book review vol. seventeen: Wall and Piece
My boss recently bought this coffee table book from the local Anarchist (yes, anarchist) book store, and over the past week I’ve spent my lunch breaks reading it. When I first picked it up I never really planned on reading all the way through it, but after spending 30 minutes looking at the images and commentary, Banksy’s Wall and Piece grabbed me like an invitation for free ice cream.
Banksy is an English graffiti artist who is pretty well-known and at the same time highly anonymous. In other words, tons of people are familiar with his work (or vandalism, if you prefer), but nobody knows who he is. After his book piqued my curiosity on this mysterious man, I went to his website where I found clips of various news clips from around the world talking about the street artist, each of them lending further credence to his anonymity.
I’ve always thought that well-done graffiti is awesome, so it’s hard to imagine how this book brought me so much enjoyment. But not only is Banksy’s work done well (he uses stencils for speed’s sake), it’s also politically relevant and socially satirical in nature. What’s not to like?
I can’t think of many people who would want this book on their home coffee tables, but I also can’t think of many people who wouldn’t enjoy thumbing through it. So consider this a recommendation for your next visit to the Barnes, Borders, or your area Anarchist book stores. And if you don’t see yourself going to a book store in the near future, you should probably check out his website, because I doubt you’ve seen graffiti that cool or creative in your neighborhood.
3.5 stars. (I’ve been toying with the idea of incorporating a star system in my book reviews… time will tell).
a couple hundred dollars later…
Today’s been a tough one on my pocket book. I take great solace in knowing that this evening, 1,500 miles away, a beautiful family will celebrate Spaghetti Day.
Texas, take heart. I’ll be home a week sooner than we’d planned. Hope you can work around the schedule change.
the weekend in dad points
It wasn’t until I got to college that I realized my dad knew everything. Then, in the latter half of college that I realized that not only did my dad know everything, but all dads know everything. Mikey’s dad knows everything. Jon’s dad knows everything. Anson’s, Hayden’s, and Ashton’s dad knows everything. Dads just know stuff.
My roommates and I collectively reached this realization after about a dozen phone calls to our respective fathers on entirely different issues. The mechanic says such and such is going to cost $400… is that too much? Is it illegal to do such and such? My car’s doing such and such when I do such and such… diagnosis? It’s tax time… what do I do? I’m lost in downtown again… help? What days of the week can I buy the cheapest plane ticket?
The list goes on and on. Countless calls were made and never did any of us hang up without receiving an answer.
After this went on for a year or two the conversation upon hanging up always turned to the observation, “So we’re going to be dads some day, and we don’t know anything…” This new reality got me started thinking in terms of a system I’ll call “dad points”. It’s similar to “cool points” only exponentially more important.
And now, having given you all that background information, I give you: my weekend in dad points.
It all started on Saturday morning when Eduar the city-mouse (pictured above) decided to make his presence known in my room. He teased me throughout the day by coming out of that hole, running across the room, under my bed, and back into that or other holes. But before the sun went down I had my victory as I carried Eduar out of the house in a box, where I released him to fend for himself on N Lawrence Street. Dad points: 15.
Later that night I was over at a friends house for a game night (and no, not the A&M/UCLA game, though it was the same night…) and I saw that her fire needed some help. I reached into the fireplace and grabbed one of the logs and moved it to the top of the flame. I didn’t really think anything of it, but when the fireplace’s owner made mention of how surprised she was that I did that with my bare hand, I recalled how I used to watch my dad do the same thing and how amazed I was that he wasn’t getting burned. Dad points: 5.
The following day, Easter Sunday. My host family had graciously invited a handful of “orphans” from the church to come enjoy an Easter dinner after church. They, however, were out for the day visiting family, and thus I ended up with the responsibility of smoking the ham. The events that followed could be described with no other word than failure. Over a period of 4 hours I’d successfully killed the fire and done nothing to the ham other than get it ashy. Fortunately, I was rescued in time and the ham ended up getting baked, much to everyone’s enjoyment. Dad points: -25.
So all in all this weekend found me receiving -5 dad points. I don’t know how many dad points are required to allow one to actually become a father (I guess you’d need a certain amount of husband points too), but I’m certain that I’ve got a long, long way to go.
Easter. Alleluia. Amen.
“… and if Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless and so is your faith.” (1 Cor 15:14)
All hail, Thou Resurrection!
All hail, Thou Life and Light!
All hail, Thou Self Perfection,
Sole source of grace and might!
Thy Church, O Christ, now greets Thee,
Uprising from the grave;
And every eye that meets Thee
Beholds Thee strong to save.
All hail, belovèd Jesus!
For Thou, indeed, art He
Whose death from sin can free us,
Whose life brings liberty.
Hence, let our faith embrace Thee
With warmest hand and eye,
And then delight to trace Thee
Ascending up on high.
O Savior, come in glory,
To raise Thy holy dead,
And end redemption’s story,
With crowns upon Thy head.
Then robed in white before Thee,
Without one stain or tear,
Shall all Thy saints adore Thee,
Midst wonder, love and fear!
William Henry Havergal, circa 1867
Thank you Father that I serve a Risen Savior, the firstborn from among the dead who has the supremacy in all things. It is a blessing beyond my attempts to describe, having a hope in the One who even death cannot contain. Without the resurrection my faith, and my life, are truly, truly useless. Praise your name for what this day represents. Praise You too, for the evidences of life and light that abide amidst the darkness, constantly reminding me of your Glory. Alleluia. Amen.
(the) Good Friday
O come and mourn with me awhile;
And tarry here the cross beside;
O come, together let us mourn;
Jesus, our Lord, is crucified.
Have we no tears to shed for Him,
While soldiers scoff and foes deride?
Ah! look how patiently He hangs;
Jesus, our Lord, is crucified.
How fast His hands and feet are nailed;
His blessed tongue with thirst is tied,
His failing eyes are blind with blood:
Jesus, our Lord, is crucified.
His mother cannot reach His face;
She stands in helplessness beside;
Her heart is martyred with her Son‚s:
Jesus, our Lord, is Crucified.
Seven times He spoke, seven words of love;
And all three hours His silence cried
For mercy on the souls of men;
Jesus, our Lord, is crucified.
Come, let us stand beneath the cross;
So may the blood from out His side
Fall gently on us drop by drop;
Jesus, our Lord, is crucified.
O break, O break, hard heart of mine!
Thy weak self-love and guilty pride
His Pilate and His Judas were:
Jesus, our Lord, is crucified.
A broken heart, a fount of tears,
Ask, and they will not be denied;
A broken heart love‚s cradle is:
Jesus, our Lord, is crucified.
O love of God! O sin of man!
In this dread act Your strength is tried;
And victory remains with love;
For Thou our Lord, art crucified!
Frederick Faber, circa 1849
(a) good Friday
Effective the third full week in Philadelphia, my weekends began on Friday, not Saturday. As such, this particular Friday found my day getting started several hours later than did the mornings of the four days prior. Having completed my daily morning rituals as morning itself was coming to a close, I opened my window to gauge the day’s weather. From that point on, nothing but good things began to happen.
Normally when I open up the window in the morning — a city-life equivalent to brushing my teeth on various suburban porches — a rush of cold ushers itself into my room, informing me that yet again today, warm socks and a hat will be necessary. But on this fateful Friday, I opened the window and the only thing that came in were noises from the street below. No biting cold. No cold at all!
I went to my beloved machine to verify the results of my amateur forecast. It told me that though it was currently beautiful, that a near certain rain was on its way, due directly over the city in approximately four hours. I had planned on visiting a new park until I heard of the impending precipitation, so I promptly adjusted my plans. I grabbed some essentials from my room (a chair, a book, a camera) and headed out to my new favorite place in all of Philadelphia: the balcony.
I sat down and began reading for about 10 minutes when two neighborhood churches’ bell towers began dueling to inform everybody on Girard between 2nd and 8th that noon had arrived. I sat my book down in my lap and listened, deciding that the church behind me had the superior bells with a much nicer tone. This decision was confirmed just seconds later when, to my deep enjoyment, the superior church’s bells began to play Amazing Grace. I sang the first verse in my head and when they played another stanza I sang the second verse aloud. I started to sing the third verse but it turned out the bells were just playing a coda of sorts, so the final verse never happened. I stopped singing along when the bells did and thought about how truly amazing the Grace of which I sang is.
It was one of those days when recognizing the amazingness of that Grace comes ever so naturally. Too cold outside for short sleeves and too hot for long sleeves. It was vest weather, but I refused to go in and change to ensure that I optimized my time on the balcony before the rain. As I overlooked our neighbors yards (to the left, an entirely wooden backyard; ours, grass; to the right, concrete) and listened to birds with varying degrees of beauty in their voices sing, I couldn’t help certain thoughts coming to mind. I wouldn’t have stopped them if I could control it, but days like this just inevitably bring things of this nature to the forefront of my thoughts.
First to come to mind was the b. That’s Frisbee, for those who hadn’t heard. There would not have been a day in college with weather like this when, at least for a little while, the b was thrown. It could have been on campus, at a local park, or in the driveway. Didn’t matter. The b and nice weather went (and always will) go hand-in-hand.
I cannot think of the b without also thinking of my roommates, with whom I most often threw it. Brothers whom I love and miss dearly and will never be ashamed to claim. Brothers who I cannot help but mention when having a conversation with anyone that lasts over 8 minutes. I’ve plenty more to say about them, but we’ll save it for another post (or a book).
As I read I thought about Colby’s hammock on the front porch of the Luther House. In that hammock I had some of the best times of reading, thinking and conversing — with God, roommates, friends — in all of college. Like the b, that hammock inevitably comes to mind on days like this, especially when a book is in the mix.
Five times overhead I watched planes flying in various directions; one of them headed Southwest, a direction I too will gladly be flying in less than 40 days.
These and other evidences of grace were what interrupted my reading on the balcony Friday. As the bell towers informed me (about 90 seconds apart) that it was 3:30 I again put my book down in my lap and wondered if that rain was really going to come or not.
It never did. I ended up back inside by 4:00 and I realized that I’d spent the entire afternoon of my day off at the house, while simultaneously spending it outdoors. Then I realized something that gave me more joy than I ever thought something so small would:
I’d been barefoot all day.
It was the first day in Philadelphia I was able to go sans socks and shoes from dawn to dusk. I thanked the Father for loving me so tangibly, and went inside where I remained barefoot and finished the book, which I later reviewed.
book review vol. sixteen: Traveling Mercies
Ironically enough, on the heels of writing a post containing the question, “Of all the books you’ve read, which one did you read the fastest (presumably because it was excellent)? How long did it take?”, my answer changed. Ladies and gentlemen, D.O.’s new record for the shortest amount of time required to read an entire book: 4 days. Hold your applause.
This book was loaned to my with the highest of recommendations by a friend who was going out of town for the week. We bartered for it. I gave her a camera, she gave me an autographed copy of Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies. I made it a point to have the book finished before she arrived back in Philly, which I’m proud to say I accomplished. It wasn’t a difficult task to complete though, as Lamott’s writing style is as easy and enjoyable to read as Heather’s blog (with cussing).
I would loosely liken this book to Don Miller’s Blue Like Jazz in that Lamott essentially tells stories from her time spent on this planet and often throws in lessons of faith where appropriate (which turns out to be nearly every chapter, which makes sense, seeing that faith applies to every chapter of life). And when I say she tells stories, I mean she tells some doozies: both in the stories’ content and they style with which she tells them. She’s a very good writer. Every other sentence she compares the person or idea she’s talking about to something else. Example (opens the book at random to page 125):
The babies, rolling around in the sand, had begun to look like breaded veal cutlets.
Reading things like that make reading pretty enjoyable. I’ll admit though, I probably only got half of her jokes along those lines. I cannot pretend to be smart or well-read enough to have understood all of what she referred to. She’s a witty one. Sarah would love her.
However, and this is the case with nearly every book I read, I didn’t agree with everything she had to say. I had to keep reminding myself that this wasn’t a book in which the author was trying to teach me or anyone else how or what to believe, rather it was a story teller telling her stories in the light of her faith. I had to see past things like how she referred to God in a “he or she” context and used certain cuss words in a way I thought unnecessary. (Don’t get me wrong, a lot of the cuss words she used were used wonderfully, others however, weren’t as cleverly placed.)
So all in all, it was a good book, a very enjoyable read, one that I’d recommend to Sarah or Matt Graham but not to my dad. What was arguably more enjoyable than the book itself was the setting in which the greatest section of it was read, but that will likely receive its own post in the not-too-distant future… Mo-town, thanks for the loan. The book is fine, and it will be retured to you intact upon your return from distant lands.
myspace, and the questions it raises
One of my duties as an intern here in Philadelphia is maintaining and updating various myspace pages that are under this company’s umbrella, ella, ella (I never can resist that). This requires that I spend ungodly amounts of time on myspace.com reading what people write us, rather, what they write Shane, who doesn’t see their notes. As a result of spending these countless hours on myspace, I’ve observed some noteworthy things about our culture (or at least the ones who write us via myspace).
You see, these kids… they cannot spell. They can’t spell and they certainly have no knowledge of some of the most basic grammatical rules. And if that weren’t enough, I’m afraid many of them don’t have a Shift key on their keyboards. One girl sadly seems to have a problem where her Caps Lock is actually locked, so she yells every time she writes. Other users’ keyboards apparently have no punctuation keys save the period. No apostrophe’s, no commas, no parenthesis (which is truly a catastrophe of epic proportions). Also, and this is no surprise, they abbreviate everything and type in text language. This includes saying “haha” after everything, regardless of whether the previous statement was funny.
However, none of those reasons motivated this post. The myspace phenomena that compelled me to write today is something I call, creatively, surveys.
You may have seen them in your inbox back in the mid-to-late 90’s. They consist of anywhere from 10 to 100+ questions of absolutely no substance. Things like “What is your name?” and “Do you have any pets?” and “Do you have any nicknames?” So it should come as no surprise to those who knew me back then that Brad Smith and I would tirelessly send them to each other, filling out the longest, most ridiculous answers possible. For example, our answer to the nickname question would often sound something like this:
“Tiger, Killer, Super-sexy guy who sits in front of me in English class, That funny kid, The strongest kid in my class”
We were brilliant. Kids these days cannot place such an adjective on themselves (well, they could if they wanted, but they probably don’t know what an adjective is). Of course, in their defense, a lot of times the quality of question is even worse than in the glory days of ten years ago. One of my favorite questions I’ve seen lately is, “Go to your the third text message in your phone. What is the next to last word in it?” Wow. Good one. Here’s a quote from an unnamed user’s survey I read recently:
13. What’s the first thing you would do with five million dollars?
get a big car so I can put all my good looking clothes after I had a lipo suction on my stomache an other fat areas a the fat left over was put in my boobs LOL!!!!
Well… at least they’re honest. As a result of reading tons of these surveys (a quintessential guilty pleasure) I’ve begun to think of questions that I think are more worthy of being on such a questionnaire. I thought about coming up with 10 or so and sending them to my blogging friends in hopes that they’d answer them on their blogs (not unlike the tagging craze of December ‘06). Then reality kicked in and I decided I’d just post them on my own blog, and give people the liberty of answering the questions in the comments section if they so desired.
So, without further ado, here are three questions (each of them two-part) that I think are pretty decent.* I’ll also go ahead and answer them, in case anybody’s just overly curious.
1. What is the longest conversation you’ve ever had with somebody? With whom did you converse? Freshman year of college, at a retreat for one of my student organizations, I talked with this girl Ashley Braswell for a good 6 hours (2am to 8am). I can’t think of a any longer conversation I’ve had. I’d like to have a longer one with a boy, say one of my roommates, so I don’t have to say the answer is some girl who isn’t my wife.
2. When was the last time your laughter brought you to tears? What caused said laughter? Praise God it wasn’t that long ago, as this is one of my favorite things. I was brought to tears laughing at Ami Groves in NY while she was laughing at something that happened on Family Guy. She lost control. It was glorious.
3. Of all the books you’ve read, which one did you read the fastest (presumably because it was excellent)? How long did it take? This is lame, because I don’t know the title. But in junior high we had to read library books and take tests on them, and one book absolutely gripped me. It told the story of these kids who had an epic while white water rafting and of how they managed to survive. I think I read it in like a week. River something… (Honorable mention: Heavenly Man).
Alright. So if you feel like you’ve got it in you to hang around odfm a little longer now that you’ve read the longest post in recent history, please accept the invitation of answering the questions above in the comments section. I have no doubt Brad will participate, and that he’ll answer the questions about his name, nicknames, and pets. That’s why I love him. Nobody else is allowed to do that, by the way. Alright. Go. Share. Enjoy.
*I cannot take credit for thinking these questions up. They come from a variety of sources, including but not limited to conversations with individual friends, experiences with groups of friends, Niel McClendon sermons, and spending too much time in my own head.
I can see a light that is coming…
… there will be an end to these struggles, but until that day comes…
(I understand that song probably wasn’t written for me as it relates to Philly, nevertheless, I found it to be a proper fit).
post-leap day break
Having successfully spent just under two months in Philadelphia — America’s fifth largest city — I decided to take a break from the hustle and bustle of big city life by taking a trip to a bigger city. A city that, by a comfortable margin, is the largest the US has to offer: New York, NY.
Those of you who aren’t so hot on your geography of Northeast America may be surprised to find out that New York and Philly are but two hours apart by bus. And a round trip ticket on that Chinatown bus (Chinatown Philly to Chinatown New York) costs you only $20. It was striking how similar these bus stops were to the various bus stops I spent time at in China. Peeps would feel right at home.
This journey to the boroughs found me spending some quality time with some very high-caliper people. Ami and Erin of Cavittville fame took a break from the peaceful life in Bryan, TX to visit the city. I was also blessed to share a meal with Megan Shuffle (whose blog you really should visit) and share a conversation with JR Vassar, and other members of his community there in Manhattan.
All of my time was not spent with people though. Each morning I walked a few blocks East to Central Park where I sat on a bench next to The Lake that overlooks midtown Manhattan. I’m convinced that such breaks to natural places are absolutely necessary to maintain sanity in city life (see my writings on George Bush Pond, White Rock Lake, and now, Central Park). Each morning I sat on that bench working hard on my crossword puzzle, looking up to watch passers by when I got stuck, and always wishing that some of my beloved roommates were there to share the moment with me.
On a much less peaceful note, this particular visit to the city afforded me the opportunity of watching a man lose control of himself like I’ve never seen before. I’ll not go into great detail, but I can’t help sharing the story. This presumably homeless man gently asked everyone on the subway car for money (as his had been stolen) and much to his dismay only received food in return (which he allegedly couldn’t eat for a lack of denture glue…). He made his way to the back door of the car, and stood there with his back to the car’s other occupants. Instead of going to the next car or pulling a gun out (honestly the only two options that I could conceive him doing) he turned around, threw his free food on the ground, and started screaming with all his lungs could muster, “Who stole my @%&*@# money? Give me my @#$*@!% money!” This went on for way longer than was remotely comfortable, and finally he left and went to the next car, where I assume he did the same thing. Upon exiting the subway scores of people told the conductor to stop the train and call the cops as this man was inches away from hurting somebody. I didn’t stick around to see what happened. I’m also not sorry for the absence of a picture accompanying that part of the post. Thank you Jesus for your glorious provision.
So after all was said and done, I was able to find rest (save Mr. Dentures’ violent display) in the city that doesn’t sleep, I found friends in a city of over 8 million where many are lonely, and I found my way around the town on a subway system that used to intimidate me to pieces. Good game, NYC, good game.