Vexation #10: The Vain Lord
What really kills me is when people use "Lord" as a verbal pause when praying. You know the type and may even be one.

Dear Lord, I pray, Lord, that you would bless Aunt Lucy, Lord, and Lord, please help her to stop being allergic to cats, Lord. Lord, you know how much she loves her kitties, Lord....

While I'm sure the heart is in the right place, I really don't see how it can be avoided that that is using the Lord's name in vain. One who utilizes such a semantic has sold the word "Lord" over as an impoverishment the linguistic equivalent of "uhm." Piddling? Perhaps. And yet still it vexes me.

Ten years ago today Brandon was celebrating turning twelve and whining about how twelve is nothing special because it's not ten or thirteen or sixteen or eighteen or twenty-one or even twenty-five (when he'll be able to rent a car). But it was an important day nonetheless. Ten years ago today, while Brandon was celebrating being twelve, I was in my 12th grade American Government class hearing news reports about how the Rodney King verdict had sparked a riot. Florence and Normandie. Streets of infamy. Streets of rage. Streets of unpent selfishness, fear, greed, horror, apathy, disease, and anarchy. I remember watching Reginald Denny from the safety of Orange County, being torn from his truck and smashed in with bricks. Bricks wielded by men. Bricked wielded by men embracing the nature of man. I remember watching L.A. burn. Watching Koreans with rifles attempting to protect their lives and livelihoods. Watching men run by burning buildings with shopping carts loaded with television sets.

What's changed since then? Is man a kinder, gentler beast? Have we so subdued our nature that we can finally just get along? Are we yet ready to give peace a chance? Not hardly.

Even today, in the midst of a celebration of renewal on the anniversary of the riots, a man yelled at the gatherers: "Burn the corner down again! Ain't nothing's changed!" And of course it hasn't. Man is man is man is man. He can not change his spots. Ever is he the fouled leopard prowling in the death-stink of his fallen brother - fallen by his own claws and at his own jaws. There is no deep-borne goodness in mankind. He is a wretch. He is depraved. He is a fiend beyond measure.

Need you proof? How many more of our days commemorate the nature of this fell beast? December 7th? November 22? April 4th? June 4th? uhm September 11th anyone? Are we just gonna keep going until every day on the calendar is something to remember? Yup. And why? Because people are rotten and as Anne Frank should have said: "I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly evil at heart."

Is there then any hope? Can Marxism save the day - once people's needs are filled, won't they then live in peace? Nope. Can capitalism save the day - when people take pride in their work, won't they work to the preservation of society? Nope. Can the government save the day - once people feel safety from dangers foreign, domestic, economic, environmental, and psychological, won't they be content? Nope. Can mysticism save the day - won't people, when in harmony with themselves and the world around them find peace at last? Nope. Can religion save the day - once man's heart is lifted, won't the suffering cease? Nope.

There is one thing alone that will save man from himself and that is the stripping away entirely of his base nature. His heart, soul, life, breath, and all that he is needs to be stomped from existence. Destroyed. Fired. Done away with. Executed. And buried. His heart, soul, life, breath, and all that he is needs to be reborn, resuscitated, rejuvenated, resurrected, and recreated to new existence. And needs to stand wholly apart from his old being, self, and nature. How can man exist without himself? Only in becoming one with One whose nature will bear no other. Only in the exaltation and consummation of the eschatological Lamb. Only in his glorification to the heavenlies can man find peace. Only in unity with Christ will man be free. And only finally will freedom be man's at His coming in victory. Praise Him. Repent. Believe. And long you too for the life everlasting - where tears are no more and the battles are done.

29 April 1992:
A Tribute to Folly

Never trust the one sentence bites that critics offer for movies - an object lesson.

I was just looking at the packaging of my copy of Ang Lee's Eat Drink Man Woman and some goofball, John Anderson of New York Newsday says on the cover: "It's hard to tell where the sex stops and the food begins."

Huh? Did he even see the movie?

First off, anyone who has difficulty distinguishing between sex and food is one sick puppy in my opinion. A regular George Costanza. And second, I hate to break it to Mr. Anderson (and yes, I did just channel Agent Smith when I said that), but there wasn't really any sex in the film. Rather than the quality (and PGish) film about love and family that it is, Anderson makes Eat Drink Man Woman sound like a horndog's night home. Hmm... maybe this is just sly marketing by MGM - the only way they can trick the college-aged male into renting such decidedly family fare. That could also be why Janet Maslin of The New York Times (hmm... maybe it's a New York thing?) raves that it's "wonderfully seductive!" Where do these people come from? What next? "Gleefully erotic" smacked across the cover of It's a Wonderful Life? I can't wait.

*whew* This morning, around 1:3o pm (and yes, on Saturndays, that is still morning in my book), I finished at long last the 2230 page graphic chronicle of the fictional acendancy of Kenneth Yamaoka to the American presidency. A masterful work of politics, intrigue, romance, and idealism, Eagle: The Making of an Asian-American President is what they should have handed out in Civics class in high school - at least then I would have read it and learnt something of the American electoral process. I guess this would have been impossible though since the final chapter was only just released in English.

That's right. In English.

Funny that the best political documentary/commentary I've yet read in graphic form should come from the pen of the writer of Japanese comics. Funny because he knows more about the political process than I do. In fact, more than I ever care to know.

Altogether riveting, Eagle drags the reader from Senator Yamaoka's humble start as a dark horse nominee for the Democratic candidacy to his meteoric rise to the top. Author Kaiji Kawaguchi's tale is occasionally so engrossing that the reader can be forgiven forgetted that the book's title gives away its ending. And while I largely disagreed with Senator Yamaoka's political leanings (simultaneously naive and troublesome in my book), I couldn't help but be swayed into rooting for him for his disarming charisma and genuine care for his country. Would I make a better president? Maybe. But he would always be a better candidate! For anyone interested in the genre, I highly recommend the five-book series.

Okey. So. I am consistently surprised. By what?

By the fact that racism is still an issue.

And why would this still continue to surprise me?

Simply because it is far removed from my own subjective experience.

It seems atrociously silly to me that anyone older than a fourth grader would judge a person based either upon that person's phenology (the way they look) or geneology (to whom they were born). And yet, I occasionally run into comments that belie the existence (even if in latent stages) of just judgments. I'm surprised when friends assume the restaurant employee doesn't speak English because he's brown. I'm surprised when friends can't follow the story of an Asian film because the characters are indistinguishable from each other (the ol' 'they all look the same' schtick). I'm surprised when acquaintances assume a woman to be Muslim because of her persian features.

Should these things surprise me? I dunno. Perhaps its a condemnation of the way I was raised that I never realized how widespread these prejudices (though slight, they are still are what they are) truly are. Or perhaps it's a credit to my parents who never exhibited such sentiments (whether or no they ever harboured such themselves) in front of me as I grew to adulthood.

I dunno. I'm just here and wondering.

I was telling Brandon on Thursday that I was thinking of killing the dead horse for good. Posting has been spotty for some time now. I'm never sure what to write about anymore (which is obvious if you look at the last couple weeks of posts). It seems to have lost its flavour to me. Heck, I barely even find myself reading other blogs anymore.

But then I thought what better time for me to blog? If this was meant to be an exercise to keep my writing-mind flowing in between writing projects so I wouldn't get stale (and it was meant to be that in its origin nearly two years ago), then how better to accomplish that goal than to force my pen? So, because I'm pretty clean of most of my pressing side projects (okey, that's a lie), I think we can look forward to a renewed vigor in my whipping, beating, smacking around, kicking, flogging, and even blogging this dead horse.

The horse is dead. Long live the horse.

A. He eats dates from the calendar and drinks water from the springs of the bed.

Q. How does a man locked in a room with only a bed and a calendar survive?

Hey. You should thank me. Rather than posting this new edition of photos right smak here on the blog immediately after that last post, I've decided to be gentle and post a link to its special pop-up menu to easy your load time. Despite rumours, I really don't want to crash your browser :-) Unless your using Netscape. Then I'm out to get you. So without further ado, I proudly present the abbo-loot-lee boo'ful SupahFloraSection!! Enjoy!

Further ellucidating visually my photoseries, Passion for the MunDane, here are fifty-one more recent additions to my forray into digital photography. Many thanks (or "phat props" depending on the culture of which you consider yourself a part) to coworkers Brandon, Lessie, and Shelina, who were, for the most part (excluding Shelina who suffers acutely from cameraphobia), willing participants in my mania. I probably would have entitled this series "Give an Idiot a Camera," but I think Moby's are stolen that title *sigh* These shots are taken over the space of the last two months—the first (the five shots of the corporate art fountain) being taken on 4 February 2002 and the most recent being the self-portrait of Your Dane Truly with which the series is introduced (taken about an hour ago). All photos were taken by myself with the exception of #s 5, 20, and 24. Have fun and as always: Bon appeptite!

[p.s. for those would wish to relive the tragedy of the first collection from this series, please follow the white rabbit here.]