Y83Ghx
http://us.f1.yahoofs.com/bc/3f838842_1414c/bc/essays/DonnieandtheBunnyman[2].doc?bf71AUDBd5ItWXhn
These are great if you're a fan or wanting to just figure out what the movie was about.
http://us.f1.yahoofs.com/bc/3f838842_1414c/bc/essays/Donnie+Darko+essay.doc?bf71AUDBC1Y83Ghx
http://us.f1.yahoofs.com/bc/3f838842_1414c/bc/essays/DonnieandtheBunnyman[2].doc?bf71AUDBd5ItWXhn
These are great if you're a fan or wanting to just figure out what the movie was about.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Wisdom from the Past
I've been re-reading a journal I've kept that's covered the last two and half years of my life. I've found some pretty strong stuff that's encouraging and challenging.
It seems it's always good to remember the past, for all it's struggles and joys, because the past defines who you are and how you handle the present. On a less philosophical note, you can also learn from your mistakes and, hopefully, not make them again.
Here's some excerpts:
"A friend's words came back to me (concerning worship): Even if your not truly in it, you're speaking words of truth (and that means something). 'Half of everyone else in the room probably didn't do their devos this morning either.'
"The idea of God using us in spite of ourselves seems to connect here. Like the whiskey priest in Greene's The Power and The Glory. He was drunk half of his life and he still had to be a priest to so many people. He had to give last rites, communion and hear confessions and baptize hundreds while he himself was far from being right with God. He was distrusting of the guy with the two yellow teeth (instead of loving); he was a coward when it came to his duty (instead of bravely performing his duty); he merely went through the motions of doing mass for a few small villagers (instead of faithfully putting all the meaning into the acts and truly talking to God).
"Even me writing this page and a half on the subject could be evidence. I'm writing up a storm on my 'bad day'. But, as I remember more, I always write more and can think with more clarity when things are wrong. But I have to write everyday, whether or not I think I have time. Writing is just as important as reading my Bible or praying..."
....
"And last night I talked to (a guy who had left stuff on my floor at school). Another friend had given me the idea and all I thought to ask about was his stuff. But when he answered, he seemed so relieved and encouraged. He even went through the 'I was gonna call you' routine. He told me about his year and how it was rough but refining. I felt bad for calling him about when he was going to pick up his stuff. But he was still encouraged and flattered that I called him. Call me the whiskey priest again."
It seems it's always good to remember the past, for all it's struggles and joys, because the past defines who you are and how you handle the present. On a less philosophical note, you can also learn from your mistakes and, hopefully, not make them again.
Here's some excerpts:
"A friend's words came back to me (concerning worship): Even if your not truly in it, you're speaking words of truth (and that means something). 'Half of everyone else in the room probably didn't do their devos this morning either.'
"The idea of God using us in spite of ourselves seems to connect here. Like the whiskey priest in Greene's The Power and The Glory. He was drunk half of his life and he still had to be a priest to so many people. He had to give last rites, communion and hear confessions and baptize hundreds while he himself was far from being right with God. He was distrusting of the guy with the two yellow teeth (instead of loving); he was a coward when it came to his duty (instead of bravely performing his duty); he merely went through the motions of doing mass for a few small villagers (instead of faithfully putting all the meaning into the acts and truly talking to God).
"Even me writing this page and a half on the subject could be evidence. I'm writing up a storm on my 'bad day'. But, as I remember more, I always write more and can think with more clarity when things are wrong. But I have to write everyday, whether or not I think I have time. Writing is just as important as reading my Bible or praying..."
....
"And last night I talked to (a guy who had left stuff on my floor at school). Another friend had given me the idea and all I thought to ask about was his stuff. But when he answered, he seemed so relieved and encouraged. He even went through the 'I was gonna call you' routine. He told me about his year and how it was rough but refining. I felt bad for calling him about when he was going to pick up his stuff. But he was still encouraged and flattered that I called him. Call me the whiskey priest again."
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
A King's Religion
Wes Craven grew up in a fundamentalist Baptist home. Stephen King grew up in the Methodist church. Who woulda’ thunk it?
Although I’ve yet to see some ripples of that upbringing in Red Eye, Scream or Nightmare on Elm Street, I have seen them in a novel by King and in his memoir On Writing.
It made me seriously consider where King’s life may lay; but only for an hour or so. I finished Desperation and then realized my delusions of spiritual grandeur. King may be been brought up in the as a Methodist but the ripples of his rearing didn’t flow into what I wanted to see in his novel.
Like countless other believers, I wanted to see some sense of spiritual truth in some celebrity to make my faith seem more real, more authentic. As if some celebrity could truly authentic anything except the shallow vacuousness of celebrity. But I read between the lines to find it anyway.
Probably not since The Stand has King written something so overtly religious as Desperation. The premise is easy: a cast of random characters is imprisoned by a devilishly supernatural cop in a small mining town where something sinister was dug up in the mines.
The leader of the survivors is a pre-adolescent boy named David Carver, who, a year or two earlier, had a conversion experience where his prayer of faith miraculously healed a friend who was deathly ill. David had then had regular meetings with a priest to dialogue about faith. That faith is what makes for some dramatic, although sometimes silly scenes in the book.
All of the survivors were locked away in prison cells when David had a vision, or heard a voice direct him to a bar of Irish Spring soap in his cell. So he stripped down, soaped up and began to slip through the steel bars. And somehow, miraculously, his head was able to squeeze through as well. He said later that God directed him to the soap which enabled to escape the prison and find keys to free everyone else.
The oddest scene was in an abandoned theatre where all the survivors had holed up to escape the cop. People were looking for food and found a sleeve of Ritz crackers and a couple of cans of sardines. Before devouring the only food everyone had had in over twelve hours, David thought of asking the blessing on the food. After quelling objections from some of the people, David prayed and asked a blessing. Then one person began passing around the bag. Somehow, everyone was able to take from the sleeve of Ritz and all received a can of sardines. Somehow, the brown paper bag never ran out of sardines and crackers.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or get upset at that. Or if I should really do either.
So there were some other religious imagery scattered throughout the novel but they all seemed to be disconnected and disjointed. They didn’t flow together in some bigger picture or prove to work together to make some kind of religious point. They were merely plot devices without any meaning.
This can only be expected considering how King writes. He prefers to not plot out his stories but only try to develop his characters. This isn’t a horrible way to write but then the story can almost seem aimless.
In spite of the aimless imagery, King did have a little redeeming theology that was worked into the story. David Carver and another of the survivors, a cocky writer surely to be modeled after part of King’s own personality, came to the conclusion that God can be cruel but refining. This was the one redeeming facet to the seven hundred pages of horrific and Texas Chainsaw Massacre-like gore.
Another revealing passage on King’s religious beliefs came in the middle of On Writing. King was hired to move some furniture to make ends meet during his early writing career. He was in the trailer home of the mom of a girl that gave King the idea for writing Carrie. Inside the trailer was an ugly crucifix:
“Dominating the trailer’s living room was a nearly life-sized crucified Jesus, eyes turned up, mouth turned down, blood dribbling from beneath the crown of thorns on his head. He was naked except for a rag twisted around his hips and loins. Above this bit of breechclout were the hollowed belly and the jutting ribs of a concentration-camp inmate. It occurred to me that Sondra (the girl who inspired Carrie) had grown up beneath the agonal gaze of this dying god, and doing so had undoubtedly played a part in making her what she was when I knew her: a timid and homely outcast who went scuttling through the halls of Lisbon High like frightened mouse.
‘That’s Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior,’ Sondra’s mother said, following my gaze. ‘Have you been saved, Steve?’
I hastened to tell her I was saved as saved could be, although I didn’t think you could ever be good enough to have that version of Jesus intervene on your behalf. The pain had driven him out of is mind. You could see it in his face. If that guy came back, he probably wouldn’t be in a saving mood.”
Although I’ve yet to see some ripples of that upbringing in Red Eye, Scream or Nightmare on Elm Street, I have seen them in a novel by King and in his memoir On Writing.
It made me seriously consider where King’s life may lay; but only for an hour or so. I finished Desperation and then realized my delusions of spiritual grandeur. King may be been brought up in the as a Methodist but the ripples of his rearing didn’t flow into what I wanted to see in his novel.
Like countless other believers, I wanted to see some sense of spiritual truth in some celebrity to make my faith seem more real, more authentic. As if some celebrity could truly authentic anything except the shallow vacuousness of celebrity. But I read between the lines to find it anyway.
Probably not since The Stand has King written something so overtly religious as Desperation. The premise is easy: a cast of random characters is imprisoned by a devilishly supernatural cop in a small mining town where something sinister was dug up in the mines.
The leader of the survivors is a pre-adolescent boy named David Carver, who, a year or two earlier, had a conversion experience where his prayer of faith miraculously healed a friend who was deathly ill. David had then had regular meetings with a priest to dialogue about faith. That faith is what makes for some dramatic, although sometimes silly scenes in the book.
All of the survivors were locked away in prison cells when David had a vision, or heard a voice direct him to a bar of Irish Spring soap in his cell. So he stripped down, soaped up and began to slip through the steel bars. And somehow, miraculously, his head was able to squeeze through as well. He said later that God directed him to the soap which enabled to escape the prison and find keys to free everyone else.
The oddest scene was in an abandoned theatre where all the survivors had holed up to escape the cop. People were looking for food and found a sleeve of Ritz crackers and a couple of cans of sardines. Before devouring the only food everyone had had in over twelve hours, David thought of asking the blessing on the food. After quelling objections from some of the people, David prayed and asked a blessing. Then one person began passing around the bag. Somehow, everyone was able to take from the sleeve of Ritz and all received a can of sardines. Somehow, the brown paper bag never ran out of sardines and crackers.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or get upset at that. Or if I should really do either.
So there were some other religious imagery scattered throughout the novel but they all seemed to be disconnected and disjointed. They didn’t flow together in some bigger picture or prove to work together to make some kind of religious point. They were merely plot devices without any meaning.
This can only be expected considering how King writes. He prefers to not plot out his stories but only try to develop his characters. This isn’t a horrible way to write but then the story can almost seem aimless.
In spite of the aimless imagery, King did have a little redeeming theology that was worked into the story. David Carver and another of the survivors, a cocky writer surely to be modeled after part of King’s own personality, came to the conclusion that God can be cruel but refining. This was the one redeeming facet to the seven hundred pages of horrific and Texas Chainsaw Massacre-like gore.
Another revealing passage on King’s religious beliefs came in the middle of On Writing. King was hired to move some furniture to make ends meet during his early writing career. He was in the trailer home of the mom of a girl that gave King the idea for writing Carrie. Inside the trailer was an ugly crucifix:
“Dominating the trailer’s living room was a nearly life-sized crucified Jesus, eyes turned up, mouth turned down, blood dribbling from beneath the crown of thorns on his head. He was naked except for a rag twisted around his hips and loins. Above this bit of breechclout were the hollowed belly and the jutting ribs of a concentration-camp inmate. It occurred to me that Sondra (the girl who inspired Carrie) had grown up beneath the agonal gaze of this dying god, and doing so had undoubtedly played a part in making her what she was when I knew her: a timid and homely outcast who went scuttling through the halls of Lisbon High like frightened mouse.
‘That’s Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior,’ Sondra’s mother said, following my gaze. ‘Have you been saved, Steve?’
I hastened to tell her I was saved as saved could be, although I didn’t think you could ever be good enough to have that version of Jesus intervene on your behalf. The pain had driven him out of is mind. You could see it in his face. If that guy came back, he probably wouldn’t be in a saving mood.”
Monday, September 05, 2005
Prayers...
Here's a couple prayers I put together for a congregational prayer section of my church's service. It was great to be able to write it out and organize it all.
May 2005
The Lord will roar from on high and from his holy habitation utter his voice; he will roar mightily against his fold and shout against all the inhabitants of the earth. The clamor will resound to the ends of the earth, for the Lord has an indictment against the nations, he is entering into judgment with all flesh, and the wicked he will put to the sword.
O, Lord, how mighty is your power and your wrath for none can stand against your holiness. Yet in your complexity, you are everlastingly love.
The Lord is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, forgiving iniquity and transgression. He will pardon the iniquity of his people, according to the greatness of his steadfast love, just as he has forgiven his people, from Egypt until now.
Your love draws even the most unloveables to You. You pardon our sins without keeping record. Your complexity knows no bounds and we are blessed to understand what little our finite minds can grasp. The only way to comprehend what we can of You is to hold all your abilities and characteristics in tension through the wisdom from your Spirit. It is through that tension that we can fathom our lostness and your grace; our being redeemed but not yet complete; your coming to earth in our decayable flesh and your perfect, final return. It is in your complexity that we can understand how you cursed a fruitless fig tree that withered away to its roots yet fully restored the withered hand of a shamed man at the synagogue. Your fury, love, wrath and grace are wonderful things.
We ask for a glimpse of your greater plan of redemption so we can know how to better serve you in our short time on earth. Help us to see the people you’ve placed in our lives that need to hear Your truth and give us courage to speak that truth.
And lastly, blanket us with your wisdom so we can continue to understand all your complexities and how they all fit together in a giant plan that we will probably never be able to view as a whole in this life.
Aug. 2005
It seems that we are always the prodigal son returning to our loving father with our heads held low in shame. For we know how righteous and holy You are and how much an affront our sin is to you. It seems like just yesterday we had squandered the grace and mercy you cloaked us with when we returned the last time and are again in need of redemption.
But what this repetition has made us forget is that your forgiveness and love are the same as the last time we came trudging home. Your unceasing, unconditional love is there, waiting to rejoice at the sight of us confessing our sins and admitting that we can’t save ourselves. You are eagerly awaiting the moment when you can kill the fatted calf in celebration of our returning to you. You never grow tired of forgiving us and giving more grace for us to be the holy people we ought to be.
Thank you for the joy and hope we have in being loved by you. It is so easy to be overwhelmed by the guilt of our sins that we forget the true nature of your love. We forget that your grace exists to help us to be more than human and to exhibit your holiness. We forget that the joy and peace with our sometimes turbulent lives is what can attract other to you. The true happiness in spite of our humanness is what calls people to find where our hope comes from.
We ask that we understand and remember the joy that comes from being forgiven and are able to exhibit that joy to all those you bring into our lives.
May 2005
The Lord will roar from on high and from his holy habitation utter his voice; he will roar mightily against his fold and shout against all the inhabitants of the earth. The clamor will resound to the ends of the earth, for the Lord has an indictment against the nations, he is entering into judgment with all flesh, and the wicked he will put to the sword.
O, Lord, how mighty is your power and your wrath for none can stand against your holiness. Yet in your complexity, you are everlastingly love.
The Lord is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, forgiving iniquity and transgression. He will pardon the iniquity of his people, according to the greatness of his steadfast love, just as he has forgiven his people, from Egypt until now.
Your love draws even the most unloveables to You. You pardon our sins without keeping record. Your complexity knows no bounds and we are blessed to understand what little our finite minds can grasp. The only way to comprehend what we can of You is to hold all your abilities and characteristics in tension through the wisdom from your Spirit. It is through that tension that we can fathom our lostness and your grace; our being redeemed but not yet complete; your coming to earth in our decayable flesh and your perfect, final return. It is in your complexity that we can understand how you cursed a fruitless fig tree that withered away to its roots yet fully restored the withered hand of a shamed man at the synagogue. Your fury, love, wrath and grace are wonderful things.
We ask for a glimpse of your greater plan of redemption so we can know how to better serve you in our short time on earth. Help us to see the people you’ve placed in our lives that need to hear Your truth and give us courage to speak that truth.
And lastly, blanket us with your wisdom so we can continue to understand all your complexities and how they all fit together in a giant plan that we will probably never be able to view as a whole in this life.
Aug. 2005
It seems that we are always the prodigal son returning to our loving father with our heads held low in shame. For we know how righteous and holy You are and how much an affront our sin is to you. It seems like just yesterday we had squandered the grace and mercy you cloaked us with when we returned the last time and are again in need of redemption.
But what this repetition has made us forget is that your forgiveness and love are the same as the last time we came trudging home. Your unceasing, unconditional love is there, waiting to rejoice at the sight of us confessing our sins and admitting that we can’t save ourselves. You are eagerly awaiting the moment when you can kill the fatted calf in celebration of our returning to you. You never grow tired of forgiving us and giving more grace for us to be the holy people we ought to be.
Thank you for the joy and hope we have in being loved by you. It is so easy to be overwhelmed by the guilt of our sins that we forget the true nature of your love. We forget that your grace exists to help us to be more than human and to exhibit your holiness. We forget that the joy and peace with our sometimes turbulent lives is what can attract other to you. The true happiness in spite of our humanness is what calls people to find where our hope comes from.
We ask that we understand and remember the joy that comes from being forgiven and are able to exhibit that joy to all those you bring into our lives.
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