This one's so good, in a B-movie sort of way, we need to break it down line by line. The song is called Awesome God and rooms full of adults actually sing this with a straight face.
When He rolls up his sleeves he isn't puttin' on the Ritz
Our God is an awesome God.
Right off the bat, a sentence full of things that piss me off.
Let's start with the idea of God rolling up his sleeves. God has sleeves, apparently, and they need rolling up. Far be it from our deity to call on a seraphim or cherubim to do the job, he rolls up his own damn sleeves. He's just that kind of God. But why, one asks, is he rolling up his sleeves? If you put this line into context with the rest of the song, it's to administer some sort of holy beat down. He's rolling up his sleeves to kick some ass, as the next line demonstrates.
But we can't let this line get away with those last six words. First and foremost, it doesn't make a lick of sense. None. Not in context, not in a metaphorical sense, nothing. Logistically, God stripping down to do some Old Testament justice wouldn't put on a suit and tie, he'd roll up his sleeves like we've previously established. It stands to reason if he's taking off clothes, he's not dressing up. Even the larger idea of "Putting on the Ritz" means you're going all out, pulling out all the stops which, AGAIN, is not what the song is trying to say. It's like the author was stuck and decided to seek inspiration by hitting herself in the head with a rake or a shovel and the resulting jibberish not just made it onto paper, but past editors and those who choose music for churches. Moving on.
There is lightning in his footsteps and thunder in his fists
Our God is an awesome God.
Aside from committing multiple acts of violence against the English language, does this line make anyone else think of Zeus? I hope it's not just me.
When I was a kid I asked my parents what lightning and thunder were, and they told me it was God bowling. As it turns out, their answer to a cute kid might have made for better song lyrics than this piece of garbage. Forgiving the Old Testament interpretation of God (childish, boorish, prone to killing everyone) walking around like a pissed off monolith, in the first four lines we have God rolling up his sleeves and making fists. I'm thinking this is the same version of the Almighty that Pat Robertson said blew up the World Trade Center because of the feminists, pagans and homosexuals. It's not a flattering image and not inspiring in the least unless you're the type who pines to see the blood of your enemies spilt on the ground...which is an undeniably un-Christian thing.
Our Lord He wasn't joking when he kicked them out of Eden
Oh sweet Krishna on a pogo stick, who the Buddha thought this was a good lyric? It's God as shot through the prism of a high school pep rally, a pissed off Deity ready to administer punishment to the unfaithful, which in my experience never seems to happen. I'm also starting a search to find the person of faith who believes original sin was some sort of joke, like tomorrow God's going to come knocking and have a really good gut laugh and invite us back in for a nude fruit-a-thon. 3rd grade poetry nonsense, this lyric.
It wasn't for no reason that he shed his blood
I call a flag on the biblical reference, here. Yes, God is 3 in one, but the same God in a blue stained work shirt about to beat the shit out of some sinner who didn't make his dinner properly is largely uncredited as the savior - it's the son that subscribed to the whole suffering gig. And again, let's find the believer who thinks Jesus died for the sheer joy of crucifixion.
I think that we have too soon forgotten
That our God is an awesome God
Time for a beat down, brothers and sisters. Let's get ready for a good godly smack in the mouth.
Our God is an awesome God
He reigns from heaven above
With wisdom power and love
Our God is an awesome God
You've spent the first verse painting a picture with blood, now he's full of wisdom power and love? Cheap, that's all I've got to say. Cheap and inconsistent. Cheap and stupid. Cheap and juvenile, but mainly cheap. But I guess you've to to leave them with a smile on their face before communion or offering, huh?
One last thing I want to address - the subtle message that "our God is an awesome God" leaves room for the idea that other Gods are out there and they might be righteous or bodacious or might fly from a surfboard yelling Cowabunga! but are not, indeed awesome. I don't like polytheism in my Christian songs, call me old fashioned.
What an awful song.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
Check Your Points
In the little seen but highly decent Steve Buscemi flick Tres Lounge, the last shot is a haunting one. The main character, after 90 minutes of boozing, doing bad drugs and chasing women out of his league, goes back to his favorite bar and comments that one of the regulars, an old man we've seen throughout the film, is missing. Apparently he died, having lived his life on the barstool. No one noticed, and no one missed him. The last shot is Buscemi, staring into space, realizing he's in the 3rd quarter and he hasn't scored any points.
That image burned into my memory and was vividly recalled yesterday when I received a note in the mail that one of my favorite teachers from high school had passed away. They are holding a memorial service for her tomorrow, and I won't be attending. I liked her, she spoke highly of me, writing me several recommendations and teaching me my first Shakespeare (though I credit the fact that I read Macbeth at least once a year to another teacher). She was right up my ally and definitely a favorite.
Yet, she wasn't important enough to me to either keep in touch, or attend her memorial service. It makes me a little morose to think of that, but what really gets me is the idea that most if not all of her other students felt the same way - pleasant memories but a glancing blow in terms of a lasting impact. I wonder how many mourners there will be. I wonder how long I'm going to remember her name. I wonder if she was the drunk on the barstool in Tres Lounge who registered with people, but didn't move them to any sort of action.
To be fair, I only was familiar with one part of the woman's life. She more than likely had friends and relatives. And also in the interest of fairness, how many people would think of me a year later if I died tomorrow? A few, but not that many, which is the fate of almost all of us.
Education, I guess, could be different. If you get the right person in the right situation, they can change lives (and if you get the wrong person in the wrong situation, you end up with an ulcer and a bunch of pissed off students). It's a job I admire people for taking, one that deserves a bunch of mourners when you go the trip.
But that damned empty barstool is haunting me since I heard of her death. It shouldn't - what does she care what sort of legacy she left, she's dead and no matter what you subscribe to, things are better or done when you die (unless you go to hell, which is a fate I can only see PE teachers enduring). It's bothering me. Someone who puts up with us when we're at our worst should have some sort of recognition, I guess. They should live on, like in that episode of the Twilight Zone where that literature professor is visited by the ghosts of his former students.
Not an empty barstool. Not for her.
That image burned into my memory and was vividly recalled yesterday when I received a note in the mail that one of my favorite teachers from high school had passed away. They are holding a memorial service for her tomorrow, and I won't be attending. I liked her, she spoke highly of me, writing me several recommendations and teaching me my first Shakespeare (though I credit the fact that I read Macbeth at least once a year to another teacher). She was right up my ally and definitely a favorite.
Yet, she wasn't important enough to me to either keep in touch, or attend her memorial service. It makes me a little morose to think of that, but what really gets me is the idea that most if not all of her other students felt the same way - pleasant memories but a glancing blow in terms of a lasting impact. I wonder how many mourners there will be. I wonder how long I'm going to remember her name. I wonder if she was the drunk on the barstool in Tres Lounge who registered with people, but didn't move them to any sort of action.
To be fair, I only was familiar with one part of the woman's life. She more than likely had friends and relatives. And also in the interest of fairness, how many people would think of me a year later if I died tomorrow? A few, but not that many, which is the fate of almost all of us.
Education, I guess, could be different. If you get the right person in the right situation, they can change lives (and if you get the wrong person in the wrong situation, you end up with an ulcer and a bunch of pissed off students). It's a job I admire people for taking, one that deserves a bunch of mourners when you go the trip.
But that damned empty barstool is haunting me since I heard of her death. It shouldn't - what does she care what sort of legacy she left, she's dead and no matter what you subscribe to, things are better or done when you die (unless you go to hell, which is a fate I can only see PE teachers enduring). It's bothering me. Someone who puts up with us when we're at our worst should have some sort of recognition, I guess. They should live on, like in that episode of the Twilight Zone where that literature professor is visited by the ghosts of his former students.
Not an empty barstool. Not for her.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Likes on Wednesday: Starship Troopers
I can't tell you how many times I watched this trailer in my Sophomore year of college. My roommate and I had a VHS copy of Apt Pupil starring Ian McKellan on whom we both had a massive man crush. But for every one time we watched Apt Pupil, we watched the Starship Troopers trailer 6 times, at least.
The trailer had everything a 19-year-old man/boy wants - action, jingoism, pretty people, the promise of gore - but, oh sweet Klandathu, how the movie delivered. How much do I love Starship Troopers? Let me count the ways.
1. Great Creatures - If ST is nothing else, it's a great giant bug movie with plenty of ooey gooey creatures. Drones with razor sharp appendages? Check. Giant beetles who shoot plasma out of their giant bulbous heineys? Check. A brain bug with a front crevice that not so subtly suggests female genitalia? Check.
2. Great Gore - This flicks effects department must have watched Braveheart on Nitrous Oxide. Limbs go flying, legs disappear leaving bloody stumps, people are speared and beheaded and squished and torn apart and a few lucky ones get their brains sucked out with absolutely no morality or apologies. They even spear Jake Busey's hand, which is something everyone can get behind.
3. Great nudity - Throughout the ages, philosophers have pondered this seminal question - how could anyone could hate a movie with a naked coed hard body shower scene? Some people hate this movie...but how? There's men and women, in top physical condition, showering...NAKED! Execution aside, the idea deserves applause. But when pulled off with such finesse, such beauty and such terrible dialogue in between - God, what a movie.
4. Some of the worst dialogue this side of porn - A sampling from the top of my head:
(Dying man holding a grenade) "I came here to kill some bugs, sir!"
(Man shooting) "You want some? You want some? Here's some!"
"They sucked his brains out."
"Bugs don't take prisoners."
"5...4...3...Ready...Steady...GO!"
"I'm not flying with Inez. She's crazy."
"This isn't random or light."
"You've got something to say about the mobile infantry?"
and the immortal
"You don't have what it takes to be a citizen."
Poetry. Sheer poetry.
5. Michael Ironside. WOOOO!
6. A perverse streak a mile wide - Whenever I have to legitimately defend this movie, that is by all accounts the biggest budget B-movie ever made, all you need is three words - Paul Verhoven, fascist. ST is actually a potent political statement wrapped in the dumbest, prettiest, bloodiest package you can imagine for mass consumption by the public. This movie has more to say about the state of fascism than The Manchurian Candidate. It's a parody, but also a straight faced fascist wet dream - a logical consequence to ridiculous rhetoric with bugs instead of liberals.
Don't believe me? Check out every single transmission from the Federal Network, or basic training in general, or Doogie Hauser in full Nazi regalia in specific. The flick is a sci-fi Birth of a Nation with boobies and blood. It's among the smartest dumb movies ever made.
And finally, this sucker is infinitely rewatchable. It's something I average about once every three months since I got it. I have a worn out VHS copy that actually gets fuzzy during some of the battle scenes I've watched 2,000 times. It's fun never diminishes and it never fails to elicit a head shake from my loving wife.
So why bring up this movie now? Because Johnny Rico's back, bitches! I'm so there!!!
Do you want to know more? You bet I do.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
Picture Monday - Sexy Quilts
I found this quilt that I photographed interesting for a couple reasons.
1) The words "sexy" and "quilt" have never been uttered in the same sentence, ever, but that's exactly what this is.
2) I've seen these images before. In fact, one of my first exposures to erotica of any kind was of the vintage variety. Even to this day I feel guilt for enjoying these images so much. They're completely exploitative but undeniably sexy. In other words, this quilt would keep me warm in a number of ways. Also, the craftsmanship is tip top.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
There Was Blood, and it Sucked
My wife had a grandmother who fainted at the sight of blood. Any blood, paper cut or massive hematoma, she lost consciousness. I found her behavior weak to a fault and laughable until yesterday evening.
My little girl, all of 4 years old, was acting zany last night as we were waiting for a seat at a generic sit-down eatery chain. We told her calm down and she didn't. We told lower her voice and she didn't. We told her to quit rocking on her baby sister's car seat. She, in following with the theme of the evening (she was really tired) didn't and proceeded to pitch backward and hit her head on the metal edge of the door frame of the main door. She started to cry, reached her hand back to the wound and it came back red.
My little girl, all of 4 years old, was acting zany last night as we were waiting for a seat at a generic sit-down eatery chain. We told her calm down and she didn't. We told lower her voice and she didn't. We told her to quit rocking on her baby sister's car seat. She, in following with the theme of the evening (she was really tired) didn't and proceeded to pitch backward and hit her head on the metal edge of the door frame of the main door. She started to cry, reached her hand back to the wound and it came back red.
I know for a fact that head wounds bleed a lot, and I know from seeing with my own eyes the injury she sustained was not life-threatening. Still, when the blood went from her head to her blond hair to the napkins I ran to get from an unhelpful wait staff, these facts seemed not only academic but quite probably wrong. Instinct kicked in and suddenly my orange chicken bowl didn't matter worth a good goddamn. It was to the door and to the hospital. It wasn't even an argument - once we got to the third napkin spoiled with my child's blood it was time to go.
Luckily the women in my life had cooler heads. They grabbed some ice and kept things calm, even if the kid was pretty close to hysterics.
I remember once when I had to have stitches after a nasty bicycling accident on a construction site (still one of my best scars), my dad came in and started talking to me about where my mind was. He wanted me to go to a place that was "far away" and where I would be happy. I guess "far away" triggered something and I imagined myself in the cloud city of Bespin from "The Empire Strikes Back," fighting Darth Vader. I remember where I went in my head very clearly, and also remember the wound and the ER quite clearly.
I decided to try the same thing with my kid - get her mind onto something else and away from all the blood, but what I didn't count on was how panicked I was. I crouched down to her level and went blank. All I could think to ask her was what she was going to order, which worked for about two seconds until the trickle of blood recaptured her attention and wailing continued. It's one of many ways I don't measure up to my father, but I think I learned something for next time about myself (don't panic) and about my kid. She's looking to me for anything in that moment, and next time I hope I'll be a better dad to her.
We'll see.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Revenge in Verse
I usually don't mix my desperate plees for attention, but I thought this was pretty cool.
A friend of mind turned me onto a writing challenge called Ficlets - www.ficlets.com. The premise is a bunch of authors gather and write very short stories. The stories are counted by the keystroke and I think you get just over 1,000 key strokes to tell a story.
I've written five or six but decided to do something a little different. This story's called 18-1 and the first line contains 18 words. The second line contains 17 words and so on all the way to the last line which consists of a single word. I also used the exact amount of keystrokes to write the story, something they call "Ficlet Nirvana.
Either way, I'm proud of the thing. Here it is:
18-1
I can’t begin to tell you the anguish you’ve caused me, the nights I’ve spent obsessing over you.
When I saw you eating in that restaurant across town, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was.
But there you were, breathing and conversing, chowing down on a burger and sipping a Budweiser.
I don’t know if this is providence or something slightly darker, but here you are.
My basement is nothing extraordinary, but it’s going to become extremely special to you.
It must seem an odd reversal of fortune, you shackled in my basement.
But then, fate is unpredictable, rivaled only by the mysteries of love.
After you killed my daughter, I thought you had vanished completely.
Imagine my surprise, finding you here in my own backyard.
And now, there’s the matter of what happens next.
By now you’ve probably guessed I want revenge.
I know you don’t believe in God.
I’m not sending you to heaven.
Here’s what’s going to happen.
I’ll stab you here.
Then you’ll die.
And then?
Nothing.
A friend of mind turned me onto a writing challenge called Ficlets - www.ficlets.com. The premise is a bunch of authors gather and write very short stories. The stories are counted by the keystroke and I think you get just over 1,000 key strokes to tell a story.
I've written five or six but decided to do something a little different. This story's called 18-1 and the first line contains 18 words. The second line contains 17 words and so on all the way to the last line which consists of a single word. I also used the exact amount of keystrokes to write the story, something they call "Ficlet Nirvana.
Either way, I'm proud of the thing. Here it is:
18-1
I can’t begin to tell you the anguish you’ve caused me, the nights I’ve spent obsessing over you.
When I saw you eating in that restaurant across town, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was.
But there you were, breathing and conversing, chowing down on a burger and sipping a Budweiser.
I don’t know if this is providence or something slightly darker, but here you are.
My basement is nothing extraordinary, but it’s going to become extremely special to you.
It must seem an odd reversal of fortune, you shackled in my basement.
But then, fate is unpredictable, rivaled only by the mysteries of love.
After you killed my daughter, I thought you had vanished completely.
Imagine my surprise, finding you here in my own backyard.
And now, there’s the matter of what happens next.
By now you’ve probably guessed I want revenge.
I know you don’t believe in God.
I’m not sending you to heaven.
Here’s what’s going to happen.
I’ll stab you here.
Then you’ll die.
And then?
Nothing.
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