Back in Black

After a long silence I've returned to the blog. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that a good friend died yesterday and I'm still in the midst of pain, numbness, boredom, confusion, questions, painful answers, and all the other crap associated with death. But why would that cause me to blog? Why do I keep going back to my blog and reading my previous posts? Do I just like to hear the sound of my own voice? Maybe, maybe not (which by the way is the title of an excellent book by Robert Fulghum- or at least I though it was excellent back when I was sixteen, it would probably seem a little sophomoric now).
Clearly my blog isn't nearly as focused as in the past when I was receiving a grade for it. Nor do I have a picture that represents the central thought, I suppose because their isn't one. And the title is just a cheap attempt to get the stooges who like AC/DC to read the post and then read the past posts that were much better. To avoid cognitive disonance I tell myself that the title is apropo because I've been away a long time and am now back posting on a black backgrounded blog. I used to look around me and see what I thought were just empty shells of what people could be. Sometimes I look in the mirror and think the same thing about myself. That has nothing to do with this post, but who cares? If you did you wouldn't be reading it.

Old Dog...New Tricks

Six months ago I didn’t know what a “blog” was. I happened to pick up a copy of our school paper and it had an article that explained it simply enough for an antiquated old fart like me to understand it. I’m only twenty four years old! But I didn’t know. That’s how out of touch I am with technological reality.
Yesterday at lunch with my sixty year old pastor he was telling me about how he was so confused by a local automotive repair dealership that was offering a free blackberry with your purchase of four new tires. He said, “I would have expected at least a pint of blackberries! What can you do with just one?” After sharing the mystery with his wife they decided to go on-line and find out what a blackberry was. I could relate.
Supposedly I’m on the line between the MTV generation and the postmodern/mosaic/Gen X, whatever you want to call it. I was born in 1981 and I’m supposed to instinctively know how to use computers, love Star Wars, skateboard, smoke weed, be irresponsible, and know what LOTR stands for. But I don’t (well, thanks to my brother-in-law I know what LOTR stand for). My problem is that I think, act, talk, and live like a baby boomer, not a Gen-Xer. My best friends are either twice or three times my age, because I identify with them. That’s why I was a little nervous when a “Media in Ministry” class at my seminary required me to start a blog a few days ago.
I posted a couple blogs that I thought were funny/interesting/thought provoking and waited to see if someone would respond. After a few hours I got restless and called a friend to tell him that I had a blog and he should check it out. He gave me a few sympathy comments and moved on. I had posted about philosophy, pregnancy, and the sexiness of minivans, but no one cared. I even created a self-awareness masterpiece on the implications of blogging that was supposed to toe the line between sarcastic and sincere. No one cared. Then I broke my initial commitment and followed the crowd by weighing in on Katrina. Within hours I had my first real response. I was initiated. I was a bonafide blogger, whose blog mattered enough to someone to make them take time to respond.
This is perplexing to me. Why respond to Katrina, but not to the other stuff? This question bounces around in my head, along with a question about blogging. What is the point of the blog? I guess if I fit in with my generation, I wouldn’t be looking for a point. I’d just enjoy the experience itself. But you know what they say, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

Minivans Are Sexy

The car in the picture is mine. A ’96 Mustang, dual exhaust, rear spoiler, glass packs, super-charger gauges…a man’s car. It’s sleek, strong, loud, intimidating, inviting. Supposedly, it’s even sexy. I’m desperately trying to sell it so I can buy a minivan.
Now there is a man’s car. A car that can hold two car seats, a double stroller, a playpen, luggage to visit the in-laws, groceries, and even has a place to change diapers and make sandwiches. A man’s car. It exudes confidence, security, strength, practicality, and a lot of other things that drive women crazy with desire. Women like my wife who couldn’t keep her hands off me if I drove a minivan, but could care less that I own a two door fuel consumption machine. Yes, minivans are very, very sexy. I used to own one, back in the day, when I was just a young, newly married, carefree ball of testosterone. Then I got rid of it and a friend gave me this Mustang. I’ve had it for about a year and every time I pass a minivan I get envious. Just this morning on my way to class I roared past a minivan in an intersection and almost got whiplash looking out the window and thinking to myself, “Now that is one sexy car.”

Contributing to the Delinquency of the World

This morning I woke up afraid. Afraid that I was contributing to the delinquency of the world. Afraid that by writing these blogs I was somehow encouraging thirty-five year old men to remain in their parents' basements eating Cheetos and trying to learn the nuances of Elvish as they modify the light saber they bought on Ebay. Afraid that there are little kids out there who are getting obese reading my blog instead of playing outside in the fresh air. Afraid that the world just got a little stupider because of my contribution. Afraid. For twenty four years I've prided myself on the fact that I contribute to what is good, virtuous, and desirable in this world. But now, I look in the mirror and wonder what I've become. A blogger. A faceless website pouring my refuse into the polluted hyperspace stream. I could blog about anything I want, and I chose to communicate the convoluted thoughts of my inner mind. What does that say about me? It says I'm a contributor. I'm contributing to the delinquency of the world.

The Human Factory

My wife is a human factory. Right now, inside of her a human is being manufactured. I came to work one day, did my part on the assembly line and now, nearly forty weeks later the project is almost complete. My wife is a human factory. Think of it!

Is this Philosophy?

A friend is listening to a lecture series on philosophy from Harvard. He’s made his way through Socrates, Plato and Aristotle. He’s an electrician with narcolepsy who doesn’t read because it puts him to sleep. Instead he listens. Is this philosophy?
On Thursdays we meet at a local diner for the BBQ beef ribs special. Four massive ribs, mashed potatoes, vegetable of the day, Texas toast, and iced tea, all for $5.25. Makes you wonder how McDonalds can stay in business. We sit and talk about form, thought, matter, life, and ribs. Is this philosophy?
My friend is old enough to be my dad. In ghetto generations he’s old enough to be my grandpa. He listens to philosophy because he’s tired of listening to fiction, talk radio, sports, music, and silence. But is that really why he listens? I told him the other day that Plato’s most famous line was one that Plato attributed to Socrates, “The Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living.”
He said, “Really, I thought Descartes said that!”
“No,” said I, “I think Descartes said, ‘I think therefore I am.’”
“Oh,” says my friend. “I think Descartes got it backwards. I would say, ‘I am therefore I think.’”
“You’re probably not the first one to say that,” I replied. Is this philosophy?