Punks for Christ

Jesus on the Half-Pipe

::blink::

Apparently... There are now youth ministers... The Jesus kind... who do their evangelizing... by doing skateboard tricks.

I say this all with what must seem like a great deal of hesitation because before every phrase I double check my sources to make sure that's right. But yes, in fact, the idea seems to be to "Ollie for the Lord." Pop shove it, then pray.

Quoth one Right Reverend Skater: 'You can skate and not be a punk. You can be about respect for parents, and abstinence, and no drugs.'

'Or, as Mr. Moore put it: "I knew God had given me this gift, and I knew I wanted to glorify him with my skateboard. I wanted to stoke God out."'

To stoke God out?

What happened to the good old days? When you could have more than one characteristic. Skate on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and alternate Fridays. Be known as a Christian on the others. But in these days of specialization the only way to be understood is to have one trade, no matter how specific or unrelated the trades in which you jack.

I guess I just fear for what comes next in the realm of confusing religious/secular mergers. Fire-eating Friars? Buddhist Car Salesmen? A pope who surfs? Heck, a pope who's alive would be enough of a change. Quaker Seismologists? Jews for Jesus?

Thoughts from a Finals Week-addled Brain

There I was, minding my own business, just reading about the implementation of Relational Database Management Systems (RBDMS's). Y'know, as I am wont to do. Now, computer scientists are funny people. They live in a world of abstraction, and view as the primary skill one can learn in life the ability to forget the trees for the forest. And then have the forest need to be restarted every 10 minutes.

But this is not a lesson about computer scientist's people skills (it would already be over) nor forestry, and considering what I ended up getting on that final, certainly not one about RBDMS's. Instead, I quote a very learned source (Database Systems, The Complete Book, by Garcia-Molina, Ullman, and Widom), talking about the order in which to take computer statements and save their results. (this is on page 973, section 18.8.4) It says that in certain situations the type of software it describes must "[abort] T (if T would violate physical reality)".

::blink::

If T would violate physical reality? What? if I do this wrong, are monkeys going to begin flying out of my butt? Or stop flying out of The Leviathans? Would Foster start being funny? How could that result from the sequence of pretend actions a typewriter-on-steroids chooses?

The answer, of course, is that this is just an example of a poorly chosen metaphor. But, y'know, so is my typewriter-on-steroids one. So is, in fact, almost everything about computers: windows, mail, sites, engines, mice, the information superhighway, Al Gore. These are all like their real-life counterparts, but slightly different, off-putting and boring.

It is only when we get to IM'ing, xanga'ing, googling, dot-coms that we find a place where the computers are willing to forge truly new paths. They are not replacements for everything from the ploughshare to the stapler, they are computers. They are not HAL, they are not WOPR, they are not Microsoft Bob. They are computers.

And if you still feel the need to anthropomorphize computers (please don't: they hate that), then just think about one thing a computer can do that no human ever could:

If you tell a computer not to think about a pink elephant in a magenta tutu dancing the tango... it won't.

Dan and His Discontent

Whew-- So I don't read and/or post to my blog in a little over two weeks and just LOOK what happens: Dan goes on a tear; a tour de force; a dimestris mirabilis of consistent sexcellence. In the space of mere days he publishes the tender and pensive "Retrospective"; "Why the internet will never replace being smart" and "The Powers of Ten that Be" with their anti-platonist technological skepticism, their dystopian echoes and their underlying humanism; and, of course, the two charged, angry fragments against the cultural logic of late capitalism that together would come to be known by generations of critics as "The Douche-Bag Papers." Of course, saddled amidst these seminal works of ontoblogical exegesis are two rather unfortunate forays into fiction, which most scholars (perhaps with justice) are prepared to forgive as the overextension (or, to some, the hubris) of a great mind.

From time to time, I here at The Enfranchised like to take a few moments and reflect (aloud) on the work of my colleague. I do this in the spirit of dialectical rigor; and also because it saves me from having to think about my own thoughts (as George Bernard Shaw so famously quipped: "Those who can't do, quote George Bernard Shaw.") So, to this end, here's some comments and conjectures:

-In "My SAT score is now average", Dan makes an elliptical allusion (by means of a pun-deployed URL link) to what, I can only assume, is a letter-to-the-Editor of his once published by the New York Times. Of course, as any of you who were curious enough to follow the link in the hopes of it leading to a pictorial essay on the hernia examination can attest, the URL belongs to a section of the Times website inaccessible to non-members. Is this an oversight on Dan's part? Or has it deeper meaning as some kind of audience-participation analogue to the general elitism of the piece? Perhaps neither. My own hypothesis (sadly unconfirmable, since Dan and I haven't been on speaking terms since that May in '68, in Paris) is that it speaks to his conviction that adding the place-name "New York" to anything makes it sound posher and more worthy of our chin-stroking. Observe: "The Hackensack School of Air Conditioner Maintenance and Repair" sounds dull and provincial; but hehold "The New York Institute for the Edification of Interior Climate-Regulation Apparatae." I know what you're thinking, 'Didn't Chomsky study there?' The answer, of course, is yes, he did.

-In "The Powers of Ten that Be", Dan again reveals in print his two minds about the Enlightenment thesis that the rational sciences and their progeny hold the key to human progress. Sadly, Dan himself commits one of the all-time worst logical blunders: the Phallus Fallacy. He says:

"Allow me to quote a sage mentor: "How do you make my dick 8 inches long?" "Fold it in half." This 2/3 foot phallus is still only 4 times as long as D.R.F.'s semblance of an organ: less than an order of magnitude separates us.

Instead, it is McCormack's Reaper, Whitney's Gin (Cotton, not the Christmas Tree liquor), McCoy's Not a Bricklayer, He's a Doctor, and such contraptions of the 19th Century that introduced the idea that one man, no matter how great, even if he were John Henry, could not match up against machines measured in Hundreds of Horsepower. (I don't believe in posthumous medal ceremonies).

Can anyone make sense of this second paragraph? Neither can I. But this is to be expected: utter an absurdity (in this case, one about the righteousness of my Johnson, which in truth is as long and distinguished as the list of universities from which Dan received rather thin envelopes) and patent nonsense follows.

-Lastly, in "The only Mechanics...", Dan is a bit unfair vis-a-vis International Relations majors. Therein he says: "how many times have I seen an International Relations major (in my fraternity, we called them IR unemployed majors) try to woo a girl at a party with long, soft elucidations on the nature of the cosmos only to learn that she was herself a physics major...)". Now, I'd like to tell you what's wrong with Dan's thinking here, but unfortunately I am strictly speaking unable to mentally parse and process any string of symbols that follows directly after "in my fraternity".

-Bigus Dickus

My SAT score is now average

Andy Warhol once... well, thinking about it, I suppose there are few things he didn't do. But we all know that "In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes" quote. Well, the thing about exponential population growth and the societal onset of Adult ADD/ADHD is that 15 minutes was optimistic. Instead, figure you get maybe one good mention in a semi-prestigious source. (*cough*) So, man, wouldn't it suck if you got that one fleeting shot at renown before your voice (and other parts of anatomy) lowered?

Cf. this review of the new SAT. Specifically,
"Jacob Chase, 16, a junior at Roslyn High School, gathered with parents and test-takers around a group of cars. He said he had scored 'extremely high' last year on his PSAT, and on yesterday's SAT, the essay played right into one of his academic strengths: writing.

'One of my stronger points is writing, because in the future - in college or anything you do - it's a skill you're going to need,' said Jacob, adding that he had studied 15 hours a week for the test. He said that a good score would complement his résumé - he plays basketball and runs cross-country - and might help him get into colleges like Cornell."

This guy obviously deserves to be stuffed in a garbage can. And then rolled down a hill. After being set on fire. I like his commentary on the correct pedagogy, informed by his considered opinion on the progression of American industry. Let's be honest, "Jake": are you really going to find those writing skills in demand during the 7-10 years you spend as Bubba's Butt Bitch after your inept attempt at white collar crime is exposed? At least, (for Bubba's sake) you've spent all your time A) preparing for sports that create the lankiest of inmates (a good 2-mile time and the ability to drain 3's does little good in the shower) and B) memorizing the difference between a homonym and a homophone. Oh, and don't kid yourself: you're going to end up in the "prestigious" Honors Program at a mid-tier state school for exactly a semester and a half before your low-level meth addiction distracts your studies and you end up eking out after 5 years with a 2.3 GPA in Criminology.

-D"Go big or go home. I'm not attending any interventions until my friend has shown me he at least has the commitment to OD"an

Silver, Part 2

(continued from part 1)

And so he cooked her dinner. She came over to his place, expecting a wooing: posters of her (all taken *after* she turned 18, of course) decorating the place, newly-bought décor to evince a certain level of glamour. What she got was a typical twenty-something apartment, any and all style courtesy of Ikea's budget racks, with most of the t-shirts consolidated into one pile. The tablecloth was the only visible attempt to clean the place up, and it was the sort of thin plastic that one buys last-minute in the grocery store. For someone so used to the red carpet, it was new to walk into a space whose philosophy of interior decoration was afterthought.

Brian poured both of them a glass of wine. She took it and, as was polite, offered him the opportunity to show off his purchasing power and prowess. "What kind of red is this?" She settled in for a discourse on varietals and their respective bouquets--

"Umm, red?" And he went back to chopping the tomatoes. In the background he was playing a new pop tune. The band wasn't that great, and certainly weren't famous, but the song was catchy, reminded everyone who heard it of some tune they liked, and they were willing to do a cross-promotional music video. Of course, quickly, the table was set and light conversation was had. Comfortable and invigorating without being intellectually exhausting. The sun set and then the light was by candle. Of course, other dates happened later. They went ice skating (both of them were awful and said yes in the hope the other would be able to coach them as cute couples did, but instead just stumbled around the rink for an hour before succumbing to their mutual coldness). She convinced him to go jogging with her, and he survived only because she stopped to sign an autograph at the same intervals as he stopped to check if he was, in fact, as he believed having a heart attack.

As a romantic comedy fixture, Cindy had filmed many a montage and came closer than the next guy to understanding their purpose. Most people think a montage is used to show passage of time. How else would the audience understand that it was now a month later and a relationship was cemented? And this is wrong because the average audience member is not willing to accept the simple fact that audiences, of any medium are, by and large, stupid. They are willing to accept development wildly disproportionate to elapsed time.

No, the montage is the only way movies can hope to turn reality into real life. Real life is where we live. In real life, your girlfriend is the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth. Your in-jokes are the funniest, your love life the greatest. There is a spark between you. Tangible. No one in your presence could deny it. Reality, however, is that you are two clothed primates drawn together by one of yours deep-seated feelings of insufficiency and the other's ticking biological clock.

Writers cannot craft a universally compelling narrative of love because no love is universally compelling. No compliment, no matter how loaded with adoration and praise means half as much as "nice sweater" coming from a beloved. No insult, no matter how laden with profanity and tales of sexual obscenity, hurts one-thousandth as much as a lover's uncertain glance. The reason for the montage is because it is impossible to write down, in all its particulars, a relationship. No imagination, even one infinitely better than reality, can match real life.

And so, we settle for a montage of scenes of pretty people doing activities we almost believe could lead to emotion. Only teenage girls and virgins could ever truly fall in love based on what they see on the screen. The rest of us leave the theater confident in our superior capability to engage in emotion. All because of the magic of cutting from scene to scene without allowing us to see what is actually going on.

Back at dinner (for despite talking about the running and the subsequent dates, dinner hadn't really ended), dessert, a nice crème brulee that was perfect to both of them despite its objectively obvious technical shortcomings, was finished they slowly drew together, a single whisper's distance from the other's cheek--

They kissed. They smooched. They necked. And soon (by now the pop song previously alluded to had hit its romantic climax) there was nudity. And there was sex. Not the kind of gratuitous nudity so popular in today's romantic comedies where all we get is a hint of buttocks or perhaps a passing frame of nipple. Honestly, whose first post-coital instinct is to (as Meg Ryan's characters invariably do) pull the sheet up to cover precisely enough of their breasts to attain a PG-13 rating while still leaving the promise of cleavage? No, they left the sheets scattered on the floor and basked in their mutual warmth. Their relationship was not built exclusively on the sex, but it was certainly a part of it.

Of course, the montage has to have distinct start and end points, or else the audience will perpetually fear their vantage point might jump out from under them. The best technique for signaling the end is a quick and drastic change in tone, to make it clear that the emotion (i.e., the beginning of a relationship) has crescendoed and should now move on. The more abrupt and surprising the zig and/or zag, the better--

"You're Cindy Whittaker!" came a voice out of the fog of disturbed sleep.

"What? Huh?" She rolled over and quite quickly refound her bra and indignation. "Who are you?"

"That's Tony, my roommate," said Brian. "Back from Philadelphia early? Right, no matter." Brian reached for his boxers, more calmly than Cindy's frantic grabbing at items of clothing. "Do you think maybe you could give us some, y'know, privacy?"

"You're Cindy Whittaker!"

"Out!"

Tony compromised on turning around and continuing with his droning. "I'm your biggest fan, I know everyone says that, but I really am. I even saw--"

"I have to go," said Cindy, to Brian. She turned to Tony, "I'm sorry, I appreciate your fan--"

"--you in that sleeper film noir feature you did: 'Café on the Brink of Sorrow'--"

"Don't mind him," Brian said. "He won't even notice you're gone for half an hour. He does this sometimes."

"You sure, cause, I don't want this to get weird?"

"Just go." They were both clothed, and Tony had turned back around to regale her with his Cindy Whittaker fan club bona fides. "I'll see you later?"

"Umm, yeah." Then came the moment of maximum awkwardness in any social interaction: the good-bye physical contact. The essential question of which is: What is appropriate given your history and current surroundings? Though it sounds trivial and unimportant, many men have gone crazy trying to learn its calculus and reasoning.

She extended her hand right as he went to kiss her. He backed off and took her hand, right as she leaned in towards him. The two seemed doomed to a vaudevillian back and forth (over the soundtrack of Tony's recounting of her filmography) before he pulled her in to him and kissed her. Really kissed her. A kiss that was hello, goodbye, and how you doing all in one. What more was there to do? She left.

Tony slapped his roommate on the back. "Pretty fucking incredible. You're sleeping with Cindy Goddamn Whittaker. My roommate is balling Cindy Whittaker. I mean, you have to wonder what she's thinking, right?"

"What? No."

"I mean, no offense. I think you're great. But you must know what I mean. She's--" he accented each syllable as if talking to a foreigner who had a solid grasp on English only when spoken slowly and loudly "Cin-dy Whit-a-ker."

"And I'm Brian Seston."

"Are you just messing with me? She's a movie star. She could have any guy she wants." He paused. Tony had a habit of pausing right before he said the wrong thing. In many people, this would be when they reevaluate whether it was actually worth saying, but somehow Tony still always said what was on his mind. "You-- you gotta figure she's just slumming it, right?"

"Is it really so foreign a concept that she might actually like me for me."

"No, I mean, you're a cool guy. I hang out with you. I live with you, it's great, really. But, you're a video store clerk. You have been for 5 years. You're not even a manager. I know, I know, you don't have ambitions to the bourgeois. But she's famous. She's on the internet."

"Yes, she's on the internet. And that palace of urban legends, inane email forwards and videos of white guys dancing is never incorrect in deciding societal importance."

"OK, ok. I see your point. Sure, she's no different than the rest of us." Tony paused. Again. "So, her breasts-- they real?"