Since moving to the South Side, I have hardly missed having cable television at home. I work so much that it seems hardly worth it to pay $50 a month to be able to watch maybe 3 hours of television a day, and a good chunk of that while eating/going to sleep/getting ready for work. Plus, the idiots at Comcast couldn't tell me whether or not they provided service to my building without receiving blood and urine samples from me, my landlord and at least two neighbors.
Having been at my mother's house for 3 days now, I have watched more television than I've probably seen in the past 3 months. Part of that is due to my increased access. I'm spending lots of time at the house since I'm not working. The allure of watching three straight hours of television in the morning -- Buffy at 7, Designing Women at 8, and Golden Girls at 9 -- is great. I haven't been here to enjoy it, but if I waited 'til 11:00 I could also see an hour of Will & Grace. This combination of increased sloth and caloric intake may conspire to prevent me from fitting into my clothes by the time I return to Chicago!
I have come to the same realization about TV as I have about fattening foods -- if they're around, I will consume them. It's horrible to face up to the fact that you're an addict, but frankly I am. And I don't say that because I want pity or to abdicate responsibility for my actions. It's just something I've come to realize in the past year. The TV addiction is easy to kick -- Chicago only has about 10 channels available over broadcast, and about half of those operate entirely or mostly in Spanish. And the food thing was easy before the holidays. I purposely kept less food in my apartment than I ever have, including staples like pasta and sugar, and this helped me to control my cravings.
When I return to Chicago, my first mission will be to get rid of everything I have that's unhealthy, or at least freeze it. (Most things are less savory when frozen.) Then I need to see just how much weight I've put on since Thanksgiving, have a good cry, and get back on the horse. I'm not feeling much strain in the old waistband or belt (yet) so I doubt I've put on too terribly much weight. Thankfully I'm just incapable of consuming as much food as I used to, so that's been a saving grace.
I have to run now, though. Golden Girls just started, and I have to go heat up breakfast. Now, where did I put that pound of bacon . . .
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Monday, December 26, 2005
Fun with Traveling
I flew to North Carolina yesterday to spend Christmas week with my family. I enjoy traveling on Christmas day, provided I can get a flight out sufficiently early to allow me to spend most of the day with my family. Generally, Christmas day means deserted airports, nearly empty planes and a leisurely travel pace unrivaled during the mad travel week preceding Christmas Day. (Having flown out of O'Hare on Christmas Eve last year, I was damned sure I wasn't going to repeat that fiasco again.)
My travel day started out at 5:15 am, having gone to bed only 4 hours prior due to the lateness of the hour when I returned from midnight mass at church. This was compounded by the after-effects of the copious amounts of champagne and merlot I had been veritably forced to consume by my friend Derek and my priest's partner, Tom. Certainly I would never overimbibe without the intervention of others. I got the animals fed, packed the last few toiletry items I had to use that morning, and left a check for my colleague who was coming to pet-sit. My goal was to walk out the door at 6:30, and I think my watch said 6:33 when I locked the door. So far, so good.
I walked the block and a half to the bus stop and waited on the 6:45 Archer northbound bus. It was snowing, but because the air and ground temperatures were well above freezing thanks to a "warm snap" we'd experienced in the previous two days the snow was very wet and had no hope of sticking. It was therefore what snow should be, lovely and inconsequential. The bus came a couple of minutes early, and in about 10 minutes had deposited me at the southeast corner of Jackson and Dearborn.
I walked north to the entrance into the Jackson St. Blue Line L station and made my way down the stairs with my ginormous suitcase (packed with wrapped gifts and my carry-on bag that held all of the clothes I'd need for a week), my carry-on overnight bag and my Marshall Field's shopping bag. I approached the turnstile and debated the most efficient way to get my suitcase through. After some thought and much heavy lifting, both my person and my luggage made it across the turnstile. I heard the sounds of what I imagined was the 6:52 O'Hare bound train screaming up through the stairwell. I debated taking the elevator down, but decided it would be quicker (though probably more dangerous) to run down the stairs with my ginormous suitcase, overnight bag and Field's shopping bag.
To my great delight, the train I heard was going the opposite way, to either Forest Park or 54th/Cermak (I didn't see which). I waited patiently and, lo and behold, heard the O'Hare train on Christmas morn at precisely 6:51, and when it stopped it was 6:52. It's a beautiful thing when the CTA runs on time.
The ride to the airport was uneventful as people came on and got off of the train over the next approximately 40 minutes. Some people had suitcases, obviously headed to the airport to catch flights to holiday destinations. One guy wore a uniform that suggested to me that he was a steward for one airline or another. The train pulled into the station at 7:36 on the nose, again exactly as scheduled. I gathered my belongings and made my way up to the terminal.
Having never gone from the train station into O'Hare, and given my relative unfamiliarity with O'Hare, I depended on following other people with suitcases to get into the airport and to go where I needed to be. I assumed I would be flying out of Terminal 1 since that's the United terminal at O'Hare. (For those of you who don't know, United is based out of Chicago and O'Hare is its main hub.) I followed the signs for Terminal 1 and arrived at the check-in counters.
There are approximately 35,936 check-in kiosks at O'Hare for United. They are divided into groups like, "Premier," "International," "Plebian" and "Steerage." I walked most of the way down the atrium in front of the kiosks before I found where I was supposed to be. Fortunately the line was not so terribly bad. There was a woman at the head of the line weighing bags (the weight limit for checked items is 50 lbs.) and mine came in right at 45.4. It had weighed 45 on my scale at home, so I wasn't surprised it was under the weight limit, but relieved nonetheless. I checked in uneventfully, though I was surprised that I didn't have to present my checked bag personally to the TSA. I fly a few times a year, but almost never check bags. Previously when checking baggage, I had to hand it to the TSA agent for screening, so this was a change from the procedure to which I was accustomed.
My flight was departing from gate F12. There were no signs that I could see indicating how to find gates in the F family. I asked a United employee, and she directed me to the far end of the atrium, so I walked down to the security line which seemed blessedly short. However, a seemingly nice TSA agent checked my boarding pass and ID well before the checkpoint and suggested to myself and a woman next to me that we should proceed to an employee checkpoint downstairs.
This is where I encountered the Extended Family Who Obviously Have Never Flown on a Big Airplane Before.
The Extended Family Who Obviously Have Never Flown on a Big Airplane Before (henceforth known as EFWOHNFoaBAB) seemed perplexed by the whole security screening process. Grandma #1 seemed confused that there was some process beyond the check-in with the United people. Grandpa #1 (I believe he was married to Grandma #1, hence his designation) debated with the TSA agent over whether or not to take the one key out of his pocket before going through the metal detector. Tweenage girl #1 and Grandma #2 decided they needed to put their suitcases and closed purses into plastic trays before placing them onto the conveyor belt to enter into the X-ray scanner. Everyone was being oh so gracious in insisting that everyone else in the family should go through the metal detector first, it seemed as though they were doing some sort of security square dance.
EFWOHNFoaBAB easily cost me ten minutes of my life, and I want them back, dammit.
Once through security, I walked the seemingly 5 miles to the ass end of the F corridor. Almost invariably at airports I don't like anyway (like Nashville and O'Hare and RDU) I am forced to fly out of the gate that is furthest away from the security checkpoint, so I'm pretty well used to hauling my stuff all the way through the airport. This is why I eventually learned how not to overpack and why nearly everything I take on an airplane has wheels or comfortable shoulder straps.
I found a seat at Gate F12 at approximately 8:15, one full hour before my flight was to depart. I called my mother to give her an update, received a call from my friend Elizabeth and read my Saturday New York Times (I was running a day behind). As the hour approached 8:55, the boarding time for my flight, I became a bit worried because there was no jet with the word "United" painted on it anywhere to be found. This is never a good omen.
Finally at about 9:10 the gate agent came over the PA system and announced that the plane should be at the gate in a few minutes. This is airline lingo for it's going to be another 30 minutes before we know anything. The departure time kept getting pushed back, first to 9:30, then to 9:34.
At 9:20, the gate agent finally 'fessed up that the plane was coming from the hangar. Now, I don't know if the pilot was stuck in the cue line waiting for all of the other planes taxiing to and fro, or simply got lost and refused to stop and ask for directions. Whatever had happened, the plane finally got to the gate at about 9:30, and we began boarding about 10 minutes hence.
The flight was a bit bumpy and there was no coffee, but otherwise it was uneventful. As we touched down at the Greensboro airport, I surveyed the scene outside my window. Compared to the view on the ground when landing at airports like Midway, O'Hare and LaGuardia, the view out my window of the Greensboro airport made it seem as though we were landing in a farm. No buildings around, more grass than asphalt. It was almost creepy. As a kid, I thought the Greensboro airport was huge. Now I realize it's just one step up from airports in places like New Haven, CT and Charlottesville, VA where I swear they use John Deere tractors to haul planes and luggage around the tarmac.
I arrived home safely, and had a lovely afternoon with family and a nice evening out with friends. It was a fantastic Christmas, and I am so thankful for the gifts I received -- not just the ones in the boxes, but especially gifts like seeing my beautiful nieces who keep getting older and more lovely, and catching up with people I've known and loved since adolescence. Today is Boxing Day, and for the ninth straight year I'll be having lunch with two of my best buds from college. I'll hit the after-Xmas sales and just relax. Ahh, the holidays are grand.
Remember that yesterday was just the beginning of Christmas, we have 11 days to go! I hope that you will celebrate the season every day you can. Merry Christmas!
My travel day started out at 5:15 am, having gone to bed only 4 hours prior due to the lateness of the hour when I returned from midnight mass at church. This was compounded by the after-effects of the copious amounts of champagne and merlot I had been veritably forced to consume by my friend Derek and my priest's partner, Tom. Certainly I would never overimbibe without the intervention of others. I got the animals fed, packed the last few toiletry items I had to use that morning, and left a check for my colleague who was coming to pet-sit. My goal was to walk out the door at 6:30, and I think my watch said 6:33 when I locked the door. So far, so good.
I walked the block and a half to the bus stop and waited on the 6:45 Archer northbound bus. It was snowing, but because the air and ground temperatures were well above freezing thanks to a "warm snap" we'd experienced in the previous two days the snow was very wet and had no hope of sticking. It was therefore what snow should be, lovely and inconsequential. The bus came a couple of minutes early, and in about 10 minutes had deposited me at the southeast corner of Jackson and Dearborn.
I walked north to the entrance into the Jackson St. Blue Line L station and made my way down the stairs with my ginormous suitcase (packed with wrapped gifts and my carry-on bag that held all of the clothes I'd need for a week), my carry-on overnight bag and my Marshall Field's shopping bag. I approached the turnstile and debated the most efficient way to get my suitcase through. After some thought and much heavy lifting, both my person and my luggage made it across the turnstile. I heard the sounds of what I imagined was the 6:52 O'Hare bound train screaming up through the stairwell. I debated taking the elevator down, but decided it would be quicker (though probably more dangerous) to run down the stairs with my ginormous suitcase, overnight bag and Field's shopping bag.
To my great delight, the train I heard was going the opposite way, to either Forest Park or 54th/Cermak (I didn't see which). I waited patiently and, lo and behold, heard the O'Hare train on Christmas morn at precisely 6:51, and when it stopped it was 6:52. It's a beautiful thing when the CTA runs on time.
The ride to the airport was uneventful as people came on and got off of the train over the next approximately 40 minutes. Some people had suitcases, obviously headed to the airport to catch flights to holiday destinations. One guy wore a uniform that suggested to me that he was a steward for one airline or another. The train pulled into the station at 7:36 on the nose, again exactly as scheduled. I gathered my belongings and made my way up to the terminal.
Having never gone from the train station into O'Hare, and given my relative unfamiliarity with O'Hare, I depended on following other people with suitcases to get into the airport and to go where I needed to be. I assumed I would be flying out of Terminal 1 since that's the United terminal at O'Hare. (For those of you who don't know, United is based out of Chicago and O'Hare is its main hub.) I followed the signs for Terminal 1 and arrived at the check-in counters.
There are approximately 35,936 check-in kiosks at O'Hare for United. They are divided into groups like, "Premier," "International," "Plebian" and "Steerage." I walked most of the way down the atrium in front of the kiosks before I found where I was supposed to be. Fortunately the line was not so terribly bad. There was a woman at the head of the line weighing bags (the weight limit for checked items is 50 lbs.) and mine came in right at 45.4. It had weighed 45 on my scale at home, so I wasn't surprised it was under the weight limit, but relieved nonetheless. I checked in uneventfully, though I was surprised that I didn't have to present my checked bag personally to the TSA. I fly a few times a year, but almost never check bags. Previously when checking baggage, I had to hand it to the TSA agent for screening, so this was a change from the procedure to which I was accustomed.
My flight was departing from gate F12. There were no signs that I could see indicating how to find gates in the F family. I asked a United employee, and she directed me to the far end of the atrium, so I walked down to the security line which seemed blessedly short. However, a seemingly nice TSA agent checked my boarding pass and ID well before the checkpoint and suggested to myself and a woman next to me that we should proceed to an employee checkpoint downstairs.
This is where I encountered the Extended Family Who Obviously Have Never Flown on a Big Airplane Before.
The Extended Family Who Obviously Have Never Flown on a Big Airplane Before (henceforth known as EFWOHNFoaBAB) seemed perplexed by the whole security screening process. Grandma #1 seemed confused that there was some process beyond the check-in with the United people. Grandpa #1 (I believe he was married to Grandma #1, hence his designation) debated with the TSA agent over whether or not to take the one key out of his pocket before going through the metal detector. Tweenage girl #1 and Grandma #2 decided they needed to put their suitcases and closed purses into plastic trays before placing them onto the conveyor belt to enter into the X-ray scanner. Everyone was being oh so gracious in insisting that everyone else in the family should go through the metal detector first, it seemed as though they were doing some sort of security square dance.
EFWOHNFoaBAB easily cost me ten minutes of my life, and I want them back, dammit.
Once through security, I walked the seemingly 5 miles to the ass end of the F corridor. Almost invariably at airports I don't like anyway (like Nashville and O'Hare and RDU) I am forced to fly out of the gate that is furthest away from the security checkpoint, so I'm pretty well used to hauling my stuff all the way through the airport. This is why I eventually learned how not to overpack and why nearly everything I take on an airplane has wheels or comfortable shoulder straps.
I found a seat at Gate F12 at approximately 8:15, one full hour before my flight was to depart. I called my mother to give her an update, received a call from my friend Elizabeth and read my Saturday New York Times (I was running a day behind). As the hour approached 8:55, the boarding time for my flight, I became a bit worried because there was no jet with the word "United" painted on it anywhere to be found. This is never a good omen.
Finally at about 9:10 the gate agent came over the PA system and announced that the plane should be at the gate in a few minutes. This is airline lingo for it's going to be another 30 minutes before we know anything. The departure time kept getting pushed back, first to 9:30, then to 9:34.
At 9:20, the gate agent finally 'fessed up that the plane was coming from the hangar. Now, I don't know if the pilot was stuck in the cue line waiting for all of the other planes taxiing to and fro, or simply got lost and refused to stop and ask for directions. Whatever had happened, the plane finally got to the gate at about 9:30, and we began boarding about 10 minutes hence.
The flight was a bit bumpy and there was no coffee, but otherwise it was uneventful. As we touched down at the Greensboro airport, I surveyed the scene outside my window. Compared to the view on the ground when landing at airports like Midway, O'Hare and LaGuardia, the view out my window of the Greensboro airport made it seem as though we were landing in a farm. No buildings around, more grass than asphalt. It was almost creepy. As a kid, I thought the Greensboro airport was huge. Now I realize it's just one step up from airports in places like New Haven, CT and Charlottesville, VA where I swear they use John Deere tractors to haul planes and luggage around the tarmac.
I arrived home safely, and had a lovely afternoon with family and a nice evening out with friends. It was a fantastic Christmas, and I am so thankful for the gifts I received -- not just the ones in the boxes, but especially gifts like seeing my beautiful nieces who keep getting older and more lovely, and catching up with people I've known and loved since adolescence. Today is Boxing Day, and for the ninth straight year I'll be having lunch with two of my best buds from college. I'll hit the after-Xmas sales and just relax. Ahh, the holidays are grand.
Remember that yesterday was just the beginning of Christmas, we have 11 days to go! I hope that you will celebrate the season every day you can. Merry Christmas!
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Oh Great Mystery
It's official: Christmas is here.
Why do I say this? Because the hymn "Once in Royal David's City" has been sung by the King's College Choir of Cambridge University as part of their Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols broadcast worldwide today. This has become, for me, the official start of Christmas.
In liturgical terms, tomorrow is known as the Feast of the Nativity of our Lord. Millions of Christians world-wide tonight will be celebrating Midnight Mass (which occurs earlier and earlier every year) to celebrate the impending birth of Jesus Christ. We'll sing hymns like Joy to the World, O Little Town of Bethlehem and Hark! the Herald Angel Sings. My favorite among these fantastic songs is the O Magnum Mysterium.
O magnum mysterium et admirabile sacramentum
ut animalia viderent Dominum natum
jacentem in praesepio.
Beata virgo cujus viscera
meruent partare Dominum Christum.
Alleluia.
This translates as
O great mystery and admirable sacrament
That animals see the Lord born
Lying in a manger.
Blessed virgin whose viscera
Were worthy to bear Lord Christ.
Alleluia.
Okay, okay, the whole "viscera" thing isn't very pleasant. But it's a lovely text (in Latin) to sing. Perhaps my favorite setting of this text is the Morten Lauridsen arrangement. (A decent, though not great, recording can be found here.) I recorded this song with my church choir in Nashville, and fell in love with it almost instantly. I listened to this recording coming home from work today and cried, as I often do, at the line "Beata virgo." My crying intensified when the song repeated the text, "ut animalia viderent Dominum natum."
That animals see the birth of God.
I so often lose the forest for all the bloody trees that get in my way. I forget that there is suffering in the world beyond my own. How perfect a reminder is the story of the nativity -- a woman, great with child, traveling on a donkey, having to give birth in a stable. Anyone who's ever been in a stable knows how unpleasant that must have been. To me, this is the most absolutely captivating aspect of the nativity story -- that God chose to manifest Himself in such humility; that such an auspicious birth, the start of a life whose end in agony and betrayal would save so many, was witnessed by sheep as much as by angels.
O Great Mystery, we await your coming tonight.
Why do I say this? Because the hymn "Once in Royal David's City" has been sung by the King's College Choir of Cambridge University as part of their Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols broadcast worldwide today. This has become, for me, the official start of Christmas.
In liturgical terms, tomorrow is known as the Feast of the Nativity of our Lord. Millions of Christians world-wide tonight will be celebrating Midnight Mass (which occurs earlier and earlier every year) to celebrate the impending birth of Jesus Christ. We'll sing hymns like Joy to the World, O Little Town of Bethlehem and Hark! the Herald Angel Sings. My favorite among these fantastic songs is the O Magnum Mysterium.
O magnum mysterium et admirabile sacramentum
ut animalia viderent Dominum natum
jacentem in praesepio.
Beata virgo cujus viscera
meruent partare Dominum Christum.
Alleluia.
This translates as
O great mystery and admirable sacrament
That animals see the Lord born
Lying in a manger.
Blessed virgin whose viscera
Were worthy to bear Lord Christ.
Alleluia.
Okay, okay, the whole "viscera" thing isn't very pleasant. But it's a lovely text (in Latin) to sing. Perhaps my favorite setting of this text is the Morten Lauridsen arrangement. (A decent, though not great, recording can be found here.) I recorded this song with my church choir in Nashville, and fell in love with it almost instantly. I listened to this recording coming home from work today and cried, as I often do, at the line "Beata virgo." My crying intensified when the song repeated the text, "ut animalia viderent Dominum natum."
That animals see the birth of God.
I so often lose the forest for all the bloody trees that get in my way. I forget that there is suffering in the world beyond my own. How perfect a reminder is the story of the nativity -- a woman, great with child, traveling on a donkey, having to give birth in a stable. Anyone who's ever been in a stable knows how unpleasant that must have been. To me, this is the most absolutely captivating aspect of the nativity story -- that God chose to manifest Himself in such humility; that such an auspicious birth, the start of a life whose end in agony and betrayal would save so many, was witnessed by sheep as much as by angels.
O Great Mystery, we await your coming tonight.
Friday, December 23, 2005
All Is Forgiven
Heath Ledger is officially forgiven for The Order.
I left work early today and went to the Century Centre Cinema to catch a showing of Brokeback Mountain.. I had become nearly giddy at the thought of seeing this film in the past couple of weeks given the nearly unanimous laudable reviews I'd read. How nice it was that a movie centered around a gay theme was being accepted and praised by the mainstream, and not just because it's about a gay theme or gay characters.
I won't go into the movie, because frankly I'm just not prepared to do so. When the movie ended, I initially thought, "Wow, was it really all that?" The thing is, I haven't stopped thinking about it yet. I'm still turning over events from the film in my mind, from characters' motivations to signs and knowing glances to what is required of the story to create and maintain dramatic tension. It has been a long time since a movie put me in such an emotionally vulnerable place -- Philadelphia comes to mind as the last film to do so.
If you haven't seen it, go. If it's not playing near you, drive or fly to the closest city with a theater that is showing it. If the fact that it's a "gay cowboy" movie is preventing you from going, then just get over it. This movie is as much about being gay as "Terms of Endearment" was about having cancer. (Think about it for a minute.)
On a lighter note, this movie did confirm something I've suspected for a long time -- Mr. Jake Gyllenhaal is fuzzy! And just when I thought he couldn't get any hotter . . .
I left work early today and went to the Century Centre Cinema to catch a showing of Brokeback Mountain.. I had become nearly giddy at the thought of seeing this film in the past couple of weeks given the nearly unanimous laudable reviews I'd read. How nice it was that a movie centered around a gay theme was being accepted and praised by the mainstream, and not just because it's about a gay theme or gay characters.
I won't go into the movie, because frankly I'm just not prepared to do so. When the movie ended, I initially thought, "Wow, was it really all that?" The thing is, I haven't stopped thinking about it yet. I'm still turning over events from the film in my mind, from characters' motivations to signs and knowing glances to what is required of the story to create and maintain dramatic tension. It has been a long time since a movie put me in such an emotionally vulnerable place -- Philadelphia comes to mind as the last film to do so.
If you haven't seen it, go. If it's not playing near you, drive or fly to the closest city with a theater that is showing it. If the fact that it's a "gay cowboy" movie is preventing you from going, then just get over it. This movie is as much about being gay as "Terms of Endearment" was about having cancer. (Think about it for a minute.)
On a lighter note, this movie did confirm something I've suspected for a long time -- Mr. Jake Gyllenhaal is fuzzy! And just when I thought he couldn't get any hotter . . .
Thursday, December 22, 2005
The End of an Era
Walking by the bookstore on campus this evening, I noticed an advertisement for the 11th Edition of Goodman and Gilman's Pharmacological Basis of Therapeutics. As someone who holds a PhD in Pharmacology, I am somewhat familiar with this tome (in fact, I have copies of the ninth and tenth editions in my office). What struck me, and made me audibly gasp, was the conspicuous absence of two names from the front cover of the eleventh edition.
For the first time in many years, the Goodman and Gilman's lists neither Joel Hardman nor Lee Limbird as editors. That's sort of like having NFL broadcast on Fox with neither Howie Long nor Terry Bradshaw, or a Wes Anderson flick without Owen and Luke Wilson. It just seems empty somehow, wrong and unsettling.
Time moves on, things change. I wish the new editors much success. I'm sure the newest edition of Goodman and Gilman's is a great reference. But it just won't be the same.
For the first time in many years, the Goodman and Gilman's lists neither Joel Hardman nor Lee Limbird as editors. That's sort of like having NFL broadcast on Fox with neither Howie Long nor Terry Bradshaw, or a Wes Anderson flick without Owen and Luke Wilson. It just seems empty somehow, wrong and unsettling.
Time moves on, things change. I wish the new editors much success. I'm sure the newest edition of Goodman and Gilman's is a great reference. But it just won't be the same.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Happy Anniversary
It was one year ago this very day that I traveled 480 miles in a rather uncomfortable U-Haul truck in excruciatingly cold weather to start my new life in the Windy City. On Dec. 20, 2004 I left Nashville with my stuff, my animals and even my dear mother packed into my car and a 14-foot moving van. We drove through Kentucky and Indiana, along icy roads and through towns that define the term "podunk."
After about nine hours we arrived. As I pulled up in front of my new apartment on the north side of the city, I was excited, terrified, overjoyed and exhausted. There was no turning back now -- I was here, I was queer and I was going to make the best of it in my new environs.
This has been, in many ways, the best year of my life. Living here has been an incredible experience, and I pray it will continue to get better as time goes by.
Happy Anniversary, ya Big-Shouldered Broad of a City! I love ya!
After about nine hours we arrived. As I pulled up in front of my new apartment on the north side of the city, I was excited, terrified, overjoyed and exhausted. There was no turning back now -- I was here, I was queer and I was going to make the best of it in my new environs.
This has been, in many ways, the best year of my life. Living here has been an incredible experience, and I pray it will continue to get better as time goes by.
Happy Anniversary, ya Big-Shouldered Broad of a City! I love ya!
Monday, December 19, 2005
Two down . . .
The Chicago Chamber Choir Christmas concerts are finally over! Other than Christmas Eve service at church, I'm done singing for the season.
With just under one week left until Christmas, I can finally relax and enjoy the season a little bit.
I've baked 6 batches of cookies (each batch yields around 108 cookies), mailed four packages, sent out about 25 Christmas cards, given one lovely dinner party and now sung two concerts. Oh, yeah, there's also the whole work thing. The past two days I've been running on adrenaline and stimulants (only the legal variety, thank you very much!) so I'm looking forward to things winding down as the Feast of the Nativity approaches.
Some years getting ready for Christmas feels like giving birth. I'm sure Mary would agree. Nonetheless, it's still my favorite time of year from a purely secular point of view. It fascinates me that some of my Evangelical Christian brothers and sisters fail to understand that Christmas is, liturgically, a rather insignificant holiday. It kills me how people, seemingly in the same breath, rail against the expression "Happy Holidays" because it is an attack on their religion yet cancel their church services because Christmas happens to fall on a Sunday this year.
So, in the quest to put the Christ back in Christmas, it's okay to take the Christ out of Sunday?
This week my only goal is to put the charge back in "Charge! (it!)" as I wrap up my holiday shopping. I plan on taking strolls down State Street and Michigan Avenue, soaking up the holiday ambience as I go. There's just nothing quite like Christmas in big-city America. Resplendent capitalism at its holiday best; is anything else so uniquely American?
With just under one week left until Christmas, I can finally relax and enjoy the season a little bit.
I've baked 6 batches of cookies (each batch yields around 108 cookies), mailed four packages, sent out about 25 Christmas cards, given one lovely dinner party and now sung two concerts. Oh, yeah, there's also the whole work thing. The past two days I've been running on adrenaline and stimulants (only the legal variety, thank you very much!) so I'm looking forward to things winding down as the Feast of the Nativity approaches.
Some years getting ready for Christmas feels like giving birth. I'm sure Mary would agree. Nonetheless, it's still my favorite time of year from a purely secular point of view. It fascinates me that some of my Evangelical Christian brothers and sisters fail to understand that Christmas is, liturgically, a rather insignificant holiday. It kills me how people, seemingly in the same breath, rail against the expression "Happy Holidays" because it is an attack on their religion yet cancel their church services because Christmas happens to fall on a Sunday this year.
So, in the quest to put the Christ back in Christmas, it's okay to take the Christ out of Sunday?
This week my only goal is to put the charge back in "Charge! (it!)" as I wrap up my holiday shopping. I plan on taking strolls down State Street and Michigan Avenue, soaking up the holiday ambience as I go. There's just nothing quite like Christmas in big-city America. Resplendent capitalism at its holiday best; is anything else so uniquely American?
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Popularity Contest
I've been weighing the pros and cons of doing something recently, going back and forth in my mind, trying to make a decision to go ahead with my plan or to hold off. Without going into what it is I'm thinking about doing, I can relay something that this decision-making experience has forced me ro realize about myself.
I care way too damned much about what other people think, and how others perceive me.
Now, don't get me wrong, I think that worrying about what others think about us can be a beneficial thing. Fear of being shamed is part of what motivates us to take our daily (hopefully) baths and brush our teeth and do a little something with our hair before we walk out the door. But fear of what others think should not be a primary factor in making decisions that are, ultimately, personal and private. I never would have thought that I'd become a person who weighs outside perceptions so heavily into personal decisions, but that's exactly who I've become.
And you know what? I don't like it one damned bit.
The question for me becomes, how influential do I want outsiders to be in my personal decisions? How much am I willing to risk the alienation and condemnation of my friends to pursue something that I want to do? How much of my doubt about the wisdom of going forward with something is based on my own prejudice, prejudice that I've allowed my friends to foment within me?
I don't have the answers, just all these lovely questions. I should be used to having all the questions and none of the answers; that's sort of the essence of being a scientist. Eventually I'll come to a decision, and when I do, I hope that I will have had the courage to be honest with myself and will have made the right decision for me, not the right decision for everyone around me. Because, after all, they don't have to live with the consequences of my decision, but I do.
I care way too damned much about what other people think, and how others perceive me.
Now, don't get me wrong, I think that worrying about what others think about us can be a beneficial thing. Fear of being shamed is part of what motivates us to take our daily (hopefully) baths and brush our teeth and do a little something with our hair before we walk out the door. But fear of what others think should not be a primary factor in making decisions that are, ultimately, personal and private. I never would have thought that I'd become a person who weighs outside perceptions so heavily into personal decisions, but that's exactly who I've become.
And you know what? I don't like it one damned bit.
The question for me becomes, how influential do I want outsiders to be in my personal decisions? How much am I willing to risk the alienation and condemnation of my friends to pursue something that I want to do? How much of my doubt about the wisdom of going forward with something is based on my own prejudice, prejudice that I've allowed my friends to foment within me?
I don't have the answers, just all these lovely questions. I should be used to having all the questions and none of the answers; that's sort of the essence of being a scientist. Eventually I'll come to a decision, and when I do, I hope that I will have had the courage to be honest with myself and will have made the right decision for me, not the right decision for everyone around me. Because, after all, they don't have to live with the consequences of my decision, but I do.
Speaking of Christmas Music . . .
Could someone please get Celine Dion on the phone and remind her that she's F*@#ING FRENCH-CANADIAN!??!
Tidbits from My Day
Today was a wringer of a day. Got to work at 10:30, left at 10:40. I spent most of the day recovering from 3 separate yet convergent examples of GTI (gross technical incompetence) on my part. Fortunately I'm almost completely back on track, so I think the rest of the week will be a little better.
I finally got to the gym today after about a 1 week hiatus. With all the holiday noshes I've been scarfing I really need these trips to the gym to prevent holiday bloat. Whenever I have these periods of inactivity, I forget how good going to the gym makes me feel. I also forget how friggin' tired it makes me. But it's a good tired.
(The fact that I'm writing this blog just after midnite seems to belie the tired, but I really am.)
The sidewalks along Wentworth Ave were finally cleaned off for my walk home from the train. This is nice (it's only been 5 days since the last snowfall), but there's another mother of a storm coming tonight to dump 5 inches of snow on the freshly clean sidewalks. I guess it will be Sunday before the sidewalks are passable again.
On a more positive note, I was very pleased with many of the Golden Globe nods this morning. I'm so excited about Brokeback Mountain -- it may be the movie that allows me to forgive Heath Ledger for The Order. And my most favoritest actress, Ms. Felicity Huffman, got nods both for Desperate Housewives and for Transamerica. (For those of you who don't know, I have been deeply in love with Ms. Felicity Huffman since Sports Night. Plus she's married to the adorable William H. Macy, which only adds to her allure.)
Seeing as I've now been awake for about 18 hours, I think it's time to stop blogging, close the laptop, and crawl into bed for what I hope will be several hours of uninterrupted sleep. If there happens to be an erogenous dream snuck in there, so much the better.
I finally got to the gym today after about a 1 week hiatus. With all the holiday noshes I've been scarfing I really need these trips to the gym to prevent holiday bloat. Whenever I have these periods of inactivity, I forget how good going to the gym makes me feel. I also forget how friggin' tired it makes me. But it's a good tired.
(The fact that I'm writing this blog just after midnite seems to belie the tired, but I really am.)
The sidewalks along Wentworth Ave were finally cleaned off for my walk home from the train. This is nice (it's only been 5 days since the last snowfall), but there's another mother of a storm coming tonight to dump 5 inches of snow on the freshly clean sidewalks. I guess it will be Sunday before the sidewalks are passable again.
On a more positive note, I was very pleased with many of the Golden Globe nods this morning. I'm so excited about Brokeback Mountain -- it may be the movie that allows me to forgive Heath Ledger for The Order. And my most favoritest actress, Ms. Felicity Huffman, got nods both for Desperate Housewives and for Transamerica. (For those of you who don't know, I have been deeply in love with Ms. Felicity Huffman since Sports Night. Plus she's married to the adorable William H. Macy, which only adds to her allure.)
Seeing as I've now been awake for about 18 hours, I think it's time to stop blogging, close the laptop, and crawl into bed for what I hope will be several hours of uninterrupted sleep. If there happens to be an erogenous dream snuck in there, so much the better.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Justice, Served Cold
In about 4 hours, the state of California will execute Stanley "Tookie" Williams, founder of the Crips street gang.
Williams is being executed for the murders of four people in 1979. Even though he denies committing these murders, it is likely he committed other murders during his time with the Crips. In 36 states, including California, murder in the first degree is a crime punishable by death. Thus, Williams is being executed in accordance with the laws of the land.
Problem is, this is a law that stinks to high heaven.
The death penalty is a tragedy, an injustice and an affront to our system of justice. It has never been shown to be an effective deterrent against crime, is ultimately more expensive than incarceration without possibility of parole and is an irreversible sentence that cannot be rectified in the event that an innocent person has been wrongly convicted. Despite the rigors of our justice system, it is not perfect. So long as one innocent person faces the possibility of execution, the death penalty can never be just.
My feelings about the death penalty come mostly from my deeply held religious convictions. I believe that all people can be redeemed, a belief God held so strongly that he sacrificed his only son in support of it. Certainly some people have committed crimes so heinous that they must never be allowed to live freely in society. This does not mean that these people are irredeemable, only that society's best interest can be served without sending these people to their deaths.
Stanley "Tookie" Williams is, by all accounts, such a man. He committed horrible crimes, undoubtedly. While in prison, Williams worked to redeem his crimes by communicating to young people the horrors and pitfalls of gang life. He has been nominated multiple times for the Nobel Prize for Literature and the Nobel Peace Prize for his work to keep children from joining gangs and going to prison.
And California has decided that this man must die. May God save California. May God save Stanley Tookie Williams. May God destroy the death penalty, once and for all.
Williams is being executed for the murders of four people in 1979. Even though he denies committing these murders, it is likely he committed other murders during his time with the Crips. In 36 states, including California, murder in the first degree is a crime punishable by death. Thus, Williams is being executed in accordance with the laws of the land.
Problem is, this is a law that stinks to high heaven.
The death penalty is a tragedy, an injustice and an affront to our system of justice. It has never been shown to be an effective deterrent against crime, is ultimately more expensive than incarceration without possibility of parole and is an irreversible sentence that cannot be rectified in the event that an innocent person has been wrongly convicted. Despite the rigors of our justice system, it is not perfect. So long as one innocent person faces the possibility of execution, the death penalty can never be just.
My feelings about the death penalty come mostly from my deeply held religious convictions. I believe that all people can be redeemed, a belief God held so strongly that he sacrificed his only son in support of it. Certainly some people have committed crimes so heinous that they must never be allowed to live freely in society. This does not mean that these people are irredeemable, only that society's best interest can be served without sending these people to their deaths.
Stanley "Tookie" Williams is, by all accounts, such a man. He committed horrible crimes, undoubtedly. While in prison, Williams worked to redeem his crimes by communicating to young people the horrors and pitfalls of gang life. He has been nominated multiple times for the Nobel Prize for Literature and the Nobel Peace Prize for his work to keep children from joining gangs and going to prison.
And California has decided that this man must die. May God save California. May God save Stanley Tookie Williams. May God destroy the death penalty, once and for all.
The Post Where I Whine
When I made my decision, about 14 months ago, to move to Chicago instead of Virginia, I realized that cold, snowy winters were part of the deal. I moved to Chicago on the 20th of December (unless you're reading this and you work for the Illinois Department of Revenue, in which case I moved here on Jan. 1, at around 12:01 am), so I got to experience the entire winter last year. And it was cold, and it was miserable, and there was lots of snow.
I therefore expect this winter to be cold, and snowy, and miserable. That's not my complaint. My complaint is that it has been cold and miserable since around Thanksgiving. (You may recall that I had to leave the State Street parade because I could no longer feel my feet). Contrary to popular rumor, the federal government has not moved the official start-date of winter up to November 22 to counter the effects of global warming (which doesn't exist, anyway, according to the Bushies). Winter still begins on December 22 in the northern hemisphere. (If you need a refresher on why we have seasons, and how that whole revolution/rotation thing works, go to this site.
Despite this, the current temperature in Chicago is about 15 degrees Fahrenheit. There is about 7 inches of snow on the ground -- making this the only time I ever recall having complained about 7 inches. And there isn't going to be a day above freezing this week, or likely the next when - TADAH! - winter begins.
I doubt I'll see the grass again until March. This brings me great sadness. As you may know, I hail from the south. I have never lived so far south that snow was some imagined legend like Santa Claus, alligators in the sewer or Milli Vanilli's career. Instead, we would get a few inches over the entirety of winter that would usually melt/evaporate in a few days, so there was almost always some green visible in the ground cover. The number of times that we received over 6 inches of snow at one time I could count on both hands (actually, probably just one hand). So despite winter having less daylight and being colder, both stimuli that induce depression, the green of the grass always helped keep my spirits up because it was a reminder of the impermanence of the winter cold.
My last year in Raleigh, we had a mother of a snow storm in the middle of January. We got about 10 inches over the course of one Sunday, mostly in the morning and early afternoon. The city came to a stand-still. Raleigh no more knows how to handle 10 inches of snow than Chicago knows how to handle a Category 3 hurricane. Over the next week, I had to trudge my sorry ass to work every single day. I managed a store in the mall, and the mall closed only on the day of the storm. For an entire week, I watched about 15 people walk through the mall because they were sick of being stuck in their houses and had to walk somewhere to avoid cabin fever. Oddly enough, these people were not in a buying mood.
What I remember most vividly about that snowstorm, however, was not the week of chaos that ensued. Instead, I recall that there were about 6 weeks when all one could see covering the ground was snow. The verdant landscape that defied the bleakness of the wintertime had completely submitted to the oppressive power of winter's handmaiden, snow. It was easily the most depressed I've ever been during winter.
Well then, you might be saying, are you in for a bad time this year! Well, not so much. Sure, it's cold, it's going to stay cold and I likely won't see the grass until sometime after the spring thaw. But at least in Chicago, there's a sense of camaraderie about the cold and snow. People get out and shovel the sidewalks so their neighbors might have an easier time walking the streets. Just having to get out and walk through the winter to get to the train is an improvement over my former mode of slinking to the car and praying that the heat will kick in. Having to face the winter more directly makes it seem less oppressive and, yes, less permanent.
I therefore expect this winter to be cold, and snowy, and miserable. That's not my complaint. My complaint is that it has been cold and miserable since around Thanksgiving. (You may recall that I had to leave the State Street parade because I could no longer feel my feet). Contrary to popular rumor, the federal government has not moved the official start-date of winter up to November 22 to counter the effects of global warming (which doesn't exist, anyway, according to the Bushies). Winter still begins on December 22 in the northern hemisphere. (If you need a refresher on why we have seasons, and how that whole revolution/rotation thing works, go to this site.
Despite this, the current temperature in Chicago is about 15 degrees Fahrenheit. There is about 7 inches of snow on the ground -- making this the only time I ever recall having complained about 7 inches. And there isn't going to be a day above freezing this week, or likely the next when - TADAH! - winter begins.
I doubt I'll see the grass again until March. This brings me great sadness. As you may know, I hail from the south. I have never lived so far south that snow was some imagined legend like Santa Claus, alligators in the sewer or Milli Vanilli's career. Instead, we would get a few inches over the entirety of winter that would usually melt/evaporate in a few days, so there was almost always some green visible in the ground cover. The number of times that we received over 6 inches of snow at one time I could count on both hands (actually, probably just one hand). So despite winter having less daylight and being colder, both stimuli that induce depression, the green of the grass always helped keep my spirits up because it was a reminder of the impermanence of the winter cold.
My last year in Raleigh, we had a mother of a snow storm in the middle of January. We got about 10 inches over the course of one Sunday, mostly in the morning and early afternoon. The city came to a stand-still. Raleigh no more knows how to handle 10 inches of snow than Chicago knows how to handle a Category 3 hurricane. Over the next week, I had to trudge my sorry ass to work every single day. I managed a store in the mall, and the mall closed only on the day of the storm. For an entire week, I watched about 15 people walk through the mall because they were sick of being stuck in their houses and had to walk somewhere to avoid cabin fever. Oddly enough, these people were not in a buying mood.
What I remember most vividly about that snowstorm, however, was not the week of chaos that ensued. Instead, I recall that there were about 6 weeks when all one could see covering the ground was snow. The verdant landscape that defied the bleakness of the wintertime had completely submitted to the oppressive power of winter's handmaiden, snow. It was easily the most depressed I've ever been during winter.
Well then, you might be saying, are you in for a bad time this year! Well, not so much. Sure, it's cold, it's going to stay cold and I likely won't see the grass until sometime after the spring thaw. But at least in Chicago, there's a sense of camaraderie about the cold and snow. People get out and shovel the sidewalks so their neighbors might have an easier time walking the streets. Just having to get out and walk through the winter to get to the train is an improvement over my former mode of slinking to the car and praying that the heat will kick in. Having to face the winter more directly makes it seem less oppressive and, yes, less permanent.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
People Who Shouldn't Record Christmas Albums
I just love listening to cheesy Christmas music this time of year. While I enjoy the classics -- The Christmas Song, Sleigh Ride, The 12 Things at Christmas That Are Such a Pain to Me -- I must admit that some of the new "standards" leave me cold.
For instance, I fail to understand why Air Supply or the Beach Boys ever recorded Christmas albums.
And Anne Murray? Whenever she sings Christmas songs, she makes them sound depressing. Honestly, she could probably make "Climb Ev'ry Mountain" sound depressing.
And, George Michael, I don't care that you gave your heart away last Christmas. Maybe you shouldn't have given it away to an undercover police officer in a public restroom. Oh, wait, that wasn't your heart, was it . . .
As most Christmas songs don't call for clarinet or saxophone soli, I think Kenny G. should be banned from recording Christmas music.
And, finally, as much as I love The Pretenders, they have no business recording Christmas music. Chrissie Hynde is a lovely girl, but she needs a lot of studio help, and can't sing without bending pitch. This vocal technique may work on Brass in Pocket, but doesn't do so well on Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
There are 13 shopping days left until Christmas, so I have about two more weeks to enjoy the mellifluous strains of holiday song floating over the airwaves.
For instance, I fail to understand why Air Supply or the Beach Boys ever recorded Christmas albums.
And Anne Murray? Whenever she sings Christmas songs, she makes them sound depressing. Honestly, she could probably make "Climb Ev'ry Mountain" sound depressing.
And, George Michael, I don't care that you gave your heart away last Christmas. Maybe you shouldn't have given it away to an undercover police officer in a public restroom. Oh, wait, that wasn't your heart, was it . . .
As most Christmas songs don't call for clarinet or saxophone soli, I think Kenny G. should be banned from recording Christmas music.
And, finally, as much as I love The Pretenders, they have no business recording Christmas music. Chrissie Hynde is a lovely girl, but she needs a lot of studio help, and can't sing without bending pitch. This vocal technique may work on Brass in Pocket, but doesn't do so well on Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
There are 13 shopping days left until Christmas, so I have about two more weeks to enjoy the mellifluous strains of holiday song floating over the airwaves.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
On Turning 29 (for the 4th time)
First, I should make it clear that I'm not self-conscious about my age. I have looked approximately 25 years old since I was 17. I therefore don't worry that I look older than I really am. It's just embarrassing to be 32-years-old, possess a graduate degree, and not even have a direct-dial extension at my place of work. Even though I'm not a student anymore, I'm still a "trainee," and it's just easier to be a trainee if you haven't left your twenties yet.
It occurs to me that, in 29+ years on earth, I've accomplished a lot of things. I'm the first person in my immediate family to complete a college degree. In fact, I wound up getting two of them for good measure. I've owned real estate, bought my first new car, gotten into debt, and out of debt, and back into debt again. I haven't had children yet, but I still have a few years to find a willing lesbian!
Birthdays are an interesting time for me. I've always been keen on celebrating other people's birthdays, but never so keen on celebrating my own. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some sort of noodge who refuses to acknowledge his birthday and takes great offense when others dare to mention its very existence. I appreciate well wishes from friends and family on my birthdays, but the whole cake-and-ice cream routine leaves me a little cold.
Turning 29 (again) on a Wednesday is therefore somewhat of a relief. There's no pressure to go out and party on a Wednesday. Celebrating the weekend before seems a bit decadent. If you wait until the following weekend, it seems as though the moment has passed and it's a bit anticlimactic.
I'm content to sit here, watch Golden Girls DVDs and put my feet up. It's all I really want to do for my birthday, and I'm tickled to have the time to do just this much.
So, to all the other Pearl Harbor babies out there, I hope you've had a terrific birthday!
It occurs to me that, in 29+ years on earth, I've accomplished a lot of things. I'm the first person in my immediate family to complete a college degree. In fact, I wound up getting two of them for good measure. I've owned real estate, bought my first new car, gotten into debt, and out of debt, and back into debt again. I haven't had children yet, but I still have a few years to find a willing lesbian!
Birthdays are an interesting time for me. I've always been keen on celebrating other people's birthdays, but never so keen on celebrating my own. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some sort of noodge who refuses to acknowledge his birthday and takes great offense when others dare to mention its very existence. I appreciate well wishes from friends and family on my birthdays, but the whole cake-and-ice cream routine leaves me a little cold.
Turning 29 (again) on a Wednesday is therefore somewhat of a relief. There's no pressure to go out and party on a Wednesday. Celebrating the weekend before seems a bit decadent. If you wait until the following weekend, it seems as though the moment has passed and it's a bit anticlimactic.
I'm content to sit here, watch Golden Girls DVDs and put my feet up. It's all I really want to do for my birthday, and I'm tickled to have the time to do just this much.
So, to all the other Pearl Harbor babies out there, I hope you've had a terrific birthday!
Sunday, December 04, 2005
A Plea
Dear God,
It's me, Harold.
You know, from Chicago?
No, the other Harold from Chicago. The displaced Southern boy.
Yeah, that one. Good! Now we're on the same page!
I hope you and the family are well. Tell Jesus I said, "Yo!"
As you might have guessed, there's a reason I'm communicating with you today via blog. (The internet is great. Thank you for sending us Al Gore so he could invent it. That was sweet.) What is that reason, I guess you're asking, as if you don't already know, but want to play along with my little delusion regardless of your omnipotence? That reason is I'm a little scared.
That's right. Scared.
Of what? Lately, most everything. I'm a little nervous down here on my own. There's not a lot of support structure around me, and I guess I'm just beginning to get a little edgy about that. Sure I have family and friends, but unfortunately most of them are 500 miles away or more.
Oh, and this whole career thing? That's a little painful right now. It sure would be nice to get an easy answer just every once in a while. Is that really too much to ask for?
I'm also scared because it's been really cold lately, and I keep passing people on the streets who don't have any place to go when it gets cold. Really cold. Ass cold. Freeze your 'nads off cold.
I'm also scared for Jessie. I don't know where he is -- he's probably in Iraq. I try to check the paper every day for the names of the latest casualties. I also check the web once a month or so. I'm so scared I'm going to see his name staring me in the face. Even though I haven't seen his name yet, I keep seeing the names of men and women who I don't know. They've all died in this awful war. I notice that most of them are younger than I am. Some of them are much younger than I am, and let's face it -- I'm not that freakin' old! I'm scared for everyone who's still there, and the folks in Afghanistan. I'm really scared that the non-military folks running this fight don't know what in the Hell they're doing, and that they're allowing folks to get slaughtered because they want to run a war on the cheap.
I'm scared for the Iraqis who are getting incinerated by white phosphorous, caught in the crossfire of insurgent/coalition battles, and killed by our smartest bombs. I'm scared for the people who've been kidnapped. I'm scared for the military prisoners (who aren't really military prisoners but "enemy combatants") we're torturing (who aren't really being tortured but being "interrogated") and who have died at our hands (who haven't really . . . oh, yeah, I guess they have died, haven't they. No way to loophole out of that one.)
I'm scared that we're not living in Christ's image. I'm scared that He died for nothing.
In the bible, Isaiah tells us, "Comfort, comfort my people, says your God." Do you still say that? Because we need comfort. Is our warfare truly ended? Doesn't seem that way from down here. How about our iniquities? We seem to be committing so many on all sides these days. Are they still being pardoned?
On this, the second Sunday of Advent, your people wait in the wilderness for the arrival of your Holy Son.
Comfort, comfort your people. Comfort me.
It's me, Harold.
You know, from Chicago?
No, the other Harold from Chicago. The displaced Southern boy.
Yeah, that one. Good! Now we're on the same page!
I hope you and the family are well. Tell Jesus I said, "Yo!"
As you might have guessed, there's a reason I'm communicating with you today via blog. (The internet is great. Thank you for sending us Al Gore so he could invent it. That was sweet.) What is that reason, I guess you're asking, as if you don't already know, but want to play along with my little delusion regardless of your omnipotence? That reason is I'm a little scared.
That's right. Scared.
Of what? Lately, most everything. I'm a little nervous down here on my own. There's not a lot of support structure around me, and I guess I'm just beginning to get a little edgy about that. Sure I have family and friends, but unfortunately most of them are 500 miles away or more.
Oh, and this whole career thing? That's a little painful right now. It sure would be nice to get an easy answer just every once in a while. Is that really too much to ask for?
I'm also scared because it's been really cold lately, and I keep passing people on the streets who don't have any place to go when it gets cold. Really cold. Ass cold. Freeze your 'nads off cold.
I'm also scared for Jessie. I don't know where he is -- he's probably in Iraq. I try to check the paper every day for the names of the latest casualties. I also check the web once a month or so. I'm so scared I'm going to see his name staring me in the face. Even though I haven't seen his name yet, I keep seeing the names of men and women who I don't know. They've all died in this awful war. I notice that most of them are younger than I am. Some of them are much younger than I am, and let's face it -- I'm not that freakin' old! I'm scared for everyone who's still there, and the folks in Afghanistan. I'm really scared that the non-military folks running this fight don't know what in the Hell they're doing, and that they're allowing folks to get slaughtered because they want to run a war on the cheap.
I'm scared for the Iraqis who are getting incinerated by white phosphorous, caught in the crossfire of insurgent/coalition battles, and killed by our smartest bombs. I'm scared for the people who've been kidnapped. I'm scared for the military prisoners (who aren't really military prisoners but "enemy combatants") we're torturing (who aren't really being tortured but being "interrogated") and who have died at our hands (who haven't really . . . oh, yeah, I guess they have died, haven't they. No way to loophole out of that one.)
I'm scared that we're not living in Christ's image. I'm scared that He died for nothing.
In the bible, Isaiah tells us, "Comfort, comfort my people, says your God." Do you still say that? Because we need comfort. Is our warfare truly ended? Doesn't seem that way from down here. How about our iniquities? We seem to be committing so many on all sides these days. Are they still being pardoned?
On this, the second Sunday of Advent, your people wait in the wilderness for the arrival of your Holy Son.
Comfort, comfort your people. Comfort me.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Turkey Day
Since I decided to stay in Chicago for Thanksgiving, I thought I should try to make the most of the day and do some festive things before joining friends for dinner in the evening. I decided to make my way downtown to see the State Street Thanksgiving Day Parade. The temperature this morning was in the teens, so I put on lots of layers in an attempt to stay warm. I even wore my supposedly wind-proof hood to keep my ears, head and face warm.
Because the trains were on holiday schedule, I decided to give myself half an hour to get downtown although it should only take about 10 minutes. I got to the Jackson St. train station at about 8:15, and walked south to the intersection of Van Buren and State to watch the spectacle unfold. In front of me, a half-inflated Miss Piggy balloon was being taken care of by her many handlers. I could hear bands warming up a couple of blocks south where the parade began.
The parade finally started at 8:30, right on time, and I watched it for about half an hour. As parades go, it was nice, though a little smaller than I might have expected for a parade in a city this large.
By 9:00, my feet were so cold that I could no longer feel them, and I was afraid my fingers were entering the early stages of frostbite. I went stomped south down State Street to the train station, south to see more of the parade and stomping in an attempt to get blood flowing into my feet again.
I got home, ate a little breakfast and then drove to the Hyde Park/Kenwood Interfaith Council's Thanksgiving Day service at Rockefeller Chapel. It was a lovely service, with readings and inspirational messages from many different faith backgrounds. Perhaps the most beautiful moment was when a young Muslim man chanted verses from the Koran before they were read (in English) by a young Muslim woman. The chant was exquisite, lovely and full of passion. It was a great way to celebrate Thanksgiving.
On this Thanksgiving Day, I'm very thankful that I have a job, a warm place to sleep, and plenty of food to eat. I'm thankful that my family are safe and sound, and that I have friends both near and far.
Tonight, I will eat turkey and sweet potatoes and stuffing and mashed potatoes. Tomorrow I will shop and decorate. It's truly a great holiday.
Because the trains were on holiday schedule, I decided to give myself half an hour to get downtown although it should only take about 10 minutes. I got to the Jackson St. train station at about 8:15, and walked south to the intersection of Van Buren and State to watch the spectacle unfold. In front of me, a half-inflated Miss Piggy balloon was being taken care of by her many handlers. I could hear bands warming up a couple of blocks south where the parade began.
The parade finally started at 8:30, right on time, and I watched it for about half an hour. As parades go, it was nice, though a little smaller than I might have expected for a parade in a city this large.
By 9:00, my feet were so cold that I could no longer feel them, and I was afraid my fingers were entering the early stages of frostbite. I went stomped south down State Street to the train station, south to see more of the parade and stomping in an attempt to get blood flowing into my feet again.
I got home, ate a little breakfast and then drove to the Hyde Park/Kenwood Interfaith Council's Thanksgiving Day service at Rockefeller Chapel. It was a lovely service, with readings and inspirational messages from many different faith backgrounds. Perhaps the most beautiful moment was when a young Muslim man chanted verses from the Koran before they were read (in English) by a young Muslim woman. The chant was exquisite, lovely and full of passion. It was a great way to celebrate Thanksgiving.
On this Thanksgiving Day, I'm very thankful that I have a job, a warm place to sleep, and plenty of food to eat. I'm thankful that my family are safe and sound, and that I have friends both near and far.
Tonight, I will eat turkey and sweet potatoes and stuffing and mashed potatoes. Tomorrow I will shop and decorate. It's truly a great holiday.
Friday, November 18, 2005
To the End of Dreams
Tonight was the last of Chicago Chamber Choir's fall concert series entitled "Birds and Dreams and Flying Machines." It was a good program, and we performed it reasonably well.
I'm just not satisfied.
I don't mean I'm not satisfied with our performance, necessarily. I just feel like we didn't move the music to the "next level." Most of this is, of course, the consequence of being my own worst critic. But I feel like the audience response was less than it should have been based on the works we performed.
Our next concert series is Carols by Candlelight, December 17 and 18th. As the name suggests, these concerts will be mostly Christmas carols and some of the works we recorded this summer on our latest CD.
I am probably just in a "blah" state overall, but I'm particularly "blah" about music right now. I enjoy singing, and I am very fond of both my church choir and CCC. But I'm just not feeling the muse right now. Hopefully Christmas music will snap me out of the doldrums -- it usually does.
I'm just not satisfied.
I don't mean I'm not satisfied with our performance, necessarily. I just feel like we didn't move the music to the "next level." Most of this is, of course, the consequence of being my own worst critic. But I feel like the audience response was less than it should have been based on the works we performed.
Our next concert series is Carols by Candlelight, December 17 and 18th. As the name suggests, these concerts will be mostly Christmas carols and some of the works we recorded this summer on our latest CD.
I am probably just in a "blah" state overall, but I'm particularly "blah" about music right now. I enjoy singing, and I am very fond of both my church choir and CCC. But I'm just not feeling the muse right now. Hopefully Christmas music will snap me out of the doldrums -- it usually does.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Winter Time is Here Again
Cold weather has arrived in Chicago.
I left my house today in a leather coat and flannel shirt. I am an idiot. It was so cold by the time I left work tonight that I thought my jowls would freeze and drop from my face. I don't think this would have been a good look for me. As much as I like my high cheekbones, I prefer them covered with flesh and skin.
There was also snowfall all day today, mostly very light and wimpy snow, small dry flakes with no hope of maintaining their integrity once they hit the relatively warm ground. All the weather forecasts I saw leading up to today pronounced that there would be no accumulation of snow.
I walked to the bus stop at around 8:00, the ambient temperature about 20 degrees, wind gusting up to 30 mph. The snow picked up considerably in the 6 minutes or so that it takes me to walk from my building to the bus stop. As I stood waiting for the bus, I noticed that snow was moving in rivulets along the street in front of me, slithering like icy snakes under the power of the gusting wind. Watching the playful, rhythmic movement of the snow drifts was a pleasant diversion from the frostbite setting in on my face.
The wind and snow picked up. The serpentine snows grew into larger, fatter snakes. And then the damnedest thing happened.
The snow began to accumulate.
In no more than five minutes, the completely clear road, grass, and sidewalk began accumulating light, dry snow. The grass went from verdant green to frosted. Snow, still blowing down the street, began to pile up in the uneven spaces of the asphalt. The cracks of the sidewalk became white with snow, as did the edges of the manhole covers. And it didn't show signs of stopping.
The bus finally came, and eventually the train. When I got out 30 blocks north and 12 blocks west at the Chinatown station, the snow had nearly stopped, although there was similar accumulation on the streets and grassy areas in my neighborhood.
Suffice it to say, winter is here. It may not have a firm grasp yet, but it's closer than any of us dare think. And I think it's going to be a bitch.
I left my house today in a leather coat and flannel shirt. I am an idiot. It was so cold by the time I left work tonight that I thought my jowls would freeze and drop from my face. I don't think this would have been a good look for me. As much as I like my high cheekbones, I prefer them covered with flesh and skin.
There was also snowfall all day today, mostly very light and wimpy snow, small dry flakes with no hope of maintaining their integrity once they hit the relatively warm ground. All the weather forecasts I saw leading up to today pronounced that there would be no accumulation of snow.
I walked to the bus stop at around 8:00, the ambient temperature about 20 degrees, wind gusting up to 30 mph. The snow picked up considerably in the 6 minutes or so that it takes me to walk from my building to the bus stop. As I stood waiting for the bus, I noticed that snow was moving in rivulets along the street in front of me, slithering like icy snakes under the power of the gusting wind. Watching the playful, rhythmic movement of the snow drifts was a pleasant diversion from the frostbite setting in on my face.
The wind and snow picked up. The serpentine snows grew into larger, fatter snakes. And then the damnedest thing happened.
The snow began to accumulate.
In no more than five minutes, the completely clear road, grass, and sidewalk began accumulating light, dry snow. The grass went from verdant green to frosted. Snow, still blowing down the street, began to pile up in the uneven spaces of the asphalt. The cracks of the sidewalk became white with snow, as did the edges of the manhole covers. And it didn't show signs of stopping.
The bus finally came, and eventually the train. When I got out 30 blocks north and 12 blocks west at the Chinatown station, the snow had nearly stopped, although there was similar accumulation on the streets and grassy areas in my neighborhood.
Suffice it to say, winter is here. It may not have a firm grasp yet, but it's closer than any of us dare think. And I think it's going to be a bitch.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Red Line Renovations
As part of the Chicago Transit Authority's Red Line Renovation project, they are performing work at the Garfield train station. This is the station to which I take the train every weekday morning to get to work at the University of Chicago.
Since late spring or early summer (I honestly just can't remember which) the train station has been under renovation. From the CTA website, here's everything that is supposed to be done in this renovation:
- replace one escalator and platform canopy
- install new floors, lighting and CA Kiosk
- improve bus connection
- repair pedestrian bridge
- add canopy
So far, this is what has been accomplished:
-new floors have been installed on the platform only
-the panels have been removed from the platform canopy
-the escalator has been systematically dismantled
-the old staircase has been boarded up
-a new, wooden staircase has been unveiled suspiciously close to the area where the escalator used to be
For at least four months of work, I'm not really all that impressed. Of course, seeing workers (1) on the work site and (2) actually working is a pretty rare occurrence. At this rate, I expect that, all winter long, there will be no cover over the platform. That should be really interesting once the snowstorms start. It's ridiculous to expect people to wait on a platform for a train when it's -20 degrees and snowing without providing any refuge from the snow that's falling. It's also ridiculous to expect people to drudge through a foot of snow on a train platform. Ridiculous at best, limb-severing terror at worst.
And the CTA wonders why it's losing ridership?
I don't know what the reasons are that so little work has been done in this period of time. Notwithstanding those reasons, which I'm sure would just break your heart, the current state of affairs at the Garfield station is abysmal. Sadly, the 47th Street station is no better, and in fact may be worse. I can only assume that other stations along the southern branch of the Red Line undergoing renovations (63rd, 69th, 75th and 87th Streets) are similarly ill-equipped to handle the onslaught of winter, which apparently is breezing through town on a house-hunting tour tomorrow before taking up
permanent residence in about a month.
CTA riders deserve better. I plan on making my voice heard by contacting CTA. I hope you will too.
Since late spring or early summer (I honestly just can't remember which) the train station has been under renovation. From the CTA website, here's everything that is supposed to be done in this renovation:
- replace one escalator and platform canopy
- install new floors, lighting and CA Kiosk
- improve bus connection
- repair pedestrian bridge
- add canopy
So far, this is what has been accomplished:
-new floors have been installed on the platform only
-the panels have been removed from the platform canopy
-the escalator has been systematically dismantled
-the old staircase has been boarded up
-a new, wooden staircase has been unveiled suspiciously close to the area where the escalator used to be
For at least four months of work, I'm not really all that impressed. Of course, seeing workers (1) on the work site and (2) actually working is a pretty rare occurrence. At this rate, I expect that, all winter long, there will be no cover over the platform. That should be really interesting once the snowstorms start. It's ridiculous to expect people to wait on a platform for a train when it's -20 degrees and snowing without providing any refuge from the snow that's falling. It's also ridiculous to expect people to drudge through a foot of snow on a train platform. Ridiculous at best, limb-severing terror at worst.
And the CTA wonders why it's losing ridership?
I don't know what the reasons are that so little work has been done in this period of time. Notwithstanding those reasons, which I'm sure would just break your heart, the current state of affairs at the Garfield station is abysmal. Sadly, the 47th Street station is no better, and in fact may be worse. I can only assume that other stations along the southern branch of the Red Line undergoing renovations (63rd, 69th, 75th and 87th Streets) are similarly ill-equipped to handle the onslaught of winter, which apparently is breezing through town on a house-hunting tour tomorrow before taking up
permanent residence in about a month.
CTA riders deserve better. I plan on making my voice heard by contacting CTA. I hope you will too.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Chicago Chamber Choir CDs
Chicago Chamber Choir's latest CD, "I Heard the Bells: A Chicago Chamber Choir Christmas," is now available! It's $15 plus $2 shipping. To order, email me or send an email to info@chicagochamberchoir.org.
I haven't heard it yet, but I'm sure it's outstanding! (Not that I have even a hint of bias . . .)
You can also pick up a copy of the CD at our upcoming concert at St. Paul UCC in Lincoln Park, Friday 18 November @ 7:30. Tickets are available at tickets@chicagochamberchoir.org.
I haven't heard it yet, but I'm sure it's outstanding! (Not that I have even a hint of bias . . .)
You can also pick up a copy of the CD at our upcoming concert at St. Paul UCC in Lincoln Park, Friday 18 November @ 7:30. Tickets are available at tickets@chicagochamberchoir.org.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Dio Con -- Day 2
Today was a wonderful day at convention! None of the anti-gay resolutions passed, and were actually voted down pretty handily. The nearly universal theme on the floor was that the Diocese of Chicago is unwilling to place unity (with the Anglican Communion) above justice. Several straight persons, both clergy and laity, spoke against the various resolutions. Only a couple of people, other than the sponsors of the resolutions, spoke in favor of them.
I was proud to be a member of the Church today.
Most of the other resolutions were passed by voice vote, although a couple were voted down. But good work was done, and I was pleased to have played even a very small part.
I was proud to be a member of the Church today.
Most of the other resolutions were passed by voice vote, although a couple were voted down. But good work was done, and I was pleased to have played even a very small part.
Dio Con -- Day 1
Today was the first session of the 167th Annual Convention of the Episcopal Diocese of Chicago in lovely downtown Arlington Heights, IL. (Okay, it was in the Sheraton near the interstate, but that's not as romantic, is it?) I am one of the lay delegates from my parish, meaning I get to attend and actually vote on resolutions brought to the convention floor. This is a big change from when I was a delegate to convention in the Diocese of Tennessee, where my parish got only voice at convention and no vote. So, today and tomorrow will consist of news bits and reflections on the goings on at convention.
The only voting today was for representatives to various councils and committees of the diocese. Many of these races were uncontested, so it was a shoe-in for the people on the ballot. I didn't hear if any of the contested races was decided today; if they weren't, there will be a second ballot tomorrow morning that I will miss. By voice vote we approved several appointments by +Bishop Persell.
The interesting business today was the debating of resolutions to be presented tomorrow on the convention floor. Most of the resolutions are pretty tame, but a couple were either potentially or definitively anti-GLBT.
Over about an hour and a half, we debated these resolutions, most of which attempted to state the mind of the diocese regarding the Windsor Report. For those of you not familiar with the Report, here's the Reader's Digest synopsis:
The Episcopal Church (USA) and the Anglican Church of Canada, constituent members of the Worldwide Anglican Communion, were declared to be naughty because these rogue churches consecrated an openly gay man in partnership with another man (also openly gay, kinda goes without saying) as Bishop of New Hampshire and authorized the writing and adoption of rites for blessing same-sex unions, respectively. Even though these actions were taken in full compliance with the constitution and canons of the respective churches, others in the Anglican Communion (read: ultra-conservative priests and bishops from Africa and Asia) feel these actions were disrespectful towards them. Brouhaha ensued, committees had to be commissioned, they had to meet and write a document to justify the thousands of dollars spent assembling and flying the members all over the world, and what we got was the Windsor Report. Now everyone in Anglican Christendom has to pass some sort of resolution saying that we're sorry and we've wept and flogged ourselves over being inclusive and respecting our GLBT brothers and sisters.
(A much better synopsis of the Windsor Report can be found here.)
After much spirited, but largely collegial, debate, I think the worst resolution will fail to pass. I think an alternative resolution that would call for a moratorium on consecrating another openly GLBT bishop before 2009 (the year the national Episcopal Church will meet for its 76th General Convention) may have a shot, but I hope it fails too. I vehemently oppose any moratorium on ordaining GLBT persons to any level of ministry, from the diaconate to the episcopate. These measures directly injure GLBT persons in the Episcopal Church, and as such I cannot and will not support them in any way.
There was a great moment in convention today, though. During +Bishop Persell's address to convention, he mentioned husbands and wives and partners in the same breath. Twice. I literally cried. To see a sitting bishop in the Episcopal Church talk about GLBT people in such a positive, life-affirming way was a truly miraculous moment for me. This is not something that my former bishop in Tennessee would ever, or will ever, do.
I also attended a very informative educational session this morning regarding outreach. As I hope to focus more on outreach at my parish, I was very energized and motivated having left this session. I hope in the near future to work on expanding outreach at St. Paul and the Redeemer.
I'll give an update on the outcome of the resolutions tomorrow. Pray for the Diocese of Chicago!
The only voting today was for representatives to various councils and committees of the diocese. Many of these races were uncontested, so it was a shoe-in for the people on the ballot. I didn't hear if any of the contested races was decided today; if they weren't, there will be a second ballot tomorrow morning that I will miss. By voice vote we approved several appointments by +Bishop Persell.
The interesting business today was the debating of resolutions to be presented tomorrow on the convention floor. Most of the resolutions are pretty tame, but a couple were either potentially or definitively anti-GLBT.
Over about an hour and a half, we debated these resolutions, most of which attempted to state the mind of the diocese regarding the Windsor Report. For those of you not familiar with the Report, here's the Reader's Digest synopsis:
The Episcopal Church (USA) and the Anglican Church of Canada, constituent members of the Worldwide Anglican Communion, were declared to be naughty because these rogue churches consecrated an openly gay man in partnership with another man (also openly gay, kinda goes without saying) as Bishop of New Hampshire and authorized the writing and adoption of rites for blessing same-sex unions, respectively. Even though these actions were taken in full compliance with the constitution and canons of the respective churches, others in the Anglican Communion (read: ultra-conservative priests and bishops from Africa and Asia) feel these actions were disrespectful towards them. Brouhaha ensued, committees had to be commissioned, they had to meet and write a document to justify the thousands of dollars spent assembling and flying the members all over the world, and what we got was the Windsor Report. Now everyone in Anglican Christendom has to pass some sort of resolution saying that we're sorry and we've wept and flogged ourselves over being inclusive and respecting our GLBT brothers and sisters.
(A much better synopsis of the Windsor Report can be found here.)
After much spirited, but largely collegial, debate, I think the worst resolution will fail to pass. I think an alternative resolution that would call for a moratorium on consecrating another openly GLBT bishop before 2009 (the year the national Episcopal Church will meet for its 76th General Convention) may have a shot, but I hope it fails too. I vehemently oppose any moratorium on ordaining GLBT persons to any level of ministry, from the diaconate to the episcopate. These measures directly injure GLBT persons in the Episcopal Church, and as such I cannot and will not support them in any way.
There was a great moment in convention today, though. During +Bishop Persell's address to convention, he mentioned husbands and wives and partners in the same breath. Twice. I literally cried. To see a sitting bishop in the Episcopal Church talk about GLBT people in such a positive, life-affirming way was a truly miraculous moment for me. This is not something that my former bishop in Tennessee would ever, or will ever, do.
I also attended a very informative educational session this morning regarding outreach. As I hope to focus more on outreach at my parish, I was very energized and motivated having left this session. I hope in the near future to work on expanding outreach at St. Paul and the Redeemer.
I'll give an update on the outcome of the resolutions tomorrow. Pray for the Diocese of Chicago!
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Holy Smoke
Earlier today I was standing in the narthex of my church facing east into the sanctuary. I was wearing an alb as I was the thurifer for the service that would begin in about 15 minutes.
Just inside the glass doors to the sanctuary sits the baptismal font. Warm water had just been poured into the fount because a baptism was occurring at the upcoming service. Outside it was cool, probably around 50 degrees, and the wind was coming in through the open doorway. As the cool wind drifted across the surface of the warm water in the baptismal font, wisps of water vapor rose and danced across the water. Seeing this play between the water and the air, I smiled.
Why did I smile? Mainly because the sight of vapor lifting off of the water reminds me of a misconception I harbored when I was younger. In the evening, often after a summer afternoon shower, large columns of water vapor and dust would reach from the ground up to the clouds in the sky. Some people would have called these sunbeams, I suppose. As a child, I thought what I was seeing was the souls of departed folks being carried into heaven. To this day, whenever I see such a phenomenon in the sky, or see great amounts of water vapor evaporating into the ether, such as over Lake Michigan in the early light of day, I think back to my boyhood. I also think of my friends and relatives who have departed this life and who, I hope, have ascended on one of those sunbeams into the Kingdom of God.
It occurs to me now that the wind moving across the water in the baptismal font could also symbolize the movement of the Holy Spirit over the waters of creation. The priest would recall that event in the text of the Baptismal Prayer in the upcoming service. That's one of my favorite prayers in the Book of Common Prayer, and I look forward to baptisms mainly because I know I'll get to hear the beautiful text of that prayer.
And then, again, I will smile.
Just inside the glass doors to the sanctuary sits the baptismal font. Warm water had just been poured into the fount because a baptism was occurring at the upcoming service. Outside it was cool, probably around 50 degrees, and the wind was coming in through the open doorway. As the cool wind drifted across the surface of the warm water in the baptismal font, wisps of water vapor rose and danced across the water. Seeing this play between the water and the air, I smiled.
Why did I smile? Mainly because the sight of vapor lifting off of the water reminds me of a misconception I harbored when I was younger. In the evening, often after a summer afternoon shower, large columns of water vapor and dust would reach from the ground up to the clouds in the sky. Some people would have called these sunbeams, I suppose. As a child, I thought what I was seeing was the souls of departed folks being carried into heaven. To this day, whenever I see such a phenomenon in the sky, or see great amounts of water vapor evaporating into the ether, such as over Lake Michigan in the early light of day, I think back to my boyhood. I also think of my friends and relatives who have departed this life and who, I hope, have ascended on one of those sunbeams into the Kingdom of God.
It occurs to me now that the wind moving across the water in the baptismal font could also symbolize the movement of the Holy Spirit over the waters of creation. The priest would recall that event in the text of the Baptismal Prayer in the upcoming service. That's one of my favorite prayers in the Book of Common Prayer, and I look forward to baptisms mainly because I know I'll get to hear the beautiful text of that prayer.
And then, again, I will smile.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Community
As I was walking to the gym tonight, I passed by one of the dormitories on the UofC campus. It's been unusually warm the past couple of days for November in Chicago, approaching (and surpassing) 70 degrees. Consequently, some people in the dorms had opened their windows to allow a little breeze to move through.
Through one open window, I saw the usual trappings of a dormitory room -- a clock radio, a computer, a compact stereo. There was a young man leaning in the doorway of a room across the hall from the one with the open window through which I was looking. It wasn't my intention to be a Peeping Tom, or to invade the privacy of these young people. It was just an irresistible opportunity to experience a reminder of my own days of living in a dorm.
When I was in college, I thought dormitory life was miserable. Loud music played at all hours. Fire alarms were pulled by miscreants every Friday night preceding a Saturday morning Chem exam, sometimes more often. There was no air conditioning in my dormitory, which meant that our rooms were devastatingly hot in the merciless North Carolina summer heat. And one bathroom shared by eight men? It was like living in the men's locker room.
Dorm life, for all of its inconveniences, was a fantastic experiment in building community. In my suite, only my roommate and myself had chosen each other, everyone else had been put together by random chance. The eight of us spanned the gamut in terms of religion, political beliefs, economic status, and life experience. We watched movies together, fought with each other, sprayed each other with shaving cream, consoled each other in hard times, and partied when we were ready to go nuts from the pressures of studying and working.
I remember all of my suitemates. Ryan and Chris lived across the hall. They both dated my best friend, Amy (concurrently, not simultaneously). Chris was one of the few fundamentalist Christians with whom I felt any sympatico. Ryan was a gentle soul who broke my heart when he broke up with Amy. I doubt I ever really forgave him for that, a sin most grievous because I had no right to harbor any grudge for that action. Brent, who lived next door, was a die-hard conservative who used to argue politics with me. I once offered to buy him an English-to-English dictionary when he complained that I used "fancy words" in my arguments because I had no other basis to justify my positions. I think he's a veterinarian now. His roommate, Richard, was an odd boy from West Virginia. I heard that Richard had become mentally unstable, perhaps he even attempted suicide. I don't know what became of him, but I fear it was nothing good. Ray, who lived diagonally across from me, was one of the kindest men I ever knew. He was also the best looking man I'd ever seen naked. (He still rates in the top ten.) His roommate, Verne, was a smart guy, from privilege, who once offered me some advice on improving my enjoyment of performing cunnilingus involving Astropop lollipops. (I won't divulge further information, but I think you can probably connect the dots.) Needless to say, that advice was wasted on me.
The only one of my suitemates with whom I maintain contact now is my old roommate, P.J. We see each other at least once a year, often with our friend David, one of my closest friends from college. The three of us went to the Grand Canyon last year to celebrate (belatedly) our 30th birthdays. It was a fantastic trip.
I remember dormitory life with fondness, and see it through my mind's eye, now tempered by years of living in "the real world." I certainly don't miss dormitory life enough to go back to living that way, but seeing it from the outside evoked some strong memories and a sense of romantic nostalgia. Even though I don't maintain contact with my old suitemates, I miss those days of camaraderie. I hope that they are all safe tonight, happy and loved. Each of them deserves that much.
Through one open window, I saw the usual trappings of a dormitory room -- a clock radio, a computer, a compact stereo. There was a young man leaning in the doorway of a room across the hall from the one with the open window through which I was looking. It wasn't my intention to be a Peeping Tom, or to invade the privacy of these young people. It was just an irresistible opportunity to experience a reminder of my own days of living in a dorm.
When I was in college, I thought dormitory life was miserable. Loud music played at all hours. Fire alarms were pulled by miscreants every Friday night preceding a Saturday morning Chem exam, sometimes more often. There was no air conditioning in my dormitory, which meant that our rooms were devastatingly hot in the merciless North Carolina summer heat. And one bathroom shared by eight men? It was like living in the men's locker room.
Dorm life, for all of its inconveniences, was a fantastic experiment in building community. In my suite, only my roommate and myself had chosen each other, everyone else had been put together by random chance. The eight of us spanned the gamut in terms of religion, political beliefs, economic status, and life experience. We watched movies together, fought with each other, sprayed each other with shaving cream, consoled each other in hard times, and partied when we were ready to go nuts from the pressures of studying and working.
I remember all of my suitemates. Ryan and Chris lived across the hall. They both dated my best friend, Amy (concurrently, not simultaneously). Chris was one of the few fundamentalist Christians with whom I felt any sympatico. Ryan was a gentle soul who broke my heart when he broke up with Amy. I doubt I ever really forgave him for that, a sin most grievous because I had no right to harbor any grudge for that action. Brent, who lived next door, was a die-hard conservative who used to argue politics with me. I once offered to buy him an English-to-English dictionary when he complained that I used "fancy words" in my arguments because I had no other basis to justify my positions. I think he's a veterinarian now. His roommate, Richard, was an odd boy from West Virginia. I heard that Richard had become mentally unstable, perhaps he even attempted suicide. I don't know what became of him, but I fear it was nothing good. Ray, who lived diagonally across from me, was one of the kindest men I ever knew. He was also the best looking man I'd ever seen naked. (He still rates in the top ten.) His roommate, Verne, was a smart guy, from privilege, who once offered me some advice on improving my enjoyment of performing cunnilingus involving Astropop lollipops. (I won't divulge further information, but I think you can probably connect the dots.) Needless to say, that advice was wasted on me.
The only one of my suitemates with whom I maintain contact now is my old roommate, P.J. We see each other at least once a year, often with our friend David, one of my closest friends from college. The three of us went to the Grand Canyon last year to celebrate (belatedly) our 30th birthdays. It was a fantastic trip.
I remember dormitory life with fondness, and see it through my mind's eye, now tempered by years of living in "the real world." I certainly don't miss dormitory life enough to go back to living that way, but seeing it from the outside evoked some strong memories and a sense of romantic nostalgia. Even though I don't maintain contact with my old suitemates, I miss those days of camaraderie. I hope that they are all safe tonight, happy and loved. Each of them deserves that much.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Kitty Trauma
I took my cat, Jackson, for his yearly physical and vaccinations today. Jackson hates going to the vet the way most people hate going to an IRS audit. Actually, Jackson may hate the vet worse than that.
Jackson understands that when the collapsible kitty carrier is retrieved from underneath my bed, where it stands idle approximately 362 days out of the year, bad things will quickly ensue. It will probably involve a ride in the car, another thing Jackson just hates and has always hated, even before he came to hate the vet so passionately.
So it was that we had a typical morning of going to the vet. I got the kitty carrier out from under the bed and assembled it while Jackson was elsewhere in my apartment. I then went on a hunt for Jackson, and found him perched on his kitty condo looking out the window, observing the morning's comings and goings. He heard my footfalls and turned towards me. I looked at him, and he at me. I walked towards him. He jumped down and tried to run. Jackson is not a dumb cat. He reads my emotions and facial expressions better than a fortune teller at a sideshow. He knew that I was coming after him for something. and whatever purpose I held it was not going to be to his liking. Fortunately, Jackson is not a very limber or agile cat, so catching him is not usually a problem. And so it passed this morning that I grabbed him handily and walked him back to my bed, whereupon sat the dreaded collapsible kitty carrier.
There are two ways to get a cat into a pet carrier. The first is to entice the cat into the carrier with treats, toys, gentle words of praise, food, anything that will appeal to the cat's desires to eat, play and be loved. In this way, the carrier becomes a safe haven, a little chamber wherein kitty can feel safe, not so much closed in but set apart from the world, free to enjoy his or her favorite things.
The second way is to push the cat bodily into the carrier through the gate on the top of the carrier, holding him/her with one hand and maneuvering kitty's paws and legs into the opening of the carrier with the other hand. Once the front paws and legs are in, one then must push down with nearly as much force as one can muster to get the head in, and the rest of the cat's body, limp from resisting, will soon follow.
Can you guess which method I used?
This was my first visit to a veterinarian's office in Chicago. This particular office was recommended by a colleague, someone who owns a dog and is owned by two cats. I was pleased with the vet, a lovely, seemingly ambitious professional woman who, as the framed copies of articles on her wall attest, is the first African American to open her own veterinary practice in Chicago in 20 years. She seemed very knowledgeable and was quite professional in her demeanor.
Jackson hated her instantly. This clinched it -- she must be good.
Unfortunately, Jackson has gained over a pound in the past year despite being on light kitty food with tightly regulated feedings. Coupled with his recent increased water intake and desire for more food than I am willing to feed him, the vet and I think he may be heading towards diabetes, a none too rare disease in kitties. This makes me unhappy, not only because I'm worried about the ill effects on his health, but also because this means that Jackson will suddenly become a much more expensive kitty to take care of.
First and foremost in the care of nearly any animal is feeding, not only what is fed but how often and in what quantity. My new veterinarian recommends a Purina diabetes formula dry food. On the web, I've found a couple of articles by vets advocating wet food because of the lower carbohydrate content versus dry food. Either way, my once every 3 months trips to buy a bag of Science Diet Light Hairball formula (which I just bought this weekend, of course) will soon be a distant memory. I seem to be faced with the choice of buying this premium Purina food at what I am sure will be a hefty cost, or switching Jackson to wet food, something he has never EVER had before.
I'm not sure how I'm going to handle this kitty health dilemma yet, but I do think some more research is in store. I am trained to seek out new knowledge, so I guess it's time I put my fancy degree to some use!
(Note to NIH reviewers out there -- this is a joke; I of course use my advanced degree [that you so graciously paid for] every day in the continuing pursuit of new knowledge! Yea, science!)
Jackson understands that when the collapsible kitty carrier is retrieved from underneath my bed, where it stands idle approximately 362 days out of the year, bad things will quickly ensue. It will probably involve a ride in the car, another thing Jackson just hates and has always hated, even before he came to hate the vet so passionately.
So it was that we had a typical morning of going to the vet. I got the kitty carrier out from under the bed and assembled it while Jackson was elsewhere in my apartment. I then went on a hunt for Jackson, and found him perched on his kitty condo looking out the window, observing the morning's comings and goings. He heard my footfalls and turned towards me. I looked at him, and he at me. I walked towards him. He jumped down and tried to run. Jackson is not a dumb cat. He reads my emotions and facial expressions better than a fortune teller at a sideshow. He knew that I was coming after him for something. and whatever purpose I held it was not going to be to his liking. Fortunately, Jackson is not a very limber or agile cat, so catching him is not usually a problem. And so it passed this morning that I grabbed him handily and walked him back to my bed, whereupon sat the dreaded collapsible kitty carrier.
There are two ways to get a cat into a pet carrier. The first is to entice the cat into the carrier with treats, toys, gentle words of praise, food, anything that will appeal to the cat's desires to eat, play and be loved. In this way, the carrier becomes a safe haven, a little chamber wherein kitty can feel safe, not so much closed in but set apart from the world, free to enjoy his or her favorite things.
The second way is to push the cat bodily into the carrier through the gate on the top of the carrier, holding him/her with one hand and maneuvering kitty's paws and legs into the opening of the carrier with the other hand. Once the front paws and legs are in, one then must push down with nearly as much force as one can muster to get the head in, and the rest of the cat's body, limp from resisting, will soon follow.
Can you guess which method I used?
This was my first visit to a veterinarian's office in Chicago. This particular office was recommended by a colleague, someone who owns a dog and is owned by two cats. I was pleased with the vet, a lovely, seemingly ambitious professional woman who, as the framed copies of articles on her wall attest, is the first African American to open her own veterinary practice in Chicago in 20 years. She seemed very knowledgeable and was quite professional in her demeanor.
Jackson hated her instantly. This clinched it -- she must be good.
Unfortunately, Jackson has gained over a pound in the past year despite being on light kitty food with tightly regulated feedings. Coupled with his recent increased water intake and desire for more food than I am willing to feed him, the vet and I think he may be heading towards diabetes, a none too rare disease in kitties. This makes me unhappy, not only because I'm worried about the ill effects on his health, but also because this means that Jackson will suddenly become a much more expensive kitty to take care of.
First and foremost in the care of nearly any animal is feeding, not only what is fed but how often and in what quantity. My new veterinarian recommends a Purina diabetes formula dry food. On the web, I've found a couple of articles by vets advocating wet food because of the lower carbohydrate content versus dry food. Either way, my once every 3 months trips to buy a bag of Science Diet Light Hairball formula (which I just bought this weekend, of course) will soon be a distant memory. I seem to be faced with the choice of buying this premium Purina food at what I am sure will be a hefty cost, or switching Jackson to wet food, something he has never EVER had before.
I'm not sure how I'm going to handle this kitty health dilemma yet, but I do think some more research is in store. I am trained to seek out new knowledge, so I guess it's time I put my fancy degree to some use!
(Note to NIH reviewers out there -- this is a joke; I of course use my advanced degree [that you so graciously paid for] every day in the continuing pursuit of new knowledge! Yea, science!)
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Seventeen Again
Last night, when I got home from work just past 11:00, I turned on the television in my bedroom before getting into bed for what I had hoped would be a long night's sleep, or at least as close to seven hours as possible before my alarm was to wake me at 6:00 the next morning.
Unfortunately, the fates had different plans for me and I could not fall asleep. (Before you even think it, turning the TV off doesn't help -- I've tried it. It's harder for me to fall asleep without noise to distract me.) At 12:00 I tuned my television to WGN to watch "Will and Grace," and was pleasantly surprised to see that one of my favorite episodes was getting ready to air. (Okay, so I like W&G. I am that gay. I do not, however, like "Sex and the City." No one should be that gay.)
In this episode, Grace has just been dumped by her boyfriend Nathan (played winningly by Mr. Woody Harrelson) at a point in their relationship where Grace assumed marriage was the next, nearly immediate step. Understandably, this puts Grace in a depressed state as manifested by her lying in bed for days on end without any -- ANY -- attention to personal grooming. Although Will, Jack and Karen are successful in arousing Grace from her Boudoire of Sadness one time, she retreats there immediately upon hearing a travel agent on the answering machine asking Nathan for the correct spelling of his travel companion, Suzie's, last name. Apparently this eager-beaver travel agent has worked extra hard for her commission by booking Nathan and Suzie in the most romantic accomodations possible on the cruise ship where they have booked passage. Devastated by the realization that Nathan has found himself another girlfriend in the time it took her to sleep that man right outta her hair, Grace sinks even deeper into depression.
Her friends (well, Will's her friend; I think Jack sees her as a non-returnable gift-with-purchase that came with Will, and I believe Karen thinks of Grace as something akin to a pet) try to arouse her by placing her -- still clothed in what I can only imagine to be the funkiest smelling pajamas in the western hemisphere -- into a cold shower. While trying to soap her down, an act they must have done as much for their own olfaction as for her sanity, Grace finally snaps. She then reads each of them in turn, Will for having lost his lover of seven years, Karen for losing her husband to the penitentiary, and Jack for being content to flit from one relationship to another without any emotional investment whatsoever. Imploring them to let her handle her situation in her own way, Grace stumbles back to her bedrom, soaked head to toe. Will, Jack and Karen realize that Grace is right, and that maybe they too should be in bed, sleeping off the pain and disappointment in their own lives. So, dripping wet, the three of them in turn get into Grace's bed and fall asleep together, one big old wet dogpile of misery loving company. While these shenanigans will undoubtedly lead to premature mattress rot, they seem not to have been in vain. When Grace awakes the next morning in the embrace of her friend(s), the sun is shining brightly through her window (eastern exposure in Manhattan? Yuck!), and the dulcent tones of Annie Lennox's "Seventeen Again" begin to play. She arises almost majestically from her catatonic catacomb, depression over, end scene.
Wow! is television ballsy to put shit like that on the air.
I know, I know, I said it's one of my favorite episodes, and it is. The idea is utterly intoxicating -- sleep away your blues surrounded by friends (I could do without the wetness), awake refreshed and revived. Maybe that happens in the real world, but I tend to doubt it. Just as I had to realize that, in actual prisons, most of the prisoners are not nearly as hot as Mr. Chris Meloni was on "Oz," resolutions on television shows like "Will and Grace" don't reflect the intricate realities of day-to-day living. Situation comedies are able to solve everyone's problems in 30 minutes or less because they only have 22 minutes to tie everything up into a nice package. Once you've been on for a few seasons, you might get an occasional one hour special because the new series they slipped in after your time slot has tanked in the ratings and more people are watching Golf TV in that half-hour so the network is desperate.
By and large, television makes us want to believe in the fiction it presents. We may not really buy into the notion that depression goes away after sleep, or that putting your down-in-the-dumps friend bodily into the bathtub is a good idea, but we want to believe that it could work, perhaps if more of us tried it. The cold hard reality of life is that it's not a cakewalk. Eventually, people whom you adore will treat you like used Kleenex. Your boss will overwork and underpay you and dare you to find something better to do with your life, like anyone else would have you. Friends you thought were your closest confidantes will betray every ounce of trust you've invested in them, with interest.
The great reality of life is that every morning the sun will come through the eastern sky and life will begin again. That sun may be blocked by clouds, tall buildings, trees, or any variety of physical non-translucent objects, but it's still there. I think one of the goals of everyone's life should be to remember that the sun is there, even if it can't reach you. The luckiest among us, myself included, have people in the world sending us love that is just as constant. That love stretches out to reach us even if we can't feel the embrace or hear the words. Remembering that love, strong and fierce as the sun, exists is what helps me to feel safe when I'm alone, scared and hurting. That love gets me out of bed in the morning.
Of course, having Annie Lennox in my bedroom to herald the day and get me to my feet would be pretty sweet, too.
Unfortunately, the fates had different plans for me and I could not fall asleep. (Before you even think it, turning the TV off doesn't help -- I've tried it. It's harder for me to fall asleep without noise to distract me.) At 12:00 I tuned my television to WGN to watch "Will and Grace," and was pleasantly surprised to see that one of my favorite episodes was getting ready to air. (Okay, so I like W&G. I am that gay. I do not, however, like "Sex and the City." No one should be that gay.)
In this episode, Grace has just been dumped by her boyfriend Nathan (played winningly by Mr. Woody Harrelson) at a point in their relationship where Grace assumed marriage was the next, nearly immediate step. Understandably, this puts Grace in a depressed state as manifested by her lying in bed for days on end without any -- ANY -- attention to personal grooming. Although Will, Jack and Karen are successful in arousing Grace from her Boudoire of Sadness one time, she retreats there immediately upon hearing a travel agent on the answering machine asking Nathan for the correct spelling of his travel companion, Suzie's, last name. Apparently this eager-beaver travel agent has worked extra hard for her commission by booking Nathan and Suzie in the most romantic accomodations possible on the cruise ship where they have booked passage. Devastated by the realization that Nathan has found himself another girlfriend in the time it took her to sleep that man right outta her hair, Grace sinks even deeper into depression.
Her friends (well, Will's her friend; I think Jack sees her as a non-returnable gift-with-purchase that came with Will, and I believe Karen thinks of Grace as something akin to a pet) try to arouse her by placing her -- still clothed in what I can only imagine to be the funkiest smelling pajamas in the western hemisphere -- into a cold shower. While trying to soap her down, an act they must have done as much for their own olfaction as for her sanity, Grace finally snaps. She then reads each of them in turn, Will for having lost his lover of seven years, Karen for losing her husband to the penitentiary, and Jack for being content to flit from one relationship to another without any emotional investment whatsoever. Imploring them to let her handle her situation in her own way, Grace stumbles back to her bedrom, soaked head to toe. Will, Jack and Karen realize that Grace is right, and that maybe they too should be in bed, sleeping off the pain and disappointment in their own lives. So, dripping wet, the three of them in turn get into Grace's bed and fall asleep together, one big old wet dogpile of misery loving company. While these shenanigans will undoubtedly lead to premature mattress rot, they seem not to have been in vain. When Grace awakes the next morning in the embrace of her friend(s), the sun is shining brightly through her window (eastern exposure in Manhattan? Yuck!), and the dulcent tones of Annie Lennox's "Seventeen Again" begin to play. She arises almost majestically from her catatonic catacomb, depression over, end scene.
Wow! is television ballsy to put shit like that on the air.
I know, I know, I said it's one of my favorite episodes, and it is. The idea is utterly intoxicating -- sleep away your blues surrounded by friends (I could do without the wetness), awake refreshed and revived. Maybe that happens in the real world, but I tend to doubt it. Just as I had to realize that, in actual prisons, most of the prisoners are not nearly as hot as Mr. Chris Meloni was on "Oz," resolutions on television shows like "Will and Grace" don't reflect the intricate realities of day-to-day living. Situation comedies are able to solve everyone's problems in 30 minutes or less because they only have 22 minutes to tie everything up into a nice package. Once you've been on for a few seasons, you might get an occasional one hour special because the new series they slipped in after your time slot has tanked in the ratings and more people are watching Golf TV in that half-hour so the network is desperate.
By and large, television makes us want to believe in the fiction it presents. We may not really buy into the notion that depression goes away after sleep, or that putting your down-in-the-dumps friend bodily into the bathtub is a good idea, but we want to believe that it could work, perhaps if more of us tried it. The cold hard reality of life is that it's not a cakewalk. Eventually, people whom you adore will treat you like used Kleenex. Your boss will overwork and underpay you and dare you to find something better to do with your life, like anyone else would have you. Friends you thought were your closest confidantes will betray every ounce of trust you've invested in them, with interest.
The great reality of life is that every morning the sun will come through the eastern sky and life will begin again. That sun may be blocked by clouds, tall buildings, trees, or any variety of physical non-translucent objects, but it's still there. I think one of the goals of everyone's life should be to remember that the sun is there, even if it can't reach you. The luckiest among us, myself included, have people in the world sending us love that is just as constant. That love stretches out to reach us even if we can't feel the embrace or hear the words. Remembering that love, strong and fierce as the sun, exists is what helps me to feel safe when I'm alone, scared and hurting. That love gets me out of bed in the morning.
Of course, having Annie Lennox in my bedroom to herald the day and get me to my feet would be pretty sweet, too.
Friday, October 28, 2005
In the News
Unlike 99.756% of the rest of the blogosphere, I'm not going to go on and on about today's indictment of I. Lewis "Scooter" Libby, Vice President Cheney's Chief of Staff. I only want to say this.
HA HA HA HAAA! HA HA HA HA HAAAA!!
Okay, good, I think I got it out of my syst . . .
HA HA HA HA HA HAAA!!! HEEE HEEE HEE HA HA HA HAAA! *snort*
(Oh, I hate it when I snort.)
Now back to our usual ruminations.
PS -- Karl Rove, I think you may have a problem . . .
HA HA HA HAAA! HA HA HA HA HAAAA!!
Okay, good, I think I got it out of my syst . . .
HA HA HA HA HA HAAA!!! HEEE HEEE HEE HA HA HA HAAA! *snort*
(Oh, I hate it when I snort.)
Now back to our usual ruminations.
PS -- Karl Rove, I think you may have a problem . . .
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Singing
If I'm going to be completely honest, I must admit that I've been a bit in a funk for the past couple of weeks. I wouldn't say I was depressed; I've been depressed and it's a lot uglier than what I've been experiencing of late.
Today, as I was finishing up at work, I was listening to my iPod, like I often do when I'm alone in the lab. Lately I've been playing recordings of music for the Chicago Chamber Choir fall concerts coming up next month. Some songs I've been playing to help with memorization or to become more confident with notes; others have been looping because they've fit my mood or my craving for rich, delicious, velvety harmony. When others haven't been around, I've been singing along with my iPod, primarily to improve my muscle memory and pitch. This is nothing unusual for me when learning new music. In the past few years, my life has become so busy that I often resort to learning music from recordings, something I used to abhor doing.
About 15 minutes before I left the lab this evening, as I was wrapping things up and writing up my day's work, I took off my iPod so that I could put it away. Oddly, I felt like continuing to sing, and I did. And I wasn't singing music to learn it; I was singing music to enjoy the act of singing. To my amazement, I was even singing music out loud, sotto voce, mind you, but still audible to the couple of people who were still around.
I believe that this signaled the end of my funk. And it couldn't have come a minute too soon.
Too much is going too well in my life for the "other things" in my life to put me into a funk. In times like these, when I feel I'm juggling about as many things as I possibly can, it should be the easiest call in the world to put the "other things" into God's hands. I have faith that all the "other things" will fall into place, but it's hard for me to live into that faith. I cannot know what will happen tomorrow, but part of faith is believing that tomorrow will be better than today.
Whatever happens tomorrow, I just hope I'll still be singing.
Today, as I was finishing up at work, I was listening to my iPod, like I often do when I'm alone in the lab. Lately I've been playing recordings of music for the Chicago Chamber Choir fall concerts coming up next month. Some songs I've been playing to help with memorization or to become more confident with notes; others have been looping because they've fit my mood or my craving for rich, delicious, velvety harmony. When others haven't been around, I've been singing along with my iPod, primarily to improve my muscle memory and pitch. This is nothing unusual for me when learning new music. In the past few years, my life has become so busy that I often resort to learning music from recordings, something I used to abhor doing.
About 15 minutes before I left the lab this evening, as I was wrapping things up and writing up my day's work, I took off my iPod so that I could put it away. Oddly, I felt like continuing to sing, and I did. And I wasn't singing music to learn it; I was singing music to enjoy the act of singing. To my amazement, I was even singing music out loud, sotto voce, mind you, but still audible to the couple of people who were still around.
I believe that this signaled the end of my funk. And it couldn't have come a minute too soon.
Too much is going too well in my life for the "other things" in my life to put me into a funk. In times like these, when I feel I'm juggling about as many things as I possibly can, it should be the easiest call in the world to put the "other things" into God's hands. I have faith that all the "other things" will fall into place, but it's hard for me to live into that faith. I cannot know what will happen tomorrow, but part of faith is believing that tomorrow will be better than today.
Whatever happens tomorrow, I just hope I'll still be singing.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Sad Inheritance
People in the United States born into what is often called "Generation X" -- generally speaking, folks born in the 60s and early 70s -- are poised to take the reins of leadership from our forebears. Folks in their late 20s to early 40s are well ensconced in the shrines of power, serving government, business and academia. Soon, my contemporaries will be winning seats in legislatures, receiving offers for top executive positions at major corporations and, in the not too distant future, we will have a President who was born after 1959. (Per the Constitution, only those of us born before 1974 would be eligible to run for President in 2008).
Generation X stands at the precipice. Soon, the direction of this nation, and by natural extension, the entire world, will depend on our decisions, our actions, our values and our morals.
May God have mercy on us all.
I don't say this because I think GenXers, as we are affectionately (or derisively) called, are incapable of making good decisions or amoral. Instead, I think that we are ill prepared to inherit the United States we're being given by our forebears.
For the first time in our 229 year history, we are seeing consistent declines in the ability of our nation to compete in the global marketplace. We may have "won" the Cold War, but we have fallen far short in so many other areas. Our entire economy floats on a cushion of foreign investment dollars. We spend so much more than we save, so much more than we earn, that we have become one of the world's biggest debtors. Our ability to do science and lead industry has been undercut by ill-advised tax cuts and a continual outsourcing of jobs to cheaper labor markets overseas. We buy goods that we deem are too expensive to manufacture in this country from foreign countries, turning a blind eye to the often inhumane conditions to which these foreign manufacturers subject their workers. So long as they keep turning out the cheap clothing, electronics and toys for which we seem to have insatiable appetites, we are happy.
Materialism is killing the soul of America.
I know I sound like a tree-hugging granola type. Anyone who knows me would tell you that's not what I am. I admit that I like buying cheap clothing. I'm using my own personal computer to write this treatise. I have a cell phone, an iPod (2 actually, but one was a freebie) and all the other urban trappings. Perhaps then I'm standing inside a humongous glass McMansion hurling boulders against my walls trying to assail the evils I see outside.
At least I recognize that there is a problem. I don't look at the earth's dwindling oil reserves and the warming of the atmosphere from burning fossil fuels and figure that these are only temporary issues that some genius will resolve through some new-fangled technology. I recognize that I can use less gas, and keep my apartment a little cooler in the winter and a little warmer in the summer, and use the train and the bus (or, God forbid, walk!) to get around the city. It sounds hokie, but it's true -- every little bit helps. I don't have any of them in front of me, but I've read so many interesting statistics recently regarding little things we could all do to decrease our collective energy demand. Driving 55MPH, swapping 2 or 3 incandescent light bulbs with fluorescent bulbs, turning the thermostat to 64 degrees during winter. It's incredible how many millions of barrels we could save each year by doing these things. In a nation that goes through multiple millions of barrels of oil a day, it doesn't seem like a big difference. And maybe that's why so few people are willing to change how they use energy -- it doesn't seem like it will buy us more than a few extra days of oil.
I wonder what it will be like in those last days of oil. Will we still think those few extra days weren't worth it?
Generation X stands at the precipice. Soon, the direction of this nation, and by natural extension, the entire world, will depend on our decisions, our actions, our values and our morals.
May God have mercy on us all.
I don't say this because I think GenXers, as we are affectionately (or derisively) called, are incapable of making good decisions or amoral. Instead, I think that we are ill prepared to inherit the United States we're being given by our forebears.
For the first time in our 229 year history, we are seeing consistent declines in the ability of our nation to compete in the global marketplace. We may have "won" the Cold War, but we have fallen far short in so many other areas. Our entire economy floats on a cushion of foreign investment dollars. We spend so much more than we save, so much more than we earn, that we have become one of the world's biggest debtors. Our ability to do science and lead industry has been undercut by ill-advised tax cuts and a continual outsourcing of jobs to cheaper labor markets overseas. We buy goods that we deem are too expensive to manufacture in this country from foreign countries, turning a blind eye to the often inhumane conditions to which these foreign manufacturers subject their workers. So long as they keep turning out the cheap clothing, electronics and toys for which we seem to have insatiable appetites, we are happy.
Materialism is killing the soul of America.
I know I sound like a tree-hugging granola type. Anyone who knows me would tell you that's not what I am. I admit that I like buying cheap clothing. I'm using my own personal computer to write this treatise. I have a cell phone, an iPod (2 actually, but one was a freebie) and all the other urban trappings. Perhaps then I'm standing inside a humongous glass McMansion hurling boulders against my walls trying to assail the evils I see outside.
At least I recognize that there is a problem. I don't look at the earth's dwindling oil reserves and the warming of the atmosphere from burning fossil fuels and figure that these are only temporary issues that some genius will resolve through some new-fangled technology. I recognize that I can use less gas, and keep my apartment a little cooler in the winter and a little warmer in the summer, and use the train and the bus (or, God forbid, walk!) to get around the city. It sounds hokie, but it's true -- every little bit helps. I don't have any of them in front of me, but I've read so many interesting statistics recently regarding little things we could all do to decrease our collective energy demand. Driving 55MPH, swapping 2 or 3 incandescent light bulbs with fluorescent bulbs, turning the thermostat to 64 degrees during winter. It's incredible how many millions of barrels we could save each year by doing these things. In a nation that goes through multiple millions of barrels of oil a day, it doesn't seem like a big difference. And maybe that's why so few people are willing to change how they use energy -- it doesn't seem like it will buy us more than a few extra days of oil.
I wonder what it will be like in those last days of oil. Will we still think those few extra days weren't worth it?
Monday, October 24, 2005
Bright Lights, Big City
One of the nice things about my apartment is the view I take in walking home from the train station. I can see the entire skyline, writ large. It's especially striking at night when all the buildings are lit up. Right now, in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, many of the more prominent buildings have pink accent lights. The CNA Building, using lit office windows as gigantic pixels, has alternated between displaying a memory ribbon (like the pink ones honoring breast cancer survivors and victims) and the words "Go Sox" in honor of our South Side heroes' fantastic showing in the post-season.
Walking home earlier this evening, I noticed something very disturbing in the normally tranquil skyline. The newly minted Chase building (known until the recent merger as the Bank One building) was being used as a projection screen to advertise -- what else -- Chase's banking products.
As striking as the Chicago skyline is, and as much as it is a shrine to capitalism and commerce, I was a little dumbfounded by this latest crass advertising display. Clearly, Chase has the right to use their building for any legal activity they deem fit. But, come on, must we now be subjected to advertisements in multiple-story high lettering when taking in the awesome beauty of downtown Chicago at night? Is this really the impression we want to give visitors to the Windy City?
But what about Times Square, you might say. It's a huge, brightly lit advertisement that spreads its commercial messages 24/7 all year long. Despite its neverending neon/plasma screen incandescence, Times Square is hardly visible at street level once you've gone more than a few blocks up- or downtown. In contrast, the Chase building advertisement was easily visible to me on the street some twenty blocks away. Twenty blocks!!
I can't think of any place in Chicago that compares to Times Square, and frankly, I'm glad that I can't. Part of the charm of this city is its relative lack of glitz compared to cities like New York, Las Vegas, or Los Angeles. Tall buildings we have in abundance, and the Magnificent Mile certainly shines both day and night, from the gleaming marble of the Wrigley Building to the more muted but almost equally well lit Water Tower. But we're mercifully lacking in streetside Jumbotron TVs, and outside of the theater district there's precious little neon that isn't perched atop very high buildings.
So, if you're an advertising/PR person who works at Chase, and you're reading this, I implore you to put an end to this nonsense. Give me back my beautiful downtown view, senza your company tagline. Turn off the airplane search lights perched atop your building. You've spent a lot of money putting your company logo on the top of that building. Let it work its magic to sell your brand. I bet it will attract more customers than turning your upper floor facade into a marquee will.
Walking home earlier this evening, I noticed something very disturbing in the normally tranquil skyline. The newly minted Chase building (known until the recent merger as the Bank One building) was being used as a projection screen to advertise -- what else -- Chase's banking products.
As striking as the Chicago skyline is, and as much as it is a shrine to capitalism and commerce, I was a little dumbfounded by this latest crass advertising display. Clearly, Chase has the right to use their building for any legal activity they deem fit. But, come on, must we now be subjected to advertisements in multiple-story high lettering when taking in the awesome beauty of downtown Chicago at night? Is this really the impression we want to give visitors to the Windy City?
But what about Times Square, you might say. It's a huge, brightly lit advertisement that spreads its commercial messages 24/7 all year long. Despite its neverending neon/plasma screen incandescence, Times Square is hardly visible at street level once you've gone more than a few blocks up- or downtown. In contrast, the Chase building advertisement was easily visible to me on the street some twenty blocks away. Twenty blocks!!
I can't think of any place in Chicago that compares to Times Square, and frankly, I'm glad that I can't. Part of the charm of this city is its relative lack of glitz compared to cities like New York, Las Vegas, or Los Angeles. Tall buildings we have in abundance, and the Magnificent Mile certainly shines both day and night, from the gleaming marble of the Wrigley Building to the more muted but almost equally well lit Water Tower. But we're mercifully lacking in streetside Jumbotron TVs, and outside of the theater district there's precious little neon that isn't perched atop very high buildings.
So, if you're an advertising/PR person who works at Chase, and you're reading this, I implore you to put an end to this nonsense. Give me back my beautiful downtown view, senza your company tagline. Turn off the airplane search lights perched atop your building. You've spent a lot of money putting your company logo on the top of that building. Let it work its magic to sell your brand. I bet it will attract more customers than turning your upper floor facade into a marquee will.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Love Thy Neighbor . . . Or Else
Today's gospel passage, for those of us who use the BCP lectionary, was from the Gospel according to Matthew. One of the lines from that passage was the following:
`You shall love your neighbor as yourself.'
This passage describes when Jesus was quizzed by the Pharisees in one of their attempts to trap him into betraying himself as a false prophet or an enemy of the state. They had asked Jesus what is the greatest of the commandments. In response, Jesus names two commandments, equating the commandment admonishing folks to love their neighbors to the commandment to love God with one's whole heart, mind and soul.
This is (I believe) a fairly well known passage from the New Testament, and I'm sure I've read and heard it read many times. What struck me today, as this lesson was being preached on by Sarah+, the assistant rector at my parish, was the tidbit of linguistic information she shared with those of us in th pews. In this passage, the word for love that Matthew uses is the Greek word "agapo," which describes the love a human would feel for God. This is opposed to the Greek "philos," a word for love more akin to human-human neighborly or brotherly love.
Think about this for a second. Jesus is telling us that the greatest commandments are, essentially, to love God and our neighbors in the same way. I don't know that I'm capable of such an undertaking.
I mean, it's easy to love God, right? God sits somewhere upon high, being all majestic and omniscient. God doesn't sit next to me on the train and talk too loudly on a cell phone, or cut me off in traffic, or take too long at the automated check-out line at the grocery store (like it's so complicated to use!) Sure, there's the little things, like everything I every prayed for that never happened, or all the things I prayed against that did happen (2004 NCSU vs. Vanderbilt NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament Second Round game? Ring a bell up there? HMM???) But I understand that the point of prayer is not to get things or to change the natural course of events. I'm therefore not so much annoyed with God as much as I am left wondering how the eventualities unfolding around me relate to God's master plan for the world, which I am not supposed to understand anyway.
Right now, right here, I'm left with this dilemma of trying to love all the annoying people around me with the same sort of love I feel towards God. Maybe the secret to living into this calling is to accept that people around me are going to do things I don't want them to do, and will fail to do things I want them to do. Perhaps this ties in to God's master plan out of whose loop I am blissfully kept. Maybe when my neighbor steals my newspaper, he or she is protecting me from seeing some bit of discomfiting news. That guy who crossed the street against the light in front of me and made me slam on my brakes to avoid hitting him? A neccessary stimulus to test my brakes and ensure my continued safety (they felt not at all mushy, thank you very much.)
Don't get me wrong. I love lots of people. There are some people I even love in a similar way as I love God. But there are some people I decidedly do not love. I can only name a few people I actively HATE, but there's a pretty wide gulf between agapo love and bitter hatred. (The divide between hate and passionate love, as we all know, is much more like a hairline fracture.) That means there's a whole bunch of people who lie somewhere in that chasm between me loving them to pieces and just wishing they would spontaneously combust, and now I have to move them all into the agapo love column, just like that.
The good news is this -- it takes too much energy to dislike people, far more energy than I have and more time than I am willing to invest. Keeping that in mind, and with the awareness that the stress of actively disliking people invariably leads to wrinkles, my course is clear. Look for a newer, happier, more agapo-crazy Harold to hit the mean streets of Chicago in the very near future.
Just try not to piss me off.
`You shall love your neighbor as yourself.'
This passage describes when Jesus was quizzed by the Pharisees in one of their attempts to trap him into betraying himself as a false prophet or an enemy of the state. They had asked Jesus what is the greatest of the commandments. In response, Jesus names two commandments, equating the commandment admonishing folks to love their neighbors to the commandment to love God with one's whole heart, mind and soul.
This is (I believe) a fairly well known passage from the New Testament, and I'm sure I've read and heard it read many times. What struck me today, as this lesson was being preached on by Sarah+, the assistant rector at my parish, was the tidbit of linguistic information she shared with those of us in th pews. In this passage, the word for love that Matthew uses is the Greek word "agapo," which describes the love a human would feel for God. This is opposed to the Greek "philos," a word for love more akin to human-human neighborly or brotherly love.
Think about this for a second. Jesus is telling us that the greatest commandments are, essentially, to love God and our neighbors in the same way. I don't know that I'm capable of such an undertaking.
I mean, it's easy to love God, right? God sits somewhere upon high, being all majestic and omniscient. God doesn't sit next to me on the train and talk too loudly on a cell phone, or cut me off in traffic, or take too long at the automated check-out line at the grocery store (like it's so complicated to use!) Sure, there's the little things, like everything I every prayed for that never happened, or all the things I prayed against that did happen (2004 NCSU vs. Vanderbilt NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament Second Round game? Ring a bell up there? HMM???) But I understand that the point of prayer is not to get things or to change the natural course of events. I'm therefore not so much annoyed with God as much as I am left wondering how the eventualities unfolding around me relate to God's master plan for the world, which I am not supposed to understand anyway.
Right now, right here, I'm left with this dilemma of trying to love all the annoying people around me with the same sort of love I feel towards God. Maybe the secret to living into this calling is to accept that people around me are going to do things I don't want them to do, and will fail to do things I want them to do. Perhaps this ties in to God's master plan out of whose loop I am blissfully kept. Maybe when my neighbor steals my newspaper, he or she is protecting me from seeing some bit of discomfiting news. That guy who crossed the street against the light in front of me and made me slam on my brakes to avoid hitting him? A neccessary stimulus to test my brakes and ensure my continued safety (they felt not at all mushy, thank you very much.)
Don't get me wrong. I love lots of people. There are some people I even love in a similar way as I love God. But there are some people I decidedly do not love. I can only name a few people I actively HATE, but there's a pretty wide gulf between agapo love and bitter hatred. (The divide between hate and passionate love, as we all know, is much more like a hairline fracture.) That means there's a whole bunch of people who lie somewhere in that chasm between me loving them to pieces and just wishing they would spontaneously combust, and now I have to move them all into the agapo love column, just like that.
The good news is this -- it takes too much energy to dislike people, far more energy than I have and more time than I am willing to invest. Keeping that in mind, and with the awareness that the stress of actively disliking people invariably leads to wrinkles, my course is clear. Look for a newer, happier, more agapo-crazy Harold to hit the mean streets of Chicago in the very near future.
Just try not to piss me off.
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