RevSpork

Ten reasons I cannot wait for the Rapture

Lemme tell ya, I don't believe in the Rapture, where all the saved get lifted up to heaven while the rest of us losers have to cope with all hell breaking loose.  In fact, I'd like to think the Rapture already happened, that God only saw fit to lift two crazy homeless people and a nun, and nobody noticed. 

However, every once in a while I learn of some new bit of news that makes me really, really root for a full-blown Apocalypse, even though I'm fairly certain I'm not among the chosen.  Because even if I have to endure trials, tribulations, bleeding moons, etc., at least people will turn their attentions away from coming up with bizarre shit like the following:

1. Personalized vagina pendants.  Lookie here, it's truck nuts for girls!  That they can wear around their necks!  Potential purchasers are told to "celebrate their beauty."  Fine, but I'd like to see what would happen if I sported a personalized pecker pendant while walking about town.  On the other hand...no, no I wouldn't. 

2. The continuing persecution of domestic abuse victims.  Get beat up by your boyfriend?  No problem!  Get thrown out of your home, get threatened with arrest, lose your health insurance.  What next?  Branding "punch me" on their foreheads?  Come to think of it, that actually seems kind compared to the other three punishments. 

3. The fact that people actually care about these people more than they care about their own families.  Jon's a slimy moron, Kate's emotionally stunted, and the kids are going to be so fucked up by the time they grow up, they might not even notice Armageddon.  They're already living it.  What these people need is not more publicity, or even less publicity, but no publicity. 

4. Sexy Smurfette Halloween costumes.  Was I the only 11-year old boy who watched the cartoon because he liked the show and NOT because of a crush on Smurfette?  I just thought she was another cartoon character, not the first step towards a serious Jessica Rabbit / Heavy Metal addiction.  And hasn't the costume industry squeezed the "sexy employee" concept dry yet?  What's next, sexy cabbies?

5.  Douching with Lysol.  Yes.  Because douching with Coca-Cola wasn't gross enough.  

6.  This.  The GOP doesn't harbor racists.  Really, they don't.

7. The perils of online dating.  It only took me eight months and 65 rejections to find the lady who would become my second wife online; if I were as paranoid as this woman, I'd still be single, and good for the rest of the world.  You don't want to pass these paranoid genes to another generation. 

8. I can't deny my own beliefs.  Yes, I consider myself a pro-lifer.  Yes, I believe in some restrictions.  However, I also support universal access to birth control, RU-486, Plan B, and allowing gay adoptions.  I don't even necessarily want to see abortion become illegal: I want to see it become obsolete.  Some freaking pro-lifer I am.  So when I read about jackasses like Randall Terry attempting idiotic publicity stunts like this, I want to respond with a "Randall Terry is a Shit-Spewer" YouTube campaign.  Simply blow up a photo of Mister Operation Rescue, cut out his mouth, and attach it to your favorite mammal's rear end so that any fecal matter emerges out Mr. Terry's oral cavity.  Record and pass it around. 

9. Bob Dylan's Christmas album.  The release of this album is well-hidden but very much present in the Book of Revelations.  If Mannheim Steamroller releases an album of Dylan covers, you'll find me reading the Left Behind series very, very thoroughly.

10. The A-Team movie.  Enough said.  Bring on Armageddon!

The weekend of my cold

It was only a week ago when I first felt a little soreness in my throat.  By Thursday, the sore throat had become a full-blown cold.  Unlike the cold from six months ago, which mutated into a nasty case of bronchitis, this particular cold virus has largely come and gone.  The weekend was ruined, and I had to cancel both my volunteer work and a weekend project this week, but the weekend weather sucked anyway, so at least everyone else in Chicago was miserable. 

Tori was home, but she was unfortunately preoccupied with a Christmas card project, so Mimi took over the job of nursing me back to health.  Although her chicken-noodle soup preparation skills need improvement, she stayed in bed with me all day Saturday, being careful not to hog the comforter as she normally does.  Tori did back her up on occasion, buying me orange juice and Nyquil.  By Sunday evening I was well enough to make pancakes for dinner. 

I'm now sufficiently recovered to go to work this week.  If I had sick time at either of my jobs, I'd be a little bummed about this, but since I don't, hooray for a full paycheck! 

Philosophical musings with 7th graders

Philosophical musings have usually been most effective either in an actual philosophy class, or lying on the carpet of a friend's off-campus apartment, off-kilter on some medicinal substance at 3am on a Saturday morning.  A few weeks ago, however, I had the opportunity to discuss whether clouds rain down on people because they wish to, or because they are slaves to scientific laws. 

Conversations like this are what tends to pop up when I volunteer as a creative writing coach at Open Books, a literacy non-profit where I've volunteered for over a year now.  Every Tuesday and Thursday morning, a class from local schools arrive at the Open Books loft, where a bunch of volunteers attempt to convince 4th-8th graders that writing their stories makes a darned good field trip.  And for someone who typically avoids kids, I get a lot from them, including sentient cloud debates that quite frankly blow my mind.

I prefer sweet paprika anyway. So there.

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon painting two walls, including behind and around girders, contributing more elbow grease than I have in months, and other than a little fatigue I felt perfectly fine.  Heck, I felt better after painting two walls than before. Yet barely an hour later, in a spice store with Tori, I took a cautious sniff into (more like over) a jar of hot Spanish paprika. The result was a violent sneeze that pulled a muscle in my left shoulder and very nearly caused me to throw out my back.  

Just before I began typing, I popped a few Advil, and will probably need to do so over the entire weekend. (Thankfully, typing doesn't hurt.  Yet.)  Not because I pulled a muscle busting my butt painting, but because of a sneeze. 

Needless to say, I did not purchase the paprika.  I'll stick to the Hungarian paprika, thank you.  The Spanish can kiss my ass.  Or at least help me smear some Ben Gay on my shoulder.

Burning Questions - Depressed Edition

It's been a while since I've asked you questions.  Why?  Because I have neither questions nor answers for you.  However, I'll ask some questions anyway, depression be damned.

1. Why me?  (Please answer in 800 words or less.)

2. You're a depressed blog.  How would you commit blogicide?

3. Were your grandparents in any way depressed during the Great Depression?  Do you feel recessive during the current Great Recession?

4. Approximately how many suicides would result if Robert Smith of The Cure and Rufus Wainwright released an album of duets?  What if they did Carpenters covers?

5. What is your favorite cide?  If you messily devoured French fried potatoes along with your cheeseburger, would you have committed a cide of fries?

6. Is this the least funny Burning Questions blog entry I've ever done, or what?

Toodles!

Quick overview on my North Carolina trip

This is what I did on my fall "vacation" last week, in case you were nosy:

• Imagine a cool, sunny October afternoon in the Carolinas.  Imagine soaking in a hot tub in a backyard, watching leaves fall and dragonflies zip past you.  Imagine doing this for a half-hour, then laying down in a hammock for another half-hour.  While I occupied this little time-space of heaven, I could think of only one thing: Sex?  Sex is for the young.  Let the little whippersnappers fumble with condoms and diaphragms, clumsily doing the nasty while thoughts of unintended pregnancy, STDs, and what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here lurk about in their brains. This hour on Saturday afternoon, my friends, was pure pleasure.  
• My wife, in-laws, and I spent Friday in Asheville, a little gem of a city in western North Carolina.  If Charlotte doesn't strike you as a genuine Southern city, Asheville is even less of one.  It's as if aliens pulled a town in northern California out by the roots and transported it 2000 miles to a little nook among the Smoky Mountains.  Hippies and buskers abound everywhere (the town hosts a huge drum circle every Friday), the tiny shops are fantastic, and the entire downtown is practically an giant Art Deco museum.  If God told me to move to the South, I'd move here.  
• I spent more time during this trip in South Carolina than during previous in-law trips.  Tori, my father-in-law, and his wife spent a little time at a Confederate monument in Rock Hill.  These monuments are light-years away from the Civil War monuments and gravesites up north.  Northerners know about the Civil War, but we're pretty laid-back about it.  South Carolina, on the other hand, seems to define itself by the Civil War, and to them, war event that occurred nearly 150 years might as well had ended last month.  Monuments were erected to the "cause of Southern freedom," slaves are depicted as loving, loyal defenders of the Confederacy, and the sites themselves are meticulously maintained by local historical societies.  It's a world entirely alien to a first-time tourist who has never lived south of Kansas City.  
• No matter what my wife says, I didn't pet my sister-in-law's dogs one bit.  I kicked them all around the house when they approached, and not once did I scritch around their ears and rub their bellies.  Any statements to the contrary are pure libel, and will be answered by lawsuits ASAP.

Finally, I can't end this little blog entry without thanking my wife's family, who have adopted me as their own over the last few years.  And to my sis- and bro-in-law, don't be surprised if you go into the backyard one night and find your hot tub missing.