My Moon. Mine Mine Mine.

A friend (yes, imaginary, naturally) reminded me today of airport strangeness.

I think the video for My Moon My Man (by Feist) provides an appropriate theme for travellers today:




You just know that somebody is going to stage this one in a real airport someday. Improv Anywhere, perhaps?

Jesus and Jazz

You know me.* I love music indiscriminately.

I have a real green thumb when it comes to music. If I touch a brass instrument my thumb turns green (greener). I can snap a piano in half by leaning on it with my portly elbow. When I sing in church, the choir rolls up like a scroll, and pewmates scatter like roaches. My most melodious musical performance came the time I vomited onto a banjo.

You get the picture.

But I love music, and if Jesus' resurrection had a soundtrack, I think it'd be jazz.

*Or you don't.

New Agent for Weird Writers

There's a new literary agent who just hit the ground, and she's taking submissions in Fantasy and Science Fiction. Her name is Colleen Lindsay and here are her submission guidelines, if you happen to be looking for an agent.

Try to get her attention before everyone in the world knows about her and her slate is full.

Really Real Writing Advice that the Scientologists Don't Want You to Know

Stephen Granade gets to the brass tacks about the writing life.

Then proceeds to drive them into the flesh with a nuclear-powered hammer (the Sarcasto-8000, if I'm not mistaken.)*

I love the Live Granades. They are random AND purposeful, in a sort of straight-shootin' aimless way.

*Of course, it also gives my top-secret writing disinformation campaign an air of legitimacy that it lacked before.

Scott Jorgenson Update: Lommel Breaks His Silence!

I don't know if you've seen the latest issue of People (I haven't, but I'm sure it is a cover story) but world-famous actor and faucet blogger Tom Lommel has finally called off his silent feud with Fear of Girls co-star Scott Jorgenson. This should allow for pre-production to go ahead on Fear of Girls 3. [working title: FoG3 - d20 Revolutions]

Whew.

Green Light Believer

I'm not one to sizzle about sermons. A good sermon should speak, specifically, to the people being addressed. A good sermon will, primarily, give the listeners something to do, not something to talk about.

I've heard "good" sermons that gave me something to talk about, but I can't remember any of those. I've also heard sermons that taught me to pray, to fast, to witness, to serve, to be baptized, to change. I remember each one of those, because I'm still trying to live them today.

I have to say that the sermon on Sunday was both "good" and purposeful.*

To (brutally) sum up what was a work of beauty - the sermon demonstrated that if you've been waiting on direction from God, just recognize that He's already told you what you've asked Him for. When Gideon laid out the second fleece, he'd already received two convincing signs before that...and before that, had been told explicitly by God what to do. What we often use as a model (laying out a fleece, asking for a miracle/sign) for our relationship with God's will in our life is actually a model of what not to do!

God speaks in his Word. He speaks to his followers. Speaks, not "will speak," not "might speak."

Why do we ask for signs while God is talking to us? When my boss tells me to do something, I don't then ask for a sign!

That's the "thinky" part, the "good" sermon that tickles my ears, but what makes it great is that it changed me, too. That Sunday morning, I came to church something of a "Red Light" follower, waiting for clear direction from God to do anything. I left a "Green Light" Believer, and started doing things (witnessing, praying, writing), without signs or clarity, and figuring that IF what I do eventually becomes something that places me in opposition to God's will that...

...he'll give me a sign.

Until then, I'm going to approach the mission field sort of like the Monkees approach pirates. (It probably doesn't help if you change the lyrics slightly in your head, to "Green Light Believer." But now you are going to try, anyway.)



Poor mission field. Poor, poor mission field.

I hope this doesn't encourage my pastor to attempt less effective sermons on my account.

*At last check, the sermon wasn't yet up and available online. It will be soon here. Until then, you can catch up on a few previous lessons. Or not. What am I, your mother? (I'm not your mother, am I? Send paperwork if you think this might be the case, because I'm pretty sure I'd remember something like that.)

Swords. Plowshares. Snowblowers.

As I hurled mounds of snow from the drive yesterday at dusk, and hacked at the small glacier near the gutter of the street, I noticed some glares of derision from the neighboring humans.

Each man stood behind a gasoline engine on wheels, tossing fountains of powder through the air like something from an Esther Williams movie.

I wondered, momentarally, if, when clearing paths through a foot of snow, creatures like me are not supposed to bleed. I've broken pickaxes on ice, and shattered spade handles. I've left red marks in the snow from ragged ice on flesh and salted the walks with sweat.

I use silly things, like axes to split wood, and sickles and scythes to cut grass. This is not a statement I make, not an offense I intend (because you can feel the offenses I intend. For days.)

Yet, I'm not like these humans with their wheeled, snow-eating wolves. I thought it maybe had to do with growing up on a farm, but I seem to recall that my household was outstripped technologically by most rural folks, too.

I think, if there is a right or wrong to be had in all of this, I may be in the right, for once. Sometimes, the best things are the hardest to understand and quite difficult to explain.

Sometimes, like love against the odds, the right thing can't be looked up in a book.

But it has something to do with this axe or that shovel. It has something to do with the notion of pounding a plowshare into a sword being more than a metaphor. How can the man who no longer holds a spear feel the joy of turning it into a pruning hook?

So here's a reminder: pick up a hammer and hit something.

Whose Image Do You See?

I got a whacky "prayer rug" in the mail from a cult the other day. I was supposed to stare at the face of Jesus emblazoned on the purplish 11x17 paper until his closed eyes opened, pray about something, and then open a sealed prophecy. After that, I was supposed to send the "rug" back to the church/cult/business venture for someone else to benefit from. It was an elaborate, though obvious religious shell game of some sort.

The mailer was impressive in several ways. First, that it found me at all: the mailman apparently would almost rather die than get close enough to my cave to toss mail in my general direction. Second, the envelope was stuffed with various and sundry materials, seemingly printed with no regard for standard typographics. Every other word was capitalized. Every third word was underlined. It was a full-fontal assault.* Third, by way of building confidence in the reader, the cult emphasized that it was a "57-year old church" in no less than four places throughout the cover letter. Because, apparently, once a church passes the 56-year mark, it carries an air of legitimacy that is above reproach.

It goes without saying that I have a begrudging alliance with other trolls. We are rarer than you might think. Internet trolls (you know, the kind who post to message boards and blogs with completely off-topic, irrelevant and always annoying materials or sales pitches) are beloved here. I "feed the trolls" because I understand that it isn't "humane" to starve them of the attention they desire.

I respond to spam, because I know that the criminals who perpetuate it on the world are really, at heart, just lonely people in need of, not just my mailing address, social security number and bank accounts, but my unconditional love, too. Real humans get short shrift around here, but autoreply devices? Those trolls are gold in my book.

But cults who figure out ways to get an actual, postage-paid, semi-personal letter in the form of a veiled test of my devotion to our Lord have evolved to a new plane of existence. They are King Trolls, OgreLords, the Ghasts of Hopetown.

I acknowledged their literature fondly as it found its way to my garbage heap of honor.

But I'll give them this credit: the spooky "prayer rug" caused me to consider not only an image of Christ, but the "image of God."

I considered this more later when reading Matthew 22. When the pharisees ask Jesus about paying taxes, He asks them to identify a coin.

Jesus said to them, “Whose image is this, and whose inscription?” They replied, “Caesar’s.” He said to them, “Then give to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.” (Matthew 22...something. Sorry. I'm doing my standard rush. Go read it for yourself. You do have a bible, don't you?)

I've always read this to mean, simply: pay your taxes, but don't withhold from God, and I don't think that is a wrong lesson to draw.

But this time, the term "image" stuck in my head.

The image of Caesar is on the coin, denoting Caesar's authority over the coin. But the way Jesus worded his response, it also begs the question: where is the image of God?

On us.

God's image, like Soylent Green, is people. God's image is not on a coin, but on human beings. I may be misreading this, but is Jesus accusing the pharisees of blocking people from receiving God's love and authority? Is it possible that Jesus says to us "Render unto Caesar this stupid coin, but render unto God His precious people?"

I'm going to think about this more.

Do you think I need to ask forgiveness for comparing His children to Soylent Green?

*No, I didn't not spell "full-frontal" wrong. I meant what I spelled.

Frozen People - Art for Everyone (Even You)

The hard truth about art, even really, really good art, is that it is fleeting. It takes incredible work to get any project from concept to completion, and the first thing that happens (if it gets seen at all) is the critics rip it down. The second thing is that it then is forgotten.

Certainly, great art transcends, but I'm no great artist.* So, for us regular mooks, making really, really good art instead is probably the center of the target. But, sometimes, if you keep at it long enough, the art gets you instead...it transcends...it becomes great on its own.

I think Improv Everywhere unleashed great art at Grand Central Station recently. For five minutes, 200+ regular citizens froze in place, to the shock of onlookers everywhere. It achieved beauty, the ethereal, tension and ecstasy.

I wish I could have been there, and I can only hope that this fleeting five minutes of art becomes legend. I hope art text books 200 years from know refer to the "frozen people of '08" in their chapters on early 21st art.



Truly, to God be the glory. I can only imagine that this work delighted Him.

*Yet.

Clues to the Existence of someThing Outside the Cosmic Box

I am not a troll.

I am a man, unbound, a slave to Christ.

Can any who follow Him live life unparadoxically?

I am a troll.

Live-blogging the Plumber

Tom Lommel liveblogs an appointment at his apartment with the plumber.

What is it about you humans and your beguiling and arcane practices?

I can not look away!

I'm not kidding, this is great stuff. Ah, the glamorous life of a Hollywood big shot.

Review-A-Palooza: Demon: A Memoir Discussions Start to Hit Stride

Nicole Petrino-Salter is suffering from another bout of the God virus, as propagated by Demon: A Memoir.

Fancy that.

This is one of the first reviews that I've come along that really starts to dig into the book's greater implications.* I have a feeling that the conversation started by Tosca Lee won't end until Judgment Day. If then.

This is going to be fun.**

*I mean, I've seen a few who have spoken of the book as "witnessing tool" to non-believers, but that falls short of the mark if that is the end of the discussion. The book is, first and foremost, a great story in an otherworldly format. It is a real story that makes demands on the reader--not to take a prescription or a "message" from it-- but demands that actually cause the reader to be somebody better, deeper, more loving, more engaged.***

**I mean, you know, I'm talking about a restrictive, semi-joyless fun, just in case you were getting worried. Only Diet Chocolate Cherry Fun for you!

***I know, I know. I've been playing it close to the vest about my opinion of Demon: A Memoir, so here's my big reveal: I kind of liked it. Shh.

The Bleeding Edge of Christian Entertainment

What? What? It is so Christian entertainment.

We have the theological issue: Tom Cruise is a Scientologist (although, unlike those pesky Christians, he keeps his beliefs to himself and never foists them upon the public).

We have the cultural relevance: the ukulele that all the kids are so into these days.

We have the self-conscious religious iconography: isn't that a shamrock on her shirt? That's a hidden symbol of the Trinity! Oh, wait, no it says "visit beautiful" -- same thing.

When they finally accept my application to be the station manager at TBN, I swear I'm going to open and close the broadcast day with this video. And wear powder blue polyester every day.

[Credits: Music and Lyrics by the Great Jonathan Coulton, performed by a famous ukulele-ist sort of named sweetafton23, but not in real life.]

Bohemian Aliens Go Crazy

I come a bit late to an interesting discussion that the aliens of bohemian persuasion (or vice versa, I'm never sure which) have perpetrated against the planet:

Is the mad artist a stereotype borne of a bygone romanticism, or does art benefit because of an artists' insanity?

The answer, to me, seems quite plain, and if I were to sum it up in one word, that word would be:

Octathorpe.

...By Any Other Name Tastes Like Chicken

Lost Genre Guild popped off about novel titles today, so I thought I'd do my public service and offer up, free of charge to any human foolhardy enough to steal them from me, some of my all time favorite book titles that have not yet been used:

Barfing Giants

Clavicle Marrow

Wuthering Smashy-smash

Bloat in the Afternoon

The Introverted Warlord

I've got this title-marketing thing down. And bleeding.