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.
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