governance, the two party system, and lawbreaking in the State of Offense

what is the anatomy of pride?  what beat-down loser flush with learned helplessness came up with the idea that sticks and stones harm more than words?

if i call someone, especially a black someone, a nigger, i’m liable to be assaulted, physically and in the media, for insensitivity and hate and ignorance.

a black person calls another black person nigga with any number of derogatory adjectives with no repercussion. in the words of bounty hunter Jubal Early, does that seem right to you?

a black person calls a white person a cracker or any number of things and most people laugh or shrug it off.

i call a person a fag and it must be because i’m secretly harboring repressed homosexual desires or because i’m a Christian or i’m ignorant or i’m homophobic (actually scared of gays? really?).

according to various murmurings, the gay community is attempting to salvage  (redeem?) the term by liberally calling each other fags. you know, desensitization and all. it doesn’t cause as much anxiety after so many applications of mean words.

my blonde sister-in-law tells blonde jokes. i laugh. as i returned pillows at Macys yesterday, the black sales associate with black hair had a self-proclaimed blonde moment. i thought it odd, but my blonde wife didn’t even bat an eyelash. and she’s an actual blonde.

i’m half Korean. my mom is fully Korean (the good kind). i’m proud of the exotic half of my ethnicity. it’s a good conversation piece. i haven’t worn the clothes much. i’m not sure who the president of South Korea is. there’s definitely a good portion of SoKo (what hipsters call it. just kidding. i’m totally full of $h!+) history where they got pushed around, i believe by Japan, and i know there’s some lingering resentment there. but not on my part. not on my mom’s part, either. i know that Seoul’s the capital city. i know my dad was in Pyongyang, near Panmunjom. but i had to look up how to spell those cities. but is that enough? can i be accused of being not proud enough?

i’m not sure if i’m proud of the white part of me. i’m not at all ashamed. don’t get me wrong but pride in one’s whiteness conjures images of pointy pillow case hoods and burning  crosses.

when i was in fourth grade, George, a lanky and popular Mexican classmate, called me a “dirty Korean” during a soccer game. it didn’t roll off his tongue at all and everyone just kinda wrinkled their noses at his less than funny attempt at an insult. it wasn’t that they were horrified at his cultural insensitivity. it was simply less than laugh-worthy.

i wasn’t embarrassed or sad. i think i was just as confused as everyone else, because a minute ago George had asked me if i was Chinese. i wasn’t.  i was Korean, though.

i don’t know what reputation Korea (the good one) has in the world. i know the food rules. i know the folks i’ve met at Korean churches are generous and kind and welcoming. but that might be just because it was a church.

once, i was mocked for being a virgin. but i didn’t blush. i was a little jealous that the insulter had already made it with a girl, but it didn’t hurt my feelings, nor did i feel the need to defend the honor of virgins worldwide. i was born a virgin. but i’m not one any more.

Paul said that in Christ, there is neither virgin nor veteran sex-haver, blonde nor bald, North or South Korean, proud or embarrassed American.

or something like that.

i wonder how far to take that. Chad says inflammatory things like you lose your rights once you sign on with Jesus. you submit yourself to the kingship of God to be a part of the Kingdom of Heaven. you lose the right to respond to a slight with anything but a turned cheek. you lose the basis for demanding an apology. you lose the right to expect sympathy. and this isn’t just in terms of your faith—because even if in modern society, life can be compartmentalized, i submit to you that modern society is not always correct. and a holistic, even more truthy view of life demands that faith not be set against work or family or friends or personal life.

even if you reject this premise or observation of reality, people are far too sensitive. people are mean. but people also leave things open-ended, frequently in art and in writing. of course being in the public eye widens the ripple any dropped stone might make in life. a private letter usually only reaches the recipient. the post-game press conference for the Super Bowl reaches a far wider audience. and a player’s slightly vague response to an innocuous question might be speculated about for weeks on sports radio and television.

so when someone writes a book that talks about character and the many traps and enemies of integrity but uses a thread in the title, content, marketing, and appearance of ninjas, among other things, people can see what they want. one of the bigger complaints about the Deadly Viper Character Assassins is that Asian people are displayed in a menacing manner. i’m literally dumbfounded. they are NINJAS. and by nature, as assassins, are scary. you wake up in the middle of the night and see a ninja in your room, you’re about to die (or be rescued in a totally awesome fashion).

other points of conflict are: confusion of Japanese and Chinese letters/characters, usage of Asian objects and symbols in a manner that is not honoring to the cultures they represent (kimonos, samurai, etc.), a line in the book that compares a made-up Chinese sounding name to a communicable disease.

Asians sound off here, here, and here.

there’s a little back and forth here at Church Marketing Sucks, which initially gave a good review to the book, then once the offended parties raised their collective voices, backed off and opened a forum for discussion.

ultimately, i’m having a tough time wading through the crap on both sides and figuring out why people are offended. some of the most eloquent responses fall along the lines of “we just are. why can’t you see that?” some of the more prominent responders are having a great day increasing their site hits by trolling various sites and linking back to their blogs while deleting opposing viewpoints from their own blog comments.

i don’t believe the authors intended to be hurtful or malicious or demeaning. most of the voices seem to agree, but feel that apologies are owed (they’ve since been given to some extent) and that more reconciliation is needed.

and so i’m examining myself to see where i’m hurtful and racist and unintentionally damaging to the kingdom i profess to be a part of, and from what i currently see, being offended and being offense don’t even necessarily go hand in hand. i’m not a journalist or a constitutional defender, but it seems that saying “x” might get you into trouble simply because someone heard you say that particular letter and felt “z” about it. freedom of speech is one of the stakes in this conversation.

we’re taught early on that words can’t harm. and then we’re taught that words can hurt more than broken bones. but looking back on the schoolyard rhyme, i think there’s a line missing about the thickness of our collective and individual skin.

my choice, for better or worse

i have often thought to myself that God is powerful. somewhere along the line in a theology class, the traditional notion of omnipotence was challenged (and soundly defeated). the word omnipotence is nowhere to be found in scripture and although “almighty” is, the understanding of God’s power has at least 2 contrasting views: a Hellenistic and an earlier Hebrew point of view. culturally, people like to think of their deities as limitless and powerful. who wants a wimpy god? and so the Greeks told tales of gods who controlled life and death, the afterlife, thunder, rain, and other larger-than-human-life things. a display of power was the same as flexing infinite biceps or pecs. on the other hand, rabbis told a different story.

consider a brief story: two men and their daughters are camping alone through the countryside when they are attacked. their children are kidnapped in the chaos and the fathers are left near death. it just happens that the men have a particular set of skills and experience that make them very dangerous to bad people such as the ones who took the daughters. so they recover and set out to find the basterds who did this. invariably, their search is successful and they free their children, and end up with the criminals at gun point. the first father pulls the trigger without hesitation. the second puts his gun down and pulls the other dad away preventing further bloodshed.

who is more “powerful” in that scenario? the one who carries out the extent of possibility, ending a life? or the one who has the same chance but restrains, regardless of how badly he wanted to exact retribution?

the Hebrew view was that restraint was exhibition of power beyond anything a display of power could ever show.

it’s far more important for me to be on the side of the “most” powerful than to grapple with the impossibility and circles of logic when people stomp their foot and frown and insist that God is “all” powerful.

there’s a guitar player who once remade a hymn and added this chorus that blew my mind:

“There is an eye that never sleeps
Beneath the wing of night,
There is an ear that never shuts
When sink the beams of light.
There is an arm that never tires
When human strength gives way,
There is a love that never fails
When earthly loves decay.
But there’s a power which man can wield
When mortal aid is vain.

That eye, that arm, that loves to reach
The listening ear to gain.
That power is prayer which soars on high,
Through Jesus to the throne,
Which moves the Hand which moves the world
To bring salvation down, bring salvation down.”

besides the creepy Eye of Providence reference and some slightly gray theological statements, the idea that words uttered from my dry and cracked lips can set in motion the hand of God, or stay it, as Moses did, blows my mind.

which brings us to this. knowledge is a power of sorts, and we often lack power ourselves simply because we have a distorted view or incomplete picture of ourselves as individuals. there are things that you, dear reader, see about me that i have missed or choose to overlook. and in your hand, you hold the power to transform a part of me. and when you restrain those mighty and astonishing words, you dam up the change that is within my grasp, but out of my reach for whatever reason.

i do the same thing. i don’t delude myself into thinking i’m deeply intuitive or discerning. but i see things that you may not see, i recognize symptoms and toxic patterns that you unwittingly live out time and again, and i silently allow you to cut yourself or purge or self destruct or bow to your self-imposed slave driver or allow yourself to wallow and waste away.

for some, i don’t have the voice to intervene. you haven’t granted me access to that VIP area of your life… and unwanted, uninvited over-intimacy is a shining definition for rape.

for others, i simply watch. there’s no good or redeeming reason. i may have said something to you in the past that you ignored and i have this crazy mellow-dramatic idea that my words are valuable because they are not common. a wedding ring with a semi-pave corn kernel setting will simply not fly. no store accepts pesos for dollars at a one to one exchange.

for whatever reason, i observe. quietly. watching. knowing and understanding now and then. but my silence is consent, and this is my first attempt to break it. and to brake it.

so, for you, the friend that defines yourself by what’s wrong with you and by what you lack, look up. and to you, the friend that shoe-gazes when the world is your oyster, reach out. and you, too, the friend that discounts your own worth by knocking zero’s off your price tag and calling the clearance sale price fair, look in. and to you, the “out of control” one, you who throw yourself at undeserving manipulating nobodies and calling it destiny, look again. to the friend who dares not to light a fire again because of how badly you were once burned, pick the lighter up again. not for a cigarette, but for your heart.

lift your eyes up.

where does your help come from?

a peculiar societal norm

ever since i started at my new hotel, i’ve had multiple conversations with people about whether or not i have kids and when i’ll have them and then when it’s discovered that i don’t want any (oh the horror!), i start having all sorts of interesting conversations. a few days ago, i came up against my toughest questioning, a nice girl who’s my age and has 2 kids of her own. now, we come from vastly different backgrounds, but she used adjectives like ’sad’ and ‘lonely’ to describe childless adults such as myself. and so, i’m renewing my self-exploration as to what it is that makes me not want kids, especially when so many people can’t wait to pop the buggers out.

it’s very important that anyone who reads this should understand that i’m not making judgements and that i don’t apply the standards to which i hold myself to anyone else. people who want kids should have kids.

 however, i’ll go ahead and throw some kindling on whatever fires of controversy burn on whatiseikon: if you have 6+ kids, you have too many. you know it, your kids wearing the 12 year old Lee hand-me-down jeans know it, the people who are around you know it and they talk about you with a mixture of fear, disbelief, and disdain. nobody cares about Jon or Kate. everybody wishes Nadya would just go away. (6 is an almost arbitrary number: the Sanborns have 5 kids and Gilbert and Cherie are just about the greatest parents i’ve ever seen. so i’m going to guess that any more and their heads would melt into a ball of mush. anyway, on to my list.)

-first and foremost, there are too many people in the world. there are 6.7 billion people estimated to be running around this great planet. Chad thinks that i’m wrong when i say that the world isn’t designed to support a population of this sheer size. that’s because he’s silly. feasibly, a finite number of resources could be shared to support an almost infinitely increasing population assuming that everyone played nice and shared and took what they needed. look around and ask yourself, “do people play nice?” i’d like to contribute my life to the benefit of the world, not the overpopulation of it.

-google and read about the sixth extinction. nuff said.

-the US consumes about 25% of the world’s energy yearly. we have about 5% of the world’s population. China, on the other hand has 20% of the world’s population (and is growing 5.5% per year). so if they decide we’re using too much energy (bear with me here), they could make a compelling case at chopstick-point that we need to hand over our incandescent bulbs and SUVs. plus, Jet Li > Chuck Norris (at his current age).

- [insert here] any number of “the world is a crazy place to bring a child into.” think of Baghdad, Mogadishu, Hugo Chavez, USC, pedophiles, smog, Osama’s facial hair, the weakening of the US dollar, ozone depletion, mad bird swine cow flu disease, toy recalls, evil pharmaceutical companies, frivolous lawsuits, child trafficking, DRM, and the like.

-buying a new wardrobe for a pregnant wife. buying pickles and ice cream during the fourth quarter of a Bears game for a pregnant wife. water that breaks.

-to epidural or not to epidural… that is the question.

-diapers. mountains and mountains of diapers. no sleep for a full night. for a very long time. sore backs and arms.

-screening babysitters. paying babysitters. going back home early to let the babysitter go.

-paying about $240,000 over 18 years to raise a child. that’s right, a quarter million dollars.

-unless Nordstrom’s legendary customer service is a reality, you can’t return the kid if you’re not completely satisfied.

-i would hate to spend my child’s life wishing she was grown up.

-i left the gate open today and Wash ran away. will i really do better with mini humans under my care? we bought 9 squash plants this past spring. none of them survived the summer, and we read the articles and followed the directions. how there no parenting license in the billions of governmental regulations?

-all the “what-if’s”… what if the baby has Downs’ syndrome? what if the baby grows up to be a mass murderer? what if i’m a bad parent? what if it looks less like its beautiful momma and more like its wonky daddy?

 

a few choice morsels that other folks came up with:

-in the 12 months after a child is born, sexual activity among average couples drops by more than 40%, with 25% of couples partaking only once a month. that is NOT acceptable.

-parents wishing to offset the C02 emissions resulting from bringing one child into the world would need to plant 1,073 trees.

-60% of mothers say having children caused friendships to be lost.

-childless people save on average 37% by being able to travel and take holidays outside school holidays. and we like to travel.

-women without children earn on average 95% of what men do, whereas women with children earn 75%.

 

Kate is horrified not only at her flabby belly, but the disaster her family has become.

i’m open to any scraps of wisdom anyone may have to toss this dog’s way. comments, please.

great minds

well, someone beat us to it. kinda. our secret plot (no bombings involved, i promise) is a bit more controversial and will likely offend both sides of the abortion debate. we’ll see if it ever gets off the ground. cheers to Peachtree Presbyterian Church.

my midyear’s resolution and it’s first fruit

i decided a month or so ago to try and finish 1 book a month for the remainder of the year. i’m on my way, with my first completed book in a while being written by a local writer, Rebecca Turner. as far as i know, she hasn’t written anything else, which is probably just as good, unless she gets a new editor. i think i could write a 200 page book in one sitting and make fewer grammatical errors. i don’t blame her, i blame her manuscript people, and the people who skimmed the drafts and ok’d them without correcting the numerous errors. but once one gets over that, she has a number of good things to say. the book, Tattoo, features a buff arm with tattoo of the word “tattoo” photoshopped across a buff bicep, which is later identified as belonging to Ken Stone, who i believe is the owner of Fit for Life, which is a local health club. the bottom line question posed is what would possess a person to love a brand or company enough to get their logo tattooed prominently across an easily exposed body part, such as a shoulder or neck? if you had to guess what company it was, i’ll bet you’d decide that it was Harley Davidson–and you’d be correct.

Turner is a financial adviser at a firm i’d never heard of (which is meaningless, coincidentally). she’s obviously a female. her black and white picture on the sleeve shows a middle aged lady in a conservative business suit, more grimacing than smiling alongside the people she works with, none of whom are unfortunate looking, but all are gritting their teeth also. Turner has owned 2 Harleys. hardly predictable, huh?

she has had excellent experiences with a few companies, large and small, local and international, and points out their similarities with ease. the main characteristic is that they have created (willingly or not) what is termed “consumer advocates,” or people who do the advertising and marketing that really sticks and do so completely unsolicited. rare, indeed. there are the usual vaguely inspirational quotes at the beginning of each chapter from quasi-famous people who are known for things other than famous quotes. but the meat of the book is so time specific that it almost is obsolete only 3 years after the first publishing. predictably, she points at Starbucks and their numerous options and the warmth of their staff that leads to massive growth and profitability. of course, any follower of current business events knows that Starbucks is closing stores by the hundreds and cutting back on their business ventures like music production.

all that said, for a rookie author, Ms. Turner has seen some unique things and does a good job describing what it is that can push an average customer over the edge to the point of raving about a company and being that consumer advocate that any company or business would dream of having.

Tattoo isn’t a must read, but is a good opening effort into marketing fare with a local flair for Funkytown aficionados.

*** of *****

in other current news, Chad and i went to his Brite Seminary field year supervisor orientation where i substituted for Krin from Ridglea and was introduced as “Pastor joseph brandley” for the first (and last?) time. truly amusing, especially when Chad leaned over a moment later and asked if i was ordained or not. i’m not. but a while ago back in soCal, we chatted about it and while Chad seemed ready to move forward, i suggested that he give me a set of tasks to prove my worth. or at least ask me 3 questions like in that Monty Python movie. i think i’ll stick to that Herculean task list idea. much more interesting to talk about. one can imagine the conversations later in life…. “when were you ordained?”

“gosh, i don’t remember, it was so long ago and it didn’t really mean much to me other than interesting tax loopholes.”

“oh, i remember the day clearly. it was because i had just smuggled sex slaves out of their Ukranian mafia brothel, dug a well to provide clean water for a bushman tribe in Zambia, swam across the Gulf of Aqaba to evangelize to opium drug lords wearing an Old Navy american flag tee shirt, and then spent 24 hours praying in a kneeling position without standing up or falling asleep. so what did you have to do to get ordained?”

“uhh, i preached a few times and then some old folks wearing plaid and pastel voted in a room while i wasn’t there to give me the papers.”

i win.

Dante Brandley?

i was able to dig up the Canto that i wrote along with 2 comrades back in high school. enjoy. more on hell to come, too.

The Magic School Bus

by Dante Brandley, Dante Lanet, Dante Oliver

Midway along the journey through the semester,

our esteemed teacher took us on a voyage-

a field trip to the dark depths of the universe , where the ring rounded the rosie.

We anxiously took our seats on the school bus

not knowing what lay ahead,

only that it would be different from where we came.

Our teacher explained that we were in for the wildest ride of our lives,

when we inquired where we were going,

she only smiled knowingly and replied thus:

“We are headed for a place were the nightmares never end,

and the mind determines reality with a pocket full of posie.”

We looked at each other, shrugged to ourselves and thought, “She must be kidding.”

The ride started out smoothly enough, but the students soon became uncomfortable

as they looked out the window and saw a huge sign

that stated in large red and orange letters   “HELL:  Population  ___”

Immediately to the right, a population counter was spinning so rapidly,

no slow motion camera could have aided in

counting the number of souls being added to Hell each second.

We finally realized where we were a little freaked out.

Our teacher was so OK with it, we figured she had quacked out

or that the thick smoke had gotten to her.

The bus screeched to an abrupt halt, and a fancily clad devil handed the driver a ticket

with directions to our parking place in the day visitor’s section,

and informed us that we could get it validated at the “Devil in a Blue Dress Café.”

We continued in a parking lot that was only a few car spaces large, most were reserved

for different people, many of whom drove up adorned in black clothes

with pentagrams and goat heads scattered like polka dots over the filmy fabric.

After stopping for a cup of killer mochas at the café, we made our way to a garden of sorts

in the reality that we made up, it was composed of dead rose bushes,

shriveled stalks of yarrow and thyme, yet in between,

Baneberry, star-of-Bethlehem, false hellebore, and scrub oak,

climbing bittersweet, kalmia, celandine, and wisteria,

all thrived in the poisonous soil and ashes.

Our beautiful teacher decided to pluck a flower of the blooming vine,

she stuck it behind her ear, and was surprised to see the

petals turned brown, curled, and fell off in the foul smelling wind.

Our eyes followed the wind, and it seemed to carry us.

We found ourselves in a vast desert.

There were coffins in long rows for as far as the eyes could see.

We were greeted by one John Doe, who, upon our arrival,

informed us that there would be an autograph session after the tour,

not to take any pictures of him without his permission,

and that if we wanted an  interview, we would have to wait

a couple more years till his press secretary arrived.

He gave us a tour guide’s welcome to Hell and warned us

that we should keep our hands at our sides, not to talk with any ghosts

we didn’t know, and to remain seated until the tour cars (ironically

enough shaped like school desks) had come to a full and complete stop.

No one paid much attention to him

and Mr. Doe became more and more animated.

He wanted to know why no one seemed to recognize him.

And then he remembered- he was in Hell for sins he had committed,

namely, thinking everybody should know and love him,

for after all, he was a famous and important person, n’est pas?

The ride started without warning, and our esteemed guide laughed and announced that our first

stop would be the unpunished criminals. We heard the baying of hounds

in the distance. We soon saw them.

These fiendish beasts were composed of the stuff only nightmares are made of.

Their fangs were bloody from recent kills and dripped with foam. Their

eye sockets contained no eyeballs, and they had coats that shone like obsidian.

They were the size of small hippopotami (hippopotamus pl.), yet they ran with the speed of

the hellish wind which reeked like an old carton of eggnog.

Occasionally, a shade would dart out and run frantically away, towards

the horizon. We watched in fascination as they would clear all sorts of obstacles,

almost like a steeplechase, dodging, ducking, and jumping over barriers.

Immediately behind them were police, urging the hounds on in pursuit.

No matter how fast the prisoner would run, the hounds would catch him,

and would drag him back, sobbing over his misfortune. One particular shade

was so terrified of the hellish hounds, he would stumble over the line,

only to crawl  back over at the barking of a small dog,

resembling a Doberman, but several times smaller.

One of us called out to him in a taunting manner

He weakly glanced up at us, and made it known that he had been

initiated into a gang, and had been forced to steal against his will.

He had not been caught, but his conscience buried him in an avalanche of guilt.

He pointed out to us one shade that ran particularly well, and always made it farther

than the others before being caught. His life was of a juicy nature- he had murdered his wife

and her friend, yet had not been convicted, though the evidence against it was overwhelming.

The desks shot off again as the pathetic shade tried to make his way,

only to hear the warning bark of a puppy, and cried out in terror as he scampered back.

We traveled at a brisk pace, into a building, where the walls were pale

And screams of agony echoed through the empty halls. Many of the students who had laughed

earlier at the comic sight of the chase, began groaning at the blood dripping

out from underneath curtains, which shaded some miserable sight from our eyes.

Cries of, “Breath!” and “Push” were rampant, and we found ourselves in the paternity ward

of a hospital. La Maze breathing instructors angrily yelled out instructions.

Fathers that had passed out were given “CPR,” a swift blow to the abdomen.

Few babies were heard, though. And the ones that did make any noise soon stopped, dead.

Mr. Doe explained that the fathers in eternal labor were those

who had impregnated a woman on earth, and had abandoned her.

The babies they gave birth to were crack babies, who would soon die after being born and reborn.

These were the drug-dealers that had introduced cocaine and dope

to children; they were eternal suffering withdrawal.

Each of the students was beginning to understand the horrors of the underworld.

All conversation in the cars had stopped long ago,

Until we entered a corridor walled in with mirrors.

However, at the sight of ourselves, we began to scream, for the mirrors showed not the outside,

but what was really on our hearts. The vain and conceited were forced to

march up and down the hallways, and the mirrors distorted and stretched

their images so that no one could consider the reflections to be of human origin.

They fainted, and a devil would wake them up to a mirror.

They shut their eyes and immediately the light around them would grow dim.

They would believe that they had somehow escaped their punishment,

and would open their eyes to see if it was true.

And then their eyes would be opened again, and they would be once again

inflicted with the horrible truth that they would never see themselves again.

The rest of the passage is but a fading memory to us now,

is it that we choose not to face our worst fears, that this, may be our fate?

That one should be tortured in ways to justly punish his crimes?

We returned to our school bus, unsteady, knees trembling like a frail leaf in

a cold winter’s wind.

And each one of us wondered, with what could we stop ourselves,

how can we be saved from this nightmare, before

the  twig snaps.

And we all fall down…

Parable?

There were 2 doctors in neighboring villages. Both were trained by the same master herbologist and had intricate knowledge of the local flora. One doctor had his squire pick all of the medicinal plants and herbs he knew and indiscriminately fed patients great heaping handfuls or tied a necklace of sprigs around the necks of every patient that came into his cabin. The other doctor carefully selected the plants and herbs for treatment he knew, separated them by usage, dried and pressed and preserved them appropriately, and used the best medicine for any illness that he treated. Lots of people died in that first village. Lots.

watchmen review

something i generally like to do is to read reviews of a movie right after i see it. i have my own opinion forming, almost settled, but i do look around a bit to see what people who have actually studied cinema (formally or casually) to add any final facets to my take on a movie. michelle and i went with a bunch of friends to see the opening night of Watchmen at the Arlington Studio Movie Grill. this is the nicer big brother to the Movie Tavern concept, but don’t be fooled by the digital sound and projection–although the idea eating and drinking during a movie sounds great, no one has yet to do a respectable job. the service at both theaters is awful, unfriendly, and slow. the chairs are bottom of the line Sam’s Club office chairs. the servers stumble clumsily in the dark, they bump into you and elbow you in the shoulders and head (like an inebriated and aggressive older brother ) and at no point to they stop passing back and forth in front of you trying to upsell to larger machine-stirred margaritas. but i’m not bitter.

this notwithstanding, the primary impression with which i jogged out of the theater once the credits rolled was this: people, take an effing bath. use deodorant, and brush your teeth. if you have the courage to finally crawl out of mommy and daddy’s house to see and be seen in the real world, do the real world a favor, andcare about what your fellow human smells (even tastes) as you walk by. that theater, or at least the people around us, were the most rancid i’d ever smelled in an enclosed space. it made me gag the lights dimmed. i continued to gag for the next 3 hours. it smelled of bile, urine, other bodily fluids and secretions, and of greasy hamburgers. Studio Movie Grill, for the love of all that’s holy anddear, use some exhaust fans or at least provide adequate ventilation to all areas of your business. please.

the movie. finally…

i couldn’t figure out where i knew the Silk Spectre II from. it bugged me all night, as she seemed familiar, but i couldn’t quite place who she reminded me of. it turns out that she’s been a secondary in countless movies and tv shows, most recently 27 Dresses. haven’t seen it. don’t care to. so apparently, my wonderings will never be quieted (unless there are some obscure scenes from the Skullsthat are buried in the deep recesses of my mind). now, please bear in mind that i’ve never read the Watchmen novel/comic book. and now there’s no chance that i will. in hindsight, the plot is simple enough. 2 generations of masked heroes struggle to prevent the end of the world (why else bother, right?)  in what’s described as a parallel universe where VietNam looks like the Inland Empire, technology of flight becomes far superior to ours 25 years earlier than ours, and where the 22nd Amendment to the Constitution never quite got passed (as a  super popular but spineless Richard Nixon gets at least 3 terms as president).

for a 3 hour movie with ample nudity, carnage, and special effects, the plot can only described as plodding. if edited properly, Watchmen could have made a super 4 episode TV show. far too much story is left out to actually know anything or care at all about characters unless you’ve read the graphic novel ahead of time. it’s impossible to know what’s going on or why this character does what he does. from what i remember, only a few of the hero names were dropped at any point, which made things even more confusing. the old gang of vigilantes grows old andeither retires, gets killed in compromising situations, or is forced to quit becauseof a law that is passed outlawing  “Masks.”  or is it the next generation that is forced to quit because of that anti-Mask law? meanwhile, the Cold War brews tensely in the background, and everyone worries about nuclear war but not that much because once there was a scientist who got stuck in a time-locked scientific experiment vault with electricity everywhere and he turned blue and disappeared and then he gradually started showing back up again in bits and pieces and now he can fly, grow really big and then really small again, move things with his mind, sendphysical copies of himself around as he pleases, float, and be completely exempt from public nudity bans. through the movie (other than formal public appearances) he’s either rocking a wedgie-inducing speedo (without the logo–maybe it’s a knockoff?) hiked up to his ribs on his sides or nothing at all. when Dr. Manhattan is nekked, he’s very  nekked and his dong is everywhere you look. so, for some reason that’s not fully clear, America is +1 in the nuclear war game because the blue man is also red andwhite inside. perhaps he could float a bunch of different bodies around and dissolve the reported 51,000 nuclear capable warheads that are pointed at Nixon’s nose. the story rocks gently back and forth between impending radioactive doom and the person or group that has begun picking off the heroes, old and new.

the narrator, Rorschach (repeatedly pronounced incorrectly, incidentally), sported a super groovy knit mask that featured constantly changing ink blot shapes. i wish i knew how that worked, because it looked so cool, but served no apparent purpose. there didn’t seem to be any consistency to the shapes or sizes based on his mental state or the emotions others facing him felt. you had to admire his angry tenacity, that teetered dangerously into psychopathy, and his ideology, however twisted it was. he was of the old fashioned “eye for a mutilated body” school of thought in his fight against crime. the Comedian was the other loose cannon, killing on a whim without regret and blaming others for his lack of tact and delicacy. i couldn’t figure out why he was called a comedian. there was much conversation about jokes, practical andotherwise, but for most of those, the Comedian wasn’t around (he gets whacked pretty early on), and for what it’s worth, it seemed like a lot of Heath Ledger envy to me. the Night Owl was quaint but predictable. self-deprecating, but set free by the costume when he chose to wear it. Ozymandias was supposed to be super smart, andapparently snatched Cyclops’ visor/shades/hairband thing and spruced his look up by wearing it backwards on his head. Ozy was also super fast andsuper strong, which made him a difficult person to hit for all parties that tried. but it was his headiness that had everyone impressed. it turns out that he comes up with some super ideas over the story, but beyond that, he seemed like a successful pretty boy on the surface, and not much more.

 there were quite a few things that a quickly categorized into the “brilliant” category: the Handshake, for example.  you’ll know it when you see because you’ll be wondering, as i did, if the situation might suddenly explode into flames. some of the dialogue is as sharp as movies come, like Rorschach’s incarceration and his interaction with the bad boys he helped put away in prison. several of his monologues also convey the brilliance that is so hidden and stained by his propensity for violence. the arc and use of Rorschach’s diary is also a neat device. the different snippets that show alternate ending-type takes on historical events are clever enough to make you smile over and over.

unfortunately, the poor choices far outweigh the wise in this movie: several of the fights towards the end of the movie paled in comparison to the sleek and visciously efficient brawls earlier in the movie. they looked like normal people going casually through a cardio kickboxing routine… the soundtrack started off very strongly, using “Unforgettable” as well as any opening song i’ve seen. Jimi Hendrix and Nena both got some play (i wanted to see Zach Braff and Sarah Chalke dancing to 99 luftbaloons  in the background but didn’t get my wish granted). but the cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” may have permanently killed the song for me. of the 180+ recorded versions, they picked the most horrifying, least musical one possible. i hated it so much that i dare not research who sang it… the sex scenes were gratuitous. i guess that’s how Zack Snyder rolls, but the scenes weren’t even sexy. they weren’t romantic. they were tepid and juvenile… i didn’t buy several of the plot devices that were used: the question of Dr. Manhattan’s connection to his fellow humans (wait, is the blue man still human? or is he a god? and is it his abnormally limp dong that makes him god?). the necessity of incessant flexing then fighting with the nameless thugs that continue to assail the plainclothes superheroes. don’t they have a better burglar bureau or something that meets monthly so they can chat about steps to identifying more helpless victims? and what’s with the intergalactic travel? i was awed by the giant glass clocky/hovercraft thingie, but what was the purpose of that? perhaps the most damning choice is the complete lack of power in the story. compared to the recent comic book turned movies, few pressing questions and dilemmas are posed. it seemed that the writer or director told a decent enough tale, but after 160 minutes, had nothing unique or compelling to say. we get that nukes are bad news for the recipients and the givers and the people within 400 miles of both. we get that solely carnal relationships can’t provide meaning to life. we get that bad things happen to good people and that too frequently, great things happen for bad people. but for all the existential-speak and “humanity is being mutilated!” lines, the purported “visionary” director, especially in light of 300, fails to cast a vision.

this movie was a composition of great promise. many of the parts needed for a superb movie were present, but like a graphic novel with no binding, Watchmen falls apart under its own weight and the slightest of scrutiny. but still, if you give Dr. Manhattahn a surfboard and have him fly around on it instead while bringing doom to planet Earth, you might be on to something.

 

final note: it now strikes me that i’ve seen Malin Akerman on the Heartbreak Kid opposite Ben Stiller. ohmyscience her character was completely bonkers in that movie.

my own little controversy

a special, Islam-themed link dump… here’s the “why”: i came across the stories that i’ll link to at the bottom simply as i was browsing the daily news. it seemed that you, my dear readers, would find them of interest. and then i realized that i should have some good news to balance them out. and so, gather your hasty generalizations and phobias and your racism and discrimination, and let’s all throw them around.

-here’s my nod to the video game community. on an unrelated note, i found out what a “koz” (sp?) player is last night fo’ rizzle. i wasn’t sure if the conversations previously described “cause” or “cost” or what, but it’s truly amazing.

-this community group in sunny San Diego has a current service project list that should make Eikon blush. of course, there are more folks taking ownership in that group and they’ve been around longer. but have you ever heard of a church that helps out with folks who can’t afford a proper burial or memorial service? not a lot of income or membership potential in that. the only Christian i know of that’s involved in hanging out with refugees in the States is my sister. but this Muslim community does it almost WEEKLY. immigrants aren’t sexy, and certainly, the clip art and stock photos on church billboards and websites would lose some of their luster if people with no money or family within 2000 miles were depicted instead… (*busily scribbling notes to myself on what eikonchurch.com version 2.0 will look like). can you imagine no buildings, no flash animations, no sparkling bleached white teeth or big haired pastor’s wives… just a picture of an African or Asian or South American family huddled in a furnishing-absent apartment with a headline that says “Eikon exists for these dudes” or something eloquent like that. hot damn.

-hope for peace with Israel involved? maybe… perhaps unity is possible when both sides make concessions. not popcorn and garlic fries. the other kind.

your Islamic vocab lesson for the day.

word 1: Ihsan. “It is a matter of taking one’s inner faith (iman) and showing it in both deed and action…” use it in a sentence- “Serve Allah and join not any partners with Him: and do good (Ihsan)― to parents, kinsfolk, orphans, those in need, neighbours who are near neighbours who are strangers, the Companion by your side, the way-farer (ye meet)” Surah Nisa 4:36.

word 2: Zakaat. “alms for the poor.” use it in a sentence- “And remember when we took a covenant from the children of Israel: Worship none but Allah and be dutiful to your parents, to kinfolks, to orphans and to poor and speak good to people… and pay Zakaat (Al Baqara 2:83).

for what it’s worth, it’s interesting to note that our sister/parent faith, Judaism, has a similar word,  Tzedakah, which sounds (when pronounced correctly) a lot like Zakaat. so, these 2 ancient world faiths demand charitable giving, and Christianity doesn’t. i’m getting religion envy.

-and now for the not so good. 2 glaring examples (as opposed to the millions of Christian men who ignore, abuse, mistreat, verbally assault, and objectify their wives) of failures. a failed example of painting Muslims in a positive light (unless he turns out to be innocent) and a no-bones-about-it story, only a few steps behind that previous guy.

 

i guess my hopes in posting this are that we will not be judged and condemned as Christ’s followers by the evil of a few, but by the shining light of all Kingdom seekers, and also that we will live as God dreams humankind could… as even the Qur’an says: “Bismillaah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem,” or “in the name God, the infinitely compassionate and merciful…”