Velocity Rapture

The end is seriously nigh, maybe.

It could be, or it won’t.

Your mileage may vary.

Tomorrow, May 21st, 2011 is the supposed day of Judgment. The Rapture. The straight to video Kirk Cameron movie. Repent! Genuflect! Sashay! Turn, turn, ball change kick turn!

I for one look forward to the quickened commute I will face on Monday. Not to mention, everyday errands will be much easier to accomplish without the crowds. I would say that Black Friday would be a great experience except that it’s after the end of the world.

But what about the variables concerning this end of days prediction.

Will Australia spoil it for everyone else, since they’ll be first in line? Are we going to hit that magical number of 144,000 before they get to NYC? What about Samoa? They are changing the placement of the International Dateline.

What if you are aboard the Space Shuttle Endeavour? Will you just vacate your space suit during an EVA or are your SOL because you chose to be away from the Earth when it’s time to be called in for the big dinner in the sky?

What about babies? If you aren’t baptized, are you sticking around? In a coma? Sleeping because you have the night shift? My wife kicks me when my alarm goes off and I don’t hear it. She’d be pissed if I wasn’t there and she had to roll over and turn it off herself.

How many people will call off on Monday only to find out that the Rapture didn’t come?

How many Catholic priests will still be in mass on Sunday? (Insert parting of hair jokes here.)

Those signs on the Parkway East that estimate travel time will go nuts. “Estimated Travel Time to SQ. Hill Tunnels: Zero Minutes”. Frankly, tomorrow would be the best time to hack into the signs and put something funny like, “Estimated Time To Rapture: 25 Minutes” (thanks to Lesley for that one.)  Here's another great prank courtesy of Six Feet Under

In all seriousness, yet not, I feel bad for the people who really believe in this stuff. Tomorrow will be like their Great Pumpkin moment. They’ll be like the Cincinnati Bengals’ fans in December. Always close to the playoffs but never making it very far. I mean how would you feel if you gave up your job, your family, everything to go about preaching the end of the world coming only to find out some guy forgot to carry the one? I mean he’s already screwed up once in 1994.

Let’s face it. The bible is a good story. It was written by a bunch of people and much like today’s movies, they’ve rebooted the franchise numerous times. Supposedly, Moses wrote the first five books during the forty years that he wandered around in the wilderness. Should have been drawing a map. “That rock looks vaguely familiar.” But just like every culture, the story is changed to suit the purpose. Every religion has its own telling of creation and the apocalypse. Which one is right? The answer; all of them and none of them.

No one person got the story right and IMO that’s what it is, a story. Fantastical events occurred for everyday occurrences. With no knowledge of modern science they were chalked up to some sort of higher power. We have a world population of almost seven billion people but only 144,000 are getting saved. Surely, in the last 100 years there have been more than 144,000 righteous people born. What about them? Is there a name cutoff? Is there a lottery? Is there a reservation process?

So, Monday, I’ll be posting and the same amount of people that read today will be here. Well, that is unless you just don’t care.

And just in case I am wrong… I’m taking your stuff.

Reason #296 For Why I Will Not Get Into Heaven

I am, by no means, a very religious person. If that bothers you, then you need to stop reading right now and go find another blog in which to waste your lunch hour. If you are still reading then you might actually get a kick out of this story.

Like I said, I am not religious. For my daughter’s sake I go through all the necessary steps to ensure that she believes the everyday stuff that my wife believes. She is a born and raised Methodist and I can swing with them because they aren’t as stuffy as my upbringing, Byzantine Catholics, or what we usually called Greek Catholic. Now, Byz. Caths. are not as strict as your garden variety Roman ones. Our priests could marry, for one, and we didn’t have to do that whole Confirmation and CCD classes thing. I did attend Catechism classes and made my first Holy Communion when I was five. It wasn’t too bad and was kind of fun. It helped that our priest was pretty cool. My earliest memories of Father Marco was that of a man walking around in the floor length black priest attire, with black, horn rimmed glasses, a cup of coffee in one hand, and a cigarette, dangling out of his mouth. I loved that guy. He was a total trip.

Making my First Holy Communion

Apart from Catechism classes, I did regularly attend church on Sundays, with my family. For a five year old, it was rather boring.  Even if the service was done with some tonal inflection [read: sing-songy], an hour can seem like days.  We attended Sunday morning mass which was either something like 10:00AM and 11:00AM. God help me if I would have had to attend the masses that were done in all Slovak.  As it was, I spent a lot of that hour in church, thumbing through the books, trying to read the Slovak pages instead of paying attention to the English side. Basically, all you really needed to remember was when to kneel, sit, stand, and FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

This usually occurred when I was not sitting directly next to or between my brother and sister. If I was, then there were usually snickers and suppressed chortles sneaking out of us as we screwed around in the pews. The smartest kid would always sit furthest away from our parents, out of striking distance. I imagine that the “Let us pray” request, coming from the priest, should not be followed by the muffled snorts of a ill behaved child in a very acoustically endowed room.

Hallelujah hi-jinks, aside, all was well with our experience. Eventually, however, Father Marco died and my parents were a bit put off by his successor, Father Mike. He was a bit of an old school priest with a lot to say for members of the church who didn’t believe in tithing, in any amount. We began to attend in less frequency, going only on Easter Sunday and Christmas Eve, before completely leaving the church, all together. Of course, as a child, I didn’t mind. I was getting to sleep in on Sundays. I took my weekend sleeping very seriously, as you can tell. Something I don’t get to enjoy at all anymore with a three year old.  A three year old who gets up at 8:30AM, on the weekends, in great regularity, that is.

Now, I have said, with the utmost certainty, that the reason my parents decided to stop going to church was based solely on the attitude and actions of the newer priest, Father Mike. But, what I’ve come to realize, as I get older, is that parents answer one question in a certain way to avoid the issue cascading into 300 other questions. I’ve learned this as a parent. I always want to give the truthful explanation to any question my child has, because I am a neo-maxi-zoom-dweebie who likes to have the answer.  Yet, the answer I give is usually the predecessor to more questions which always end up in redundancy on my part. So, I give a short answer of “yes” or “no” or “ask your mother” to avoid such inquisitions. So, when I asked my parents why they stopped going to church they gave me the universally accepted answer of “Father Mike did ‘this’” or “We felt Father Mike was being ‘this.’”  However, I have pieced together, from experiencing my own line of questioning, as a parent, that a deeper conspiracy may have resulted in our expulsion from the church.  In all likelihood, it was my fault.

I have not done all the required research and could be speculating, A LOT, but I think my parents were forced to stop attending church because of something I did. If you were hoping I would elaborate into a three hour rant, you’re in luck. We’re already an hour in by this paragraph.

Like I said, I have fond memories of Father Marco, and scant memories of Father Mike. But, my last memory of going to church was on a snowy Christmas Eve. We had gone to an evening mass, probably so my mother could continue wrapping presents from “Santa.”  She was not Catholic, so her excusing herself from certain church related activities was not suspicious in the least to me. I mean, there could not possibly be any mythical holiday figure related activities in place of another, in other words. So, my father loaded us kids into our Jeep Cherokee, with optional snow plow, and headed up the road a bit to church.

I had made the classic blunder like all kids that night. Even my kid makes it all the time, now. When parents ask you if you have to go to the bathroom, before leaving, you should say yes. The same goes for adults in their late 30s and up. You always go before you leave. That's the rule.  I don't care if you think you are fine.  You go.  We are forever having to take our daughter to the bathroom whenever it is the least convenient to everyone. Well, I was just as bad as a child. I had just eaten dinner, accompanied by two glasses of iced tea, and then informed my father, with the upmost certainty that “I did not have to go.” He accepted my third repetition of that answer and off we went.

I felt the urge to pee about five minutes into our drive but kept my mouth shut. Upon reaching the church, I informed my father that I had to go and he gave me that “I thought you didn’t have to go” speech followed by my response of, “I didn’t have to go, THEN.” He told me to hold it and we went into the service which was beginning to start. The last half hour was pretty unbearable as I repeatedly said, in a whisper, “I have to go.” Of course, the church being rather on the empty side elevated that whisper into a mild roar. I guess it could have been worse. My child will inform an entire restaurant that she “Has to go poop.” And, just in case anyone didn’t hear her, she will repeat that statement again in five seconds at a louder volume.

After the service, my eyes were literally watering. I was ready to burst. In a totally related context, I don’t think the Spanish Inquisition employed such torture as my father, continually telling me to hold it. By the time we made it back to the Jeep, which was parked on the street next to the wall that ran along the front of the Rectory, I was in dire straits.  Home was only a five minute drive, at most, but I wasn’t going to make it out of the parking lot.

I pleaded with my father, one last time, and he caved. “Fine. Come here.” I expected him to locate a bathroom, somewhere inside the church, out of the cold darkness that was Christmas Eve in Southwestern Pennsylvania. Instead, he directed me around the driver’s side of the Jeep and said to go there.

“But, I’m outside.” I said.

“Just go.” He said.

“Someone will see me.” I said.

“No one will see you.” He said.

“Dad?” I asked.

“Do you have to go or not?” He said.

I went.

Tucked away along the side of the big honking Jeep Cherokee, with optional snow plow, I let out a pee that could have put out the fires of Rome. Moses could have parted it and led his people to freedom. It was the most relief I had ever felt in my short time on this Earth. My father, brother and sister stood watch, on either side of the Jeep, shivering as I continued to pee for what seemed like hours. I stood there, in a church parking lot, reaffirming myself that “No one could see me,” over and over.   I did this and then looked up to the sky, as most men do when they relieve themselves with great elation. I looked up into the night sky, with all its wonder. The twinkling of the stars were the only source of light that cold night. I stood there and looked to the… heavens. “Uh, oh.” I thought.

 

The Scene of the Crime

circa today via Google Street View

The following events are of my own speculation. I have no proof other than a gut feeling that serves to bring this story to some kind of conclusion as you are probably ready to collect social security, by now.

That night while I slept, anxiously awaiting Christmas morning and lots of Star Wars action figure type presents, I believe that some ethereal communication network informed Father Mike of my desecration of church property. Perhaps even God, himself, got on the horn and rang up Father Mike through some kind of sophisticated communication system, hidden behind a book case, in his office. I imagine him moving a statue of the Virgin Mary, triggering a switch that opened the wall revealing an ornate device with lots of blinking lights and buttons, along with a big microphone and headphones. A flashing light, indicating an incoming message, catches his attention and he sits down and dons the holy headphones, answering the call.

“My son. That boy has peed on my land. Banish his family. It is Christmas and I am trying not to smite too many people.”

"It shall be done, O Holy Father."

I imagine that a few days go by and Father Mike has a lengthy conference with my parents, informing them that I was seen, writing my name in pee on the Rectory wall. We were to be excommunicated and possibly barred from entering heaven at the time of our death no matter how many good deeds we may have done byt then.

I could be WAY OFF in this assessment of what really happened. What my parents told me, as a child, could be totally true. But, if you expect me to believe that there is a deity that can be everywhere and see everything, then how can I expect there not to be some form of punishment for whizzing on a wall outside of church. In any case, I guess I won’t know whether or not my theory is true until I die and go up to heaven. Whereupon, when I reach the Pearly Gates and find myself barred from entering I’ll know I was right. In that case, I will totally take a leak on the gate and gladly go to hell.  It's a long trip and I've learned to go before leaving.

LOST Thoughts For S6E17 The End May 23rd, 2010 Part Four

I promised to be done with the last post but I just wanted to pass along some final thoughts. I don’t want to come off like one of those fanboys that spend WAAYYY too much time analyzing something but I gotta put on the whole BIG DORK button and wear it proud for this show. LOST spoke to a need in the television landscape. It was one of those shows that redefined how a story could effectively be told with compelling characters and intricate plot lines. The fact that it bordered on Science Fiction, Drama, Comedy, and Fantasy all made for a nice blend of genres that could attract any number of fans. At times it was tedious and I know a few people who gave up along the way.

However, like the island, the show had a source, a bright warm light that represented life, death, redemption, corruption, pop culture, religious themes, mysticism, literature, science, mathematics, logic, and plain old pulp. It went beyond its 60s and 70s B Grade predecessors like Lost in Space, Gilligan’s Island, Land of the Lost and even The Prisoner. It also combined elements of shows from the 80s and 90s like The X-Files and Twin Peaks to give it that edge. It was as ground breaking as Star Trek for including characters from all walks of life on the show as well as the people who portrayed them. You had actors from England, Australia, Canada, Korea, Brazil, Croatia, Scotland, Venezuela, and of course The U.S. There were social and ethnic issues surrounding the castaways predicament. LOST encapsulated a lot of the world we know into a microcosm of isolation and constant threat to survival, doled out in 121 hours, over six seasons spanning over 2000 years of storytelling. That’s quite an accomplishment for a show that was worried about being picked up and even proposed killing off it’s man character in the pilot. How ironic would that have been?

When I first posted my thoughts about the finale I ran down the pilot and much of the first season in order to wax nostalgic. Here I thought I would speak to the finale, "The End", and pass along a few of my personal insights, because, as you know, I am the pinnacle of compelling bloggers… pffft!

On the island we have a final standoff. Jack believes that Desmond is the key to killing Locke (MiB) and MiB believes that Desmond is the key to destroying the island. Desmond thinks he is going to go down a rabbit hole and meet up with his sideways self. This is one of the big problems I had with the whole coming together of both timelines. Desmond admits to Jack that he’s going to go to a place where everything is peaceful and he’s with his loved ones. And you and I were sitting on Oceanic 815 and we had a conversation, and you were there, and you were there. But Desmond was wrong. He simply pulled the plug on the island. So, did Desmond have an out of body experience when he was subjected to Widmore’s experiment?

Soon, the island began a quaking as if the source of the island’s life blood was the waters themselves. Pulling the plug left the island and its inhabitants vulnerable. The ultimate question of bragging rights was about to unfold. MiB revels in his premature victory telling Jack he was wrong. Jack, pissed off as hell tackles MiB and punches him. Blood shows up. He’s human again. Without the island’s source he’s just a man. He quickly makes his escape where Jack and MiB fight until MiB delivers a knife to the ribs, another Christian image. Then, Kate shoots him in the back. Jack kicks MiB over the cliff just like MiB kicked Jacob into the fire. MiB’s… err Locke’s body falls, as if out a window, to the rocks below.  However, this time, no one is around to touch him, resurrecting him as it were. MiB is finally dead. Plans are changed, last minute escapes are made, people stay behind. Ben chooses to go down with the ship, as does Hugo. Jack decides that his reign as King of the Island is short lived and passes the torch to the rightful heir, Hugo. It was always meant to be Hugo. He said he didn’t want it, but it needed to be him. He just needed to be persuaded. Jack was dying and the island needed a protector. Jack and Hugo both let go. Jack took the baton from Desmond and plugged the whole. “You have to lift it up" would have been a great line from Desmond at this point or from Jack, even, trying to help Desmond get into the rope sling. In any case, Jack did what he had to do and was now free to die. So, he made his way back past his father’s shoe, still hanging in the tree three years later. He took his original spot on the ground with Vincent, again, by his side and with witnessing the plane with his friends leaving for good, he realized his death was not for nothing as MiB told him. He could die, he finally fixed everything.  Hugo, now King of the Island chose Ben as his number 2, a fitting redemption for a man who did everything he did, good and bad, for the island.  He finally got his shot to be special.  He was never meant to be a leader but someone willing to show from experience how things should be done.   If anything, I fully expect the Harlem Globetrotters to show up not that Hugo is in charge.

I said before that I really loved the finale as a standalone episode. The afterlife, flash forwards, sideways world, etc. was a great complimentary bookend to the pilot episode. But coupled with the action of the island coming apart and the final battle for the lives of the castaways and perhaps the world as MiB tries to escape was all caddywampus. Don’t bother looking up that word. It only exists in Colloquialville. The two halves did not make a symmetrical whole. The ending was like Chinese food. I liked it. It filled me up, and then I was pissed because I was still hungry and it was all gone.

Often times shows become self aware of their impact and their own existence. Sometimes they end up playing off of that vibe and become self referential or a parody of themselves as the go to lengths to break the fourth wall. To give an example, two of my favorite shows, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Supernatural make references to them ‘being’ a television show with nearly the same line. Buffy’s sixth season made the quip, “Dawn's in trouble. Must be Tuesday." Supernatural’s latest season dealt with Christian religion and the apocalypse and one of the characters said, “Another Horseman. Awesome. Must be Thursday.” Both shows aired on days listed in the quotes. It’s all rather Brechtian or Pirandelloesque, I suppose. Sometimes the breakdown of what is fiction and what is real becomes silly as such was the case with an episode of Charles in Charge where Scott Baio’s character walks off set in one direction only to reenter from outside the “house” in an admittance that the entire house is simply a set with a backstage area beyond every door and that this is indeed a television show. To another end with LOST's farewell tour, people speculated the “Christian” implications of the publicity stills showing the cast in a sort of Last Supper scene, having dinner and breaking bread. “Oh his leg is hidden” or “She’s giving a look downward.” "These things must mean something." Nope. It was just what it was, the last supper for the cast, a nod to their fate as well as the show.

But in this episode the characters all experience a moment of realization where their lives in the world of the island connect the dots back to their time in Purgatory. It then becomes a sort of nod to the show ending as characters kind of reminisce with each other in their new found ‘awakening.’ The characters seem to detach themselves from the action and wax nostalgic with each other as if they were the actors playing them instead. When Jack finally gets it, he joins the others in a gathering, a sort of farewell tableau in the church, which incidentally looked much like the seating on a plane. As Christian Shephard opens the doors at the back of the church, it sets the tone for the cast to be captured one last time on screen together, like a yearbook photo. The show was ending and we were seeing their lives play out as characters and actors in a show that had a huge cultural impact. It was a chance to let them accept their fate. The remembered connections which allowed the characters to move on could have just as well meant the actors remembering their greatest hits on the show. Sometimes, for an actor, it’s hard to let go of a show or project that you’ve worked on for a while. You become so intertwined with the characters, the fans, the media, and the impact that you find it hard to separate from the role and move on to a new life. For some, they feel as if they aren’t ready to move on and kind of linger in that nostalgic place that they created, kind of like Ben choosing to hang out a bit and work on some things. He probably meant atonement for Rousseau and Alex.

I fought long and hard to understand why certain people were in the church and others weren’t. I especially had a hard time realizing what Desmond and Eloise were speaking of in regards to his meddling and her son. I think she knew all too well what she was experiencing and was afraid that moving on would leave her and her son in a fixed state, still broken. After all, she shot him in the past and even sent him to his eventual death in the present. Maybe she just wanted some time to enjoy the reunion. As it was, Daniel and Charlotte didn’t have that moment like Sawyer and Juliet or Charlie and Claire. Maybe they weren’t ready to take that next step. They certainly weren’t ready in real life as they never got together before Charlotte died. And where were Miles and his father? They weren’t in the church and neither was Michael or Walt. Miles didn’t have his moment of enlightenment. Not sure when he would have had it since he already had a pretty decent relationship with his Dad. Perhaps that was by design. Michael was not in the church because he is still a whisper on the island, unresolved in his sins. Walt… who knows? There is supposedly going to be a 20 minute extra on the DVD that kind of wraps things up. Sounds like a patch or a hot fix to satiate fan ire.

So, this is it. Time to let go. I could speak forever about LOST and this episode; good and bad, but I think it’s time to move on. Thanks to the cast and crew for some of the best television I’ve had the pleasure of watching. Maybe, with it over, I can supplant LOST with something else that is worthy of the mysteries and theories and wasted hours of blogging.  Perhaps Flashforward… um, Happy Town… um never mind.



Namaste!

Halloween For the Purist Part One: Childhood

In the minds of children, three holidays usually ring out as the most fun. Easter, Christmas, and Halloween. It’s no surprise that all three involved getting some kind of treat whether it be presents or candy. In fact, all three have the distinction of sharing a duality with religious iconography. Santa Claus with Jesus Christ, The Easter Bunny with, again, Jesus Christ, and Halloween with the Zombie Jesus Christ….I’m kidding, of course. That’s because Halloween has more connections with Pagan themes than Christianity, unless of course you think of Halloween as being a Satanic holiday. If that’s the case you probably think kids who read or watch Harry Potter will turn into a witch and actually do magic. Face it, Halloween is the Celtic New Year’s Eve. All this demonic worship and references to the occult were added later. Anybody who chooses to look at Halloween as a reason to worship Satan is about as on the mark as people who believe that evil aliens live in volcanoes and for a price can make you famous actor. Jumping on couches is optional.

So, being a Halloween purist, I choose to look at the more modernized version of Halloween, stripped of any religious connotations and boiled down to the basic desire to have fun and be creative from the perspective of childhood and adulthood. To that end, I think if you are going to at least get involved with the holiday and expect others to take you seriously, you need to do at least some of the work.

It’s simple. As a kid, you dress up and go trick or treating, collecting as much candy as you can. You take a lot of time and effort to come up with the right costume. You are respectful to those you visit and you thank them for their treat. As an adult, you do your part to help make the experience for little ones enjoyable and you make sure they understand all the rules.

Growing up, I took Halloween seriously. Now, my mother told me of how her hometown would have trick or treating that would last an entire week. That would have been cool for a kid, and expensive for an adult. What I find sad is that nowadays, some kids are forced to go trick or treating during daylight hours and sometimes on a different day than Halloween. And additionally, a lot kids don’t even put in the effort to come up with a good costume and just walk around a camouflage shirt or football jersey and call it a costumer. They grab a pillowcase and go out with the sort of enthusiasm that makes you think that it really is Night of the Living Dead out there.

I remember the good old days of the early 80s. Your parents would go out and buy you that kiddie costume that consisted of an vinyl outfit and a plastic mask. It was the kind of mask that forced you to make sure you brushed your teeth beforehand because you’d be subject to your own breath for the next few hours, not to mention profusely sweating underneath that plastic shield held together with an elastic band. Visibility was a matter of perspective. If you tried to adjust your mask to see better, you risked cutting your eyes on the jagged holes punched into the mask or massive welts from the snapping of the elastic on your skin.

As I got a little older, costumes became a little more inventive. One year, I scrounged around our house and came up with enough supplies to pull off a fully wrapped up patient. Some old crutches, hospital gown, and a pair of long johns made up the bulk of the costume while bandages around my arms and head completed the look. It also served as a great costume for our grade school’s party. After we would get dressed up, the teacher would try to guess who we were as we sat in different seats. I still don’t know how she was able to easily tell it was me under those bandages. In any case the coolest of all costumes was in fourth grade.

In June of 1984, Ghostbusters had become a HUGE hit at the box office. By October, even at the age of nine I knew the cultural impact of the movie on the Halloween holiday. Come hell or high water, I was going to be a Ghostbuster. I don’t recall if costumes in retail stores had caught up to Pop Culture at this point, so I have no idea if there was already a version being sold to the public. In any case, I knew I could pull it off with what I had around me. As always, I could come up with grand schemes, but the nine year old mind had no way of understanding the mechanics of actually executing such plans. I called on the two smartest people I knew, my dad and my brother, for help.

We took an old gray snow suit and established it as the jumpsuit. I drew the logo of the ghost with a line through it and a name tag to be taped on the pocket area. My two genius engineers constructed the proton pack by taking an old black back pack and putting a cardboard box inside to square it up. Using a six volt flashlight and a discarded gun stock, with no barrel or trigger, they created the particle thrower. Taking the mirrored cone from the flashlight and the bulb they built a lighted front end of the gun and wired it to light up with a trigger on the gun stock. The wire was then run through an old corrugated vacuum hose to a battery inside the backpack. In all, it was a crudely designed costume but it was the coolest thing I’d ever wore and made me an instant hit during our school party. Someone had the 45 of the Ray Parker Jr. movie theme in class and played it as I did the dance from the end of the video, complete with a fake sliming that had me end up flat on my back. From the outside observer, I probably looked like the biggest dork on Earth but, in my mind, it was hippest thing I ever did in my life. Looking back, if someone were to have attempted that same costume, designed the same way, they would probably have been sent to the principal’s office for brandishing a weapon.

Fourth grade was the pinnacle of Halloween for me, as a kid. As adolescence set in, I became too old for trick or treating, but too young for wild Halloween parties. Soon, the problems of the world reared their ugly head into our lives. Kids from my generation were warned by McGruff the crime dog to not talk to strangers and long before Amber Alerts we were well aware of the creepy men in the trucks offering candy. I distinctly remember watching Adam on television and sat in disbelief as they found the body of little Adam Walsh. It was beyond the mind of an eight year old to comprehend that children could be killed. That was my first taste of mortality outside the passing of my grandfather. Still, that was not going to deter a kid on Halloween. We trick or treat no matter what. We are just careful and follow the rules. But when I turned 10 and had moved into a semi rural area outside of our town proper, trick or treating hours was moved to a Sunday afternoon between 2 PM and 4 PM.

That slight was a blaspheme to the heart of the Halloween Purist. I can understand with the danger of abductions and the amount of traffic that would zip along the infrequently monitored roads of my area, you had to be safe and what better way to be safe was during the day. However, the frequency of trick or treaters, along with the bad timing reduced the amount of visitors so much that my parents stopped handing out treats. In my last attempt at childhood, a friend and I wore makeshift costumes and went trick or treating in the middle of the afternoon which made some people scratch their heads. After all, when two thirteen year olds show up on your doorstep asking for candy, you think they are jackasses. But soon, adulthood would come into play and the holiday became fun again for the Halloween Purist. See you in Part Two.

Are You There God? It's Me, Mongo

It could be anything, really. It could be the gum you just stepped in on your way out of the store, the car in front of you that just stopped at a newly formed yellow light causing you to be late to an appointment, or even your job giving you grief. Any of these among a host of others could be the reason why you're so pissed off at the world that you want to climb up a bell tower with a high powered rifle. When you get like this, that is when the universe knocks on you door, pokes its head into your self centered, self absorbed life and reminds how unimportant your problems are in the scheme of things. The universe is sure to remind you that it's not about you and it's nothing personal.

Now, I was born in a Byzantine Catholic family. I went to catechism classes as a child and learned all the principals of religion, the Nicene Creed, the rosary, and at the age of five I made my first Holy Communion. For seven more years I still held all those principals of faith as truths. God exists, he loves us, and everything is his will. When I reached the age of 12 or maybe 13, I had a drastic change in my faith structure. My uncle, who I hadn't seen since in probably six years or so had come to visit my Mother. At first, I thought he had fallen on hard times. He looked rather bad like he'd been on a three day bender with Mel Gibson in Malibu. He was very skinny and had trouble talking and stumbled a bit. It wasn't until after he had died that I found out he had Multiple Sclerosis.

MS is a wonderful little disease. You don't just suddenly up and die one day. It takes its time with you, slowing paring away everything you are, one piece at a time. It eats away at the protective covering to your nervous system, damaging the connections to the point where you have trouble walking and numbness. Imagine MS as a bull fight. It comes into the ring and acts as the picador and banderilleros, stabbing at you and weakening you, but it doesn't kill you. There you are, weakened with your head down in a charging stance and in comes the matador which is most likely pneumonia or some other illness. It toys with you for awhile before finally killing you. It was this experience that caused me to look up into the sky and ask, "Why?" Why would a being, all powerful and knowing allow someone to go through this kind of internal torture?

As I moved through adolescence and into adulthood, I held my discourse close to the vest. I didn't talk about it with people because they had their beliefs and I wasn't about to infringe on their rights. I went through college and graduated and my little world was fine. I began dating my wife after graduation. She held a special place for God and I didn't want to express my disbelief because of it.

At that same time, I began working at a hotel near my home. One of my supervisors had a granddaughter named Samantha, who was 12 years old, and had bone cancer. She was a spirited and cheerful girl who had already beaten it once and now it had come back. Regardless of her station in life, she acted like any other 12 year old who had the entire world ahead of her. Most of us were embittered by life, especially after college, but she still believed in all the things children believed in and showed us jaded assholes what life should be like. As she went back through treatment, she showed more courage and strength as a child than most stalwart of manly men around. Her positive outlook was enough to sway me back towards the flock and I secretly spoke to God one night and tried to mend fences. You know those moments at night between awake and sleep, when you lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the wind and that one tree branch banging against the house your only company. You make those little bets. You ask those little favors because that's the time when you believe that God has your undivided attention.

So, I asked. "God. Look, I could be talking to that little bug on the ceiling or I could be talking to you. At this point, it's all the same. I want you to give this one a pass. This isn't about me wanting you to help me pass finals or get out of that speeding ticket. This is a little girl that deserves the chance to grow up and spread that infectious spirit, saving the rest of our sorry asses." I spoke to the big guy two more nights in row. She died a couple days later. I felt like a battered person going back to their spouse, giving them another chance, only to be beaten within an inch of their life.

You can never measure the impact of your life until you're not there with the yard stick. In a medium sized funeral home nearby, people stood in line to get inside for Samantha's viewings. People, religious and not, will spin this experience so many ways you'd think it was politics. On one side you get "There is no God. This happened because it happened." The other side will say that "She was meant for better things in heaven and that her struggle and death serves as a lesson for us all to appreciate life and we've come together to celebrate how she touched us." I say that this is a little girl that didn't get the chance to grow up, fall in love or fall out of love, for the first time. She didn't get the joy of driving her first car or living in her first place on her own. If there is a higher power and he has that power to do some miraculous things, he dropped the ball. There are perfectly normal and healthy people in this world ripping off others' life savings, shaking babies, and killing innocent families before turning the gun on themselves. Out of all those physically fit adults, you have to give a 12 year old with a 10,000 watt smile bone cancer.

I now put more faith into extra terrestrial life. I find it easier to believe that we are just the product of a perfect set of variables than the design and execution of some otherworldly being. Somewhere in that vast universe, another planet at a perfect distance from a star has the ability to sustain life and perhaps they are advanced enough to be able to travel across the universe to ask for a cup of sugar. It makes more sense to me that we are nothing more than a really good flan. The right ingredients at the right temperature producing a tasty treat. Cook it too long, you get Mercury. Open the oven too soon, you get Mars. I find more comfort in that than one being was responsible for everything and did in less time than it takes me to get over a head cold.

After my whole Carl Sagan fueled rant, I went on with my life. My girlfriend asked me why I had so much trouble believing and I told her. Then she told me why she had such an easy time believing. Just before I met her, her mother had been diagnosed with renal cell cancer. Her parents had kept it from her while she finished up her first semester of college. They didn't want her failing out because this type is very dangerous. Not to say that any other cancer is a walk in the park but renal cell has a better green thumb than I do and shoots seeds all over the place. You can have cancer anywhere in your body that is renal cell in nature. Her mom had it in her lungs and on her kidney. In fact the doctors didn't know any of this until they had already opened her up on the table and pulled a football sized tumor out of her gut. Had they known prior to surgery that she was in stage IV, they wouldn't have operated. Instead they would have given her a pat on the head and a "good luck." But they didn't. She was put into a study and given experimental treatments. She shed her skin twice and her body temperature went between hot to cold faster than my shower if I nudge the dial ever so slightly to the right. After an intense battle she was a kidney short, but cancer free. That was her miracle. Her mother survived Stage IV cancer and went on to live her life. My wife told me that she had to believe in God, he saved her Mother. In my own little damaged mind I told her that if he was so great, then why did she have it in the first place.

Further proof of my disdain for the almighty would occur less than three years later. Still three years from getting married or engaged my wife started to experience problems with her eye. She felt as if someone had smeared Crisco in it, blurring her vision. She went to an optometrist which then referred her to a neurologist. She had optic neuritis, an inflammation of the optic nerve which caused loss of vision. There were two primary reasons why this would be happening. She either had a brain tumor, or MS. She hoped for brain tumor. She got MS. She's been treating it with a daily shot of Copaxone and has only had one relapse with the optic neuritis. At one point she wanted me to break up with her. She didn't want me to throw my life away on someone who was going to end up in wheelchair. I ended up proposing to her.

Three years later we were planning our nuptials and, if there is a God, you have to believe that he has a sense of humor, if not irony. He wanted to make sure that I knew what it was like to have a parent with renal cell cancer. Again, another set of parents decided to keep their child in the dark about things while he went off and had a good time at his wedding and honeymoon. It wasn't until after the holidays that we found out my Father had been diagnosed with it. It was an odd thing because the doctors weren't even looking for cancer. He was tired and jaundiced and it just happened to show up on one of his many scans performed to determine the problem. So, on my birthday in March, he went into the hospital and had his kidney removed. He came through perfectly and was fine. Unfortunately, his doctor must have been the kind of child that didn't finish his vegetables because he left a little bit of cancer in my Dad. A year later, he had to go back in for more surgery.

Remember I said God has a sense of humor? Down the road at another hospital, my Mother in Law was also having surgery at the same time. It turns out her cancer had come back and got into her pancreas. My wife was convinced her mom was about to die and I was just oblivious because here I was wondering why my Father was flat on his back again. To know the man you would understand why him on his back in pain is an odd sight. At 65 he was still active with a full time job and spent his extra time with his brother taking care of a farm which includes replacing the roof of the barn and other laborious tasks that puts me to shame when I breathe heavy from mowing the lawn.

After dueling bed pans was done, both our parents became cancer free for second time. Unfortunately, my Mother in Law's lack of organs had begun to catch up with her. Without part of her pancreas, she now has Type II diabetes. She lost her spleen previously and takes longer to bounce back from illness, and Sleep Apnea forces her to wear a CPAP mask at night in order to breathe while sleeping. In all, she has no complaints. According to her, she's been playing with the house money for the last ten years and regrets nothing. She's seen her daughters be married and have children. She has her quirks like her love of a good gadget or toy and she's not afraid to tell it like it is. She's sharp. As a benefits analyst she knows her stuff. That is why we were so concerned when she became unfocused and foggy in the last month. She began repeating questions that she had already been given answers to minutes ago. She seemed meek and unable to even type properly at work. We implored her to get an MRI and find out what is going on up there. She had recently been given a different blood pressure medication and put on singular, both of which can cause headaches but this was different. On her way to the MRI, she stopped at two mailboxes and ran a red light.

Back at work, she got the call. "How are you feeling?" the doctor asked, "Fine, just fine." She replied. "No, you're not. There is something going on up there. You need to get to the hospital now, call your oncologist and get a recommendation for a neurosurgeon." Our collective stomachs fell out our collective asses. In the past ten years she hasn't had a brain scan because they've been so worried about the rest of her body. I immediately spoke in a Sallah accent saying, "They're digging in the wrong place." She is at the hospital and their is some kind of mass on her brain. Swelling has been causing her mental lapses and right now she is being treated for that until they can come up with a course of treatment. And me, I'm calling up friends I haven't spoken to in years.

I don't want this for me. I want this for my wife. I want this for my daughter. I want this for my Father in Law. This woman has been able to hold a family together much better than I could ever hold anything together, and I pray in the church of duct tape. The people around me that I love have gone through cancer, MS, Graeves Disease, diabetes, OSA, and a slew of other health issues. Some have made it, some have not. Whether you're out there rolling your 20 sided die, deciding our fate, we're here and about out of saving throws. I know this lady has beaten cancer twice. But in football, beating someone twice usually can mean anything come the playoffs. We aren't ready and I'm not willing to call this one, yet. You're not doing anything to help sway anyone like me back to flock. She's already lost a kidney, her pancreas, and some of her bounce. What more do you want? She has a family that loves her and a little granddaughter that adores her. The company she's worked at for over 15 years has decided to sell to a bigger company, forcing her out of her job that she's been so loyal to. Prove me wrong and we'll talk.

Pop Rock Culture mixed with Pepsi

It's an explosive combination.    Ok, I really didn't have anything concrete to give you.  I just thought of the old story where supposedly Mikey, from the Life Cereal commercials, died from cosuming the mixture Pop Rocks and Pepsi.  I figured this was a lethal post since it has no point.   Truth is, the weather is starting to get nice and I'm getting a little bit of cabin fever.  So, let's take a random look in my brain and see what the hell is going on in there.   I caution you.  My brain is not the place most people really want to find themselves inside.  It's scary in there.   I should come with a plastic bag warning as it is.

 

Ok, here we go.

 

Thoughts on a pregnant man.

We've all heard the story about Thomas Beatie becoming pregnant.  As this story progesses, I wonder if these questions will be addressed?

• Does he still see an OB/GYN?
  
• Does he get maternity leave?
  
• Does he get to park in the Stork spot at the store?
  
• Will he have a shower? 
  
• What about Maternity Clothes?  Tall and Fat store?
  
• Will his insurance cover this?
  
• Is the HR Benefits Analyst at his place of employment ready to explode?

 

Free Tibet. Turn out the lights.

I confess I do not know enough about the Human Rights situation in China but is it justifiable to attack a poor jogger with a torch?  Do protestors really think if they extinguish the torch the games will be cancelled.  What, does nobody have any matches?  At least one schmuck was smart enough to bring a fire extinguisher.  Others just attempted to walk up and look for the off switch.   Also, do you think you are going to make your point by pulling a Turk 182 on the Golden Gate.  What if you or your buddies would have fallen?  How about if your flipping luggage would have fallen into traffic causing a horrifc car accident, then what?   I get that China does not have a great track record when it comes to Human Rights.  But why punish the atheletes who worked so hard to compete? Torch bearer Marilyn King knows all too well about Olympic adversity.  She was in Munich in 1972 and she also lost her shot to compete in 1980 when the U.S. boycotted the Moscow games.    The games are a chance to be proud of your country.  It's an opportunity to compete instead of blowing each other up.    Be lucky the games aren't here in the U.S. Other countries would probably boycott us and then everybody would be crying foul about that.

 

Plan your next vacation at the Lovely YFZ ranch

Holy crap!?!?!?  I don't know what bothers me more, the fact that place was really well constructed or that a 16 year old girl broke this place wide open when previous violations and fines didn't raise any red flags.  The pictures on the net and 24 hour news cycle make this place look pretty damned cool.  I'm pissed that they stole my Dream House design, though.   In case you are wondering what the hell I'm talking about.  A 16 year old girl anonymously called police stating that she was abused and was married to a 50 year old man along with seven other girls.  Polygamy is banned in Texas as well as marrying under the age of 16.  It's amazing to think that there are people in this country that still believe what they are doing is A: Legal, and B: Right.  I'm no one to judge other people's religious beliefs but this girl was able to borrow a cell phone and know how to use it, but didn't think anything was wrong up until this point.  The best part?  They don't even know if they got her out of the ranch.  Law enforcement offers removed 416 children INCLUDING HERS from the ranch. How much you wanna bet there's only about five or six different last names in that place? 

 

Adam Corolla eliminated from Dancing with the Stars

The biggest travesty since Master P was allowed to stay on Dancing with the Stars.   I'm actually saddened by this.  True, he was the weakest dancer in the bunch but he had a lot of charm and his sense of humor, while dry, was a much needed shot in the arm considering the list of celebrities on the show.

 

Steve Guttenberg:  It's so odd to hear him speak about values and worthwhile television when you consider this is the guy that set Lassard up with a blow job in Police Academy. ELIMINATED

Penn Jillette:  Bigfoot of the dance floor.  He couldn't create the illusion of good dancing. ELIMINATED

Monica Seles: I don't remember her looking so man-ish.  Half expected her to grunt, "HAAAA" while dancing. ELIMINATED

Christian de la Fuente:  Who?  He's in the Chilean Air Force. 

Shannon Elizabeth: She pretty much gave up acting for poker. Being 10 years her junior, her partner Derek Hough wasn't old enough to see her naked in American Pie when it was in theaters.  I'm sure he's seen it since and is awestruck.

Mario Barret:  Who?  He just goes by Mario and I thought they were talking about the Italian Plumber.

Marlee Matlin: .  In season four they had one legged wonder Heather Mills, last season they had Marie Osmond who is brain deficient.  This season we have a Deaf Academy Award Winner.  We're running the gamut of disabilities here.   Next season, I say they get Charlton Heston. 

Priscilla Presley:  Oddly enough, she's very flexible from the neck down.

Marissa Jaret Winokur:  WAY TOO PERKY!  For some reason the judges think that because she won a Tony she should be a natural dancer.  Guess what, so did Angela Lansbury....you want to bet on her against the Yamaguchi?

Christie Yamaguchi:  She's almost a sure bet  to win because she's one of those people......you know.... a natural at this kind of thing.....I'm not being racist, but.....Olympic skaters have that advantage.

The Power of the Grilled Jesus Compels You!

Part Three in the, If I Were a Rich Man series

As I close out this series, I have no other real words of wisdom or great anectdotal tales of what I would do with vast riches. I merely wish to relate one of my more recent brainstorms on how to make it big.

I have come to realize that there are two reasons why American is one of the greatest places on Earth. The first is that this is the land of opportunity and we all have the ability to create and sell whatever we want in our quest for the all mighty dollar. The other is that there will always be someone out there stupid or crazy enough to buy your product. With that, I give you one of my evil little plans. The kind of sick and twisted idea that only the genius possess and insane lament. In the past few years there has been an influx of religious artifacts appearing in the most domestic of settings. While I'm sure the Vatican has dispatched their forces to the four corners of the Earth as well as Iowa to debunk such finds, the fact remains, we are in the midst of a revolution. One that threatens to shake the very core of our lunches. I'm talking about the appearance of holy and religious images on everyday items. Most recently, the case of the Virgin Mary burned into a grilled cheese sandwhich caught national attention not because of its impact on our dogmatic beliefs, but because someone was dumb enough to pay $28,000 on eBay. GoldenPalace.com, ever the finder of rare antiquities, purchased the snack on eBay back in 2004.

It is my belief that this sandwhich should not be taken lightly. I suggest that it is a sign sent to us crazy bastards to take advantage of this epiphany. However, my attempts to capitalize on this event were met with guffaws and rolling of eyes. It doesn't take me walking around the streets of my town with a sandwhich board to spell it out. The answers are there, bubbling up through the nooks and cranies of our grilled cheese.

I give you the Grilled Jesus.

Unfortunately, someone beat me to it. I suffer from having great ideas but no ability to maket and pitch to investors. This idea was so simple, though, I figured it a slam dunk in the old baptismal font. Just make a mold like you would for pizzelles, but make it in the form of Jesus. What, you feel I'm insensitive? That I should be struck down for my blasphemous ways? I'm not saying create a sandwhich and sell it on the internet as genuine religious phenomena, that would be wrong. I meant create the mold and market it as a novelty item in Spencers. The Church has been selling salvation to us for years at a price. I merely wish to capitalize on the fact that for the most part, people have a sense of humor and aren't taking things too serious.

Damn it, I tell you I had it all mapped out. For only $19.95 plus shipping and handling you can savor the saviour. Put them in the kids lunches gauranteeing them early entry into college. Send one to work with your husband when it comes time for a raise. Why shouldn't we all find a little hallelujah in a hot lunch? Call now and we'll double your order and throw in the book of Psalm Soduku puzzles.

Ok, that last part was pushing it a little, even for me. Frankly, I give little creedence to these Mary on a sliding glass door or Jesus in the ice cube tray stories. But as long as someone out there is willing to pay insane amounts of money for these items, then I should be allowed to exploit their stupidty and say they can remit a check or money order to me at Poophill Products c/o Mongo.

Can I interest you in our Bris-O-Matic It slices, it dices..........yeah, ok, that was way beyond wrong......but admit it, you laughed.