A Post Post

I was asked to be specific with the term, "Post christian." Which I guess is fair, considering my background, and the people who would see my stuff. For other curious among you, sorry for taking so long to get this out.

It is, what I am. A person who, having been raised in the trappings of the church, has a profoundly hard time seeing where the church and God meet. Watching a body of people that, on it's best day, antagonizes a world that lives the way that it thinks is right. On a bad day it turns violently upon itself levying horrible charges against those who, under the same flag, worship the same God, in a different way. Yet I read about a man who dined with his betrayer.

I watch power jockeying, bitter resentment, and outright rejection. People use their faith as a vehicle to gain wealth and world power. Using God to justify violence. And using God to justify indifference. The church creates people too powerful to need God. Who would rather legislate morality, than use the servant love to change lives and hearts.

But I read about a Christ, who gave up being clean, so he could be right. Who did not raise a hand to save his life. Who washed feet. WASHED FEET!!! Seriously, who does that? Who kept the party going, 'cause his mom asked him to. Who said, if you love God, and you love people, the rest will sort itself out.

I do not use the term post christian, to in any way demean those people trying to understand God, and our part in this divine story. As a good friend of mine was fond of saying, “I love me some Jesus.” But very rarely have I gone into a church and thought, “Wow, this must be what God had in mind.” I usually think about how church shouldn't be so early, or how people shouldn't look like they're cringing when they were trying to smile... Or that Jesus wouldn't be here either.

Snap Revival

When we...I mean me...I mean I...When I was young, and whilst dragging my feet on a host of lessons and other studies, I honed a number of skills to razor sharp levels. I could:
Burp on command
Make farting noises with my hand and arm pit
Lock my thumb behind my hand
Cross my eyes
Fold my tongue into a clover like shape
I even mastered artfully raising one eyebrow in the manner of Mr Spock

But the thing for which I was best known? Towel snapping.

I left wealts and scratches for days. I was a champ at summer camp. And even though I weighed a buck twenty on a good day, they always left me alone in gym.

Once at camp, a kid, ignorant of my reputation, would run up to our little cluster, snap us with a towel, and run like the dickens. The first time was free. When he did it again, we said, he might want to spread the love and not test his luck. I surrepitiously tucked my towel between my crossed legs. And, knowing that the lesson was not learned, we pretended to blithely continue our game.

"He's coming," they whispered, and I sprang into action. The startled boy turned, but it was too late, the piper cometh. The snap was epic. I was told that it was audible out the door. I find that hard to believe. I did see him melt before me, clawing at his wounded back. As he pealed his shirt off, I was mortified, and truly proud, he was bleding.

I appologized and got him something for his back (he may have deserved a snap, but that seemed excessive). And we went back to playing cards.

At 26 and counting, however, I've gone the way of good judgement. I can no longer lock my thumb behind my hand, and choose not to cross my eyes. I still raise a wicked eyebrow. But, the one lapsed skill that I actually consider reviving from time to time? You nailed it. Towel snapping.

But, when your gym locker room is primarily full of pensioners, it hardly seems fair...
I mean, they've got years of experience on me.

OH SNAP!!

No...Thank You

If you were to walk past the main desk at my gym, you would likely notice the laser scanning device conspicuously affixed to it, at the most narrow point on the walkway leading to the lockers and workout rooms. You would thus, likely, intuit the intention of the device to monitor member traffic, and identify each passer-by as eligible for entry. If you're not much for intuition you could just read the signs to that effect. And every morning, when I swipe my card, someone behind the desk intones a, usually, cheerful, "Thank you."

Now, I'm a grateful guy. But for whatever reason, it weirds me out when they thank me for that. It just feels like, "Thank you for fulfilling the minimum function for lawful entry." Or, more succinctly, "Thanks for not being a dick." Do they just expect everyone to just charge the lockers one day and not scan their cards one day? I don't get it. I've done nothing that warrants gratitude. Heck, I haven't even done anything that warrants noting. Thank me for holding the door for you. Thank me for picking up that thing you left and running it out to you. Thank me for being awesome. Don't thank me for not sucking. At that point, I feel like there's no bar to lower.

Thanks for reading.

If It's a Joke, I Don't Get It

I saw a sign today that warned people, "Heavy traffic. Avoid delays. Use metro." Either there is a secret metro that I don't know about, that sign is woefully misleading, and/or the malicious creator of the sign needed to get in another set of digs to his or her hapless victims.

I love the metro more than most people I've encountered. I leave early, 'cause I know that they're likely "experiencing delays." To this day, I get excited when the train comes out of the tunnel crossing the river into, or on my way from VA. If I have the time, I'll take a few buses to my destination in order to get the view from the ground in the district I call home.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is this:
If you live in the District, and you have a good experience "within the metro system," commend them on their website. It takes about five minutes and hurts less than giving blood. For extra credit, write a brief letter to the editor of any small DC based periodical.

If you are outside of the District, take the most praiseworthy aspect of something that often raises your ire, and publicly commend it. Most company websites have an entire segment dedicated to consumer feedback.

Once you do that, post a comment. Tell me what happened, and the method of commendation. Invite one or two friends to play along, and add their comments to the mix. Have a great week. And give one to someone else, too.

It's a neighborly day in this beauty wood.

Today I pulled out the cookies I'd made earlier this week, and I found something totally strange...Neighbors. I met Billy, Minnie, and Walter because I didn't eat my cookies in my apartment. Actually, I didn't eat them at all. On this beautiful sun filled afternoon, the sharing of the cookies was less a choice and more the firm hand of guidance.

Not that any great epiphanies came during this hour long foray across the street. A little perspective was gained. Our side of the street is a small collection of apartments, which do just that. They keep us apart. Not physically, at any time one could knock on the neighbor's door and ask them to lend out a cup of sugar. But having lived in a third set now, I understand that the "apart" in apartment is mind and soul.

My roommate called yesterday to tell me to call the "rental people," because water was coming down between the walls and originating from above us. A broken pipe or overflowing drain may have caused the problem, but walking up the stairs and talking to the neighbors may have solved it. It will never be known.

Go bake some cookies, and don't eat them. Instead, meet someone from Chicago, who just moved here with his fiance. And someone who moved here 45 years ago.
...And they'll have things they'll want to talk about. You will too.

Mr. Totally Connected

I've been crap at keeping all of you entertained, informed. Even one line updates have proven out of my reach. In my defense, I've been super busy and I can't update my blog from my phone. I haven't tried it, truthfully, for fear of succeeding. Fear of success, you ask? Yes, the fear that I will succeed and be one step closer to this type of person. On more than one occassion I've stood in the lav simply awe filled. But without further ado:

Mr. Totally Connected

This guy explodes into the Men's with blueteeth in his ears holding what appears to be the most pivotal point of the most intense negotiation this year has seen. Filling the echo chamber with his position would suffice to earn him my disdain. He, however, tops one's expectations for boundary when, bracing himself by an elbow in the corner next to the last stall, he is finally stable enough to continue working on his blackberry while peeing.

I have nothing against being connected. I have nothing against Blackberries. Frankly, I love being connected which is why I own a blackberry. But when an obsession for connection hinders you ability to perform a basic necessary function, put it in its holster and put your hands where they belong at a urinal. We're not at DefCon anything, stop kidding yourself, it can wait.

On a Day Like This One

I've decided that one of the top de-humanizing experiences is that of having a table at a crowded coffee shop.
It's pretty incredible. When you have the brilliant good fortune of beating the rush, or just the mule-like determination to wait out the next free seat, every Johnnie-come-lately suddenly starts giving you the stink eye. People who were smiling at you on the street are looking at you like you just exported their job to china. It's sick.

Then, the coup de grace, weakness is shown. You polish off you drink, close your book, and stretch. As if by magic, 6 people are standing within two feet of you. The boldest of them narrowly misses stepping on your foot. They think of you as nothing more than a free willed seat warmer. Some go as far as to begin unpacking before the soon to be former occupant has even vacated "Are you going to be getting up."

More of a statement than a question, this is usually the point where I start thinking of things to do to keep me in that seat as long as possible. "Yes, I've taken out a lease on the spot and won't be leaving 'til late spring. "