It Ain’t No Use To Sit And Wonder Why

[note: BibleBeltBabylon.com is up and running. check it out]

Last night was interesting.

It started a while back, when the dean of the Gaylord College nominated Lorene Dover of Lexington Oklahoma, one of our custodians, for an annual award. Previous winners have included directors of various programs, development specialists, and other types of collegiate glitteratti. Previous winners did NOT include custodians, or anyone else working for an hourly wage. But never underestimate Joe Foote’s ability to get things done, nor the propensity people to notice quality.

She won the award, which includes a crystal bowl, a check for $20,000 and a catered meal for you and 200 of your closest friends. As a vegan, I tend to steer clear of catered events. No matter. I would have stared at a plate of veal to see Lorene’s big night. I risked the veal last night so I could see Lorene get her award and to feast upon a pile of green beans and a dinner roll (note to readers: “vegan” does not include butter or cream sauce). I’m glad I went (although the guy providing ASL translation had the weirdest angry expressions as he worked his finger-words).

Then there was OKC. Two goals: see my friend Michelle and see my friends at Don Quixote’s.

Michelle was in good spirits after dropping what sounded like the least-pleasant graduate class ever. I’m really glad she did, too. I could tell that class was tearing her up, and there are simply not any three credit hours in any major worth the stress and the trauma she was going through. We watched some Law & Order SVU (the likelihood of whose stories I question) and some Harvey Birdman (best legal show out there), and I left to go see Kam, back from LA on vacation at Don Quixote’s.

Some might call it a “wretched hive of scum and villainy.” I’ve been twice. That’s two more than most people, and two more than I ever would have thought a year ago. DQ’s is a bit of a dive. “Dive” is actually something of an understatement. In many ways it puts the “shit” in “shithole bar.” No ventilation, dingy Biergarten seating, creepy Christmas lights, and a bunch of rednecks. But they have karaoke, and the loyalty of some of my very good friends, who wanted some DQ last night. So what if the waitress screwed up my tab, and so what if I smelled like an ashtray by the time I got home? It was so worth it. I sang Dylan as only I can, tipped a DJ five bucks that wasn’t mine to begin with, and got to see what is likely the least sexy thing ever to occur in human history (it involved a fat guy, a female mummy that may have been Deborah Harry, and the electric slide... any further description would risk destabilizing the Internet itself).

I also got a few reminders of reminder of how nice I have it. My life is easy, in fact. I have Crohn’s disease, granted, and that sometimes sucks greatly, but I also have a wonderful family and great friends who offer me more strength and support than they realize. I’ve also got a great job where I can come and go as I please and still make (almost) enough money to live the way I want. I don’t have to get up at 6 or 2 in the morning, I don’t have to work through lunch, and I don’t have to worry whether or not I’m going to be downsized and turned out onto the street. Nobody’s giving me crystal bowls or massive checks, yet, but there’s time for that later.

[make all checks payable to biblebeltbabylon.blogspot.com, xanga.com/moontos and blog.myspace.com/moontos, and coming soon: biblebeltbabylon.com]

Mercy Is The Red Bird At The Back Door

It was cold on Wednesday, and dark, when I made it home. I had been walking, but grabbed my car after work to meet up with some friends for a bit. When I came back, it was even darker and colder. And someone had taken my parking space. Some might say that I have a hard-on for towing people away from my parking space. I may have said that. But I’ve been trying to soften my image of late, and I took the opportunity to not surprise that visitor to the neighborhood with a funny auto-viction from my (paid for) parking spot. Instead, I went to Borders and decided that if the car should happen to be in my spot upon my return (11:00-ish) that I would make the owner my bitch.

No such thing happened. I came home late, at the darkest-if-not-coldest part of the evening and found the Buick LeSabre still in my space, mocking me. I couldn’t do it, though. I couldn’t drop the hammer. Instead I left a note that said “Do NOT park here again or you will be towed. Thanks!” The car was gone in the morning.

How nice.

Last night I came home from coffee and studying to find not one, but two house parties on my street. Right across the street from my apartment, in fact. So of course someone had taken the spot since it was so close and, obviously, available. I went to see what kind of car it was: red Pontiac Firebird. Okay, I’ll just find the owner. I looked at the first party and saw that the entire backyard was standing room only. Seriously, it was like an old-school Bluefish party at Quentin’s place. Well hell. I walked up to the front porch and was greeted by the young hipster version of myself. He wore a Franz Ferdinand shirt and was hanging out by himself. He must have been some sort of lookout, because he spotted me immediately. It was almost as if he could smell the books and Starbucks on me. He knew as well as I did that I didn’t belong.

“Hey man, can I help you?”

“This your house?”

“No, man,” he replied.

“Is the owner inside?” I looked at the packed living room. A couple of partiers were peering at me through the window. I guess they were making sure I wasn’t Johnny Law or some other kind of buzzkill.

“No, I’m not sure where he is.”

Hmm. Let’s try something different. “Do you drive a red Firebird?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s parked in my space, and I’m about to have it towed.”

“I’ll make an announcement!” Which he did. He popped inside and yelled that someone’s red Firebird was about to be towed. I looked next door and saw a few kids hanging out in the front yard. I can’t even pinpoint when that stopped being me and started being them. It must have happened after I got back from Paris the first time. Undergrad was over, people moved away, and I stopped going to parties. Weird.

Before I could finish my thought, Franz Ferdinand came back out and said that it wasn’t anyone’s car at that party, and that I should try the other party. I thanked him and walked next door.

I repeated my question to a few of the guys outside, always making eye contact and communicating as thoroughly and effectively as I could. No joy.

So I go on inside and see another living room packed with very well-dressed girls and boys (like a damn episode of the O.C.). A couple of girls were rolling around on the couch, laughing as one of their friends took pictures. Another girl eyed me with suspicion and with what I think was a heaping spoonful of paranoia. She whispered something to a guy sitting on the couch, but he refused to help her, so she looked at me, perhaps waiting for me to bust her for underage drinking or possession, or whatever. I asked her “Is this your house?”

“No.” She wobbled just a little bit, but that could have been from the heels she wore.

“Okay.” I looked around the room for anyone who might live there. Exasperated, I asked her “Do you drive a red Firebird?”

“No, I don’t. I wish I did drive a red Firebird, though, ‘cause that’s a really nice car...” She kind of trailed off.

I realized my problem. We were speaking different languages. I took a breath and shouted “RED FIREBIRD ABOUT TO GET TOWED!”

Another girl took off toward the back. “Brandon, they’re gonna tow your car!”

Brandon came running out. He went past me, out the door and past the guys on the porch. “They’re gonna tow my car!”

“Man, there’s not even a tow truck around here,” one of the porch guys said as I walked past, but Brandon was almost back to his car by that time.

I was about halfway, taking my time and enjoying the moment. Just then, I heard the same girl who warned Brandon shouting in the street behind me “BRANDON! DON’T MOVE YOUR CAR! YOU’RE IN A SPOT!”

I spun around, angry for the first time since this started. I shouted back to her “IT’S MY SPOT!” She went back inside.

“So don’t move it?” Brandon waited, driver side door open and one foot inside.

“Move it, Brandon,” I replied.

[park it at biblebeltbabylon.blogspot.com, xanga.com/moontos and blog.myspace.com/moontos]

I Wish They Would Ask The Questions “Why?”

When is it okay to kill? What’s worth killing for? I remember the first day of my nonprofit management class at OCU, when the instructor asked us all to think about our passions, and what was most important to us. She went around the room, asking us one by one, what our passions were. The class was mainly dancers (all but three of us), mainly female (all but two of us), and we heard answers like “family,” “Christ,” “dancing,” etc. Pretty standard. The follow up question she asked was not so standard. What would you do, and how far would you go to keep that passion, that dream, alive? Would you die? Of course many answered yes. But would you kill? That question drew a lot of silence, and a few affirmatives. Of course by the time she got to me, I knew what was coming and my response was “writing is my passion, and yes, I have already killed someone to support my passion.” THAT drew a lot of silence, as well. I quickly realized that no one in the class (except the teacher) knew me or the peccadilloes of my humor and that to them I was just a strange man wearing all black and sitting in the back of the room. I acknowledged that I was joking, and much nervously relieved laughter filled the room.

Funny story, right? The question has stuck with me. Is freedom worth killing for? Our President seems to think so. Maybe it’s a vestigial organ left over from the generations of Quakers in my family (Father’s side. The Vikings are from Mom’s family), but I have a huge problem with killing, and I cannot respect the policies (or even the Christian cred) of a man who has relied so heavily upon killing for his personal glory and power (prisoners in Texas; Iraqis in Iraq).

This morning I surfed over to washingtonpost.com and watched Bush’s press conference (incidentally, do NOT start your day by doing this as it results in heartburn, cognitive dissonance and increased need to blog). This morning, however, I could see some steel creeping into the spines of the Fourth Estate. Journalists, coddled as they are in the White House Press Corps, were showing some teeth and were almost demanding answers rather than asking questions. They questioned Bush’s real reasons for invading Iraq, as well as the recent push in the Senate to censure the President. It’s a small step, but I believe more Americans will start to take it (questioning the President, not censuring him... well, actually both). And I believe this country, and the world, will be better for it.

[feeling the burn at biblebeltbabylon.blogspot.com, xanga.com/moontos and blog.myspace.com/moontos]

Waitin' For A Signal To Change

So, yeah I’ve been whining a bit of late. Whatever. Sometimes it must be purged from the brain. I’m better now.

But a decision looms: what the fuck am I going to do with my life? I’m working on a month-to-month breakdown. March is almost over, but in the time left I will work almost exclusively on the literature review for my thesis. I will also start sending out resumés for jobs (more on that later). April will be the month that I continue working on my literature review and begin thoroughly analyzing and scrutinizing some really terrible movies. In May I will organize the analyses into a coherent examination of culture and subculture (with 80% more tattoos and black leather than most Master’s theses). June will be heavy with writing, and negotiations with my landlord as my lease is up and I will want to switch to a month-to-month arrangement (see a pattern?). July will be the month that I finish my thesis and defend it in front of three of the smartest people I’ve ever met. In August, I’m going to pack up my shit, give some of it away, sell a bunch of the larger items, and put the rest into storage. Once that is done, I’m going to get on a plane headed west.

The question is: how far will I go? There’s two schools of thought on that issue. One option has me getting off of a South West Airlines flight at LAX and starting my new life in LA as an aspiring actor/writer/producer (notice that I left “director” out). The other side of the coin has me changing flights at LAX on my way to teach English in Asia. Both options are pretty pipe-dreamy.

LA gives me the chance to really pursue my dream of writing. And be poor. All good stuff. Asia offers money and some different life-experiences than I would normally have. Plus, I really want to catch my own Pikachu. But nothing is set in stone. I do have some excellent firsthand advice on how to land a teaching gig in Asia, and I do have some great friends already in Los Angeles, but I don’t actually have my plane ticket in my hand yet. But I’m not going to go into any Ph.D. programs until at least the fall of 2007, and I’ve got to do something with my life. Hopefully something more fulfilling than working some crap job here in Oklahoma.

And then there’s Oklahoma. And I don’t say that like “and then there’s my albatross.” There’s actually a lot that makes me want to stay here. And it’s not the weather, nor the third-worldy cost of living. It’s my family. It’s my friends. It’s the feeling that I would be closing the door on some things and some people that I’m not ready to leave behind. I’m being cryptic. Sorry for that. I’ll keep you posted on how things are progressing.

[tying up loose ends at biblebeltbabylon.blogspot.com, xanga.com/moontos and blog.myspace.com/moontos]

I’ve Got Souvenirs But Yesterday Can’t Mean Too Much. Have We Missed An Opportunity?

[Note: This is the fiftieth post of Bible Belt Babylon. Big fucking deal.]

A few weeks ago my Dad sent me a text message asking me, and I’m paraphrasing here but just barely, if I had sent my stuff to blood and thunder. At first I thought he was referencing my Viking heritage (on my Mother’s side), but it turns out he was in fact asking me if I had submitted any entries to the OU Medical School’s literary anthology. I had not.

I felt so... fake. You might not know it from reading these pages of self-revelatory diary-spew, but there was a time I wanted to be a real writer. By “real” I of course mean fiction. Fiction, scripts, stage plays, and poetry all were dirtied by my pen. I don’t know how it happened, but somehow I went from that dream in undergrad to grip work on a children’s movie, three years as a substitute high school teacher with an MBA in non-profitry, and finally a guy who works with computers and may or may not ever have a Master’s in Journalism and Mass Communication. No part or combination of that is a screenwriter, or a novelist, or even a poet. I was so out of touch with my dream that my Dad had to tell me when and where I should be submitting pieces that I, it turns out, had just stopped writing somewhere along the way.

Here’s the funny part, though. Of course, it’s not actually funny, but this is all free so don’t complain. I had taken the day off from work to write my thesis proposal, but spent the lion’s share of my day instead crapping out a 950-word allegory about technology erasing the lines between the plastic and the organic. It was so much more exciting and interesting to me than what I was supposed to be doing. It was a reminder, but not just about writing and my little dream.

“Somewhere along the way,” I had convinced myself that I would never make it as a writer. Consequently, I never tried. Funny thing is (once again funny thing ≠ actually funny) no one ever told me I sucked at writing. No one ever told me I wouldn’t make it. No one ever doubted me, not even the professor that tried to fail me! (True story: he tried to fail me in an independent study class in 2001 where I wrote a remake of The Manchurian Candidate, and as he was explaining why he was failing me he actually said “I still think you’re a great writer and I would love to work with you in the future.”) I’m the only one who ever thought I wouldn’t make it.

I’ve let that kind of thinking infect other areas of my life, and I’ve played safely. I’m tired of doing that. I’m going to swing for the fences for a few innings.

[no more bunting at biblebeltbabylon.blogspot.com, xanga.com/moontos and blog.myspace.com/moontos]

Remember What The Doormouse Said

Here’s a brief rundown of a phone conversation I had on Wednesday evening:

*ring*

Anthony: “Hello?”

Me: “Hey, what’s going on?”

Anthony: “Nothing. Jenel and Karolyn are planting some stuff in the garden.”

Me: “Cool, cool. You want a rabbit?”

*and scene*

At the time, I was standing in front of my apartment and staring at a large, floppy-eared white rabbit about the size of a double-XL cat. I don’t know where it came from, but I don’t think wild rabbits look like that, grow to that size, or are quite so apt to come right up to strange people as that snowy little egg-painter.

In addition to the “oh, cool” factor associated with seeing a huge, overly cute rabbit camping out in front of your house, there was also the questioning within myself (and when can’t I make things about myself, after all). Questions like: what do you do with a rabbit? I don’t really know any of my neighbors well enough to go around in the evening knocking on doors trying to find the rabbit’s home. Plus, he was hopping away, albeit rather slowly. And as Jeb pointed out rabbits can give themselves heart attacks when frightened, so I didn’t want to go chasing after it or try carrying it around. I also couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that the cute little guy had some kind of not-so-cute disease that I didn’t want to bring into my house (I wasn’t really afraid of my landlord finding the rodent). I also don’t think that animal welfare would be useful in such a case. Maybe I’m wrong. As I stood there contemplating various issues and questions, the rabbit in question had vanished. Hamlet would never have caught any rabbits.

Where did the little puffball go? No doubt he was late for some type of appointment, right? I couldn’t help thinking that such a plump, slow-moving, and most likely street-unwise creature would surely be a meal for something in the nocturnal Norman wilderness within an hour (or perish on the unforgiving asphalt of Lindsey Street). This is one of those times when I’m not that smart. I left for a delightful evening of ZOMBIES!!! the Board Game with Anthony, Jenel and Karolyn, and when I returned home at 2:30 in the morning, I was surprised to see that the bunny had returned (or else someone is releasing a horde of big fat bunny rabbits in Norman) and was calmly stretched out on the soft dirt behind my apartment building.

I put out some water and zucchini tonight (I think rabbits like zucchini), but I really hope that whoever lost their rabbit has found him and taken him safely back home. And if someone just got tired of taking care of a rabbit and “released” it back into the wild, then I hope he or she gets to experience a sudden and involuntary release from their home as well.

[feed your head at biblebeltbabylon.blogspot.com, xanga.com/moontos and blog.myspace.com/moontos]

It’s Just Another Saturday

Slobodon Milosevic is dead. Died in his jail cell in the Hague without ever having to answer for his crimes. In many ways he was lucky. He stood accused of a great deal and had been on trial for four years, but he was never judged and never found guilty. All signs point to a nice, quiet death by natural causes, by all accounts the best end we can hope for. Granted he was being held against his will, and wasn’t, in the words of Jenny Calendar, “surrounded by fat grandkids,” but he also wasn’t bulldozed into a fog-filled ditch on the side of some wooded Balkan road with all his friends and neighbors. But I’m not complaining.

See now, here is where I could launch into a rant about how “capital punishment is wrong and backwards and we’re dumb for using it and all the civilized countries in the world gave it long ago and all it proves is that we’re no better than the criminals we seek to punish.” I’m not going to, but I could.

Instead, I would point out that there’s really a fine line between an asshole and a hero. Does a hero take charge, rally the population to protect the country from threatening elements and stick to his guns no matter what his critics try to throw at him? Or does he consolidate power, sow fear and anger toward a minority group in order to distract the population from domestic problems and refuse to take responsibility for his crimes and failures? Am I comparing our President to an accused genocidal madman? Certainly not. But let’s not pretend that it couldn’t happen here.

See now, here is where I could launch into a rant about how “democracy is a flawed concept that allows opportunistic asshole like Milosevic and Hitler to ride populist feelings of xenophobic fear and jingoistic national pride to despotic and autocratic regimes run by tyrants and cults of personality.” I’m not going to, but I could.

But the truth is, representative democracy isn’t so bad when you consider the alternatives. We pick leaders and they make decisions. Oh my goodness, they do make some fucked-up decisions. But what are our other options? I don’t really know, but I do think that as we become more educated and more aware as citizens, voters, and even consumers, we will make better and more informed choices. I have to believe that will lead to better results.

Well, that’s all for now, except to let you know that Ram Bahadur Banjan, the Nepalese boy who would be Buddha I wrote about earlier, has gone missing. There are concerns that he has been taken by “robbers” since yesterday. Search parties have been dispatched to the local woods and surrounding areas. May he have a safe return, or at least a gentle end to this part of his journey.

[Ranting at windmills at biblebeltbabylon.blogspot.com, xanga.com/moontos, and blog.myspace.com/moontos]

I’ve Got Something To Put In You

Who likes lentils? I know I do. They cost almost nothing, and they’ve got so much protein and fiber that you’re likely to shit PowerBars after consuming enough of them. In fact, that may be how PowerBars are made, but I can’t be sure. So, I came up with a recipe today that is easy, tasty, nutritious and so cheap. I made it for lunch today while watching Firefly, and the experience was so positive that I will share my recipe with the three people who happen to read this.

First, let’s list some ingredients (and a few measurements):
* One cup of yellow lentil beans
* One cup of green lentils (they may be called split peas, I don’t know)
* 4 cups vegetable broth
* Some garlic, basil, salt, crushed red pepper, ginger and curry powder (I recommend yellow)
* Dry Textured Vegetable Protein
* A large pot, and a small pan
* Firefly DVDs (and either a DVD compatible computer or a DVD player and television)
* Heat

First what you’ll want to do is wash off the lentils and look for sticks and bits of rock. I never find any, but ye God it’s better to be safe than broken-toothed. Then, put three cups of vegetable broth (you can use chicken broth, but if you do I might punch you) into the big pot. Throw in some garlic, some basil, and crushed red pepper. No salt, though. That comes later.

Apply Heat! Get that stuff boiling, and then dump in the lentils. Boil for 2-3 minutes, then reduce to simmer and turn on an episode of Firefly. It doesn’t matter which, they’re all good, but for our purposes don’t use the Pilot. See, lentils of this variety need to simmer for about 45 minutes, which is the length (commercial free) of an episode of Firefly. Sit down, and watch the episode, stirring the lentils occasionally.

Once the third act begins, it’s time to check on the beans. They should be softening quite a bit. That’s good. Let them. In fact, let’s put another 1/2 cup of vegetable broth in (again, chicken broth may result in blunt force trauma). Take the other 1/2 cup and put into the pan, along with some curry powder (but damn, not too much), garlic, ginger, and red pepper. Get it warm, and then let loose with TVP so that it soaks up the mixture. Don’t overdo it, though. If you do, just add a bit of water, and don’t worry, I won’t punch you for that. Stir it up, and then dump it into the beans and mix it all together. You can add salt at this point. Let it cool a bit, and then eat it.

It’s pretty damn good, if I do say so myself. Feel free to tinker with it, or change the portions (although that will involve math, and head-punching).

[cooking up at biblebeltbabylon.blogspot.com, xanga.com/moontos and blog.myspace.com/moontos]

And All That Noise And All That Sound

It’s been quite a while since I’ve posted, so I guess I’ll just jump into it.

Coldplay fans really love Coldplay. I saw them last week, and I have never seen a crowd more enthused and more vocal than the bunch that packed into the Ford Center last Monday night. No kidding. I’ve seen the Rolling Stones, the Flaming Lips, Weezer, and a few other big names. The only crowd that came even close was the one waiting to see Guided By Voices at the Gypsy Tea Room (and that was an honest-to-God farewell tour). For instance, you know how bands will sometimes stop singing in the middle of a song so that the audience has to take over? Well, first off, I think that’s retarded, but whatever, I’m not the rock star. Secondly, and more to the point, it is usually kind of weak and tepid. Not with Coldplay fans. Sweet merciful crap were these kids loud. And relentless. It was amazing. Oh, and the band was pretty good, too. Fiona Apple, who opened the show, was a jittery clump of nervous energy and raw power. She didn’t play “Get Gone,” but that’s the only flaw I saw in her show. I hope she comes back.

Also, I’ve discovered that I’m the kind of person who reallyreallyreally likes UPN’s Veronica Mars. Really. Twin Peaks vs. Saved By The Bell vs. American Beauty. Great combo. I just finished the first season, and am looking forward to catching up on the second. Good work, Mr. Thomas. And Sleeper Cell is amazing as well. Twenty Four-style suspense remixed with The Shield-style pacing = good TV watching. Frickin’ iTunes is going to own me (coincidentally, Coldplay’s “Speed of Sound” was the One Billionth song downloaded from iTunes. One BILLIONTH. Wow.).

Something occurs to me as I write this. I’ve been watching a lot of TV lately, going out to shows, movies, etceteras, far more than normal. I’ve been doing as much as I can to keep my mind off of things. Lots of things. Does it distract me? Sure. Sometimes I desperately need some noise and diversion to keep my proverbial shit together... and sometimes all the sound and fury makes me self-destruct. It’s a fine line, but I’m moving (mostly) forward. I’ve turned in my thesis proposal, and I have assembled my committee (more like a dream team, but more on that later), and I will be turning in the final paperwork required for graduation this afternoon. That’s the first step in putting out one of the many fires burning around me of late. Thesis, job, car, home, friends, family, money, future... are all fuel for the ring of fire in which I find myself.

I can’t wait to see how I get out.

[burning down the house at biblebeltbabylon.blogspot.com, xanga.com/moontos and blog.myspace.com/moontos]