United States — First in Space!

I’m currently working on reviewing a book which outlines the history of Catholicism in America.  Certainly no light task (the book, not the review).  As I plow through the 400 or so pages in this book, I continue to reflect on the nature of history…what exactly are we claiming to do when we do history?  What is good history?  What is bad history?  In my own field, New Testament, the question is equally valid although somewhat more difficult to answer.  As time passes, and events become more remote, determining “what actually happened” becomes more and more difficult.  I might even go so far as to claim that figuring out “what actually happened” is actually impossible.  When reconstructing an event, a movement, the context behind a text, etc., the historian is painting a landscape by looking through a relatively narrow window.  There are times when the window can become larger, and perhaps the historian may even stick her head out for a look now and again, but when returning to the canvas there is only so much that can be painted.  Some have better grasps on history than others, but the fact remains that history is far too complex to ever be completely accurate.

Now, you might be wondering about the title of this post?  Well, it involves a story that dates back to the year 2002, at the homecoming parade of my alma mater, Southern Methodist University.  It is a story of history gone awry, of a group of persons who were doing a sort of history but failing at every turn.

In this homecoming parade, as with many parades, there were floats.  A certain fraternity (that will remain nameless to avoid embarassing those who built the float), constructed a monstrosity that will forever be burned in my memory.  The float had a giant space shuttle, flanked on both sides with Apollo and Mercury rockets.  Any free space was filled with American flags.  On the front of this float, in bright, bold letters, was the statement, “United States — First in Space.”

I approached the president of the fraternity (who I later found out birthed the idea) and asked him about the float.  Specifically, I wanted to know whether it was a joke.  He looked at me and said, “No, its no joke.”  He raised an eyebrow at me, as if to say, “What are you talking about, stupid…don’t you know your history?”  I informed him as charitably as I could that America was not first in space.  Hadn’t he heard of Sputnik?  Panic overtook him, followed by a grin and the statement, “Yes, but we put the first people into space.”  I shook my head and said, “Haven’t you heard of Yuri Gagarin?”  He replied, “Nope, I haven’t.”  And with that he continued his walk.

History is written by those who have chosen to synthesize the facts, and their product can only be called an interpretation.  Sometimes, ignorance of the obvious can have terrible, embarrasing consequences, like the aforementioned homecoming float.  Other times, ignorance of the nuanced can produce equally interesting (and strange) results.

On Being a Procrastinator

Some have, in the past and at present, called me a procrastinator.  Their accusations often take different forms.  For example:

- “You haven’t done that yet?  I really need you to get on it.” — Previous Employer

- “You know, you and your father are a lot alike.”  — Mom

- “Whenever/if you get around to it.”  — Significant Other

There is no denying it…I am a procrastinator.  By my own admission, I would much rather do the things that I do not have to do rather than do the things I need to do.  Have you ever wondered if you are a procrastinator?  Of course you have!  Here are some examples (from my own life) that point to a propensity for procrastination.

1. My kitchen and bathrooms are exceptionally clean places.  Many who frequent my house chide me for being “overly tidy” or for having too much time on my hands.  The truth is, I actually have far too little time on my hands, but I would rather spend what time I do have cleaning my bathroom to avoid writing papers.
2. My iTunes library is enviably organized.  I have several playlists that coincide with the moods I may or may not find myself in, and some of them I’ve actually set up to change based on what I’ve listened to in the recent past.  Many times, when I sit down to make a new playlist, I think to myself, “What will I want to listen to when I finally sit down to write this paper of mine?”
3. I ride my bike to improve my concentration.  Along with being in the best shape of my life (really, its true), my recently acquired bike provides me with hours upon hours of procrastination opportunities.  Just this morning, I went for a ride so that I would be more “focused” and able to write a better paper.  It is actually pretty effective, but when I get back from a 10 mile ride, I of course have to do some ab work as well as some free weights.  Then comes the inevitable shower and nap.  Before I know it, night has come.
4. I have a blog.  If you truly wish to know whether or not you are a “real” procrastinator, ask yourself, “Do I have a blog.”  Blogs exist for no other reason than to enable procrastination.  Want proof?  I have a paper that I should be working on right now, but instead I’m writing a blog post about how I don’t want to work on it.  Case closed.

The surprising thing about procrastinators like myself is that, in one way or another, the work eventually gets done.  Most of my papers get turned in on time…I rarely incur late fees on my credit cards…my power has never been cut off due to not paying bills.  One of these days however, I hope to experience the joy of finishing something well ahead of schedule, without the panic and haste that often accompanies my penchant for putting things off till the last minute.  Until that day comes, my kitchen will sparkle and my playlists will grow.

Happy Codex Sinaiticus Day!

Not many people have ever heard of Codex Sinaiticus…even fewer are excited that 1/4 of it is now available online.  Let me say that I, for one, am excited.  Cheers.

Codex Sinaiticus Online!

Wikipedia

Explosions and Language Barriers

Today I rode my bike down to the lakefront to get some work done at my favorite coffee shop.  I was sitting outside, making notes and minding my own business.  Then, I felt a tap on my shoulder.  I looked over and there was an older lady standing next to me who said, with a thick accent, “are you OK?”  I thought it a wierd question, so I replied, “yes I am, how are you?”  She pointed to my hand, which I quickly noticed was covered in red ink.  “I was sitting over there and thought you were bleeding,” she said.  Realizing that my red pen was the obvious culprit, I said, “oh, thanks for letting me know…my pen must have exploded.”  The lady gave me a horrified look and took a step back.  “Exploded?” she said.  “Yes, exploded.”

She went back to her chair as I got up to throw the worthless writing instrument away.  I realized as I was on my way back to my table how unusual that expression must sound to someone who is not a native English speaker.  “Exploded” is a fairly strange way to describe what happens when your pen leaks on you.  I’m not terribly surprised that she and her friends moved to a more distant table.

It Really Is A Smart Car!

About two months ago, my mom and dad wandered into a Smart Car dealership in an effort to become more environmentally friendly in their driving.  They left with what has appropriately been deemed “the ladybug.”  It is a tiny convertible that seats two, and is probably one of the strangest looking vehicles you will see this side of the Atlantic.  I returned to Dallas this past week for a visit, and the Smart Car became my chariot.  Here are some observations, for those who are interested.

1. People don’t quite know what to do with the Smart Car. My first excursion in this little beast was to Starbucks.  When I pulled onto the street, I immediately found myself surrounded by large sport utility vehicles who were trying to get a better look at this car that is only slightly larger than a Texas horse fly.  They swarmed around me like buzzards and, considering the size of the car, I was just a bit terrified that one was going to nudge me just to see how far I would fly.  I made my way to the first stop light and, upon stopping, I looked to my left and right and saw people pointing.  Some were pointing with their jaws open, others were laughing.  I felt a bit like the ugly duckling, but I continued and pulled into parking lot.

2.  The Smart Car turns you into a celebrity/charity case. I pulled in front of Starbucks and proceeded to lock the doors.  A man ran out of the store shouting, “WOW!  WOW!  WOW!  SMART CAR!”  I watched him for a second, not quite knowing what to say, and then he started asking me questions about it.  I told him my experience only included the past 5 minutes, but I answered to the best of my ability.  He then asked if he could buy me a cup of coffee.  This was a surprise, but of course I said yes.  We talked in line and I felt like an absolute celebrity.  I mean, I can’t really remember the last time someone ran out of a store to ask me questions and then offer to buy me something.  Then, as he handed me my coffee, he said, “Thanks for taking one for the team.”  I assume he meant, “Thanks for using less gas so the rest of us don’t have to.”  A typical Dallas attitude.

3.  You actually become more intelligent as you drive the Smart Car. Toward the end of my second day with the beast, I traveled to a Barnes and Noble to work on a paper that has been haunting me for some time.  It is one of those papers where you have a general idea of what you would like to write, but you have absolutely no idea where to start.  My topic makes my brain swell and, every time I sit down to write, I end up taking a long nap.  However, after driving the Smart Car for two days, my pen could barely keep up with the thoughts that were pouring out of my hand.  I wrote a five page outline in about thirty minutes, and I’m absolutely convinced that the Smart Car is to blame.  Call it osmosis or, for you skeptics, a placebo effect, but while driving that car I became smarter.  Of course, now that I have been away from it for a couple of days, I’m back to celebrating mediocrity.

4.  People are really bad at math. After two days of driving, I had to go fill up.  I went just over 100 miles and the car took in 2.7 gallons.  Not too shabby, if you ask me.  While I was filling up, a young lady with a thick accent and few teeth came over and asked how much it cost to fill up the car from empty.  I told her I had not yet filled the car from empty, but that I knew it held exactly eight gallons.  Her eyes glazed over and she said, “Oh, and how much would that cost?”  I looked at her and said, “Well, gas is about $4 per gallon right now…”  Her head cocked forward momentarily while she waited for me to finish the equation… “So I guess it would cost around $12 to fill up from empty.”  She squealed with delight, completely unaware that I had just given her the wrong answer to a fairly simple math problem.  I really should not have enjoyed the experience as much as I did, but I honestly could not help myself.

Another Post Concerning Air Travel

I’m beginning to notice a theme here…whenever I get on a plane, I feel like writing a post.  I suppose this is a good thing, mostly because I have steered away from consistent posting.  Ah well, c’est la vie.

Some thoughts about my most recent trip back to Dallas.

1.  When I was a kid, the employees at the x-ray machine were nice to children.  They used to invite me behind the screen to look at the insides of my bags.  I loved every second of it.  Now, children are probably trafficking bombs or guns.  They are perhaps even more suspect than we are.  The other day, in the Milwaukee airport, I actually saw a security guard tell a 4 year old to spread their legs and hold their arms out wide.  It made me want to throw up.

2.  When I was a kid, water was not believed to be hazardous to anyone, unless of course you were drowning in it.  Carrying a bottle of water in your bag or hand was never a problem, and in fact people actually thought highly of you for being so health-conscious.  The last time I went through security, I had a bottle of water stashed away in my carry-on bag.  No, it wasn’t on purpose…I always carry a bottle of water with me…I’m often thirsty.  Upon spotting it on x-ray, the henchman at the end of the conveyer belt opened my bag and removed the water.  He held it up in front of me and asked, “Were you going to tell me about this?”  I answered simply, “no,” but I felt like saying, “Of course I wasn’t going to tell you about that…I was just going to blow up the plane with it.”  Lets take a step back and ask ourselves if it is really necessary to restrict the liquids in our life.  I think we will probably discover that it is not.

3.  Midwest airlines is still the best.  My flights lately have been too early for freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, but that is ok.  When the drink cart came by, I asked for a coffee.  When the flight attendant gave me a cup, I said thank you.  He responded, “NO!  Thank you for being here!”  I’m not sure what that means, but it was nice to encounter an airline employee who doesn’t put off the “i’m serving your drink but I’m also plotting your death/my suicide.”

Thus ends the latest air travel musing.  Cheers.

Into the Wild

The story of Christopher McCandless is well known by some, but not by most. It is the story of a young man who left behind the comforts of the world in order to pursue a simpler life, one that would ultimately lead to a lonely death. His story is both inspiring and troubling, empowering and horrifying. After graduating from Emory University in 1990, Chris journeyed across the country and ultimately found himself in the remote Alaskan wilderness, where he spent some time living in an abandoned bus. The exact cause of his death is still unknown…some have suggested accidental poisoning while others have maintained that he simply starved.

I attended graduate school at Emory University for three years and, until the day I graduated, I never once heard the story of Christopher McCandless. I was only privy to it that day because Sean Penn filmed pieces of the graduation ceremony for the film that he was making about the events that transpired in the Alaskan wilderness. Had there not been a movie retelling the story, I’m not sure that I would have ever heard it or been forced to think about it.

I watched Into the Wild for the first time last week and, just the other day, I had a discussion about the movie, specifically pertaining to the value it holds, if any at all.  The following post is a reflection on that conversation.

There is something to be said for a person who will abandon the comforts that surround them.  A car, a roof over our heads, a bank account and assurance of our next meal…these are things that we too often take for granted.  Because we fail to see these things as anything other than givens, we often forget the troubles that they can and do bring.  Christopher’s story is inspiring, first of all, because of his refusal to let material goods define who he was.  His family was able and willing to send him to a good school where he was fortunate enough to obtain a good education as well as a degree to prove it.  After graduation, however, he refused to tow the party line that insisted on his finding a job and becoming “successful.”  Instead of seeking material wealth, he donated the contents of his savings account to charity and disappeared.  In the eyes of society, he became the definition of unsuccessful.

After wandering through the country for some time, Christopher found himself in the Alaskan wilderness, living in an abandoned bus and eating off the land.  In a style similar to that of Thoreau, he was learning to live deliberately.  He no longer had the luxury of grocery stores or gas stations, and every action had to be intentional and well-planned.  His solitude prohibited him from blaming anyone for his successes or failures…all responsibility fell on him and him alone.

It is tempting to view the life of Christopher McCandless as an example, one that we should seek to imitate.  Society has much to offer, but if we are not careful it can turn us into people that we should not be.  Many of us are told from a young age that the point of college is to empower you to make money.  Money enables you to buy things.  If you have more money, you can buy more things.  Presumably, when you have more things, you will be a happier person.  Christopher refused to buy into this lie, and instead he ran in the opposite direction.

Does this mean that his life is an example?  I’m going to argue that it does not.  His life is not an example, but that does not mean it cannot be an inspiration.  Moving to the wilderness after cutting ties with family and friends is extreme, but it makes a powerful statement that cannot be ignored.  Our identities do not rest in the things that we acquire or in the money that we make.  The primary goal of education is not to make money, it is form character.  To be a “productive” member of society means that we constantly strive to make our world a better place.  This can only be accomplished through our relationships, a fact that Christopher only realized when it was too late.

We have the benefit of seeing his story from above, from beginning to end.  We see what a life looks like when it is lived alone, and we see where a life as such can lead.  When we view this solitary existence in comparison to a life defined by a lie, we find ourselves in an interesting middle ground.  Material possessions are not evil in themselves, but they can lead us to a selfishness that rivals reclusiveness.  True authentic living requires that we exist in relationship with others, and that we define our lives by those relationships.  There are problems in our society, but these problems will not be solved by moving to the wilderness and abandoning those we love.

The story of Christopher McCandless is as inspiring as it is tragic, and we would do a grave injustice by simply dismissing him as an extremist who has nothing to teach us.  His actions and their outcome teach us that, while society and wealth can destroy us, the same can be said about solitude.  Instead of dismissing “success” or “wealth” as evil, we must learn how to define them responsibly, which involves refusing to be defined by them.  We must learn to view our lives in relation to others and seek to strengthen those relationships in ways that acknowledge the intrinsic value of human existence.

Air Travel, aka Punishment

This past weekend, I was fortunate enough to attend my grandmother’s 90th birthday party. Unfortunately, this required me to spend some time in airports and aboard airplanes. I’m not a fan of either, to tell you the truth, and the only reason I tolerate them is that they generally lead me to a place that I enjoy. The more time I spend in airports, however, the more I realize that the entire institution of air travel is really little more than punishment concealed.

These days, you pay good money for the “privilege” of flying, unless you are fortunate enough to have a ticket purchased with air miles. Even then, you had to spend money to get there. After forking over serious cash, you are expected to be at the airport early, in most cases around 2 hours before you fly. If you are not there on time, they might give your ticket to someone else. If I am going to pay you to bring me somewhere, I would like to not sit in the airport for 2 hours.

The 2 hours spent in the airport is highly conducive to spending more money. There are hoards of people milling about, and like you most of them are waiting for a flight. The noisy crowds give you a headache, which then prompts you to enter one of the many retail establishments and purchase Tylenol. How much does Tylenol cost at the airport? A LOT! And, of course, you cannot take Tylenol without water or food, so you waltz over to a crappy restaurant and purchase a turkey sandwich and water. These three things cost about as much as your ticket.

Lets back up a little bit and spend a little bit of time in the security line. Ever since 9/11, the security employees have had an unquestionable license to be rude to everyone that they encounter. Sure, there are exceptions to this rule, but the majority of these employees treat you as if you just slapped their mother and expect to get away with it. You have to take your computer out of your bag and put it in a separate tray. Then, you must remove your belt, shoes, wallet, keys, change and cell phone. There you stand, in your socks, waiting for the poorly trained guard to call you through the metal detector. Whats that? You forgot to take that quarter out of your pocket? PUT IT IN THE TRAY AND GET BACK IN LINE! I suppose this is a good thing…you don’t want people to take over the plane with their pocket change.

Fast forward a tad and join me on the plane itself. Remember I mentioned the good money that you pay for air travel? Well, lets look at what that buys you. First, you get a seat that would be better suited in a Turkish prison. It is rock hard and it smells of the last person who sat there. Plus, there will be someone next to you who you may or may not like. The likable ones leave you alone. The bad ones talk your ear off for two hours. Luckily, there is food. Oh wait, you have to purchase that. If you don’t want to purchase it, you get pretzels and a soft drink. Then, you have to use the restroom. Oh wait, the fasten seatbelt sign is on, so you must stay seated. God help you and your children if you choose to get up while the seatbelt sign is on.

Air travel in recent years has become somewhat like being sent to your room without dinner. You have to sit relatively still and be quiet for several hours without having dinner. You aren’t allowed to have any toys for some of the flight, and the people put in charge of you act like you are ruining their day. Of course, there are exceptions…Midwest Airlines.

Ode to a Pack Rat…Myself

For a good portion of my life, I’ve criticized pack rats. You know…those people who just hang on to every little thing that they touch, pretending that it has some sort of inherent value? Why can’t they just get rid of something? Would it really kill them to take a trip (or three) down to Goodwill and unload some of that stuff they haven’t seen in two years? How can you convince yourself that you’re going to wear that again? Yes I know, it sounds cruel. Pack rats abound, and last summer I finally counted myself as one of them.

The day before I left the great city of Atlanta, I drove over to the Penske truck rental location to take delivery of my chariot. It was a 26 foot, yellow behemoth that commanded the road as well as my full, unwavering attention. As I was driving it back to my house, I chuckled to myself, knowing that I would never be able to fill such a monster. I had initially rented a 20 foot truck, but the Penske people gave me a free upgrade because they rented out my truck to someone else. I thought it was nice of them. Well, it turns out this upgrade was actually an act of divine providence, because I needed every last inch.

Thats right, on a hot summer day in Atlanta, my good friend Chip and I (with the assistance of several lovely ladies) completely filled this beast with all the stuff that I had accumulated during my four years in the dirty (durty) south. The sight brought tears to my eyes, but not in a good way. I felt both shame and horror as I stared at the rolling container holding all of my worldly possessions. I felt even more horror when I realized that I would have to unpack all of it just a couple days later.

The drive from Atlanta to Milwaukee is anything but short and miles away from exciting. Keeping the truck from flying off the road consumed most of my attention, but when I wasn’t taming the animal I thought of all the stuff that was riding just feet behind my head. Mostly, I thought of how I would get rid of most of it to avoid having to move it again. I went through all the furniture in my head, and systematically eliminated much of it. Then came the smaller stuff…decorations, books, fake plants etc.

I’m happy to say that, since my arrival in May, I’ve been quite successful in my downsizing. I got rid of several pieces of furniture when I got up here, along with several bags of clothes and quite a few books. On most weekends, I still take about an hour to peek into my closets and drawers to find things that can be purged…it has almost become a game. Today, I cleared a few things out of my closet and then focused on my study. I looked around and thought to myself, “who here is expendable?” My gaze shifted to a shelf, upon which sat a familiar face, one that has glared at me almost every day of my life…a Chicago Bears bobble head doll.

This particular bobble head doll has had quite a life. He is old, dating from the 50s, and began his tenure as a decoration in my dad’s childhood bedroom. He has been a part of my room/house for as long as I can remember. Today, as I stared at him, I thought, “I wonder how much something like this will fetch on ebay?” I know, I know…you shouldn’t sell things like that. But still, my curiosity got the best of me and I did some research. Turns out these things can go for about $150! Amazing! I’m not even a Bears fan! I should sell him!

For a brief moment, I was excited at the prospect of being $150 richer. I got out the camera and took some pictures that would hopefully convince people to bid on him. Then, of course, he would go to the highest bidder. After I snapped three or four pictures and began the ebay post, a feeling of guilt came over me. I felt somewhat like a slave owner who inherited a conscience at the last moment. He stared at me with those familiar eyes, and his little smile just about cut me to the core. I couldn’t sell him…we’ve been through too much.

So, since I already had my camera out, I decided that I would make it up to my little bobble head doll by having an impromptu photo shoot. I had already dusted him off and cleaned him up, so he was ready for his closeup, so to speak. Is this a cheesy story? Yes, of course it is. I suppose the point is that downsizing is a good thing for so many reasons. However, it is important not to get caught up in the whirlwind and forget about those things that are truly important to you. Sometimes we don’t realize how important they are until we almost lose them. Now, because I’m sure you are curious, I give you a photo of my beloved Chicago Bears bobble head doll. I still have not named him, but I’m open to suggestions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Please, Stay Out of My Bed

For the first few months that I had my dog, there was very little she could do that I wouldn’t consider “cute.”  I would come home from a long day at school, only to discover that she had chewed up one of my hats.  “Isn’t that cute,” I would say, “she misses me.”  Or, on other days, I would come home to discover that she had chewed on the corner of my couch.  “Isn’t that cute, she likes to destroy things.”  It wasn’t really cute, but for some reason  convincing myself that it was turned out to be easier than training her not to, if that makes any sense at all.

A few months into our relationship, she decided to start sleeping in my bed.  It started out as something she did when I was actually in the bed, but later progressed into something she did all the time.  This, like all the other things she did, was unbelievably “cute.”  About a year ago, this habit of hers began to frustrate me for several reasons.  First, she is an extremely restless sleeper.  Nightmares generally warrant all sorts of bodily movements and squealing from her, things that make it difficult for me to sleep well.  Second, she is covered in hair, most of which seems to be only slightly attached to her body.  Part of my morning routine for a while involved a trip to the bathroom to remove her hair from my mouth…not a pretty sight.  Third, her shedding requires me to cover my bed with a blanket so that it does not ruin my comforter.  This year, things are different.

For Christmas, my mom purchased a really nice dog bed for Dallas.  When I say “really nice,” what I really mean is that I wouldn’t mind sleeping on it myself.  It is huge and looks like it would be the most comfortable thing in the world to sleep on.  So, the day after Christmas, she made the sudden and unsettling transition from my bed to the dog bed.  This was my idea, not hers.

Things have been going pretty well so far, I think.  Granted, I have to keep the door to my room shut so that she can’t get in, and I also have to remind her that her bed is actually there, but all in all she seems not to mind it.  Of course, if I forget to shut the door to my room, I can expect to find her up on my bed the next time I journey upstairs.  For the first couple of weeks, she would look at me as if to say, “look, I got my bed back, nothing has changed.”  Now, however, when I catch her on the bed, she lowers her ears in shame and slinks down onto the floor.

Last night, for reasons still unknown to me, I caved.  I spread the old blanket back onto the bed and invited her back up.  It did not take two seconds for her to accept this tantalizing offer and, within an hour, we had returned to our old dynamics.  I awoke suddenly to the sounds of a dog who seemed to be in trouble.  She was panting, whining, growling and flailing at the end of the bed.  Then, as I rolled over to go back to sleep, I reached into my mouth to pull out a huge tuft of her nasty hair.  This morning, I sighed as I looked at the blanket, knowing that it would need to be washed soon.

I love my dog dearly, but tonight she is going back to the floor.