Ghost of the Past

I’ve been thinking about this a lot recently, and the more something is on one’s mind, the harder it is as a writer NOT to write about it. “Out of the overflow of the heart...” and all that stuff.

Put simply? I’ve been thinking a lot about the past. For the longest time, thinking about the past brought me nothing but regret and pain. See... I’m one of those people who cling to the past in the worst possible way. The “this is how ****** up I was in the past, and that will directly dictate how I act in the future, and the consequences of what I did in the past will also inevitably catch up to me and screw me over in the present or future.”

Pretty grim, huh?

Throughout high school and much of college, I was often known as the emo kid. In college it became more of a joke, but as we all know, the reason jokes are funny is because there is truth in them. And it WAS true, I had a penchant for being morose and waaaay too introspective sometimes. It often got to the point where those I was around often just wanted to block me out.

But then something happened. I would like to say that I know what it was, that I had some great revelation that changed everything, but that wasn’t it. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say it was a combination of two things: (1) the guys in my life whom I respected telling me to grow a pair, and (2) the fact that after I graduated, it was like a brand new start. In some ways the brand new start after college is like starting out on the bottom again... you know, like where you’re the top of the heap in middle school or high school... and then after you move on up, you are at the bottom of the food chain again. And while there was an element of that coming out of college, in another way it is completely different.

It truly is the end of childhood. (Yes, it is a little sad that American childhood extends throughout college, but that is another topic for another time.) You are on your own, you are making your way... and... you are responsible for you. No one is telling you want to do any more. Sure, you might have a boss that you must obey, time cards to fill out, paperwork to finish, and rent to pay... but there is a certain lifting of the walls that takes place.

It’s as if you were Jim Carrey from The Truman Show, and suddenly the veil is lifted, and you realize the world you have been living in is so small. The oceans can now be crossed, the orders have stopped, you are truly responsible for your own destiny and well being. (Sorry for more caveats, but I realize that I will get lots of comment if I don’t make them. Please understand that I affirm that God is in control of our destinies, but what I am trying to get at here is that after college, no one is telling you “do this!,” “don’t do this!” and forcing you into a certain lifestyle.)

You are the master of your fate. And suddenly, at least for many of us, we realize that we don’t want to be. Suddenly you begin to feel nostalgic for that tiny little island you have lived your entire life on.

It may come in the form of a song, as it has for me, that calls up untold emotional depths. No words or expression can fully describe what you feel... but all in a moment, you realize that the past wasn’t all that bad. In fact, there were moments when you felt supremely safe and cared for. That warm corner, that soft embrace, that tasty plate of your mom’s spaghetti... it’s gone, and it’s not coming back.

A few months ago I posted a status update on Facebook that went something like this: “You cannot put a price on nostalgia.” There were several comments made on it criticizing what I said as silly, as if nostalgia were a dumb thing that should be left behind. But for me... I was just beginning to go through this faze of remembering...

Not the bad, not the emotionally unstable, not the angsty, not the regret... but the good. It had taken me so long to get there, and it had been building for so long that it came back in one rush; air hurrying in to fill a vacuum.

I was enjoying looking back on my past for once. The joyful little memories that populated my childhood. Even the moments that were painful at the time: flipping head over handlebars on my bike, losing a chocolate butterfly... they were no longer painful, but only snapshots of who I would become and who I was.

Suddenly a song reminded me of sitting in my best friend’s loft my freshman year of college watching Heroes, meeting new friends and offering amateur film criticism. A series of photos on Facebook would remind me of a trip to an amusement park with friends who have long since grown up and married. 

Soon I found myself digging through journals and notebooks I had not looked at in long ages, picking out stories of growing up in Peru, friends that shaped me. Remembering everything from 9-11 to when I first learned how to swear. It all came rushing back. And... it didn’t scare me any more.

So as I soar into the future, I remember... and no longer with pain. Tabitha Benoit, Jordan Kizer, Sam Windham, Mark Gushwa, Justin Osuch, Erin Itzel Quiroz, and so many others... I will carry you with me, into my future... into my life. You made me who I am... and I thank you.

On the Craftiness of Women

As I looked around the McDonalds, everyone appeared to be supremely bored... even the employees (no real surprise there). I watched as one of the kids from the back got forced out of the kitchen to go on break. It’s a fast food thing, if they can force you out of the kitchen on a certain number of breaks at carefully selected times... they can pay you less. It may look like your boss wants you to be rested... but au contraire frater! He simply want to pay you less.

He got in line with everyone else, and I studies him as he did. He could not have been more than 16 at the most, and for whatever reason seemed to be enjoying working in fast food more than his coworkers. As he ended the queue, however, he turned his back to me, and I almost had to stifle a laugh. Not so tidily tucked beneath the collar of his work shirt was a “I Heart Boobies!” lanyard. 

Why, you ask? Because I find them absolutely hilarious! Not sufficient enough of an answer? I thought not.

Somewhere in the vicinity of a year ago, one of the people I follow on Twitter posted about how she abhorred the little bracelets and lanyards. The post referred to how the next time she saw a boy with one, she would simply greet him by punching him in the face.

My reactions to her post at the time were... mixed. I kind of just wanted to laugh at the image of this girl going up to a boy and punching him out, but at the same time, I was kind of pissed by her extremely negative reaction. Of course, all of this was at the same time covered with a dose of understanding. Women never like being objectified, and those that do usually have some sort of horrible baggage from the past.

Several months later, after my visceral reaction to her post was long past, I started wondering why my reaction had been so odd. I suppose if I were a woman I simply would have nodded sagely and given a “Here, here!” But... since I’m not... I didn’t.

I remembered back to attending Warped Tour in 2009, where I had seen a whole booth dedicated to the things. Several people come up to me asking if I would sign petitions, give donations, etc.

And then remembering all of this in context, my reaction made sense. Oh that silly girl... if only she had known the context. Suddenly, I realized why I laughed.

The “I Heart Boobies!” campaign and product fund or whatever you want to call it, is a line of products and awareness campaigns that raise money to help fight breast cancer. Of course, that’s not the line that they sell boys at punk rock shows or Hot Topic. No... boys... being boys, love the idea of sex and getting sex and whatever....

Ok... I’m rambling, but this is where the funny part comes in: the “I Heart Boobies!” campaign was started by a woman. Yes. Exactly. Let that sink in for a moment.

Shaney Jo Darden grew up in the punk and skater culture, and after being exposed to that sort of do it yourself (DIY) mentality, she decided to found her own DIY project: raising funds to help women beat breast cancer. So she founded the Keep a Breast Foundation... and not long afterwards, the “I Heart Boobies” thing started.

I can only imagine how it started, but I would beat good money that Shaney, seeing herself surrounded by a bunch of horny boys and seeing a real problem that she and other women were dealing with... decided to exploit one in order to benefit the other. Genius!

So she and her cronies started using the male sex drive almost directly to help save women’s lives. It was too perfect. I mean, I know there are some crafty women in the Bible (a hooker hiding spies for God, a women driving a tent peg through a guys skull, etc.)... but wow, this is a new one.

So ladies, the next time you see a guy walking around sporting a “I Heart Boobies!” t-shirt or bracelet, don’t get angry, don’t get pissed at how he is objectifying women. Simply point at him, and yell at the top of your voice:

“HAHA! SUCKER!!”

Lust for Life

It’s funny how as the pace of life speeds up, we as humans slow down to compensate. I’m not sure if this is a good thing, or if it simply complicates the process; but as so many haggard old men and jaded adults tell me: “It is what it is.”

Moving so slowly myself, it’s near impossible for me not to notice this cycle of cause and effect. Over the past two weeks or so everything has become a whirlwind of activity and pine and turkey and driving and Santas. After spending nearly a week straight in my van touring Virginia, haggard seems like a very good word.

Of course we move slower; when faced with a whirlpool or cliff face, you tend to cling onto whatever piece of stable ground is in sight. You don’t want to fall, you don’t want to die. Even humans who have nothing to live for tend to actively avoid situations where their sanity and wellbeing will be tested. We like safe, we like known... even if we don’t know why.

Amid all this transitioning and insanity, around the time when Thanksgiving was transitioning into Advent, Quentin Tarantino began to come up a lot. I really have no idea why. Perhaps it was the release of his 20th anniversary box set containing all his films, or maybe he was just coming up in conversation more naturally... but I suddenly found myself holding conversations about him with my girlfriend, Leslie, and my old film buddy from college, Jeremy.

With Leslie, I expounded on Tarantino’s unique flavor of dialog and tone, and how similar it is in many respects to Flannery O’Connor (which Leslie had just been sharing with me). They both have a very strong ear for conversation and ethnic colloquialisms, and both add sudden spurts of violence to their stories to punctuate themes and ideas.

With Jeremy, I reminisced about the time we had gone to see Tarantino’s WWII epic, Inglourious Basterds in theaters together, not realizing that we were witnessing film history. The movie singlehandedly launched Austrian actor Christoph Waltz’s career, and once again threw Tarantino’s hat in the ring with such filmmakers as James Cameron, the Coen brothers, Peter Jackson and Pete Doctor. Of course, neither of us could ever forget that opening scene.

It was a given that since he came up more in conversation, the films I began to watch in my free time (which I tend to have to much of as of late) we mostly his. I began with Death Proof, then worked my way through Kill Bill and Reservoir Dogs, leading up to his masterpieces: the afore mentioned Inglourious Basterds and, of course, Pulp Fiction.

At this point, I realize that a lot of you are wondering where I am going with this, and perhaps even a few are offended by my love for such a “twisted” man as Tarantino. Allow me to explain: As I began to rewatch his films, I also started looking up interviews on Youtube and watching mini-documentaries where he talked about his work. The wild look in his eye might disturb some even more than the gratuitous violence of his films; it suggests that he is either constantly huffing cocaine, or that he had a serious case of untreated ADHD. Whatever the case may be, the wild look in his eye and gregarious gesticulation of his hands always punctuate whatever he says. The man is larger than life, but more than that.... he LOVES life.

And then it hit me, say whatever you want about his films, I want to be more like pointy jawed, foulmouthed, interrupting crazy man. Why, you ask? Because I would bet good money that there is not a day of the year where he wakes up disappointed or clinging to that last bit of solidity the day before. I would bet that each morning when he walks up, he says something to the effect of:

“Hot DAMN it feels good to be alive! Booyah! I get to make movies and hang out with awesome people and it’s totally ******* awesome! You know? I think I’m going to get myself a tasty beverage to wake up!”

His enthusiasm is infectious, and despite the fact that he may be a sub-par filmmaker, I firmly believe that it is his boundless enthusiasm which inspires those that surround him to do their best.

It reminds me of my history and math professors in college. They might not have been the best in the world, and I was most definitely not the best student, but the energy that they exuded in class infected my being. I excelled in those classes, not because the professor cracked a whip over my back, but because he loved what he did.

Anyone can be “good” at what they do, not everyone can LOVE what they do. Take for example the Apostle Peter. Poor Peter was pretty much just bad at life, he backstabbed his friends, he sliced off people’s ears and just made a general fool of himself... but there was something in him that Jesus saw that many others probably did not have: the Love. After Christ’s death and resurrection, Peter became the most vocal and prolific of all the Apostles (save for Paul, who came later). He offended, healed, preached, and probably drank and sang his way through life, never abating from the cause of Christ. Even his final request to be crucified upside down was for the Love. He loved Yahweh, and it showed.

How many of us live mediocre lives of mediocre excitement? Far too many, I would hazard a guess. The trite, cliched piece of inspiration might come in the form of: “Be the best you you can be.” But that is truly a chiasm from hell.

Instead, do it for the Love. It will make you jump out of bed, plaster a smile on your big dumb face, and cause everyone you meet to wonder what the hell has gotten into you. And you can tell them firmly that it is not hell, it is the Love. You did it for the Love.

Halloween 2012

Iron Man is the decided favorite this year. I watch as several kids of every age, shape and color wander by in brightly colored yellow and red pads, complete with metallic coating. Cars meander along the streets following groups of kids with their mothers. Of course, instead of being creepy stalkers, the various mini-vans and SUVs house nervous fathers, keeping a watchful eye on their respective mates and broodlings. 

My neighbor hails me in a dark and grovelly voice that could only belong to a good ol’ Carolina boy who smokes too much. As if in response to this thought, he lights one up. It makes a sharp pin-prick of orange in the crisp October night. His wife mistakenly thinks that he is talking to her.

“Nothing, hon. Was just talking to the neighbor,” his rich baritone rolls across the yard, easily distinguishable from the laughs of children pervading the night. 

His wife (or possibly teenage daughter, it’s hard to tell) is completely decked out as a witch. Pointed hat, cobwebs, green paint, the whole 9 yards. She is perched beside an 8 foot tall ghost/skeleton, which twinkles with tiny LED lights. They definitely went all out this year, putting the other houses that “decorated” to shame. Various boney objects dot their yard, orange, white and black lights are strung across the porch, and one of the family members is jumping out at older Trick ‘r’ Treaters. I feel like I should give each small child that crosses their yard a round of applause. They EARNED that candy.

The first kids had come up and rang our doorbell a few minutes beforehand. Having never actively participated in Halloween before, let alone the annual ritual of Trick or Treating, I jumped at the chance to play a part. Remembering that I still had a Guy Fawkes mask in my van, I fished it out, secured it to my head and had plopped down on the white plastic chair already on the porch. Here I sit, holding a wicker basket full of chocolate, still as a post.

Another group of kids, chaperoned by several mothers who look more like shepherds than parents, are herded towards me. 

“Is it real?” The question seems to echo through the group, the moms just as curious as the little children. I let them creep closer, still unsure if the masked man holding the candy is friend or foe. Suddenly I realize the irony of the situation: Halloween, the one day a year where parents ENCOURAGE their progeny to accept candy from strangers. 

They are only about two yards away from where I sit now, and I decide the children have proven themselves brave enough. I whip off my mask, revealing that I am nothing more than a bespectacled nerd in a Hollister hoodie. The kids laugh at their own fear, internally berating themselves for being so frightened of something so harmless. Their pace quickens and they eagerly snatch candy from the basket in my hands. The mothers encourage courtesy:

“Say thank you!” Some of the youngsters oblige. Others look at me, take the candy without breaking eye contact and then retreat. All make it away safely with at least one chocolate bar. 

My fingers are getting numb; the last reminder of Hurricane Sandy. It’s unseasonably chilly for October in the OBX, thanks to the storm that thought it could. The cold front will probably linger until the truly cold weather comes in late November. Winter comes early this year.

Under my mask, which is once again secured to my head, my face is nice and warm. Condensation is collecting on the bottom most part by my chin, dripping onto my neck when the mask is covering my face, and trickling into my eye occasionally when I prop the mask up on my head. My glasses have started to fog up as well. 

I experiment with different ways of breathing to cut down the condensation. There are slits for my eyes, nose and mouth, but breathing normally immediately fogs up my glasses and wets my chin. In through mouth, out through nose? This seems to work better, obviously the nose holes allow for most exhaled air than the mouth hole does. In addition to clearing up the condensation, it adds a raspy, somewhat mechanical sound to my breathing... almost like I am some animatronic creation powered by steam which is only meant to LOOK like it’s real.

Another child approaches, a girl, alone save for her mother. They’ve just come from the house next door that could pass for a John Carpenter movie set.

“Are you scared?” the mom queries. The little girl, possibly 5, at most 6, emphatically shakes her head. I grin despite myself. Brave girl. I pull away the mask, revealing my pale cheeks, black rims and smile. She returns the expression and holds out her bag, walking forward, her arms completely parallel to each other and to the ground. She looks like one of those old time zombies... only much more gleeful and innocent.

Putting a small handful of candy in her bag, her mother thanks me.

“Have a nice evening!” I wish her the same, and they begin to make their way back to the street, lit by various colors of halogen bulbs and parents’ flashlights.

“Happy Halloween!” she calls back once more. The little girl waves as she makes her way to the next house. Just a guy in a suit. A nice man who smiled and gave me candy.

The grin stays on my face long after the two are out of sight. It may just be one night, but it’s worth it. The cold fingers, the neighbors with their redneck truck and elaborate decorations, the half empty basket of chocolate. I can forget about the election, the lies, the muckraking, the slander. I can forget about the storm, the lives lost, the damage done, the empty harbors. 

For one night I can interact with my neighbors in a way I never would. For one night I can bring joy and a few scares to little children. For one night I can watch as parents laugh, hold their offspring, and help them overcome their fears. For one night the doom and gloom passes away in the crackling autumn air.

For one night I can forget. And for one night... that’s enough.

Why So Serious?

(An Explanitary Note: While reading this essay, there are a few things to keep in mind. Firstly, I understand that the view I espouse changed drastically from the beginning to the end of this brief piece. My opinion stated at the end is more strongly heald than the opinion at the beginning. Second, if the tone of this piece feels weird, that is intentional.... I've been reading a lot of horror fiction, and that has been influencing a lot of what I write. Given that this is about American politics, I thought the tone was fitting. Third, this essay also uses a lot of metaphor and allusion, and I understand if it seems vauge and disjointed. Personally, I find this tack of writing more artistic. However, if you have any questions about the meaning of this essay, please just post in the comments below.)

* * *

Ok.... time to offend people, not necessarily intentionally, but I feel like this needs to be said. Let’s see... how do I put this.... 

I’m not voting.

Yes, I said it. Let the name calling begin! “You’re not Christian! You’re un-American! You’re lazy! You’re racist! You’re not fulfilling your *insert random cultural affiliation here* duty!” Yes, yes... I am a terrible, horrible human being.

But before we burn the witch, let’s give him a moment to state his case:

What got me thinking about this whole thing in the first place was not the partisan, but the non-partisan, ads. The partisan ads have been stupid enough, what with the name calling, the wiretaps, the lies and blatant hyperbole playing upon American fear. Those have actually toned down quite a bit. I can only assume that both parties realized how distasteful those ads have been in our collective mouths.

For the past two weeks, however, I have seen a dramatic increase in non-partisan ads. These ads are not really directed at one party or another, but simply encourage the general public to “do their civic duty” and go vote. Many of these are directed at twenty somethings; those who (like me) are struggling to just get their footing and figure out their next move. They take the tack of “if you could take the future into your hands, why wouldn’t you? Are you too lazy? Do you just not care? How selfish of you! You could help your fellow Americans and the children of our beautiful nation by voting!”

After hearing several of these ads, I suddenly realized what a load of malarky this is. I am looking at the billets, and I see one dog turd being touted as superior than the other dog turd. My voting for one of the dog turds is supposed to make life for my fellow Americans better? I don’t follow.

Non-sequitur. Literally; that is what this election has become. There is no point anymore. All we are allowed to choose from are the better of two turds. The candidate that I would LIKE to vote for has been removed from the playing field. No matter how long and hard I point at him, our beautiful judicial system will simply shake its head and point back at the two turds on the sidewalk. 

“Choose one of these, the future of millions depends on it!”

At first I stare in confusion and utter disbelief. Then I start to snicker. It bubbles over; snorts coming out like an insane pig that has huffed too much EX. Then I cannot control it any longer. I break out into gut-tearing guffaws and keel over. It’s too much! The joke, they can’t see the joke. 

I’m the Joker laughing at Batman’s self-important scowl. “Two turds....*phhhhh*,” my joke has trouble coming out between the wheezing. I try again. “Two turds walk into a bar...” I lose it again. It’s too much... simply too much.

Batman mutters gutturally; something about how he’ll kill me if I don’t tell him where they are. I only have one reply:

“Why so serious?”

......... a long pause. Then he finally responds:

“What about the children?”

The Joker in me stops cold; choking on his own laugh. I finally sputter and spew some semblance of a response:

“What about them?” hostility in my voice.

“Are you really going to laugh this off? Millions of kids?”

THEIR BLOOD CALLS TO ME FROM THE EARTH. Another voice rocks the sidewalk I’m standing on, knocking me back and ripping holes in my nice purple suit. 

“Hey! That was my good--”

SILENCE, FOOL! 

I am cowed into submission; my lipstick red grin all but rotted off my face. I find myself looking back at the two turds on the sidewalk. At first they appear to remain unchanged, but there is...something off. Then I see it: a string as fine as spider silk buried deep in the blue turd. Walking over, I trace the string down the road. Suddenly I find myself at a strange Rube Goldberg machine of epic proportions. Its purpose seems to be well hidden amongst the levers, pulleys and gears. Marbles the size of my fist, all set to rocket into action... but for what purpose?

Then I see it: a small child strapped to a guillotine in the center of the massive contraption. He is crying... screaming. Why had I not heard him before? Suddenly, I realized the gravity of the situation. If I hadn’t heard the child, how many more could not hear him? The “choosing of the poo” was nearly decided. Millions were gathering around the two turds.

Could they not see? Could they not hear?

I was wrong... so, so wrong. Millions of lives WERE at stake. So wrong. Dear God... what have we done...?

Lost and Found

I think there is something rather off about our expectations of heaven. One of the things that I often fall into the trap of thinking (along with many other people), is that desperate notion of trying to make heaven more like what we already have here on screwed up earth. E.g. “Oh... I hope there will be fried chicken in heaven, I’m not sure that I could live without fried chicken. What about this book that I love? Sure, it has fornication and murder in it... but it’s SUPER awesome. It’ll be waiting there for me, right?”

True, I did take a very snide and sardonic tone there, but the point remains. Of course, only focusing on apophatic knowledge (that is, knowing what we don’t know) does no one any good. If you tell the kid “don’t eat the cookies!!!” and then don’t give him anything constructive to do instead of munching on empty calories... the inevitable will surely take place. You know what that means, right? Yup! Time for a story that will initially seem completely irrelevant and tangential.

My first memories of life are a collection of bizarre and silent moments; like random clips from the beginning of a horror movie, where you are too petrified to scream. My first first memory is of a puffin, or rather a poster of a puffin, which was placed directly across from my crib in my bedroom. Apparently, every time I woke up, the very sight of the thing would send me into fits of silent terror. Being only two, it was difficult for me to describe to my mother exactly what was so frightening... but eventually she got the idea and took it down. She has repeatedly apologized to me for the incident as an adult, which has always made me smile inside, since I don’t really remember why the poster was so terrifying. But while I have largely gotten over my fears of people in hoods, darkness and germs... I still twitch a little every time I see a puffin. 

One of my other first memories took place a few years later, when I was about four or so. Easter has always been a huge deal in my family; second only to Christmas. It has always seemed fitting to me, giving the two most important holidays surrounding Christ’s redemptive plan for the world the same amount of importance. Anyway, one of the my families best kept Easter traditions is the search for the Easter baskets. The methods my sisters and I had to employ in order to find them varied from year to year, but find them we always did. Usually there would be a movie or CD or something similar, along with gobs of candy. I’m 23, and to my knowledge that has not and will not change.

So for my fourth Easter, the noteworthy hunk of candy was a chocolate cross. Not a crucifix, but an empty cross. It was beautiful. It was one of those marvelously crafted pieces of candy that, had it been made out of wood, could have been prominently and proudly displayed on a mantlepiece for years. The carving of the cross had been very carefully managed, and the base, a chuck of dark chocolate representing Golgotha, was detailed with tufts of grass and butterflies. Now that I think back on it, not only was it a beautiful piece of chocolate, but I cannot for the life of me think of a candy bar that made such a bold theological statement. 

As I am want to do, I was eating my least favorite part first, the top of the cross, and saving what seemed to be the most beautiful part for last, the grassy knoll with the butterflies. (I still do this often with steak and mashed potatoes, especially if the potatoes are laden with garlic and cheese.) My mom, seeing the deliciousness that was my chocolate cross, asked if she could try some. What human in their right mind wouldn’t? I was happy to oblige, and my chocolate covered self handed it to her. What my four year old self failed to mention, however, was my rapidly developing desire to save the best things for last. And my mom, thinking that I was of course nomming on the cross first because that was my favorite part, decided that she would do the considerate thing and take a bit out of the base instead. Chocolate butterflies and grass knoll go.... bye bye.

Once the chocolate cross had been returned to my grubby little hands, I stared in shock. I could not believe what had happened. The beautiful little redeemed Golgotha had been desecrated, and it was at that point that I could no longer be consoled. Only Christ had suffered more than I, and I made that fact abundantly clear all the way to church that morning.

I have completely forgiven my mother since then. And she has more than made up for the misunderstanding... even going the extra mile the following Easter and special ordering three chocolate butterflies the size of my head.  I know that if and when she reads this she will go and scribe another long apology to me, but let me state firmly here that that is not the point of my telling this story.

Over the course of 23 years, I have lost many, many things. And I am sure, before my time here is done, I will lose many, many more. I have lost things under couches, at parties, in stories, around friends’ houses. I am still looking for the black hoodie from my favorite metal band with a brown knight in armor on the front. I already miss that little stuffed rabbit that I returned to Barnes and Noble because I realized the money I spent on it would be better used on gas money and saving for my future life with Leslie. I’ve lost things that I can’t get back, like the naivety to believe that adults didn’t really have that many worries; or the ability to ignore that providing for one’s own self, let alone others, could be so nerve wracking; that innocence I so desperately wish I still had... that optimism to get out of bed in the morning to face a new day full of possibilities.

...... and yes, even that eager excitement to check the mail, because you never know what sort of treasure might be inside.

I’ve written a 50 page paper on heaven, and still all I really know about the place is that it will contain far much more than we could ever imagine. But in the end, one more thing I know is that it will not contain those things that we so desperately cling to here. Those idols will be stripped from us. The sex that we think will fulfill us, the money that we think will provide for us, the temporal joys that we think will satisfy us... they must be killed, they must be put on the alter... and we will wave goodbye as we sail away to another shore...

...but on that shore we will find... those things we never thought we’d see again. That friend who slit their wrists, those beloved CDs you never got back from your old roommate, that teddy bear that got burned up in the house fire, the grandmother who left that gapping hole when she passed, that joy you never fully had, that Lord you never fully understood, that life that you thought had slipped away.... and yes............ maybe even a few chocolate butterflies, dancing around the foot of a cross.

The cross that brought you back to that world of lost things... that turned out to never be lost at all.

A Little Essay on God's Sense of Humor

One of those things that we are always told as Christians is “don’t pray for patience... you might just get it.” A prime example of this was during one summer when my friend Adam prayed for patience is general, and that was the week that we got a kid with asbergers in the kitchen who immediately leeched himself Adam. It’s at moments like that we look up at the heavens and yell: “God, I didn’t mean for you to take that so literally!”

Another thing that we are often told is that we ought not tell God that we will never do things, as that is the very thing He will inevitably end up making us do. Over the course of 23 years I have discovered this to be undeniably true... but I think that it should be clarified with a few caveats. 

While I have been placed in many situations that were challenging and difficult to deal with, I can honestly not ever remember a time where I was put in a position where I looked up at the heavens and screamed: “GOD! WHY???? I TOLD YOU I DIDN’T WANT TO DO THIS!!! WHY DIDN’T YOU LISTEN?!?!?!?”

Of course, even if that HAD happened to me, or it has happened to you, keep in mind that He IS listening, you just probably didn’t get the response you were looking for. That is not the thrust of my point here, however. My point here is very simple:

Perspective.

Perspective is huge, and over one little decade, your perspective can change in a huge way. I’ll start out with some obvious ones: at 10, kissing is still gross, by 20 sex sounds like the best thing on the planet; at 10 working is the lamest thing ever, at 20 you are grateful to even have a job; at 10 getting mail is the best thing ever, at 20 bills have soured you to the concept of mailmen. It’s really a very simple concept, while I don’t believe is macroevolution, the evolution of simple human growth is evident and irrefutable. So why shouldn’t this apply to how we view God and what He asks of us?

Take for example of aversion to working in any sort of fast food place back in high school: back then, yes, I hated the very notion of working in a greasy den of pimples and incompetency. I swore to God on many an occasion that I would never work in one. Where am I now? Fresh out of college and in desperate need of cash to pay bills and save up for things like a new car, an apartment and my future in general. Suddenly minimum wage at a fast food restaurant didn’t look quite so bad. Of course God didn’t give me a steaming pile of crap either, He gave me a job at Chick-fil-a, where at least three of my coworkers are Christians, and one of, if not THE, best reviewed fast food chains on the continent.

This simple idea of change and reformation has always been there, but we so often don’t think about it. Far too often when we tell God “I’ll NEVER do that!” we are suddenly struck with fear, awaiting that Zeus like bolt of judgement forcing us to do exactly what we hate the most. What we miss is that we are moldable, and that our God is a loving God. When we tell God: “I HATE THIS!” He doesn’t plot a way to make you as miserable as possible, rather, he looks at you, grins and says: “Challenge accepted!”

CROAK

In the distance I hear singing;
From where exactly, I can’t be sure.
I zip and zag from side to side—
Triangulation.
Finally I find them, huddled around the lake
In their fortress which lies on the edge,
Secure,
Sealed,
Sound.
A massive chorus is in session,
But I have made a mistake;
This concert was not for guests,
Rather solely for the singers’ edification.
Another blunder makes itself apparent:
This is no mere choir;
They are warriors,
And they are organized.
A cry goes up and the soldiers retreat
Into the castle,
Behind the walls.
The choir falls silent,
One by one,
Two by two;
Rapidly,
Suddenly.
A lone watchmen is left, calling out the news:
“The stranger stands,
He has not left.
Hold your ground, and we shall see what comes of him.”
I stand and wait,
I am watched, I know it.
Finally, I decide to move on,
Wandering out of the valley and into the setting sun.
The gates are opened;
The chorus continues.

HONK

A few families scurry by,
Proud parents, all but two.
One couple herds 8 children along,
Trying to not lose the slow one
Who seems more intent on studying his shoes.
I wave;
He looks up,
But his parents warn him away.
Men dressed all in black are not to be trusted.
I keep quiet and seem kindly enough
Though, so they don’t make much of a fuss.
They continue on, the mother holding her head high;
Let her be judged for such a brood;
She couldn’t care less.
They are hers,
She nearly glows.
Behind come a few more parental units,
Pleased as punch,
Content with 5;
A quintet is plenty.
Their heads also nod and bounce a little
Enjoying the day—
Leading the way.
In the rear follow 2;
Solo, looking mournful.
Spring was not kind this year.
Following along they look wistfully at the others,
Their children dressed in yellows and oranges and browns.
If only they could have one.
But they are civil,
They are proper,
They have each other;
That is enough.

Joy, Scott Pilgrim and Understanding Your Own Narrative

Over the past several years I have written countless blurbs and essays on pop culture. Currently I am trying to stray away from that, as I am slowly realizing that obsessing over pop culture detracts from establishing Christian culture. If you are simply a vacuum sucking up the Cheerios on the floor, it will be very hard for you to turn that into a work of fine art.

However comma, I’ve decided that I want to revisit my dear friend Scott Pilgrim. The other night I was in one of my pensive moods and decided to cobble together a list of 10 books (not including the Bible) that I consider to be the most important to me; books that have shaped my worldview in some significant way or another, books that I believe to be the best things I have ever read. The list was going along very nicely at first, but then I suddenly realized that I had listed Bryan Lee O’Malley’s nerd comic with the likes of Shakespeare, C.S. Lewis and Plato. What on earth? But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.

My inclusion of Scott Pilgrim among my 10 favorite works of literature goes far beyond my love of the visual nature of the comic book medium. Yes the art is lovely; yes it is charmingly funny in an annoying little brother sort of way. But none of those things make it quote, unquote “great literature.” An excellent story is the mark of great literature. Nothing more, and nothing less.
Earlier that evening, I had gone to my weekly Bible study and we were just starting a new study on James. I realize that when many people think about the book of James, they think about the whole justification by works controversy and all that comes with it. I don’t think that’s a fair assessment of James, but that is a conversation for another time. One of the OTHER main themes of James, however, is joy. Overwhelming, pervasive joy.

Our Bible study leader challenged us to come up with a working definition of joy, and we all proceeded to toss words and ideas around. One of the things we had to deal with of course was James 1:2-3: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance.”

Suddenly, it dawned on me. One of the big problems we have in the church is that pastors, elders and fellow Christians will offer you platitudes and moralisms and tell you to “count it all joy, friend!” when you tell them about some tough situation you are going through. This is just wrong, and has never sat well with me.

While their exhortations to joy are all well and good… NEEDED even, they are going about it the wrong way. When I go up to someone and tell them I am having a rough time at work or school, or that I just got out of a really messy relationship, or that my best friend died, the WRONG response is for the person I am talking to give me a crap-eating grin and say: “Consider it joy, Josiah!” That will most likely result in a punch in the face.

What did they do wrong? It wasn’t them telling me to be joyful, it was them telling me to be joyful divorced from everything else. Them problem is that they said only “joy” and not “joy in context.” Because that is what I realized joy is: it is properly understanding the narrative and story that you are in. Of course, for an atheist, properly understanding the story you are in results in a rather different virtue… namely despair.

But if you understand that this moment, this pain that you are in now is part of the larger story that is meant to build you up into a well rounded and mature character, how can you not count it joy? Take Les Miserables for example: Jean Valjean goes through a lot of crap over the course of that narrative… and I mean a LOT. He’s thrown in prison, slogs through a sewer, falls off a ship, sins against others, is sinned against himself… but this is all for his glory. All of that pain and suffering becomes heroism and glory in the context of the story, which itself leads up to him showing the greatest mercy to his arch nemesis and then giving away his daughter to a deserving husband. The story is glorious, and would in NO way be the same if the pain and trials were not there as well. The story ITSELF becomes glorious and a joy.

So what on earth does all of this have to do with Scott Pilgrim? EVERYTHING. Throughout the story of Scott Pilgrim, Scott is going around beating up “bad guys” in vicious fights to the death, stars swirl, lights dance and stat points pop up in the air beside characters. It’s ridiculous and over the top in the way a mash up of Singing in the Rain and Street Fighter might me. But once you get to the sixth book, you realize that there was a method to O’Malley’s madness.

Halfway through book six, Scott goes up against his alterego: the “Nega Scott!” It’s ridiculous like most of the rest of the series, but half way through this physically personified fight between Scott and his evil nature, his old flame and pretty much only friend, Kim Pine yells at him:

“You can’t keep living like this, Scott! If you keep forgetting the mistakes you’ve made, you’re just going to keep making them!”

Suddenly, the two versions of Scott stop, melt into one… and then Scott collapses on the ground and sobs: “I remember everything.” From there the entire tone of the series changes. Scott realizes that he had become a sort of villain, using his delusions of grandeur and heroism to justify himself treating his friends like crap and jumping from one relationship to another. He realizes that he had painted himself as the protagonist of the story when he was in fact no such thing. Then, after that realization, he humbles himself, admits his failings… and then he really CAN be the protagonist.

There are many things that are trite and/or uncalled for in the Scott Pilgrim series… but the overarching narrative is not one of them. There is nothing trite about admitting you behaved like a imbecile, there is nothing trite about apologizing to your friends… there is nothing trite about giving up your eros and striving for agape.

Concerning Hobbits (Becoming an Adventurer Part III)

One of the problems with resolving to start a new adventure is of course that sudden realization that this is a pretty big deal and that it might involve blood and stuff. Blood can be fun occasionally… as long as it is not coming out of you. That is sort of the opposite of fun; although it makes for great stories afterwards.

But you can never see those stories before they happen, and your mind somehow finds the incredible ability to focus only on the negative aspects of going on an adventure. There is that temptation to just sit and plop down on your front step just after striding out the front door with so many good intentions.

Recently I read through the Hobbit to my little sister as a bedtime story over the course of three weeks or so. In addition to converting her into a Tolkien fan, I also found reading the story to be immensely convicting. Suddenly I found myself more closely related to Bilbo than ever before, his feelings on life the universe and everything. Often times during the day I find myself being sucking into the narcissistic hole of Facebook, watching my “friends” who seem to be living their lives while I... stagnate. And I'm jealous, but not nearly jealous enough to actually go and live my own life and have an adventure. "Horrible, nasty, uncomfortable things... make you late for supper!" the Baggins side of me screams.

I have grown so complacent and soft lately that the Took side of me is all but completely repressed. I no longer listen to it, and now the Baggins side is all depressed anyway, because staying in my Hobbit hole has gotten dreadfully dull. No one visits, no one really wants to since it's so gloomy in here. Every so often someone will come in from the town and make his way up my steps and knock on the door. I don't really want to answer it anymore though. For as soon as I do, they will simply let loose with a tirade of words and platitudes about what I am doing wrong. They will offer advice, books, words, pithy little sayings. None of it will help though. I know this.

The Baggins in me curls up, crosses his arms, sits on the floor and pouts. Not very polite or gracious, mind you, but he does it all the same. It's my father at the door. He wants me to go on an adventure. I continue to glower at him. He has all the audacity and spirit of a Took and all the practicality of a wizard. He is odd and I don't understand him, but all the same I cannot deny that he is a far greater hobbit than I am... sitting here moping and whining.

He's had many adventures, and I am quite sure that he has only told me a handful of all the tales he has been a part of. He's fought dragons and goblins aplenty, been in wars in far off lands, won a beautiful woman and then raised me... a little terror who now refuses to take his advice or even grace him with polite responses.

"Cheeky little sod."

I look around. That was most definitely not my father. He's off in the town planning his next adventure while I sit and sulk. It's coming.... from the Took. He had remained quite for so long that I had nearly forgotten he existed. He starts pushing me… he starts punching and kicking until I pick myself up from the front step and take another. It’s a small one, but it is a few feet further from my doorway.

As I continue to move away from my hole, the steps becoming easier… my stride becomes longer. I start to drop some of the bags I was carrying… I want to walk faster. I want to feel the grass fly between my toes like a smooth, shock-resistant carpet. I want to feel the wind howl by me like a freight train.

It has begun. This Took will have stories to tell when he returns home.

How to Eat Humble Pie (Becoming an Adventurer Part II)

Gaining a taste for adventure, the real kind that actually kind of hurts, did not actually come about simply through me walking into a video store one day. Although that might make for a great joke (A guy walks into a video store…), now if only I could come up with a punch line. My desire for change that led me to view a video store with discomfort and frustration began about two weeks before that. It began surprisingly enough through my own parents.

Coming back from your worst semester of college ever is sort of like coming to anchor after months in hurricane-torn, shark-infested waters. And like a sailor who has spent too much time at sea in a boat, I had to regain some perspective and get my landlegs back. I had to chop off the wiry mane of hair, clean up the language that is more acceptable around rough and ready deck hands, and learn how to act like a civilized humanbeing again.

Suddenly this has become much less metaphorical.

Anyway, I had fallen so far off the map that even though I made an effort to crack open a Bible everyday, I was just flipping pages and gleaning nothing. I had all but forgotten how to study my own Bible. In my self-absorbed stupor I had been programmed to look at anything and everything as a tool that might be able to pull me out of the hole I had dug. It didn’t matter if it was a DVD, a friend or Scripture… things were only of use to me if they were able to make me feel better NOW.

Silly me, I had forgotten that Scripture doesn’t work like that.

Upon returning home for Christmas, it became immediately clear to my parents how far gone I had become and started to take measures of intervention. The first week I was back my dad sat me down for a much-needed verbal thrashing. My mom, however, always the yin to his yang, bought me an 8 week Bible study, so that I would regulate my study time and perhaps regain an understanding of how to study Scripture.

One of the first verses that I stumbled upon in the study was Matthew 6:33, “Seek first His kingdom and His righteousness and all these things shall be added unto you.” And suddenly it dawned on me that I was going about the whole operation backwards. I had spent all my time seeking MY kingdom and MY righteousness and hoping that all the “God things” would be added unto me later without all that nasty business of actually pursuing God.

Well that methodology had been working out GREAT for me so far. And by great I mean that it had driven me into one of the deepest depressions that I have ever known.

Aristotle was right, we are all looking for happiness, and the first 9 books of his Ethics are correct in deriving that happiness from relationships. But then Aristotle contradicts himself in book 10 where he all but denies the previous 9 books and says that man derives true and lasting happiness from sitting and being a thinking being like “god.”

This makes sense in a Greek mindset, because there is a disconnect in Greek philosophy. The world that they see around them is relational, but the god that they worship is a thinking god, not a relational one… so there is that tension woven into their very worldview.

But my worldview is NOT that way. I should know better. God has from the beginning of time been a relational God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. He knows what true joy really is. And here I was denying that He could REALLY know what true joy was. Because I wasn’t happy, I thought that He must not have known what He was doing.

It should have been a bit obvious what the problem was. I was not living as a relational being in a relational world, of COURSE I wasn’t happy. On top of this I was choosing my own will over the will of the ultimate relational being. Talk about dumb, huh?

It’s a bit humbling realizing that you’ve become the villain; that you’ve become one of those Pharisees who knows the Scriptures inside and out and yet derives absolutely no joy or truth from them, but only seeks to twist them to your own ends.

Plato’s analogy of the cave is very apt. After spending so much time in the dark of one’s self, coming out into the light of fellowship with God and other people really is like stepping out into the bright noonday sun after years in a cave.

And what you see in the sunlight, that is perhaps the most surprising thing of all.

Movie Review: The Descendants

Every once in a long while, you come across a movie that you simply cannot describe in terms of other films. The Descendants is one of those movies. The Descendants is like eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the crusts cut off, just like your deceased grandmother used to make for you. It is simple and homey, yet extremely melancholy. That is the Descendants in a nutshell.

(WARNING: SPOILERS TO FOLLOW)

The Descendants begins with a woman (Elizabeth) getting into a boating accident. Her husband Matt King (played by a very weary George Clooney) is one of the last direct descendants of King Kamehameha (hence the title) and is in position of one of the last virgin pieces of Hawaii real estate. The extended family is all eager for him to sell it so that they can all make millions, but King, as the sole owner of the property, is the only one with the authority to sell it. Now his wife is in a coma, and he is trying to reconnect with his rather prickly daughters, while at the same time trying to cut a deal to sell off the land.

But, as the adage goes, “when it rains it pours.” The doctors inform King that his wife has entered a vegetative state, and that she will never come out of a coma. There is nothing to do but pull the plug and say goodbye. After picking his daughter Alexandra up from a reform school so that they can all spend some time together to say goodbye to Mom, Alex informs her dad that she hated Mom because she was cheating on him.

So begins an emotional journey that in text seems like anything BUT uplifting. Yet somehow it is. Granted, it is not a movie that you watch when you want to just kick back. It is nowhere near a feel good movie. But it is still a good movie. It is a movie that you watch when you want to be reminded of certain truths in this live… similar to “It’s a Wonderful Life,” only in reverse. There we go, I suppose I finally was able to compare The Descendants to another film: it is “It’s a Wonderful Life” in reverse. Things start bad and slowly begin to get better, and Clooney builds a wonderful life out of one where he had built a foundation for failure.

He was more dedicated to his job that to his wife, he did not "have time" to spend with his daughters, he resigned himself to the fact that his daughter Alex would simply become rebellious and reckless like his wife instead of loving her and caring for her. Suddenly, he realizes that he is the only one these girls have to rely on. He is there father, and he has a duty to preform.

One of the most powerful scenes in the movie revolves around the wife of the man Elizabeth was sleeping with visiting her in the hospital. Matt is there and watches as the woman proclaims that she refuses to let Elizabeth ruin her marriage and that even though part of her doesn’t want to, she forgives her. Matt, who has until this point stubbornly refused to forgive his comatose wife, looks at the woman and asked: “Why? Why did you forgive her?”

“Because I had to,” she replies.

And that, in the end, is what The Descendants is all about: earthshattering, life-altering forgiveness. Forgiveness when it hurts, forgiveness till you bleed… because living as a vengeful, angry, bitter person is no way to live. We forgive because that is the only true way for humans to live in fellowship with one another.

FEED ME! (Becoming an Adventurer Part I)

I spend a lot of time in video stores. I have probably spent hours upon hours in them; perhaps even as much time as a stay at home parent might spend at their local grocery store. This never struck me as abnormal until a day ago.

After 3 fun filled weeks with family and friends, the last week of my winter break was upon me and my family had all but returned to their everyday routine. Dad was back at work, the girls were headed out of town and my mom and her own dad were headed on a short holiday to DC. For the first time in 3 whole weeks I was going to be on my own again. Naturally I didn’t want to spend the majority of the next 48 hours alone in a big empty house, so I hit the town.

In between lunch and heading to a movie theater, I stopped in an FYE (For Your Entertainment). It is one of the largest I have ever been in, and I used to frequent it when I was a permanent fixture of the Hampton Roads area. Upon walking in I stopped and felt suddenly overwhelmed. It might have been that I was tired, or maybe I have just been hypersensitive about entertainment lately; but for whatever reason, when I walked in the door, I lost all desire to look for individual items, whether they were movies, music or video games. I was suddenly looking at the store as a whole, and all I could say was:

“Why?”

Why do we need stores that have as large a variety of movies as we do of food? In fact, there was probably a larger variety of sitcoms on DVD in that store than there are kinds of produce at the Farm Fresh around the corner.

Dizziness overwhelmed me as I realized that I had been part of this. I suck in movies often without thinking. Sure, I keep up a veneer of holiness to hide how much I am consuming, but that is something akin to a man who is 200 pounds overweight telling you that he only eats so much because he wants to tell you what kinds of food are good. He is not a cook, he is not demonstrating that he has actually learned anything about good food or how to make it… only that he enjoys eating and he does it with disregard to how it is effecting him.

The scary thing is that in America the way food and movies are sold and consumed is not so different anymore. A shiny, glossy cover can make a tidy little profit whether it’s carrots or Caddyshack. People buy Ho Hos and porn for the same reason… they taste good, even if they both make you feel like you want to vomit an hour after consumption. What is scarier is that an HBO show can now become “critically acclaimed” simply by containing gratuitous amounts of violence and sex, causing it be suddenly be “edgy” and/or “gritty,” even though underneath all that it is just another soap opera. This has already begun to bleed over into the world of food, with foods that are absolutely crap for you to eat getting actual stickers that proclaim that they have received awards like “BEST TASTING” or “CHIEFS’ CHOICE AWARD.” Yes… things are getting that ridiculous.

Just today I was returning some things to a Best Buy around the corner from me and got suckered into that very “ooh! Shiny!” syndrome that we all fall into so easily in the internet age. Do I not know that Satan is the Prince of Light? Do I not know that covers deceive? “That sin looks so hot!” one might say. And Mark Driscoll might retort: “Yeah… but so is hell.”

Anyway, I had all this money from the returns, so my consumeristic self decided that I show blow the money immediately. On what? Is always the next question. Well, it was new release Tuesday. (Yes, I am so consumed with my need for new stuff that I know that in the USA new movies, music and books are always released on Tuesdays.) The new HBO show Boardwalk Empire had just been released on DVD and a free preview of the show Game of Thrones came with it for a limited time. The covers looked pretty, Steve Buscemi was in it, it had won 8 Emmys. It must be good… right? RIGHT?

Well, I bought it and took it home, only to look up the content rating in IMDB. The show was filled with foul language… more than most R rated movies contain, full frontal nudity (male and female), and buckets of blood and brain bashing. On an HBO show? No way? You’ve gotta be joking! (/sarcasm)

I promptly went back and returned the DVD set and got the movie Moon instead, which I had actually been looking for for months and which was nowhere near an impulse buy. It still might have been better had I simply returned Boardwalk Empire and walked right out of the store, but there you have it.

And now I’m sitting here still thinking, “Why? Why has this been so important to me? How on earth did I let my standards drop so much? I almost exposed myself to… ick.”

And then I think a little bit more and I realize that I have been living vicariously through storytellers… like many of my peers have. We are too afraid to have our own adventures, so we watch other peoples’. And suddenly I come to a simple and yet monumental conclusion: it is time for me to have my own adventure.

Best and Worst Films of 2011

OK, so I've given you my thoughts about two of this past year's films, and I think it's time to move onto the others. So here it is, my votes for the best and worst films of 2011.

First up we have the

Biggest Disappointments:

-Harry Potter 8: After the first part of Deathly Hallows was released a year ago I was very excited. Deathly Hallows pt 1 was everything I was hoping it would be. Yates had finally captured the tone perfectly. The scene where Ron was required to destroy the one horcrux in the woods was particularly haunting. But with the last installment, I realized it just didn't pack enough punch. I mean... it wasn't BAD, but it should have been one of the best movies of the year... and it just wasn't. I will always remain a fan of the books, but I am saddened by how the last film just sort of fizzled. I guess it just goes to show that a film rarely lives up to the imagination of a piece of literature.

-Pirates 4: This was just sad. There was one good fight scene between the mermaids and Blackbeard's crew... but that was it. Other than that, it was just the same old tomfoolery that we saw in the second and third movies. I wanted this movie to have heart... but no, it didn't. Also it basically says at the end that love = mercy killing. Thanks Pirates of the Caribbean, I feel like that was a perfect metaphor. :P

-Hoodwinked 2: Two words: fart jokes. It's like taking the original movie and giving it a swirly. It defiles the very memory of the first movie, which I now have to remind myself that it was actually GOOD.

-Green Hornet: The epitome of forgettable. It wasn't really a bad movie, but neither was it good. It's one of those movies that you don't necessarily walk out of, but when it's over you begin to wonder "why did I watch that again?"

-The Three Musketeers: Similar to the Green Hornet. Not a terrible film... it was just... yeah. The script was pretty painful. At least it got better towards the end were the film basically began screaming: "I KNOW THAT I'M RIDICULOUS! SO GUESS WHAT?!?!?!? AIRSHIPS!!!!!!!!!"

-Immortals: I am a big fan the swords and sandals epic. And while this one was fun, it was less than it should have been. It wasn't as sweeping as Ben Hur, nor was it as bombastic as 300. Kind of reminds me of Revelation 3:16: "So because you are lukewarm, neither hot nor cold, I am about to spit you out of my mouth."

-Sherlock Holmes 2: I already dealt with this one the other day. Like I said, not enough heart.


Now for some of the honorable mentions

Trippiest Movie: Sucker Punch: This one got a bad-wrap, I realize that. But it was among the films that surprised me most. I mean, I knew that it wasn't going to be a great movies... and it wasn't by any means. I felt like I was on something for most of the time that I was watching it. But neither is it some sort of exploitation film that was created to belittle women. In fact, the end almost made up for the rest of the weirdness of the film. I have to give Snyder points... the man knows exactly what he's doing.

Best Documentary: The Greatest Movie Ever Sold: I really love Morgan Spurlock; not only is he a very funny fellow, but he knows how to make a fine documentary and then turn it into an event. The Greatest Movie Ever Sold is scathing and hilarious and will tell you more than you ever wanted to know about advertising, much like Spurlock did with fast food not too long ago.

Best Christmas Movie: Arthur Christmas: To be honest, this isn't really a Christmas movie. Well, it TECHNICALLY is, but it is way more than that. Christmas sort of serves as the trapping of the movie; it's fun, bubbly exterior. The real heart of the movie is a treaties on family that made me weep openly in the theater. I won't spoil it, but I loved this movie.

Honorable Mentions: X-Men First Class, Winnie the Pooh, Rango, Fast Five (These are are really good, but not quite good enough for me to go into detail about each one. Diverting and entertaining. All worth seeing once on a rainy day.)

Now.... for the list, starting at 10th favorite and working our way up:

10- Captain America: By far the best superhero movie of the year. The fact that they kept it a period piece (something which X-Men First Class neglected to do) was a plus. Chris Evans plays a fantastic all around great guy, and hence makes a perfect Captain America. As one movie critic put it: "it's patriotic without being preachy." Worth seeing even if you aren't a superhero fan.

9- Fright Night: I have not yet seen the original, even though it is sitting on my movie shelf at home. But in the wake of the long dark that is Twilight, Fright Night comes like the first rays of dawn. The fact that it was written by one of the writers of Buffy just solidifies it in the realm of fun, while sticking to classic vampire lore (they burn in sunlight, they don't sparkle, they eat people, they are not nice, they are ravenous monsters). It's just a total blast from beginning to end. Recommended for monster movie buffs.

8- Super 8: I sort of feel like I am required to like this one, as I actually know the guy who plays the lead. It's really trippy seeing the guy you used to go to Friday Morning Prayer breakfast with on the silver screen. Regardless, that is not why Super 8 is in my top 10. It's here because it is a fantastic movie. The train wreck is one of the most electric and explosive scenes I have seen at the movies all year. The cast they picked is fantastic and as the film progresses, you get to see more and more layers to each character peeled back. Spielberg definitely brought out the best in JJ Abrams in this one.

7- Drive: Talk about tone shift. My head was spinning after this movie. Bloody revenge flick, gangster movie, romance, drama, triller, car flick (duh), 80s movie??? It's ridiculous, violent, heartfelt, warm, hopeful, dangerous and filled with 80s techno. This is one of those movies you chew on. Definitely not for the faint of heart. This one is more Tarantino than Tron. So just be warned about what you are getting yourself into. Bullitt meets arthouse meets Kill Bill.

6- Mission Impossible 4: I've already discussed this one, but it bears repeating. Best globetrotting popcorn flick of the year. Explosions, tests of loyalty, cool gadgets, more explosions. Won't ruin the ending... but it's good.

5-Bridesmaids: Yes, this is number five. I am as surprised as you are. The jokes are over the top, and this is not a family film. But I was very surprised as how candid it was about the problem of free sex and how it degrades women and doesn't give them what they want at all. Parts of the movie are almost physically painful to watch, especially how Kristen Wiig's "boyfriend" treats her like some plaything that has no real emotions. That makes the appearance of Chris O'Dowd from the "IT Crowd" all that more powerful. He's an openhearted sweet guy who treats Wiig like a lady and helps her realize what a healthy relationship is supposed to look like. The film boarders on falling into being a sex comedy, while at the same time beating the snot out of the genre and spitting in its face. Wiig is fantastic.

4- Kung Fu Panda 2: Best animated movie of the year. Like Arthur Christmas, this one made me cry in the theater... audibly. Jack Black has found his calling. Years from now, when people mention his name, it won't be Tropic Thunder or Nacho Libre or Tenacious D that people remember... it will be the Kung Fu Panda series. This movie blows the first one out of the water. It's not just a good animated film, it's a fantastic comedy, action flick and yes, it is even an amazing kung fu movie.

3- The Muppets: Who thought that we would ever see the Muppets in theaters again? Yet here they are. And yes, they constantly point at themselves and laugh at the how obsolete they have become and how ridiculous it is that they are forcing their way into the public consciousness again. I have reviewed this one already too, but it is just that good. It's a movie that proclaims boldly that "it's ok to be goofy and laugh a lot. In order to be relevant you don't have to be 'dark and gritty.'"

2- Rise of the Planet of the Apes: This movie was so good that I actually went back and rewatched it just a day after I watched it the first time. In fact, just talking about it makes me want to watch it again... right now. Going in I thought that the whole evolution issue might be a problem and that the film might be preachy... but it isn't. If you watch it with your kids (and don't worry, this is a totally kid friendly film aside from a few scary scenes), you may still want to have a discussion about the idea of evolution and how it has influenced modern American culture. But as I said, that comes in very little. More than anything else, Rise is just concerned about having a fantastic time. If the film is preachy about anything, it is that we ought to be careful about how we take dominion and that it does not turn into domination... I can totally get on board with that. Also: Andy Serkis is fantastic. Every scene he is in blew my mind... which was pretty much the whole movie. Worth buying and keeping next to your DVD player.

1- Attack the Block: I. LOVED. THIS. MOVIE. Yes, it's a monster movie, and yes the accents are a bit hard to understand. (If it's really all that hard, you can always turn on the subtitles.) But this movie is so much more than the sum of its parts. Now that I think about it, Attack the Block is very similar to Super 8 in a lot of ways (alien monsters, troop of kids, etc), but it is the execution that makes all the difference. Little bits like script, actor choice, cinematography and monster effects really take Attack the Block to a new level. This is one of those movies that makes you want to stand up a cheer. Worth seeing more than once.


(Random footnotes: Not going to see The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Read the book, that was enough. Have now seen Hanna and The Descendants. Both good. Might review later. Also forgot to add Trollhunter to my list of favorites. Would probably give it best non-English film. Still have not seen The Artist yet. Planning on catching it later in the next few months.)


All for now,
JSTT