Today is November 1, time for National Novel Writing Month (www.nanowrimo.org). I, along with about a million other writers, will be hunched over laptops, strung out on various coffee drinks working to make 50,000 words in one month a reality. Last year was my frist year to do it and it was so rewarding to see that I could actually write a novel -- albeit a very bad novel -- in only one month.
But all novels begin badly, that is, they begin as first drafts and as Ann Lemott says in "Bird by Bird", very bad first drafts (and I'm quoting her loosely here).
The tough part about writing is not the writing. It's the rewriting. That's where you have to go deep, sacrfice precious ideas and concepts and find out that the novel really writes itself through your pen (or computer)and this thing you think is "yours" is really something else entirely. Scary stuff.
I plan to rewrite the very bad novel I wrote last year. Nanowrimo helps make writing a little more like a group effort because you know others are working on it too.
Here are snippets of what else is going on...
1 - Spent a day with my alma mater, advisory board meeting which was a thinly veiled disguise to spend time with Nathan, who, after eating the biggest sirloin steak in Payne County decided that college life is OK, after all. We went to Wal-Mart where we actually witnessed (and I'm not making this up) two OSU football players in the health and beauty aisle selecting body care. The irony of this scene is just too much and of course, I could not keep my mouth shut. These guys are big enough to make up at least two of me and I'm razzing them about their hygiene? I must be stupid. They were so very nice, so great to meet and so very tall and big. They looked like those inflatable floats in the Macy's parade coming down the shampoo aisle. When I shook their hands I had to reach up and I'm almost six feet tall.
After Wal- Mart, where I actually found a Jim Gaffigan CD (the absolute funniest comic working today) and a Natasha Bendingfield CD. Is it too trendy to say I have listened to that great song, "Unwritten" about a squillion times? Great lyrics, great energy, just a great talent. She tops my current playlist. Well, to be honest she IS my playlist. I just like to use the word "playlist" because my kids do and I like to think that I'm as cool as they are.
Best part about the day - just getting to hang out with Nathan and see how great he's doing. Sometimes you stand back and see your kids and think, "what God smiled on me to give me such a great kid?" and then I think, "and how haven't I messed it up yet?"
2 - Volunteer work - I will blog on this more later. Last year I made two big decisions: to get involved in meaningful volunteer work and to write. Both decisions have altered my life in big ways.
I saw the news yesterday about a mother in a local town whose trial is ongoing. Seems this mother thought her four year old should stand with 5 pound weights above his head for oh, about an hour. She failed to feed him and when DHS picked him up he was dehydrated, malnourished as well as covered in bruises (over 50 on his small, hungry body).
I cannot fathom what has gone so wrong that we are abusing our children in such deeply damaging ways. So each week I teach a class to parents at a local agency where every brain cell in my head gets a work out in trying to communicate to others the importance of doing the job of parenting better. I say this with every ounce of compassion I can muster -- parenting is the hardest job in the world and doing it well is something none of us are really any good at. We are all, it seems, selfish pricks who want to either make small little idols to ourselves to run around on sports fields where we can tell our friends "there goes my kid...and therefore ME." OR we are so horribly abusive that we do shameful things to our children as in the case above.
There just has to be more that a civilized society can do to teach teach people how to love their children in ways that don't perpetuate the cycle of abuse that continues to be the #1 way children in America die -- at the hands of their own caretakers.
It is difficult to imagine that we have more pet adoption centers than we do shelters for children.
I don't know what that answer is. I do know what it is like to be so exhausted as a parent as to know it is better to walk out of the room than to pick my own child up. I do know what it is like to look into the eyes of a teenager and think, "who are YOU and what have you done with that cute little middle school kid that use to inhabit your body?" I do know that being a parent is 100 times harder than any job I've ever tried to do, any test I've ever had to take, any project I've ever tried to finish.
I'm grateful for the work of the Tulsa Parent Child Center (www.parentchildcenter.org). whose sole purpose is to stop child abuse. We have a long way to go.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Garage Detail
The day dawned crisp and cool as fall made its presence known. In the distance, we could hear the band warming up on the football field for what will be the first of many contests this year. And though we have spent many weekends at such contests, this will be the first year we don't attend.
Nor will we be driving early to basketball games now that our daughter drives herself.
Which leaves a lot of time for cleaning up the garage.
What is a garage, really? 21 years of married stuff that accumulates until it either bursts into flames, thanks to greasy rags and buckets of old paint or it just slowly begins decaying thanks to greasy rags and buckets of old paint.
But really, a garage is the remains of old projects, worn out phases of childhood and reminders of bits of life that have passed on.
This is what I thought as I stood off to the side of the garage watching my husband remove things from piles that I had painstakingly accumulated over a series of hours. Forget that I had told him six months ago that such piles would be made. Forget that I had pleaded with him and all the other creatures living in our house to find what they wanted and take it away. Forget that I had told him earlier in the week, "this Saturday is THE DAY!" so that he would perhaps take a stroll around the stuff that he calls "his".
As he stood bent over the pile he emerged with something. He held it up. "Why would you throw this away?" he asked angrily as he thrusts the "thing" up.
I looked at him with concern. In his hand he held a ten inch piece of old garden hose with two clothes hangers bent woven through the center. Not only did I not know what it was, I was certain that there was absolutely no function for such a thing.
I was at a loss for words. "I thought it was broken?" I hoped my question would reveal that I had every intention for thought and care. It did not have the desired affect.
Engineers don't get angry. They get quiet. Really, really, really quiet because their brains are working so fast on things to say and ways to passively derail you that they cannot move their mouths and talk at the same time.
I, on the other hand, have a different problem. My brain is usually not working on much at all when my mouth flies into action.
I then added, "What's a stupid thing like that doing in the garage anyway?"
Steely quiet followed with a look from my husband that I believe is reserved for those times when words cannot be formed to say how stupid I am. The kind of quiet that lets me know that the next few hours will be spent with me alone, forming piles of discarded skates and bicycles while my husband will be watching the college football games on TV.
Finally he spoke, very quietly and very slowly, which again is a sign of my lack of intelligence.
"THIS," he said pointedly, "is how I tie up the trees in the yard."
You would think that 21 years of marriage had taught me when to cut my losses and realize that nothing I said past a certain point could save me. But I am a sucker for lost causes and so I said (which made perfect sense to me at the time) , "But honey, we don't HAVE any trees in the yard."
I gasped at my own stupidity. In my attempt to get the garage clean and have this scintillating conversation I had forgotten of the care and time Dan had put into the trees on our property that had, for awhile, flourished under his prodding and care. I remembered the early summer days when he awakened to haul out the three garden hoses and hook them carefully together so that the trees would get water.
How could he have known about the weather this past summer. The summer that will no doubt go down into history as the "drought of 06"?
How could I have forgotten that even though engineers don't say much, they think a lot. And Dan had been thinking about trees and kids and jobs and other lost things.
I tried to make amends but he was inconsolable. He took the bent metal and rubber creation and laid it carefully on the work bench, piled high from clutter that had not had time to be neatly arranged.
Nor will we be driving early to basketball games now that our daughter drives herself.
Which leaves a lot of time for cleaning up the garage.
What is a garage, really? 21 years of married stuff that accumulates until it either bursts into flames, thanks to greasy rags and buckets of old paint or it just slowly begins decaying thanks to greasy rags and buckets of old paint.
But really, a garage is the remains of old projects, worn out phases of childhood and reminders of bits of life that have passed on.
This is what I thought as I stood off to the side of the garage watching my husband remove things from piles that I had painstakingly accumulated over a series of hours. Forget that I had told him six months ago that such piles would be made. Forget that I had pleaded with him and all the other creatures living in our house to find what they wanted and take it away. Forget that I had told him earlier in the week, "this Saturday is THE DAY!" so that he would perhaps take a stroll around the stuff that he calls "his".
As he stood bent over the pile he emerged with something. He held it up. "Why would you throw this away?" he asked angrily as he thrusts the "thing" up.
I looked at him with concern. In his hand he held a ten inch piece of old garden hose with two clothes hangers bent woven through the center. Not only did I not know what it was, I was certain that there was absolutely no function for such a thing.
I was at a loss for words. "I thought it was broken?" I hoped my question would reveal that I had every intention for thought and care. It did not have the desired affect.
Engineers don't get angry. They get quiet. Really, really, really quiet because their brains are working so fast on things to say and ways to passively derail you that they cannot move their mouths and talk at the same time.
I, on the other hand, have a different problem. My brain is usually not working on much at all when my mouth flies into action.
I then added, "What's a stupid thing like that doing in the garage anyway?"
Steely quiet followed with a look from my husband that I believe is reserved for those times when words cannot be formed to say how stupid I am. The kind of quiet that lets me know that the next few hours will be spent with me alone, forming piles of discarded skates and bicycles while my husband will be watching the college football games on TV.
Finally he spoke, very quietly and very slowly, which again is a sign of my lack of intelligence.
"THIS," he said pointedly, "is how I tie up the trees in the yard."
You would think that 21 years of marriage had taught me when to cut my losses and realize that nothing I said past a certain point could save me. But I am a sucker for lost causes and so I said (which made perfect sense to me at the time) , "But honey, we don't HAVE any trees in the yard."
I gasped at my own stupidity. In my attempt to get the garage clean and have this scintillating conversation I had forgotten of the care and time Dan had put into the trees on our property that had, for awhile, flourished under his prodding and care. I remembered the early summer days when he awakened to haul out the three garden hoses and hook them carefully together so that the trees would get water.
How could he have known about the weather this past summer. The summer that will no doubt go down into history as the "drought of 06"?
How could I have forgotten that even though engineers don't say much, they think a lot. And Dan had been thinking about trees and kids and jobs and other lost things.
I tried to make amends but he was inconsolable. He took the bent metal and rubber creation and laid it carefully on the work bench, piled high from clutter that had not had time to be neatly arranged.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
To Do List
I'm feeling rather cocky as my weekend "to do" list is narrowing. After weeks of having weekends that were anything but restful, I had a couple of days to catch up on some projects.
I'm most excited that on the one year anniversary of Nanowrimo (www.nanowrimo.org) I have not two working projects - one fiction, one non-fiction and this weekend I have been working on the proposal that I hope to have in some sort of finished place by end of year.
Speaking of finished projects, my friend Jordan Rosendfeld has a book coming out and a new article published.
http://pacificsun.com/story_archives/bridge.html
I'm most excited that on the one year anniversary of Nanowrimo (www.nanowrimo.org) I have not two working projects - one fiction, one non-fiction and this weekend I have been working on the proposal that I hope to have in some sort of finished place by end of year.
Speaking of finished projects, my friend Jordan Rosendfeld has a book coming out and a new article published.
http://pacificsun.com/story_archives/bridge.html
Thursday, October 19, 2006
$3 burgers and David Sedaris
Imagine this: 2400 people, sitting in the dark, watching a guy read from his books for 2 hours. Most performers would have to throw in some kind of body moves or move around the stage in interesting way to keep the show going. Not Sedaris. He can hold an audience spell bound with stories of Japan, Christmas in other countries and shopping with his sister.
I went with a friend of mine who is much more well traveled than I. She and her husband lived in Japan for a few months and she even speaks a little Japanese. She told me this over $3 burgers at a local pub where I had my very first beer. (I don't drink but I totally caved into peer pressure when the bartender said, "why'd you come into an Irish pub if you don't drink?" So I asked for a suggestion and he gave me "Fromboise beer" which has a raspberry blend to it. It was really good -- for beer -- and the best part is that I was able to stay sitting in an upright position on my bar stool, a feat that requires a lot of skill I discovered.
It says a lot about my strict religious upbringing to understand that I arrived at the age of 43, have conceived two children (now teenagers) and just now have had one whole beer. It will no doubt be my very last.
"Wow," I said to my friend as we finished our meal . "There must be a lot of people here going to the show."
"No, " the bartender interjected. "It's $3 burger night."
At the show, Sedaris was signing books to a crowd of people so I walked (ran, actually, trying not to attract too much attention) to get in line where I assumed the posture of an educated, literary observer along with the rest of the Tulsans who were in the same line. Having never really been around literary types too much, I'm always intimidated by them. I read 4 books a week and probably can hold my own when discussing the classics but something about that crowd just kind of freaks me out.
I had brought one of my books of Sedaris ( I have given away probably 100 of his books to friends, etc.) and I carefully took it out of my handbag so that I could have him sign it. The closer I got to him the more I began hero-worshipping so that by the time I was actually in front of him, I said something ridiculous like, "ohmygodmrsedaris, I love you sooooomuch, ihaveallyourbooks and.." I went on for a bit while he looked at me, somewhat fearfully, and said, "what's your name?" Since I couldn't speak, I held out the card the usher gave to me with my name on it. He smiled, stated my name and then said, "that's a good name for a writer", then signed my book and looked at my friend for her book to sign.
My friend was much more composed than I. Perhaps her time spent in Japan gave her a certain reserve that I was clearly lacking. She smiled, gave him her book and they struck up an instant rapport while I stood aimlessly by watching her Sedaris talk for a bit in Japanese, no doubt about me, while I stood limply at the side of the table.
I went with a friend of mine who is much more well traveled than I. She and her husband lived in Japan for a few months and she even speaks a little Japanese. She told me this over $3 burgers at a local pub where I had my very first beer. (I don't drink but I totally caved into peer pressure when the bartender said, "why'd you come into an Irish pub if you don't drink?" So I asked for a suggestion and he gave me "Fromboise beer" which has a raspberry blend to it. It was really good -- for beer -- and the best part is that I was able to stay sitting in an upright position on my bar stool, a feat that requires a lot of skill I discovered.
It says a lot about my strict religious upbringing to understand that I arrived at the age of 43, have conceived two children (now teenagers) and just now have had one whole beer. It will no doubt be my very last.
"Wow," I said to my friend as we finished our meal . "There must be a lot of people here going to the show."
"No, " the bartender interjected. "It's $3 burger night."
At the show, Sedaris was signing books to a crowd of people so I walked (ran, actually, trying not to attract too much attention) to get in line where I assumed the posture of an educated, literary observer along with the rest of the Tulsans who were in the same line. Having never really been around literary types too much, I'm always intimidated by them. I read 4 books a week and probably can hold my own when discussing the classics but something about that crowd just kind of freaks me out.
I had brought one of my books of Sedaris ( I have given away probably 100 of his books to friends, etc.) and I carefully took it out of my handbag so that I could have him sign it. The closer I got to him the more I began hero-worshipping so that by the time I was actually in front of him, I said something ridiculous like, "ohmygodmrsedaris, I love you sooooomuch, ihaveallyourbooks and.." I went on for a bit while he looked at me, somewhat fearfully, and said, "what's your name?" Since I couldn't speak, I held out the card the usher gave to me with my name on it. He smiled, stated my name and then said, "that's a good name for a writer", then signed my book and looked at my friend for her book to sign.
My friend was much more composed than I. Perhaps her time spent in Japan gave her a certain reserve that I was clearly lacking. She smiled, gave him her book and they struck up an instant rapport while I stood aimlessly by watching her Sedaris talk for a bit in Japanese, no doubt about me, while I stood limply at the side of the table.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Baby Boy and College
The call came, as I knew it would, almost to the minute in which I expected it. My son, a new freshman, called late Sunday just to say "hi". Uh huh.
As any parent will tell you, whenever a teenager that is living on your dime calls to "chat" about "nothing in particular" this is indeed cause for alarm. You see, kids don't call you when they bang up the car and are standing at the police station. They have friends for such emergency. Friends that help them get their game plan together before they call their parents.
Kids call parents to "chat" only when there is some major life change happening.
So I, of course, begin with the litany of questions. That is what mom's do. They nag, they ask innane questions and they, most of all, repeat themselves as they try to think what to say during the conversation.
ME: "Are you OK?"
SON: "I don' t know."
ME: "Are you bleeding?"
SON: "Not really."
ME: "What's her name?"
SON: Silence. Sigh. "I can't talk about it." Sigh. Sniff.
ME: "Where are you?"
SON: "Alone."
To my credit, I kept my eye on the road, my cell phone plastered to my head and though I considered pulling the car off Hwy 169 and making a deadbolt to Stillwater and right into rescue mode, I held firm. Sure, I had trouble seeing the road what with all the rain and my tears, but I kept going.
ME: "What are you going to do?"
SON: "I don't know. Maybe go work out. Do some homework." Now THIS was cause for alarm. A depressed, love sick teeanger doing homework? Where did this kid come from? I certainly hadn't taught him such stability. I generally cannot make it through a week without some kind of mental breakdown that commands a steady diet of coffee, chocolate, bad movies or reading Faust.
SON: "I'm not sure college is for me."
Now this is where many parents lose it. On one hand, we know what to say. We know to say something like, "Oh, you'll get through it. It's not so bad..." and do some sort of motivational speech where your kids see the value in sustaining the belief that a college education will somehow keep them off welfare and out of trouble. But, the parent in all of us -- especially if you're a mom -- cries out, "YES! I know! You must come home! Your room is all ready, clean and I'm making a great pot roast!"
I was silent as I pondered my options.
ME: "What do you think you should do?"
SON: "I don't know."
ME: "If you did know what to do, what would it be?"
SON: Silence. More sighs. "Just keep going?" This was said with such dread, with such sadness that I again, fought the wheel.
My urge to pontificate was so great at this point, I could see the climax of my arguments, I could see me bucking up his sagging spirit and us having a regular 7th Heaven moment. And I admit, I was tempted.
Stupid things went through my head. Things like "this hurts me more than you" made a pass through, as did "wish I knew what to do". Where do this colorless phrases come from and why do they make their way to the front of our lobes when we have nothing to comfort those we love?
Instead, I just sat there, listening to his sobs as I drove through the rain.
As any parent will tell you, whenever a teenager that is living on your dime calls to "chat" about "nothing in particular" this is indeed cause for alarm. You see, kids don't call you when they bang up the car and are standing at the police station. They have friends for such emergency. Friends that help them get their game plan together before they call their parents.
Kids call parents to "chat" only when there is some major life change happening.
So I, of course, begin with the litany of questions. That is what mom's do. They nag, they ask innane questions and they, most of all, repeat themselves as they try to think what to say during the conversation.
ME: "Are you OK?"
SON: "I don' t know."
ME: "Are you bleeding?"
SON: "Not really."
ME: "What's her name?"
SON: Silence. Sigh. "I can't talk about it." Sigh. Sniff.
ME: "Where are you?"
SON: "Alone."
To my credit, I kept my eye on the road, my cell phone plastered to my head and though I considered pulling the car off Hwy 169 and making a deadbolt to Stillwater and right into rescue mode, I held firm. Sure, I had trouble seeing the road what with all the rain and my tears, but I kept going.
ME: "What are you going to do?"
SON: "I don't know. Maybe go work out. Do some homework." Now THIS was cause for alarm. A depressed, love sick teeanger doing homework? Where did this kid come from? I certainly hadn't taught him such stability. I generally cannot make it through a week without some kind of mental breakdown that commands a steady diet of coffee, chocolate, bad movies or reading Faust.
SON: "I'm not sure college is for me."
Now this is where many parents lose it. On one hand, we know what to say. We know to say something like, "Oh, you'll get through it. It's not so bad..." and do some sort of motivational speech where your kids see the value in sustaining the belief that a college education will somehow keep them off welfare and out of trouble. But, the parent in all of us -- especially if you're a mom -- cries out, "YES! I know! You must come home! Your room is all ready, clean and I'm making a great pot roast!"
I was silent as I pondered my options.
ME: "What do you think you should do?"
SON: "I don't know."
ME: "If you did know what to do, what would it be?"
SON: Silence. More sighs. "Just keep going?" This was said with such dread, with such sadness that I again, fought the wheel.
My urge to pontificate was so great at this point, I could see the climax of my arguments, I could see me bucking up his sagging spirit and us having a regular 7th Heaven moment. And I admit, I was tempted.
Stupid things went through my head. Things like "this hurts me more than you" made a pass through, as did "wish I knew what to do". Where do this colorless phrases come from and why do they make their way to the front of our lobes when we have nothing to comfort those we love?
Instead, I just sat there, listening to his sobs as I drove through the rain.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Business/Comedy Workshop
Here are some pics of a recent workshop that my speaking group put together with the talents of Barry Friedman, comedian, author, radio host and now, my friend.
It was a simple idea -- bring in somebody who knows humor and have him teach us how to use it effectively in business and other situations.
I had a blast. What I loved about the event was the way that Friedman could read the group and respond to the needs of the group and keep everything moving. I also loved the fact that in that room, at least three major religious groups were represented (christian, catholic, jewish..) and the comedians in the room outnumbered the pastors 2 to 1. There were insurance salesmen, advertisers, retirees, volunteers, real estate agents and students.
And we all laughed together. And I believe that when people from varied backgrounds can learn to laugh together, we can learn to do a lot more together, too.
It was a simple idea -- bring in somebody who knows humor and have him teach us how to use it effectively in business and other situations.
I had a blast. What I loved about the event was the way that Friedman could read the group and respond to the needs of the group and keep everything moving. I also loved the fact that in that room, at least three major religious groups were represented (christian, catholic, jewish..) and the comedians in the room outnumbered the pastors 2 to 1. There were insurance salesmen, advertisers, retirees, volunteers, real estate agents and students.
And we all laughed together. And I believe that when people from varied backgrounds can learn to laugh together, we can learn to do a lot more together, too.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Thoughts on this week's news
I remember Sunday dinners at my grandmothers where my grandfather would bounce around the news of the week. He was a union leader, so by definition a democrat who raised his family on the work ethic of Oklahoma Democrats. I remember these loud, boistrous discussions as I was completely caught up in the New Republicans that I had heard on campus. Reaganomics were just then becoming a part of our nation's political landscape and while I understood little of what I thought I knew, I did know this: I would never be a democrat.
Fast foward now, 40-something years later. That earlier prediction may or may not hold true. I wonder what discussions me and my grandfather would have after this week's news about yet another political sex scandal in Washington. I've only known a couple of great men in my life - neither of which were in politics - and I'm beginning to wonder if any of the human race can last in a system that seems to spit out evil, contempteous people like our political system seems to do. Can man (or woman) really handle power of any kind? It's a good question and one that I'm asking a lot these days. It seems were all so very bad at handling responsibility and power. The more we have, the worst we seem to be at it.
I'm embittered by Foley's comments about being an alcholic and being abused. "So what?" I want to shout. Like who hasn't been? While I'm sympathetic for Foley's childhood, I'm disgusted at the idea that what happens to a person in their childhood is now suppose to be the reason we forgive them their transgressions. "Ah, it's OK you want to be a pedophile, after all, you had a tough childhood. " Gimme a break. Wanda Sykes said it best on the Leno show this week: "After a few margaritas, do I go look up my local girl scout and say, 'hey, baby, mama wants a thin mint?"
I know many, many people who come from similar backgrounds and they are not out hitting on kids for sex. Sure, they may have their demons but that's what being a grown-up is about: dealing with the hand that is dealt you, maybe even rising above it.
But it takes character to go beyond where we are and who we can become and what gets men and women elected in our country is not character but money and media, neither of which can salve the ruins of a tortured soul.
Fast foward now, 40-something years later. That earlier prediction may or may not hold true. I wonder what discussions me and my grandfather would have after this week's news about yet another political sex scandal in Washington. I've only known a couple of great men in my life - neither of which were in politics - and I'm beginning to wonder if any of the human race can last in a system that seems to spit out evil, contempteous people like our political system seems to do. Can man (or woman) really handle power of any kind? It's a good question and one that I'm asking a lot these days. It seems were all so very bad at handling responsibility and power. The more we have, the worst we seem to be at it.
I'm embittered by Foley's comments about being an alcholic and being abused. "So what?" I want to shout. Like who hasn't been? While I'm sympathetic for Foley's childhood, I'm disgusted at the idea that what happens to a person in their childhood is now suppose to be the reason we forgive them their transgressions. "Ah, it's OK you want to be a pedophile, after all, you had a tough childhood. " Gimme a break. Wanda Sykes said it best on the Leno show this week: "After a few margaritas, do I go look up my local girl scout and say, 'hey, baby, mama wants a thin mint?"
I know many, many people who come from similar backgrounds and they are not out hitting on kids for sex. Sure, they may have their demons but that's what being a grown-up is about: dealing with the hand that is dealt you, maybe even rising above it.
But it takes character to go beyond where we are and who we can become and what gets men and women elected in our country is not character but money and media, neither of which can salve the ruins of a tortured soul.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Jonah
After a busy working weekend, I took a break to see a movie. On the drive there, I caught up with my acquaintance Ellen Kushner on her radio show, "Sound and Spirit". It was a reflection on "Jonah" and the show and Ellen's comments, along with the music she selected, resonated deeply with me. Her comments on the ancient story of Jonah and Yom Kippur hit deep chords within me, making me think and mull over so much.
Here's a link for you to review:
http://www.wgbh.org/pages/pri/spirit/thisweek.html
I met Ellen at Tulsa Nimrod Conference last year where she was a guest speaker. She's written many books. What I remember about meeting her is that she took time to answer my questions and seemed happy to do so.
Here's a link for you to review:
http://www.wgbh.org/pages/pri/spirit/thisweek.html
I met Ellen at Tulsa Nimrod Conference last year where she was a guest speaker. She's written many books. What I remember about meeting her is that she took time to answer my questions and seemed happy to do so.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Stuff I learned MC-ing
This past weekend, a friend of mine asked me to MC at a local comedy club. If you know me, you know I love good comedy. I'm fascinated by what makes us laugh and what makes us think. I think comics are the social satirists of our day and they can make us laugh at ourselves, at our world and at each other. I think when you can laugh at something, you aren't as afraid of it. At least that is true for me.
I learned more in those three shows than years of speaking and hours of classes could have taught me. I'm grateful for the experience. Though I doubt I'll ever make a living in a comedy club, it was a wonderful way to push past some fears. When you're done learning, you're really done living.
Here's what I learned:
a - MC-ing is a lot harder than it looks.
b - Comics are the best teachers and most are more than happy to help in knowing what to do.
c - MC's are not suppose to be funny, they are suppose to keep the show moving and highlight the performers. The show is not about MC's it is about the performers, the real comics who make their living making others laugh. (Luckily, I was so afraid, I didn't have this problem. I wanted to get off that stage about as quickly as possible).
d - Practice the names of the performers many times so you don't forget it mid-sentence (yeah, I did that. Sorry Brian!)
e - Make sure you say the performers name at the end of the intro, not at first (yeah, I did that, too).
f - Dress credibly.
g - be willing to laugh at yourself (did this A LOT!!!)
h - be open for critique.
i - Respect the crowd
j - Respect the comics
k - College Football, in this town, still rules. I was proud of the owner who refused to cancel a show because football fans wanted to watch big screen.
l - mostly, I learned how much I have to learn.
Thanks Sam, Gaines, Brian, Marc, Robert very much for the chance to learn.
I learned more in those three shows than years of speaking and hours of classes could have taught me. I'm grateful for the experience. Though I doubt I'll ever make a living in a comedy club, it was a wonderful way to push past some fears. When you're done learning, you're really done living.
Here's what I learned:
a - MC-ing is a lot harder than it looks.
b - Comics are the best teachers and most are more than happy to help in knowing what to do.
c - MC's are not suppose to be funny, they are suppose to keep the show moving and highlight the performers. The show is not about MC's it is about the performers, the real comics who make their living making others laugh. (Luckily, I was so afraid, I didn't have this problem. I wanted to get off that stage about as quickly as possible).
d - Practice the names of the performers many times so you don't forget it mid-sentence (yeah, I did that. Sorry Brian!)
e - Make sure you say the performers name at the end of the intro, not at first (yeah, I did that, too).
f - Dress credibly.
g - be willing to laugh at yourself (did this A LOT!!!)
h - be open for critique.
i - Respect the crowd
j - Respect the comics
k - College Football, in this town, still rules. I was proud of the owner who refused to cancel a show because football fans wanted to watch big screen.
l - mostly, I learned how much I have to learn.
Thanks Sam, Gaines, Brian, Marc, Robert very much for the chance to learn.
Monday, September 18, 2006
I Remember You
Too many of my generation grew up fatherless. Too many of us have those memories of holidays and special events being just another reminder that our families were wracked, torn apart, broken.
But a few of us got lucky. We found someone that stepped into an empty hole left by somone else and while they did not seek to fill the void, they make it less hollow, less empty.
Today, that emptiness echoes loudly with memories of you.
Today, I search through the images and words that have taken root because of your example, your patience, your dogged determination to be a teacher that lives what they teach.
I remember the kindness that says, "you'll do better next time." I remember the persistence to let me fall down again and again and not "fix" it for me. I remember the willingness to let me struggle with my fledgling faith so that it can truly be my very own. As I watch my own kids embrace their own questions, I realize for the first time how much grace, how much love this act took for you. I'm learning it is far easier to tell someone what to think than to teach them how to.
Once, I told you "thank you" and you accepted this with simple gratitude and a commission. Keep going, keep asking, keep looking.
Today, I promise you, I will.
But a few of us got lucky. We found someone that stepped into an empty hole left by somone else and while they did not seek to fill the void, they make it less hollow, less empty.
Today, that emptiness echoes loudly with memories of you.
Today, I search through the images and words that have taken root because of your example, your patience, your dogged determination to be a teacher that lives what they teach.
I remember the kindness that says, "you'll do better next time." I remember the persistence to let me fall down again and again and not "fix" it for me. I remember the willingness to let me struggle with my fledgling faith so that it can truly be my very own. As I watch my own kids embrace their own questions, I realize for the first time how much grace, how much love this act took for you. I'm learning it is far easier to tell someone what to think than to teach them how to.
Once, I told you "thank you" and you accepted this with simple gratitude and a commission. Keep going, keep asking, keep looking.
Today, I promise you, I will.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Faith and Doubt
A spectacular discussion regarding faith and doubt is a www.pbs.org. Here is an excerpt from one of the many interviewed that resonates with me:
"From the first moment I looked into that horror on Sept. 11, into that fireball, into that explosion of horror, I knew it. I knew it before anything was said about those who did it or why. I recognized an old companion. I recognized religion. Look, I am a priest for over 30 years. Religion is my life, it's my vocation, it's my existence. I'd give my life for it; I hope to have the courage. Therefore, I know it.
And I know, and recognized that day, that the same force, energy, sense, instinct, whatever, passion -- because religion can be a passion -- the same passion that motivates religious people to do great things is the same one that that day brought all that destruction. When they said that the people who did it did it in the name of God, I wasn't the slightest bit surprised. It only confirmed what I knew. I recognized it.
I recognized this thirst, this demand for the absolute. Because if you don't hang on to the unchanging, to the absolute, to that which cannot disappear, you might disappear. I recognized that this thirst for the never-ending, the permanent, the wonders of all things, this intolerance or fear of diversity, that which is different -- these are characteristics of religion. And I knew that that force could take you to do great things. But I knew that there was no greater and more destructive force on the surface of this earth than the religious passion. "
---- Monsignor Lorenzo Albacete is a professor of theology at St. Joseph's Seminary in New York, and formerly served as associate professor of theology at the John Paul II Institute for Studies in Marriage.
"From the first moment I looked into that horror on Sept. 11, into that fireball, into that explosion of horror, I knew it. I knew it before anything was said about those who did it or why. I recognized an old companion. I recognized religion. Look, I am a priest for over 30 years. Religion is my life, it's my vocation, it's my existence. I'd give my life for it; I hope to have the courage. Therefore, I know it.
And I know, and recognized that day, that the same force, energy, sense, instinct, whatever, passion -- because religion can be a passion -- the same passion that motivates religious people to do great things is the same one that that day brought all that destruction. When they said that the people who did it did it in the name of God, I wasn't the slightest bit surprised. It only confirmed what I knew. I recognized it.
I recognized this thirst, this demand for the absolute. Because if you don't hang on to the unchanging, to the absolute, to that which cannot disappear, you might disappear. I recognized that this thirst for the never-ending, the permanent, the wonders of all things, this intolerance or fear of diversity, that which is different -- these are characteristics of religion. And I knew that that force could take you to do great things. But I knew that there was no greater and more destructive force on the surface of this earth than the religious passion. "
---- Monsignor Lorenzo Albacete is a professor of theology at St. Joseph's Seminary in New York, and formerly served as associate professor of theology at the John Paul II Institute for Studies in Marriage.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Making errors part of the gig
Sometime you hear a comment and you know when you hear it that it has the potential to change your mind -- if not your life.
I recently heard such a comment that has been banging around in my head. I've been turning it over, looking at it from all angles as if I'm observing the underside of an embroidered panel.
It was stated by son's High School Band Teacher whose job is to get 300 plus high school students marching in rhythm and in formation. When he asked about how Nathan was doing at college I asked him some questions about his job. I was just being nice, really, and not at all expecting this kernel of wisdom to descend upon me and mess up my thinking for several days.
My question was this, "How do you keep the kids from making mistakes?"
And his answers was this little nugget. "I don't. The idea is to make mistakes a part of the performance."
I'm sure when he said it I just smiled and shrugged and acted like nothing much happened. But inside, my mind was trying to grasp the simple brilliance of this thought. So I did what I usually do when I have nothing intelligent to say. I asked another question.
"What do you mean?" I said.
To which he responded, "as long as you focus on the mistake, the mistake will hold the performance captive. "
Statements like this should be preoceeded by a warning such as, "WARNING. THE NEXT THOUGHT WILL KEEP YOU UP AT NIGHT AND CAUSE YOU TO RETHINK YOU'RE ENTIRE LEADERSHIP PARADIGM." Or at least come with a sominex so one could get some sleep.
Maybe I've been thinking about this so much because I've been studying the holiday of Yom Kippur and once again, I am jealous of my jewish friends. Sure christian have christmas and jewish people have hannukah. But I think Yom Kippur is the real prize in the holiday sweepstakes. You get something better than presents...you get a real chance at redemption.
Yom Kippur is a holiday which can be translated "Day of Atonement". It is a reflection of the atoning that Moses and the people of Israel did after that fit he threw coming down the mountain. (I have too much in common with Mo to be too hard on him. Sure he had some anger management issues. But you gotta respect a guy who takes on that leadership gig. I sure do. )
Yom Kippur isn't celebrated like Columbus Day or Labor Day. There are no picnics (in fact you fast for 72 hours) and there are no big sales gimmicks at the mall (in fact, you can't do any work at all, not even shopping which is now considered to rival some olympic sports). It's a day to reflect about the stupid stuff you said to your family and the mean tricks you played on your friends at the office. And it's encouraged that you make some amends (like say, "I'm an idiot, I was wrong.") and then make your amends to God. The idea being that first you make your peace with others and then God makes his peace with you.
I like this idea a lot. I think, though, that the jewish holiday may be a little too short for me. It would probably take me much longer to make amends for all the wrong that I've done in a year than just 72 hours. But at least it would be a start and I could get through at least half the stupid stuff I did, say thru at least March or April. And maybe, if I made that start, I could get through the rest of the year with some encouragement.
It's kind of like Yom Kippur is the equivalent of making errors a part of the design. Like somehow the fact remains that no matter how devoted we may be to others (or to God) we're going to make a mess of things and need a day (or two, or three or more) to make things right.
I'm going to keep thinking about this and then I think I'll try Yom Kippur for myself this year.
I recently heard such a comment that has been banging around in my head. I've been turning it over, looking at it from all angles as if I'm observing the underside of an embroidered panel.
It was stated by son's High School Band Teacher whose job is to get 300 plus high school students marching in rhythm and in formation. When he asked about how Nathan was doing at college I asked him some questions about his job. I was just being nice, really, and not at all expecting this kernel of wisdom to descend upon me and mess up my thinking for several days.
My question was this, "How do you keep the kids from making mistakes?"
And his answers was this little nugget. "I don't. The idea is to make mistakes a part of the performance."
I'm sure when he said it I just smiled and shrugged and acted like nothing much happened. But inside, my mind was trying to grasp the simple brilliance of this thought. So I did what I usually do when I have nothing intelligent to say. I asked another question.
"What do you mean?" I said.
To which he responded, "as long as you focus on the mistake, the mistake will hold the performance captive. "
Statements like this should be preoceeded by a warning such as, "WARNING. THE NEXT THOUGHT WILL KEEP YOU UP AT NIGHT AND CAUSE YOU TO RETHINK YOU'RE ENTIRE LEADERSHIP PARADIGM." Or at least come with a sominex so one could get some sleep.
Maybe I've been thinking about this so much because I've been studying the holiday of Yom Kippur and once again, I am jealous of my jewish friends. Sure christian have christmas and jewish people have hannukah. But I think Yom Kippur is the real prize in the holiday sweepstakes. You get something better than presents...you get a real chance at redemption.
Yom Kippur is a holiday which can be translated "Day of Atonement". It is a reflection of the atoning that Moses and the people of Israel did after that fit he threw coming down the mountain. (I have too much in common with Mo to be too hard on him. Sure he had some anger management issues. But you gotta respect a guy who takes on that leadership gig. I sure do. )
Yom Kippur isn't celebrated like Columbus Day or Labor Day. There are no picnics (in fact you fast for 72 hours) and there are no big sales gimmicks at the mall (in fact, you can't do any work at all, not even shopping which is now considered to rival some olympic sports). It's a day to reflect about the stupid stuff you said to your family and the mean tricks you played on your friends at the office. And it's encouraged that you make some amends (like say, "I'm an idiot, I was wrong.") and then make your amends to God. The idea being that first you make your peace with others and then God makes his peace with you.
I like this idea a lot. I think, though, that the jewish holiday may be a little too short for me. It would probably take me much longer to make amends for all the wrong that I've done in a year than just 72 hours. But at least it would be a start and I could get through at least half the stupid stuff I did, say thru at least March or April. And maybe, if I made that start, I could get through the rest of the year with some encouragement.
It's kind of like Yom Kippur is the equivalent of making errors a part of the design. Like somehow the fact remains that no matter how devoted we may be to others (or to God) we're going to make a mess of things and need a day (or two, or three or more) to make things right.
I'm going to keep thinking about this and then I think I'll try Yom Kippur for myself this year.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Agassi's Legacy and the quote for the day
"The scoreboard said I lost today," he said. "But what the scoreboard doesn't say is what it is I've found."
Friday, September 01, 2006
Stuff I'm learning
1 - There's a big difference between Success and Celebrity. Celebrity is defined by others. Success is defined by me. And it's OK to change the definition from time to time.
2 - The real test of a garden is how good it looks in August. Any garden can look great in April or May.
3 - The real test of health is how good you look at 40 and beyond. Anybody can look great at 21.
4 - There is a big difference between seeing something and really observing it.
5 - Interpretation comes after seeing/observing.
6 - People who talk on cell phones while with other humans present are rude.
7 - Life is more about the questions we ask than about the answers we seek.
8 - Chocolate is good anytime, anywhere and in any quantity.
9 - Being with people you love requires little more than simply being present.
10 - Being present takes a lot of practice.
2 - The real test of a garden is how good it looks in August. Any garden can look great in April or May.
3 - The real test of health is how good you look at 40 and beyond. Anybody can look great at 21.
4 - There is a big difference between seeing something and really observing it.
5 - Interpretation comes after seeing/observing.
6 - People who talk on cell phones while with other humans present are rude.
7 - Life is more about the questions we ask than about the answers we seek.
8 - Chocolate is good anytime, anywhere and in any quantity.
9 - Being with people you love requires little more than simply being present.
10 - Being present takes a lot of practice.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Cell Phone Relief
I misplaced my cell phone a few days ago. I was talking to my brother and then the next thing I knew, I couldn't find my cell phone. I'm sure that some may see this as some reference to an unconscious desire to rid myself of my brother, but actually, no. The desire is not unconscious at all.
I'm trying to understand the panic that I felt at losing this gadget of plastic and metal. I'm trying to make sense of the absolute terror I felt when I realized that I could no longer make a phone call without my roster of names, which was, of course, on the lost phone. Most of all, I can't figure out who was more lost -- it or me -- when I was not in its possession.
My first step was to notify all who knew me -- and some that did not -- that my cell phone had been misplaced. This was met with benign neglect from many (who clearly have never lost their cell phone) and with anxiety surpassing mine (by those who have). I think the next support group should be for those who because of financial insolvency or text-message challenges find themselves not able to use a cell phone.
The next step was to look and look again (and again, and again) for the thing. I f the height of insanity is doing what you've always done and expecting different results, then commit me, because I looked through the same car, the same purse, the same building 764 times. In the process, I discovered candy bars that I had hidden from myself, old coins and ancient grocery lists - but no phone.
Which encouraged me to think - -logically of course -- that the rice-grain size of most cell phones is a direct attempt from wireless companies to help us lose more of these devices -- and ourselves in the process.
After four hours of being without my phone, it became clear to me that I would not be able to last the rest of the week without it and I was beginning to worry if I could last the rest of the day. I took out a map of town, noting where all the wireless phone stores were located. This was a thinly veiled attempt to calm my nerves and reassure myself that when I needed to, I could get another one. Like a drunk scoping out bars, I was plotting my next binge with war-time precision.
After several calls from my friends (on my land line, asking me to please, please stop calling them looking for my phone) I decided that there was nothing else I could do - -I had to replace it. Think of the calls I was missing, the text messages from my son who was probably frantic that I hadn't called him back, not to mention the many lunch dates from my friends that I was being left out of because of the lack of communication. My world had stopped turning and I was delirous, panic-ridden with a feverish anxiety that resembled, well, my usual emotional state.
The firs store I visited was clean, calm and staffed by children who I believe were less than 14 years old. Their thumbs worked incessantly over the keyboards of cell phones, simultaneously working their keyboards at their work stations and while they did this, they made lattes with their toes. It was like watching a magic shoe with electronic gadgets.
The thing about the generation of techno-wizards that we've raised is that they cannot comprehend a life without the technology that they have all around them. Thus, they look at me -- and those in my generation -- with a certain mild displeasure. In their infantile state, they cannot fathom being old, panicky and in need of connection. As I stood there trying to explain my predicament - that all I needed was a simple phone, his eyes took on that look that some doctors get when they realize that their patient is without hope and there is nothing that can be done except speak in soothing, calm tones.
The pimply faced kid behind the counter showed me to a couple of models, spoke in some dialect that I can only describe as "digital-eze" and as I squinted at the "specs" of the models, all I could make out is that I was not getting out of there for under $175.
More, if I wanted anything with -- what did he call it? "ridiculously easy features". I've worked easier calculus problems.
I did what most people do when confronted with a body of knowledge that they know nothing about. I smiled knowingly and repeated, "ridiculously easy, you say? Where again is that portal that attaches to the thingy-ma-jig that lets the electricity - -you know---the stuff in the wall -- charge my battery?"
He sneered, politely, in that way that communicates in no uncertain terms, "you are clearly a dinosaur who has come from the past to annoy me."
I decided upon a model that could fit easily in the palm of my hand while I use it to check email, call my mother and find Greenwich Mean Time for most all of the other countries in which I will never visit. As I drew out my checkbook to pay, the droid behind the counter gasped.
"Hey, let me see that" he exclaimed coming from around the counter to my side. "Is that a REAL checkbook? With REAL paper. Isn't that quaint -- I've HEARD of these from my grandmother but never really seen one. WOW. AMAZING. RIDICULOUS."
I'm trying to understand the panic that I felt at losing this gadget of plastic and metal. I'm trying to make sense of the absolute terror I felt when I realized that I could no longer make a phone call without my roster of names, which was, of course, on the lost phone. Most of all, I can't figure out who was more lost -- it or me -- when I was not in its possession.
My first step was to notify all who knew me -- and some that did not -- that my cell phone had been misplaced. This was met with benign neglect from many (who clearly have never lost their cell phone) and with anxiety surpassing mine (by those who have). I think the next support group should be for those who because of financial insolvency or text-message challenges find themselves not able to use a cell phone.
The next step was to look and look again (and again, and again) for the thing. I f the height of insanity is doing what you've always done and expecting different results, then commit me, because I looked through the same car, the same purse, the same building 764 times. In the process, I discovered candy bars that I had hidden from myself, old coins and ancient grocery lists - but no phone.
Which encouraged me to think - -logically of course -- that the rice-grain size of most cell phones is a direct attempt from wireless companies to help us lose more of these devices -- and ourselves in the process.
After four hours of being without my phone, it became clear to me that I would not be able to last the rest of the week without it and I was beginning to worry if I could last the rest of the day. I took out a map of town, noting where all the wireless phone stores were located. This was a thinly veiled attempt to calm my nerves and reassure myself that when I needed to, I could get another one. Like a drunk scoping out bars, I was plotting my next binge with war-time precision.
After several calls from my friends (on my land line, asking me to please, please stop calling them looking for my phone) I decided that there was nothing else I could do - -I had to replace it. Think of the calls I was missing, the text messages from my son who was probably frantic that I hadn't called him back, not to mention the many lunch dates from my friends that I was being left out of because of the lack of communication. My world had stopped turning and I was delirous, panic-ridden with a feverish anxiety that resembled, well, my usual emotional state.
The firs store I visited was clean, calm and staffed by children who I believe were less than 14 years old. Their thumbs worked incessantly over the keyboards of cell phones, simultaneously working their keyboards at their work stations and while they did this, they made lattes with their toes. It was like watching a magic shoe with electronic gadgets.
The thing about the generation of techno-wizards that we've raised is that they cannot comprehend a life without the technology that they have all around them. Thus, they look at me -- and those in my generation -- with a certain mild displeasure. In their infantile state, they cannot fathom being old, panicky and in need of connection. As I stood there trying to explain my predicament - that all I needed was a simple phone, his eyes took on that look that some doctors get when they realize that their patient is without hope and there is nothing that can be done except speak in soothing, calm tones.
The pimply faced kid behind the counter showed me to a couple of models, spoke in some dialect that I can only describe as "digital-eze" and as I squinted at the "specs" of the models, all I could make out is that I was not getting out of there for under $175.
More, if I wanted anything with -- what did he call it? "ridiculously easy features". I've worked easier calculus problems.
I did what most people do when confronted with a body of knowledge that they know nothing about. I smiled knowingly and repeated, "ridiculously easy, you say? Where again is that portal that attaches to the thingy-ma-jig that lets the electricity - -you know---the stuff in the wall -- charge my battery?"
He sneered, politely, in that way that communicates in no uncertain terms, "you are clearly a dinosaur who has come from the past to annoy me."
I decided upon a model that could fit easily in the palm of my hand while I use it to check email, call my mother and find Greenwich Mean Time for most all of the other countries in which I will never visit. As I drew out my checkbook to pay, the droid behind the counter gasped.
"Hey, let me see that" he exclaimed coming from around the counter to my side. "Is that a REAL checkbook? With REAL paper. Isn't that quaint -- I've HEARD of these from my grandmother but never really seen one. WOW. AMAZING. RIDICULOUS."
Thursday, August 17, 2006
4 adults, 2 freshman and a dorm room
I'm reading David Sedaris tonight because Sedaris makes me laugh and I'm in need of a great laugh.I'm grateful and sad and excited and worried and a whole slew of 90 other emotions after leaving Nathan at school where in his dorm room he and his roommate are surrounded by more electronics than is really appropriate. It wasn't easy to be quiet while I remembered lugging my electric portable typewriter up flights of stairs as I watched him network his computer with stereo, TV and his roommate's desktop. I was a good mom, though, and I instead tried to organize his closet and was told, "Mom, don't touch my stuff."
This is what we spend 18 years getting them ready to do: to look us square in the eye and tell us "hands off". Standing there in that small room, trying to make some good use of myself and failing miserably I realized that my purpose now is to do just that. That's a realization that is both reassuring and sobering.
As the day wore on, I watched him break away from his dad and me as we walked around campus. This was a good sign, I thought, after pensive days where I he lapsed into silence as he finished cleaning his room, saying good-bye to high school friends and packing for the big move. Today I saw him walk alone out in front of us -- and not with us as he had been doing all day-- and I knew it was time.
So we walked him back to his dorm room, just moments after this picture was snapped. After the move-in, after the last minute dash to office supply and after the final stop to get his books for the semester he was ready to begin life on his own. I want to remember so many things from the day and there are so many to think about. I' ll savor them a few days, rolling them around in my heart awhile. Maybe some insight will emerge, maybe not. Maybe some days are best observed from a bit of a distance and letting someone else find meaning.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Friday Nights in T-town
My favorite night of the week is Friday night. Friday's use to signal the end of the "work week". I don't find that to true and I'm not sure it ever was. And work is such a wierd term..is working in the yard work or not? Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't. I guess work is a concept as much as a timeclock.
I like Friday's because there is Friday night stand up. Now on Comedy Central there is a new show, "Live at Gotham" which features new and irreverent comics. My favorite comics are Brian Reagan, Alan Ferrara, Daniel Tosh, Maria Bamford.
I like to say I've been listening to stand up all my life because growing up "fundy", I heard 3 stand ups a week in the form of sermons. They just weren't very funny most of the time.
My brothers and I had would sit in the back of the church and make fun of whomever was up at the pulpit. So we were teenage hecklers in a sense. We'd time the prayers with a watch that we got from T.G. and Y (the discount store before Wal-Mart that smelled like moth balls and bleach) and we always knew when a certain suit would get up, we'd be in for a "napper" which is what my brothers called those prayers that went on for decades. Prayers in our church were more like announcements really, where we'd find out who had gall bladder surgery, who had ingrown toenails, and who had "left this earth for their heavely portal." To this day, I have no idea what a heavenly portal is.
What I liked was the euphamisms used during prayers that denoted the code words for something really terrible happening that we couldn't really talk about but everyone knew about. Prayers for "family peace" usually meant someone was fooling around again and "unfortunate financial changes" probably meant someone had lost it all in Vegas. The really big deals were usually lumped under, "this difficult time.." which meant either a pending lawsuit or a sex scandal. My brothers would keep a tally, kind of like in poker over a series of weeks to see what our church's score was.
Another favorite way to pass the time in church was the rewriting of the church songs. I mean, you have to do something while you sing all stanzas of "Just as I Am". There are 8 stanzas that I know about however some of my friends from church camp who came from more traditional churches threw in a couple of other verses. I assume they were more committed in their walk with the Lord than we were and perhaps their heavenly portals gleamed more brightly.
My brother, Russell was like the Wierd Al Yankovic of church songs. Our hymnal was a huge blue book with shape notes. We had shape notes beause we had no instruments. And the really wierd part was that even though we had no women leading anything, most of all all learned alto parts by listening to Ms. Brittany (or someone like her -- everyone church has one) who sang much better -- and on key -- than whatever guy was leading. Russell would take whatever song we had and make it something funny...."Willing the Cross I'd Bear", became "Willy, the Cross-Eyed Bear" and "Peace, peace, sweet peace" became, "Peas, peas, sweet peas". He'd belt it out and the rest of us would just try to keep from laughing which always would get us a smack from someone. And it would never be Russell who'd catch it, it would be me (I was the oldest, therefore responsible for everything) or one of the younger ones who couldn't duck as fast. We rarely made it through a service without some bruising or a concussion.
And we'd continue to make fun of church later. Over grandmother's roast beef, my brothers and uncles would sometimes imitate the voices of the speakers and they'd contort their faces in that way that dubiously pious people do when they know they are being watched.
One of my favorite comedic scenes is an old "Mr. Bean" skit where he goes into church and tries to listen to the sermon and take part in the singing. It is spot on and reassures me that I'm not the only one whose church experiences gave them more than bible bowl memories.
To me, good stand up is like this -- taking the mundane and sometimes abusive parts of life and looking at it, making it bearing and even asking, "why is it like this?" and "how could it be different?" What's interesting about good stand up is that it is unlike any other kind of theater or art: if the piano player is terrible, you still clap. If the singer is out of tune, you still applaud. But if the comic is off his or her mark, then no one laughs out of being polite. You either are good or you're not and if you are it's magic.
I like Friday's because there is Friday night stand up. Now on Comedy Central there is a new show, "Live at Gotham" which features new and irreverent comics. My favorite comics are Brian Reagan, Alan Ferrara, Daniel Tosh, Maria Bamford.
I like to say I've been listening to stand up all my life because growing up "fundy", I heard 3 stand ups a week in the form of sermons. They just weren't very funny most of the time.
My brothers and I had would sit in the back of the church and make fun of whomever was up at the pulpit. So we were teenage hecklers in a sense. We'd time the prayers with a watch that we got from T.G. and Y (the discount store before Wal-Mart that smelled like moth balls and bleach) and we always knew when a certain suit would get up, we'd be in for a "napper" which is what my brothers called those prayers that went on for decades. Prayers in our church were more like announcements really, where we'd find out who had gall bladder surgery, who had ingrown toenails, and who had "left this earth for their heavely portal." To this day, I have no idea what a heavenly portal is.
What I liked was the euphamisms used during prayers that denoted the code words for something really terrible happening that we couldn't really talk about but everyone knew about. Prayers for "family peace" usually meant someone was fooling around again and "unfortunate financial changes" probably meant someone had lost it all in Vegas. The really big deals were usually lumped under, "this difficult time.." which meant either a pending lawsuit or a sex scandal. My brothers would keep a tally, kind of like in poker over a series of weeks to see what our church's score was.
Another favorite way to pass the time in church was the rewriting of the church songs. I mean, you have to do something while you sing all stanzas of "Just as I Am". There are 8 stanzas that I know about however some of my friends from church camp who came from more traditional churches threw in a couple of other verses. I assume they were more committed in their walk with the Lord than we were and perhaps their heavenly portals gleamed more brightly.
My brother, Russell was like the Wierd Al Yankovic of church songs. Our hymnal was a huge blue book with shape notes. We had shape notes beause we had no instruments. And the really wierd part was that even though we had no women leading anything, most of all all learned alto parts by listening to Ms. Brittany (or someone like her -- everyone church has one) who sang much better -- and on key -- than whatever guy was leading. Russell would take whatever song we had and make it something funny...."Willing the Cross I'd Bear", became "Willy, the Cross-Eyed Bear" and "Peace, peace, sweet peace" became, "Peas, peas, sweet peas". He'd belt it out and the rest of us would just try to keep from laughing which always would get us a smack from someone. And it would never be Russell who'd catch it, it would be me (I was the oldest, therefore responsible for everything) or one of the younger ones who couldn't duck as fast. We rarely made it through a service without some bruising or a concussion.
And we'd continue to make fun of church later. Over grandmother's roast beef, my brothers and uncles would sometimes imitate the voices of the speakers and they'd contort their faces in that way that dubiously pious people do when they know they are being watched.
One of my favorite comedic scenes is an old "Mr. Bean" skit where he goes into church and tries to listen to the sermon and take part in the singing. It is spot on and reassures me that I'm not the only one whose church experiences gave them more than bible bowl memories.
To me, good stand up is like this -- taking the mundane and sometimes abusive parts of life and looking at it, making it bearing and even asking, "why is it like this?" and "how could it be different?" What's interesting about good stand up is that it is unlike any other kind of theater or art: if the piano player is terrible, you still clap. If the singer is out of tune, you still applaud. But if the comic is off his or her mark, then no one laughs out of being polite. You either are good or you're not and if you are it's magic.
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