Faith Plus One

My external hard drive may have bit the dust for the time being. I was trying to transfer music files earlier when I realized that my laptop wasn’t recognizing it. Upon further inspection, I noticed that the USB port in the hard drive was loose. After retrieving my USB adapter, the port receded inside of the hardware. The contents of the hard drive are 95% media files that I can stand to lose, but there are very important notes from classes last semester. I have referred back to the notes on occasion and would hate to lose them, especially the ones for social psychology. There are a few options I am going to pursue. The first is to disassemble the device (the warranty is already void) to see the full extent of the damage and hope it can be easily reattached. If this fails, I will have to take it to either a professional or somebody who knows what they are doing to fix it for me. Chris Carpenter was an electrical engineering undergraduate at Tulsa. Perhaps he could fix it for me if nobody in town can. The best, worst case scenario is that the hard drive cannot be repaired but the data still retrieved somehow. I would be satisfied with that.

Caleb and I went to a VERY charismatic revival service Wednesday night. Doing doughnut deliveries leads me all the way out to Stratford, causing me to pass by a fairly new-looking church called <a href=http://www.newbeginningschurchok.com/> New Beginnings Church </a>. The past few weeks it has been advertising an ongoing revival called the Stratford Miracle Outpouring. In a fortunate coincidence, the gas station that buys our doughnuts had a flier that advertised it in greater detail. It links itself to Todd Bentley’s revival in Lakeland, Florida. Having heard about Bentley’s shenanigans and seeing some of his Youtube videos, I really wanted to check it out. Despite being slightly vacillate due to Caleb’s cynical nature, I recruited him to come along with me. We did prep work by visiting their website and reading all the testimonials from the revival. It ranged from curing obesity, to curing achy bones, to curing suicide attempts. We also marveled at the pastors title, Apostle Prophet, which is a title that demands respect out of the fear of anathema…or a bear mauling (from the prophet Elisha).

After committing to going to this, I had immediate regret as I left Caleb’s office. In my attempt to become happier with the church universal and stop with the flippant criticisms that only lead to discontentment and resentment, it is very counter-productive to go to a church service that I know is going to upset me. The only purpose would be gossip and blog fodder. It didn’t fail…

I have two other charismatic experiences: the first was at a Benny Hinn crusade in April 2005. A small group with the intent of hunting witches. In the end, it was actually a pretty good Gospel presentation. The theology isn’t something I agreed with, but as a means of explaining the Gospel, he did a very good job. The second was at Carissa’s church. Her father is the pastor and is a very well-spoken, intelligent man. It was a very good experience with charismatic Christianity, partially because it wasn’t the stereotypical archetype of what I had in mind. It was only a slightly more upbeat version of FBC’s former 8:30 service. I enjoyed the music, the sermon was well laid out, and despite being a little out of my comfort zone, I didn’t leave thinking I had experienced some kind Christian show.

Wednesday’s service lived up to almost every expectation I had in my mind. Caleb and I got there about fifteen minutes before it started to make sure we had enough to time acclimate to our surroundings. We sat on the second to front row. We wanted seats towards the front without looking too conspicuous. Anytime two new, younger men walk into a church comprised mostly of middle-aged and older folks, people are going to notice. A lot of people took an immediate interest in our presence. As a general rule, I think this is a great policy for a church to have; for me personally, however, I feel a little bit uncomfortable with everybody asking me the same questions and telling me the same information the first time I visit a church. I response equally as friendly, but my introverted tendencies really shine in situations like Wednesday’s. The praise and worship started when scheduled. They don’t mess around; when they tell you to stand up to praise the Lord, you do it! There was a guitar, a set of drums, and a piano on stage, but to my surprise it was done by CD. The first song was Blessed the the Name of the Lord. I am pretty out of the loop on P&W, but I really do like this song. It was the only song I was familiar with. Some of the songs were absolutely ridiculous. They didn’t really praise God. The only reason they seemed like worship songs was because they identified themselves as such. For example:

“Open up the heavenly gate
And let it rain”

That was the song, over and over again. One song sounded like a Jesus romance song with lyrics like, “take me, mold me, use me, fill me.” I am not anti-P&W. There are plenty of hymns out there that do little to praise God, but this song seemed very people-centered. While we were singing, two women in the opposite corner of Caleb and I were doing the chicken dance for the entire duration. Their dancing reminded me of the Mitsubishi Eclipse commercial from a few years ago that had a women in the passenger’s seat of an Eclipse doing an over-the-top interpretive dance by flailing her arms everywhere and dancing like she was high enough ecstasy that she could actually see, feel, and probably even taste the techno music. That’s what this reminded me of. It’s the kind of dancing that is expressive in a way that you could put fake subtitles to it and make a pretty funny internet video.

After about almost an hour of singing, the pastor got up to talk. The way the church appears to be set up is that there is an administrative pastor and a preaching pastor. They are separated by titles, pastor and Apostle Prophet. The pastor came up to do announcements and discuss the status of the movement. On Tuesday night there gentleman who participated in the  Azusa Street Revival that speak to the congregation. He was 105 years old. I would have been interested in hearing him speak. The pastor discussed the impact he had on everybody and announced that he would be back next month. He introduced the Apostle Prophet Marvin Hazel. At first glance, he didn’t really fit the look at what I would consider a charismatic “prophet”. He was average height and above-average weight. He had a large middle section that was disproportionate to the rest of his body. He had to warm up I guess because was pretty soft-spoken at first. He had us turn to the book of Revelation. Jackpot! Caleb and both thought. It’s always an adventure when you get to hear a church’s interpretation on Revelation, especially a church whose interpretation might come across as pretty alarmist and border “newspaper eschatology”. To our disappointment it was Revelation 3, the letters to the seven churches; in fact, we turned from Revelation to the Proverbs to read to separate scriptures. In no particular order, we read Proverbs, Isaiah, Matthew, and Luke. They were somehow interconnected (not at all). After about an hour of sermonizing, I was still unsure exactly what the sermon was about. The only thing I distinctly remember was that it had to do with seven pillars of Christianity found in Proverbs and stumbling blocks God hates, also found in Proverbs. A lot of the sermon dealt with the power of the Holy Spirit, and His moving in the revival. There were stories of His healings and other miracles. The Holy Spirit makes a very distinct sound, we learned that night. Pastor Hazel had a habit of making a “shoooo” noise in between making points. At the beginning of his sermon I thought it was just a nervous tic. As the night went on, it became very clear that he did it when his point was very poignant or used to describe a working of the Holy Spirit. “And God healed him of his pain…SHOOOOO!” It was unpredictable. At first it was just a little humourous, there were a few times when it caught me off guard, causing me to break out in inappropriate laughter.  At one point Hazel looked directly our way, and I hid my laughter. The service was broadcast onto the internet, both audio and video. He would occasionally address the internet audience; he even let the power of the Holy Spirit go rogue onto the internet, followed by http://www.SHOOOOOO!!!!.com.

I was actually a little bit disappointed by the service at this point. The sermon was disconnected and difficult to follow. I wanted for him to hurry up and give his version of an alter call so we could leave. His version of an alter call was more entertaining the previous three weeks of my life. He continued to talk about the status of the movement and emphasized the need for us to take it to the streets. There was one point that Caleb got excited enough to either 1) speak in tongues or 2) sound like a stroke victim. In order for the revival to spread, we needed to be blessed and anointed with the gift of evangelism. He made a subtle point that to me summed up part of the movement—he believed that gifts of the Holy Spirit are transferred from those who posses them to those who don’t. If they are hard-pressed, I imagine they would give credit to the Lord, but he made it sound as if we are masters over the Holy Spirit instead of facilitators and vessels for His service. He had every able-bodied (and not able-bodied) individuals come up front and form a river dance line. I resisted, but Caleb was giddy to receive his blessing. I followed him up front in anticipation of what was waiting for us. I was expecting some kind of corporate prayer and then dismissal. I was wrong. He told us to raise our hands towards heaven. I happily obliged by making a “Y”, and Caleb had another stroke. Since I was one of the tallest in attendance, I was closer in reach to God. Then it happened; after a prayer in tongues, Hazel whacked somebody in the head, making the fall to the ground. Caleb and I both turned to each other. I was in horror; I am not sure what Caleb’s reaction was. He went down the line, babbling and repeating nonsensical phrases as he hit people in the head. He also made bogus prophecies and gave anointings. I had three options come to my mind: I could either make a big scene and be verbally dissident to him, telling him I was not moving, passively resist, or be so “slain” in the spirit I would make a perfect 10 if I was judged on it. I chose the third option, a choice I regret. I now wish I would have gone for the first option. Caleb went down with a little resistance. I had all of my weight on my front leg in preparation. When he smacked me, I sprang off my front foot five feet into the air and gave the catchers a run for the money. Caleb and I got tucked in with blankets. I am still unsure about the reason. Caleb and I both laughed, unsure what we were supposed to do next. We got up and went back to our seats to watch the ending act of the show.

It was now time for some healing. First, there were reports of healings read from teh internets. The most confusing was about a guy who had his leg amputated but was not growing it back, I think? The weight loss one was pretty good, but mostly they were aches-and-pains-stories. People lined up to be healed or have prayer. I wanted to be healed of my left-handedness, but they probably wouldn’t take that very seriously. There was hardly anything serious about the service. Again, most ailments were simple aches and pains. Hazel used the power of suggestion a lot, it seemed. A man was complaining of hip pains. He was “healed” but was still hurting. After a few more “healings” he said he felt a little better. It was stuff like that. One woman asked for a prayer that her husband find a new job. The church took up an offering for her family. That scored major points since regardless of theological beliefs, helping the poor is still helping the poor. While praying for people, Hazel had us extend our arms towards those being prayed for, making us look like we were supermaning. We even extended our arms towards the internet (which was at the back of the room). After the healing was over, Caleb and I left. We were both a bit “giddy” at our experience, but I left very discouraged and disgruntled.

While I am not charismatic, I understand some of their beliefs and biblical justifications. One thing I do not understand is the public display of tongues. The good Apostle Prophet spoke in tongues a lot during the service with no interpretor. I understand a private prayer language, and I understand tongues with an interpretor, but I am completely unsure his style of tongues. It wasn’t another earthly language; besides, everybody there spoke English. Another thing I don’t understand is being slain in the spirit, especially why somebody has to do it to you. A pastor does not have the Holy Spirit anymore than laymen, nor does he “transfer” Him. If the Spirit is going be so overwhelming that it causes you faint, then let the Holy Spirit push you down, not somebody with a self-imposed title higher than Pope. Charismatic Christianity was starting to warm up to me, but this experience was absolutely ridiculous and makes me very skeptical. It is unfair for me to generalize the entire movement, but this service will stick out in my mind.

Ride by shooting

Coalgate, Oklahoma: best known for its high female to male ratio, low median income, and sweeping indecent exposure crime wave. This was my destination Saturday morning. It has been a town I have only dreamed about while wearing my skintight, biking short shorts that really display my Greek god-like quadriceps (the Greek god of hairy legs, maybe).  I have miled my way closer and closer week after week, knowing that Coalgate was the goal I had in mind to prepare me for the Hotter n’ Hell. It is exactly 100 miles to Coalgate and back from Ada after taking a very obscure route around the perimeter of Ada, and 3E boasts a wide, accommodating shoulder with fairly low traffic but a high, ambiguously-figured roadkill population; in fact, I play games with myself to try to properly identify what has been roadkilled in order to stay alert.

A few weeks ago I rode seventy-five miles in my cryptozoology hoodie to dramatically increase the heat. It was only in the 80’s and I needed it hotter in order to acclimate myself. People I know who have rode in the HNH have told me that the biggest struggle to finish isn’t impacted so much by the cardio aspect as it is the heat and the ability to stay hydrated. For yesterday’s ride, I was interested in just making it back home without the aid of a cell phone. Since it was my first go at century distance, I wanted to ride as comfortably as possible. Once my ability to finish was ascertained, I would work on the heat aspect later. So I set my alarm for 4:30 in the morning, only fifteen minutes later than had I been doing doughnut deliveries. I ate in advance on Friday evening, mostly whole wheat pasta but also some protein to try and salvage what muscle fibers I could. I stayed up way too late, knowing it would only be hours before I would wake again.

What sleep I got was put to good use because I woke up very alert and anxious to go. After putting on my riding shorts and then regular shorts over them (for the pocket room), I rode to Loves on Mississippi to get a Gatorade for my bottle cage. I chose my all-time favorite of any sports drink, blue. I knew I had to pace myself the entire way. 20 mph is a bit sluggish if I was going 25-50 miles, but my goal was five hours, and part of that goal was maintaining a steady pace. It was still dark by the time I hit 3E, but there was evidence that the blue and black were quarreling. I knew just how early it was when I saw Joe drive past me on his way to Stonewall in the Doughnut Wagon. I made it to Stonewall and was going to go by a convenience store to grab another Gatorade to put in my pocket. Unfortunately it was about five something on a Saturday, meaning there were no convenience stores open. This mean I had only one Gatorade for fifty miles. This had an immediate psychological effect on me that translated into a physiological one. My decision to go on was a capricious one, but I halfway convinced myself that there might be another gas station on the way (I have ridden from Ada to twelve miles outside of Coalgate, knowing this wasn’t true) and went on. I loaded my pockets with carb gels I had leftover from a few months ago. The package said they were vanilla-banana flavored. The actual flavor tasted more like Pumbaa from the Lion King smelled. I choked them down every thirty minutes to an hour. After running out of Gatorade (around mile 35), I didn’t want to chew them and have that viscous feel down my throat so I forsake them until I could rehydrate.

There were no major problems for the first half of the ride. The lack of fluids didn’t have a noticeable impact on my ride. I used what I had carefully in conjunction with the gels.  I kept a fairly steady pace even going up the hills. The wind was very light and coming from the North, meaning it was to my back most of the time. The wind is the cyclist’s natural enemy. Like the rest of the world, it was still asleep, however. Instead of listening to music for the first half, I listened to John Piper sermons. I hadn’t listened to his sermon from the following Sunday due to lack of time and was excited to get caught up. He is doing a series over the Psalms and this week’s was 103. After listening to it, I finished up listening to one of his conferences on Don’t Waste Your Life just outside of Coalgate. The traffic wasn’t heavy considering the time of day, but it the surplus of semis were noticeable. There were no honks, angry words, or ashtrays thrown at me.

By the time I made it to a convenience stores, there was a very poignant pain in both my knees but more so, my back. My bike frame may be a little too small for me or my form might be off, but whatever the reason, it caused a sharp pain all throughout my lower back. Standing up in front of the convenience store was a challenge. As soon as I hopped off my bike, the muscles in my legs tightened with fatigue, making even the smallest leg movement remind me of the past fifty miles. My muscle memory had developed Alzheimer’s. People stared at me as I walked into the store. It was partially a look of pity and partially a look of anti-pity since it was my decision to do this to myself. I drank a blue in about two minutes in order to take away the taste and feeling of the energy gel and then bought two more, one for my bottle cage and one for my pocket. It was gradually getting warmer outside. The sun’s presence started to be noticed by my otherwise pasty neck. I called my parents and talked to them just long enough to let them know I was doing okay. They volunteered to be Plan B (emergency contraceptive?) in case I couldn’t make it. My break was a little more than five minutes in all. That five minutes made a lasting effect on the rest of the trip, however.

Getting back on my bike was a little bit discouraging. I don’t know why; I was halfway done and should have been consumed with rapture. In that regard, it motivated me to keep going. On the other hand, I knew that I was only halfway done, and the fatigue would get worse as time went on. Psychological effects would start to take place, and my body would only get worn out as the day went on. There was also the heat which only then started to be a cause for concern. To help clear my mind, I said goodbye to John Piper for the rest of the day. I had a playlist of more intense, motivating music (though Piper is one of the most intense speakers I have heard). No more than five minutes back into my ride the pain and fatigue that took two and a half hours to develop came back all at once. By resting only five minutes, it allowed lactic acid to rush to my legs, causing the tightening sore feeling. I kept my pace up, however. The 20 mph wasn’t fast, and going slower wouldn’t help the soreness; it would only cause me to get home later than planned. I kept peddling. The hills started to seem longer and steeper at around Stonewall. Stonewall was a huge mental achievement for me, allowing me to catch a second wind. It was also when honks, curse words, and ashtrays (or soda cans anyways) all came from one vehicle. I don’t know what it is about seeing somebody on a bike or even running, but it brings out the jerk in people. I remember hearing a study that concluded people in convertibles or any other kind of “open” vehicle are less likely to have road rage due to the lack of anonymity. This was a black Dodge Ram with what looked to be a couple of high school kids on the inside. I sharpied the shirt I was wearing the night before with, “honk/yell/throw if cycling is superior your jerk-baggery”. Yeah, it is mostly to make me feel a little bit better about myself without getting angry to the fact that there are some jerks out there. It was pretty smudged from sweat and was barely legible; regardless, I straightened up and pointed to as they passed by me.

I finally made it to the three exits, the triad of triumph: the first one, an exit to Tishomingo, the second to Pre-Paid, and the the third to Ada. Unfortunately for me, I was not done yet. I still had to go through Richardson loop to Byng and then back home for the full 100 miles. I was very close to just taking the exit and calling it a day. It still would have been about eight-five miles, a very braggable accomplishment. I pushed passed the exit and kept going, immediately regretting the decision. I hit the wall a few miles prior and knew that my body was out of glycogen and was running off of protein and fat, two very inefficient sources of energy for aerobic activity. My pace started to stagger, my breaths more frequent and pronounced, and my entire body almost numb from the pain it was suffering. I made it passed Byng and with a lamented face, got out my cell phone to call my parents. I was less than ten miles from being done and the thought of any more peddling made my stomach turn. Instead of making the call, I took my battery out and separated it from my cell phone. A little immature seeming, I know, but the idea was that it would take too much effort to dig through my bike bag to find the battery and reattach it to my phone. By the time I did, I would hopefully had talked myself out of it. I changed my Ipod to David Crowder Band’s Remedy album. It has very upbeat music that would hopefully motivate me into finishing. It worked. I made it to the “Welcome to Ada” sign with a joyous smile on my face that I couldn’t remove even if I tried. I went down Broadway without hitting a red light and turned left on 12th street (to avoid the 16th street hill). I rode up to my front porch, not even bothering to bring my bike in with me. My room is at the very back of the house, and my legs finally collapsed outside of my room. I regained my composure and made it to my bed. I spent the rest of the day eating and resting.

The ride was very tough but completely necessary to the training. After resting all day, I actually mustered up the strength to run a VERY slow three miles. I knew that if I didn’t move for the rest of the day, Sunday would be even worse than Saturday. Sunday was bad regardless but more tolerable than it would have been. I’m going to take it easy the next two weeks and go again once I feel rested enough.

Fitty Cent

Josh moved out at the beginning of the week. I knew his living with us was only supposed to be temporary, but I was expecting him to stay through the  summer. There really is no problem other than that of bills. I was really excited that this last month I had to pay less than $200 for rent plus bills. The fact that he moved out in the middle of the month shouldn’t alleviate his responsibility for at least half of what he would have paid. I won’t be upset either way, but I would like to know what he’s going to be doing. It looks like we’re looking for a new roommate now. Jesse said that he may know of somebody who could move in at the beginning of next semester but that he is going to look in the meantime. I will be doing the same.

I got a fifty cent raise on Tuesday. Every other raise I have received has been voluntarily by Joe. I was actually the assertive one this round. While it isn’t necessarily a simple matter of money, I believe that I have been undercompensated for the amount of work I have done. Joe isn’t going to just give up money, considering it is slow during the summer, meaning I had to make valid reasons for deserving a raise. These were my reasons:

1. Every other employee has a very specific job. When she looks at the schedule, Crystal is never going to be surprised to find that she will have to cook one evening or do deliveries. I have to cook, do deliveries on certain days, and though we have the morning store shifts covered for the summer, I may have to occasionally cover the store. I did not tell him this, but it did make me think: Karl Marx predicted that “factory” workers would eventually be trained for every spot in order to reduce dependency on certain people and maximize profit. I am the only employee like this, doing the exact opposite; it shifts the burden to me if there is a spot that needs filled. As of right now, Joe could safely put me as the role of manager if my own schedule permitted it since I am well-versed in every facet of the business except one, making orders to the distributors.

2. Keeping number one in mind, this makes my schedule all over the place. There is one day that I know for certain that I will work, which is Tuesday in the evening. Everybody else can pretty much accurately predict what their schedule is going to look like from week to week. This makes scheduling non-work activities a little bit harder, though I do admit that the staff is pretty flexible when it comes to shift swaps. There was one week I worked twenty-five hours, followed by a forty-five hour week. My schedules are bipolar.

3. I do a great job and take pride in my work considering it’s only a doughnut jockey job meant to get me through college.

Joe didn’t disagree with any particular point but keeping pragmatism in mind, he did wrestle with the fact that any more money I get is money he loses, something he is concerned about. He gave me a modest raise, but it was still a victory. He told me that while I deserved more, it just wasn’t in the numbers for him. I understand. Like I said, it isn’t as much about the money as it is a physical way of saying that my work is valuable. I don’t need compliments as much as some of the employees and the only other way that immediately comes to mind is monetary.

I learned a lot about Jenna yesterday, especially her perspective on the whole of humanity. I never claim to have anybody completely figured out, but she is one person that is typically pretty easy to understand. So it is surprising when I find out anything new about her thoughts. She has easily mistaken my idealism as cynicism (very common), so I found it ironic when she told me that one of the reasons she is so cold and closed off, unable to be completely “whole” to one person, is because she thinks nobody truly cares about anybody else. This allowed me to get my sociology on. I think she is mostly true when speaking in generalities, but there are common traits and situations that tend to bind humans together in a group. This is why most people are open to at least a few close people; they become emotionally bound, usually through the time of close proximity, and common experiences. Also I think there’s the Christian aspect. It is very hard to be truly selfless, but with communion with Christ and maturation, love is the Christian outcome. We are to serve man as though we are serving Christ (Eph. 6:5-7). To say that nobody cares is in conflict with a basic Christian tenet. But again, I think she is mostly right. People are selfish, and it doesn’t take that long to figure out that out through conversation. People like to either be entertained or talk about themselves.

Music I Secretly Hate

Certain people and groups of people are just naturally drawn to certain bands or genres to music. It reminds me of a hyperbole example would be an episode of Southpark in which the goth kids told Stan that in order to hang out with them he would have to dress like them and listen to the same kind of music. Music influences culture and culture influences music so it makes sense for certain subcultures to be drawn to certain music. I have very eclectic tastes in music, ranging from the classical music of Dmitri Shostakovich, to Miles Davis, to Brian Eno’s ambients, to Arcade Fire. This isn’t unique; most people have a little bit of eclectic taste. Still, there is certain music you are expected to like and dislike, depending on your “affiliation” with certain groups. An extreme example would be if a Christian hated every Christian song he or she has heard (hymn, praise and worship, psalm, etc.). The themes of Christian culture and Christian music should have some similarities.

Here are a few bands that I secretly hate:

Coldplay
This isn’t too surprising since I don’t know that many people who are indifferent about them. Most people love them or hate them. To be honest, I gave them a chance and tried to like them, and then I decided it is absurd to try to like a band. I once dated a girl who I had to try to like from the very beginning of the relationship. That lasted about a month. To me Coldplay sounds like U2 and Radiohead got together and had a child that was missing at least one chromosome. Their latest album even mimics U2—not so much the sound of the album itself but the way in which it came about.

In the late 80’s, U2’s spirits were kind of crushed by how Rattle and Hum flopped. Achtung Baby was a transitional album that broke away from the traditional rock sound of the 80’s and incorporated some more electronic and computerized sounds. They brought in Brian Eno, the godfather of ambient sounds, to produce the album. Achtung Baby was a hit, the right move at the right time, the “chopping down” of the Joshua Tree. Coldplay also brought in Brian Eno to come in and strip away the bad of the old sound while preserving the good, and add his own genius to the mix. In a very U2-like fashion, Coldplay is reinventing their sound and to prove it, they even have a ridiculous, over-the-top name for their latest album, Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends. Achtung Baby II?

Blah blah blah.

I don’t pay attention to lyrics all that much (one reason I like Shostakovich and Sigur Ros). I am more interested in sounds and tones. In my musical world, a voice is just another instrument. I like tearing apart and analyzing the “musicness” of a song, and don’t really pay that much attention to lyrics. Despite tickling the ivories, I’d consider myself a musical laymen still. With that said, when I do listen to Coldplay lyrics, they are whiny just to be whiny:

I just got lost
Every river that I’ve tried to cross
Every door I ever tried was locked
Ooh-Oh, And I’m just waiting till the shine wears off…

You might be a big fish
In a little pond
Doesn’t mean you’ve won
‘Cause along may come
A bigger one
And you’ll be lost

Here are some lyrics I’ll write for Coldplay for free:
In this world of war and poverty
I lament the bore and snobbery
Two stones to every bird (oooh)
We all hear the head of the herd. (booo)
And the sound of the collective voice (dooo)
Makes me regret yesterday’s choice (voodoo?)

Those might not have been cliché and uninspiring enough, but with enough practice, it won’t be long before I could actually get paid for my lyrics.

The Decemberists
My indie street cred just went down, I know, for disagreeing with Pitchfork’s number 43 best album of 2006 (I think?). I have only listened to Crane Wife, and while it has a very nostalgic feel to it, with songs like Shankill Butchers, the entire album sounds like generic indie rock to me. I have recommended The Decemberists to friends, thinking they would get more out the sound, but they just aren’t for me. The story behind the Crane Wife fable is pretty good, I admit, but so was the story behind Ghost Dad…

Side rant about indie music: add an accordion or an unconventionally beautiful girl (guys, you know what I mean by unconventional…) in a miniskirt to your music and people will assume you are indie.

Death Cab for Cutie (any album other than Plans)
Plans is the only Death Cab album I can listen to and to be honest, there are only a few songs on it I can fully appreciate (“I will Follow you into the Dark”, “What Sarah Said”, maybe “Brothers on a Hotel Bus”). How many songs can one guy write about love, and how much understanding can he have? I almost liked Narrow Stairs, and then I listened to it again. The sound was just repetitive to me. Probably shouldn’t have put it on repeat…

I have no idea how I am alive

A very alarmist title for what will turn out to be a very mundane post.

Since taking the plunge and living on my own, I have become much more conscious of food. I’m talking fast food, grocery food, canned food, fresh food, no food, and even dog food. Since I have to buy all of my food myself, I have become very thrifty in order to merely save a buck and also very hungry at times. That isn’t to say that I go hungry; there are just certain times I crave a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with bbq chips and bananas (all stuffed two pieces of bread, to boot), or even something more normal like…dinner.

As is the tradition (read: free laundry is my tradition) since moving out, I went to my mom and dad’s house today (Sunday). Today was special because it was of course Father’s Day, and there would definitely be some festivities (read: food). I got out of church earlier than they did, leaving me by myself for about an hour. As soon as I walked in, I headed straight to the pantry without even thinking. It was a natural instinct, from about twenty-two years of evolution. I wasn’t even hungry; I ate a hardy breakfast. It was hardly breakfast compared to this. I wasted no time and went straight to the Mecca of all munchy food, chips and ranch dip. I ripped open the bag and ate about half of it in less than ten minutes. My parents also have cable, so I had Gladiator on HBO on to really get my potato-chip ripping testosterone going into overdrive. If tigers attacked me, I’d just put ranch dressing on them—maybe reduced fat. After getting full off of potato chips, I decided it was time for some meat. My parents still had their breakfast leftovers on the stove, even warm. I ate the remaining three pieces of sausage and washed them down with the leftover gravy. It was time for some desert. I headed to the garage freezer and found a gallon of vanilla ice cream. It had swirls of chocolate in it to pretty it up a bit. I grabbed the unopened bucket and took it to the kitchen. I found a big bowl to scoop it in to. The chocolate syrup was hidden in the cabinet behind some pasta—just where I left it. The chocolate syrup bottle was man proof, as it just barely drizzled out. I needed that syrup on there stat. I took the lid off and completely made a volcano o’chocolate. The doomed villagers were going to be my intestines. I got a little too much into the bowl, making it almost a moat. Much to my already-shell-shocked stomach’s surprise, I finished my ice cream only to be ecstatic that there was still enough chocolate syrup left in it to justify getting more ice cream. Letting chocolate syrup go to waste would be a travesty. This is about when my parents walked out. They don’t mind that I mooch, so I went about my business and asked if they wanted any. They declined because they didn’t want to overeat before lunch.

Lunch was actually very modest compared to what I was expecting. We usually do a bit more for Father’s Day. Instead of grilling a steak or even eating out, we had tacos. I love tacos so it didn’t bother me much. I just could not eat enough to get full today. I had probably half a pound of meat, distributed among three tacos plus some leftover that I just ate by itself, and half a block of cheese, simply because I like cheese, and my mom always gives me a slice of cheese to eat with tacos. I had to leave my eating-spree to go to work.

While at work I just kind of marveled at how I was able to lose weight while living with my parents. I had a good amount of self control not to eat the mechanically separated chicken fragments and deep fried lard that was within immediate reach.

This was written at around two o’clock in the morning. This may not make sense to me tomorrow afternoon

I never had to work so hard for a free t-shirt

The Oklahoma Blood Institute has been calling at least once a week for the past two months. The vultures are after my blood. There’s gold in them veins apparently. If you ever give blood, even once, even on accident, they put you on a list and call you and leave threatening voice mail messages. The only thing they give in return is a lousy shirt that says, “I gave my my life force and only got this shirt.” I gave in this morning. The only reason I have been putting off giving blood is because I have been doing some pretty intense endurance training, and blood loss has a very noticeable impact on my stamina. It takes approximately forty days to completely restore the lost pint of blood. I stop noticing its effect after about a week, however.

After waking up, eating breakfast, showering, and Apple Marketing, I drove to OBI to pay my debt and make the harassing phone calls stop. I signed in, took my seat, and waited on the woman in the Winnie-the-Pooh pajamas to start asking me questions I have heard a few dozen times. Good news; I still don’t have AIDS, and I’m still not pregnant (I’m sterile; no one will ever love me!). The OBI lady thought I was manorexic. She asked me if I had eaten in the last six hours, which I affirmed. The entire time she asked me questions, my stomach growled very loudly as if I was on the Ethiopian diet that consisted of broken dreams and air. She asked me again if I was sure I had eaten, which I affirmed again, overcompensating to the point of telling her exactly what was in my belly. After my five minutes of listening to my overly-excited bowels, she said, “if (very sarcastically) you have eaten this morning, you didn’t eat enough and should eat some cookies.” Listen lady, I know how to eat; I’ve been doing it most of my life. I walked to the cookie section of OBI, with the phlebotomist’s ubiquitous presence following me to make sure I ate them. Jokes on her; I love cookies and cleaned out their jar of peanut butter cookies. This seemed to satisfy her, but not my stomach.

Now we got to the part I am actually interested in—blood pressure and heart rate. My temperature was was 97 degrees on the dot, reflecting my cold heart. She took my blood pressure once, and then with incredulousness, a second time. Her jovial smile turned to an almost macabre stare. She told me that my blood pressure was very low. This really worried me since I had been diagnosed with having a clean heart for about six weeks and taken off medication. I told her my normal blood pressure is about 115/85. She told me it was 96/60. This wasn’t nearly as alarming as she made it out to be. Anything over 90/50 is fine. I told her it might be due to the fact I had only been up less than an hour, not giving my body enough time to get going. I also said that the last thing I did before going to bed last night was run, and despite drinking water and eating breakfast, I might be mildly dehydrated. Then she took my pulse, and was equally alarmed. I wasn’t worried since I am always well-aware of my heart rate. It was a very strong 58. The male average is 70. Typically, the lower the better; besides, 58 really isn’t anything to raise an eyebrow about considering I have been as low as 36. She looked like she needed and explanation for this as well. I told her I am an endurance athlete. This satisfied her. I wondered if she wanted to know my mother’s maiden name, my pin number, and a list of my favorite hobbies as well.

I thought I was good to go. I sat down in the Barcalounger and waited for the phlebotomist. I told her I preferred being stuck in my right arm since I was left-handed. She looked at my arm and asked about a few bumps, questioning what they were. I have no idea what they are, so she looked at my left arm and noticed the same bumps, only much more inconspicuous. The problem, she said, is that if these bumps were infectious, such as poison ivy, there runs a risk of it entering my bloodstream. Thus, for the first time I was denied. She told me I would have to leave the community for seven days and see a Levitical priest afterwards, who would determine whether or not I was fit to rejoin. Maybe I’ll just join the lepers and the women who are on the periods.

How not to get away with drunk driving

I was doing doughnut deliveries this morning. The sky was very foreboding of a kick-you-in-the-face storm that was probably going to mean mopping the Donut Shop due to flooding. It started raining mice and men on my way to Stratford. There was no light sprinkle or mist; it went from dry to super-soak in two seconds. The speed limit was 65 so I slowed down to about fifty for the sake of safety (read: pansy). I came up to a truck going in between 25-35 mph. I wasn’t irritated since I figured he was doing it for the sake of safety as well. After a few minutes of keeping a distance, the truck started swerving back and forth across the lane—not just a little bit, either, but very hard swerves. I first thought he was hitting deep patches of water that made steering harder. This didn’t make too much sense since I was going across the same road as he and wasn’t having the least bit of trouble, and he was in a heavier vehicle. He continued to heavily swerve, to the point of almost going off the left side of the road. While he was mid swerve, I noticed a booze-like bottle in his hand/face. He threw this booze-like bottle out his window, past my face, and the face of a highway patrolman, who also noticed he was getting his swerve on. The cop sped past me and stopped the truck, who pulled over to the left shoulder. This was at 6:45 in the morning, and I am not sure if it was just a late night or early morning.

Doughnut Daze

This was written on June 5, but I never got time to finish it…

Wow, it has been a really busy week with work. By the end of the work week, I will have worked roughly forty-five hours. This was unplanned. Joe texted me Saturday, asking me to do deliveries for the week on top of cooking Monday and Tuesday night. That was no problem. Monday came, and after Jenna looked at the schedule, we quickly realized that Joe did not take into account that she started summer school on Tuesday. From Tuesday to Thursday I had to cover from ten o’clock until close (11:30), though I did get to close at 11:00 on Tuesday because I had to go straight back to the Mississippi store to start cooking. On top of it all Darrell asked me to take his shift on Saturday. His family is doing Father’s day early. Darrell has been great to work with and is very reliable, making it a lot easier to say yes. Joe is taking deliveries on Saturday, but that is it.

Joe has been very mysterious about his disappearance. He told me nothing. Stephen, a part-time summer employee, is a close friend with one of Joe’s sons and told Jenna and I that he has taken another job as service manager at the Nissan dealership. It’s kind of unexpected but not necessarily surprising since he has been pretty burned out lately. The way he went about it has been pretty unorthodox and unprofessional in my opinion. It’s his own personal business, I understand, but his personal business is having a very apparent influence on his professional business, including a hand full of employees. Most people are still in the dark. Joe just told me about it yesterday and with less detail than Stephen. Joe wants to sit down and talk with me in the next few days. I have a hunch he is going to ask me to be the manager for at least the summer. I have already given it thought since it makes partial sense for him to ask me. I am involved in every facet of the business. I am probably going to turn it down for a number of reasons. I am competent enough to run the place, in theory anyways. I have some simple ideas just to increase efficiency. We don’t even have a simple inventory sheet, making things unorganized. I also have some innovating advertising ideas. I would really like to do a viral campaign on campus of just cheap, nonsensical and even abrasive fliers. The problem is I don’t want a summer of forty-five hour work weeks. I don’t want the shop to become my primary concern, even for the summer. Last summer it was an end to a means, money to pay for tuition, which is the reason I worked full-time. I would not mind it if Joe delegated some responsibilities to me right now. I did collections on Monday and had not problems with it. Doing inventory would also not be a problem. Doing both would not add any more than two hours a week tops. A title is unnecessary. Besides, Crystal has been there for over a decade. I am unsure why she has been passed over.

—

Somebody made a pretty good point on a blog post about Todd Bentley: why is modern-day revival so focused on circus acts that want to base their success on long crying sessions? Revivalists such as Edwards, Wesley, and Whitefield had something much different in mind. Their revivals were about people obeying Jesus and trusting him as god’s provision for salvation. They focused on biblical literacy, social activism, prayer for the unsaved and the sick, and solid, biblical teaching that engages both the mind and the emotions. This as opposed to Todd Bentley’s, “God told me to kick this lady in the face.” Does that make the Holy Ghost responsible for assault?

I am still all about listening to John Piper’s sermons. I listened to three sermons while at work last night (Saturday) on my Ipod. I actually listened to one twice. His series on the Psalms has been really good so far. Psalms are meant for both teaching instruction and emotional outpouring. Jesus quotes the Psalms many times throughout his ministry as an authoritative source. I really like Piper’s angle at addressing the Psalms as both a source of teaching instruction and a source of emotional outpour. I am trying to memorize the psalm of the week he uses for his sermon, psalm 1 and 42 so far.

I haven’t worked a Sunday in months, but I have to work today. I was counting on today to be my first day off since last Sunday. Granted, a lot of the days last week for just a few hours, but getting up at four in the morning, no matter how little the work, is going to have an effect on the rest of the day. My next day off is Wednesday. I am very frustrated with work right now. This week will be much better in terms of hours, but the frustrating part is the lack of consistency from week to week. I miss the days of working Monday and Tuesday in the kitchen and doing deliveries on Friday. Not only is their a lack of consistency, but it Joe has a bad habit of texting me to cover for him (usually deliveries). I will decline if he “offers”. I understand that he started a new job and things are crazy for him, but I cannot help that; he made that decision. I’ve been praying for a change of attitude, as it is obvious mine is pretty bad right now. D.J.’s birthday is today, which is one of the reasons I am unhappy about working today.