The Wildest Story Ever Told

I spent the last year reading the Bible, front-to-back. I wanted to read a classic, well known, influential book. Idiotic me went for the most classic and influential book I could find.

It was agonizing at times (And unto Eber were born two sons: the name of one was Peleg; for in his days was the earth divided; and his brother's name was Joktan., Genesis 10:25), but I’m glad I did, because it’s an absolutely bizarre and amazing story. And I want to tell it to you. Because, for more than any other reason, I read it just for the story. I was not disappointed.

So, forget what you already know and believe about the Bible, and let me tell you the story, just as a story:

In the beginning (familiar, right?), there was God. Think on that for a second. He was a deity, the one and only. He was God, in the most fundamental meaning of the word – the all-powerful Supreme Being. He operated on a level beyond human understanding in the way that hacking a Tivo is beyond a goldfish’s understanding, but on an even larger scale. God was, under all circumstances, totally badass.

Being industrious, God created everything. Isn’t that what you’d do if you were all powerful? He finished his project off with humans. Adam and Eve. He set up a lush pad for them. Eden. They were basically living on the front lawn of Heaven; God’s personal domain, but not quite inside the house.

God had some of his things lying about; the Tree of Life and the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. He told them, “Go ahead and eat from any tree here, except the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.” Don’t touch my stuff.

A serpent rolled by one day and convinced Eve to eat from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, anyway. She did, and so did Adam. Oops.

Apparently, this freaked God out, so he kicked them off the lawn and out into the world. C-ya.

Either through this event or because of how he designed humans, God did something he had never done with anything he had created. He gave mankind a little piece of himself; an ability to see existence in a way nothing else had.

You see, everything in the universe instinctively got the concept of how hugely badass God is, except mankind, who now needed to actually think about it. This was a product of mankind’s extra little ability - humans were God's first creation capable of consciously acknowledging him for what he was, instead of assuming it as part of their design.

Of course, since he was God, such an acknowledgment needed to come with a certain level of respect (most faiths call it worship). In this story, that’s not God being egotistical. Remember, God was badass, in the most ultimate sense.

Having a real sweet spot for his pet humans, Adam and Eve, God didn’t obliterate them for their misbehavior. He just kicked them out into the not-so-pleasant part of creation that God wasn’t squatting on.

Now Adam and Eve had to live the hard life and go to work. I doubt I’ll ever forgive them for leaving me that legacy. They had some kids, and there was a whole murder plot thing. It’s a bit of a side note, except to show that humans tended to do things their own way.

In letting mankind wander around like this, God had started an experiment, to see if he could train mankind to do what only it could – acknowledge him on their own.

The problem was, mankind wasn’t acknowledging him very well at all. They were running amok, convincing themselves they were as powerful as God, and trying to rework everything of his. They were clearly going to totally eff up creation by ignoring God and trying to do better on their own (which they most assuredly could not).

So, in another mentionable side note, God got upset with the way humankind was turning out. This wouldn’t be the last time. His favorite pets were killing each other and threatening to wreck the place. So, he restarted the experiment, using nice-guy Noah as his new Patient Zero, trying to engineer humans he could train and get along with.

A few more generations, and God reevaluated mankind once again. Unfortunately, they still weren’t quite going to plan. These pets of his were awfully unruly. God needed a new tactic to properly train his favorite pet.

I’ll pause here until my next post to continue. The whole story won’t be too long (I’m aiming for 5 posts total).

Next time, I’ll tell you about how, since God thought his new pets were super cool, he made a hard choice – train a few to behave, eventually sort them out, and dispose of the rest.

Apologies to the Cold War Kids

Furthering my belief that professional reviewers are fucking idiots, I got a listen to the Cold War Kids ("CWK") abum, Robbers and Cowards this weekend, and they're not half bad.

Essentially, the Amazon review I had read said that CWK was just an average example of a merely average genre of pop music today, touting that upon listening to it "you realize that Cold War Kids is just another mainstream band over-mining a once fertile underground sound is short enough that you can cut your losses and find something more worthwhile."

I'l agree to a certain extent that there is something of a genre of grainy rock bands "fascinated with the first Strokes album and bent on expanding the promise of that artistically ill-fated group." Tied to them is the Modest Mouse hopefuls and pretenders out there. It's a crowded field, and to be sure, there's little there to excite the senses.

CWK isn't necessarily a great band. But, they do pretty well with some good beats and fun vocals. The singer's voice is a bit whiney, but so is Billy Corgan's, and Corgan can rip the devil out of hell and beat him senseless with his vocals. A number of the songs on the CWK album are forgettable, but I’m a believer that a band who has pulled half of a good album out might deserve my money, if it’s a slow release month.

If nothing else, CWK are a decent example of the "genre," if such a thing exists (I'm not a fan of such categorizations, myself). I can’t definitelyely tell you to buy their album, but I don’t want to say not to, either. A number of their songs absolutely rock, and the rest may grow on you.

I think it might depend on your view of the genre, or your belief that this genre even exists, as described.

Give their song Passing the Hat a listen (click the pic here - slightly lower quality recording than on the album). If you like it, you'll probably like the album.

Softball Was Fine, Everything Else is Dumb

Well, they put me in right field. Where else would you stick the new guy? I didn't totally suck. I even managed to hit the ball, catch it, and throw it - those basic motor functions that I'd had no faith in.

I can't believe it's been a week since I posted. I've meant to tell you so many things.

Year Zero (NIN) has refamiliarized me with alternate reality gaming, resulting in my utter disappointment. What horrible irony, having kids pretend to be part of an underground resistance that is really part of a coordinated marketing campaign. At least the music is pretty good, and the disc itself is hypercolor!

Allergies suck ass. Do does bronchitis, as well as the sinus infection.

I was shocked to see the first negative review I've ever seen on Amazon (not the user reviews, but the critic ones Amazon provides). Apparantly, don't buy the new Cold War Kids Album, because they're a great example of what's wrong with music today. Thanks for saving me money, Amazon!

I finally saw Dr. Strangelove. Don't you dare try to tell me that the underlying background premise of Spies Like Us wasn't a direct appropriation of the Kubrick film.

Well, it's not much, but that's me today. I've been having nightmares and just finished reading the entire Bible, so expect to hear from me soon.

Fast Pitch Emotional Scars

It’s the top of the 5th, and there are runners on first and third. My team is up by two, and there are only five innings in the game, given that gym class is only 42 minutes long. The opposing team is at bat, and there are two outs. One more, and we win.

I’m playing catcher in eighth grade gym class softball. What can go wrong? I’m practically a spectator, here. Even the kid in right field has seen more action than me.

Basically, I’ve been watching this game, not playing it. And that’s fine by me, because I suck at softball. Why? Because I’m left-handed. Because no one will teach me. Because I’m lazy. Something.

Two strikes. It’s all over after this pitch. Jeremy launches a wobbly softball in my direction. Pete swings wildly – I think his eyes were closed – and I hear the crack of the bat connecting with the ball.

Still not my problem, right? Wrong. The ball goes straight up in the air. Deep down, I know this, but that’s not where it was supposed to go. It was supposed to travel either to my glove, or far away from me. But it didn’t. Returning to Earth, it lands on the ground right next to me and bounces a few feet away, rolling down the hill behind our makeshift home plate.

I’m still staring into the outfield. Why isn’t the ball out there? Damnit. I turn around with all the speed of molasses rushing out of the bottle. I see the ball, and all at once, reality rushes back, carried on the voices of my classmates calling me names that actually amuse my gym teacher. Even he barks, “What the hell are you doing?”

My team won that game, in the bottom half of the sixth. But no thanks to me. We had to come back from a tie. Two runs were scored off of my error – the last guy stopped just past third, only because I was standing on home plate with the ball, holding back adolescent tears. It was months before I was picked anything but last in any sport in gym class.

This is my relationship with baseball and softball. I’ve since found aptitude with other sports and count myself as a fairly confident, athletic person. But to this day, the notion of swinging a bat or trying to catch a ball with a glove nauseates me. So, why the hell did I just join a rec softball team?

It’s all because someone I respect told me I should. I’ll call her Betty. The conversation went like this:

ME: “I have emotional scars from softball and baseball in gym class as a kid. I suck, and haven’t played since then.”

BETTY: “No way, I’m sure you’re at least competent. You should join our softball team. You’d have a lot of fun.”

And what do I say, before my brain can catch up with my mouth? “Sure, that’d be great.” Well, hello, you mental midget. I haven’t seen you since you decided to ignore the pop fly that wounded you for life! Welcome back.

I just couldn’t show weakness in front of Betty. I respect her personally and professionally, and she was showing signs of respecting me back – the thing I’ve been striving for ever since that eighth grade softball game. I was too scared to tell her I didn’t deserve it.

(OK, this is a bit of an exaggeration, but the principle I’m describing IS why I couldn’t bring myself to say no. How do you, as an adult, tell someone with a straight face that you feel incompetent at something? Me, I just don’t. I plow ahead and hope they’re not looking when I do it.)

So, I have to buy a glove and a bat this weekend. And a ball, I guess. I haven’t done this since high school. And the first game is next week. A little practice can’t hurt, right? I’m going to have to find someone to throw the ball at me and see if I can catch it or hit it. It needs to be someone I trust not to reopen old wounds with snide comments.

I’m sure it’ll all be fun and drinking. The team takes a $10-per-head booze collection for each game.

Then again, I can still hear my classmates and gym teacher, mocking me.

Hell, I’ll give the team $20 for the booze collection, for all I’m going to suck down to calm my nerves.