my first time on the 110 freeway; or, i see death fast approaching in my rear view mirror

When I first moved out to the West Coast, I did not have the stereotypical Los Angeles experience. I lived in Pasadena and was walking distance to my school, my job, my church, the grocery store, various coffee shops, and most of my friends' apartments. I stayed in the area and rarely drove anywhere, seldom driving on the freeways.

One day a friend of mine asked if I could pick him up at LAX. Pasadena is a good twenty-five or so miles northeast of the airport, and though I had passed through there on multiple layovers I had never made the drive down; in fact, I had never really driven south of Pasadena at all. But I agreed to give my friend a ride, and make the sojourn down the 110 Freeway to pick him around 10:00 at night.

Now, the 110 is a pretty ridiculous road. North of downtown it is the Arroyo Seco Parkway, the United States' oldest freeway, and it hasn't really been updated in my lifetime. The roads and sharp and curvy, cut into a mountainside with no shoulders and very tight lanes. This doesn't faze most LA drivers, however, as people regularly zoom along the curves at ninety miles an hour.

Even worse, I hadn't realized when I agreed to pick up my friend that it would be raining that evening. Now, I feel confident in my ability to drive in the rain. I've driven in severe weather in Texas on more than one occasion, and rain in LA tends to be light (and this shower was no exception). What I don't have confidence in is the average Angelino's ability to drive in the rain. When it's sprinkling, LA natives either completely freak out and drive erratically, or they make no adjustments to their speed or stopping distance whatsoever, leading to great potential for skidding and hydroplaning. Add in the typical Angelino's penchant for aggressive driving and the tendency for California roads to develop numerous potholes after a shower, and I feel legitimately afraid to get behind the wheel when the roads are wet in SoCal.

So I had to drive down the 110 Freeway for the first time, at night, in the rain. Fun times.

I headed south and got onto the 110 - there's a southbound road called Arroyo that simply turns into the freeway past an intersection and suddenly you're in a 55-mile-an-hour going around a sharp curve. This was my first time, so I was unprepared. I was in the left lane, quickly trying to accelerate while maintaining control on the wet road, and cars start zooming around me to the right and a large truck revs right up onto my bumper. I desperately get over in the middle lane as soon as I can, and then I feel like I'm in a nightmare - headlights are zooming around me, dulled by the mist and road spray, and I'm struggling to keep up with the mysterious turns and curves. 

The drive was a frantic blur of mist and headlights. My heart was beating as I swerved around each bend, trying desperately to find a happy medium between a speed where I wouldn't spin out and a speed where I wouldn't get rear-ended. At some point I was out of the curves and in the midst of skyscrapers, but the cars and trucks kept zooming around me. I have no idea how I found the 105 Freeway and made my exit, but soon I was at LAX in a mob of cars, all trying to get to the curb.

I crept up to the pick-up zone and helped my friend load his bags. My heart was racing and I was sweating. He asked, "Are you OK, man?" I silently nodded and wiped my forehead with my hand. Great, now I have to drive back up through that madness, I thought in despair.

Now I live in the South Bay area and I've become quite familiar with the 110 Freeway. I've spent some time commuting both north-to-south and south-to-north on the freeway, and I'm probably one of those idiots who zooms by too quickly by now. But I always remember the time when the 110 was a mysterious monster, a beast to be feared. 

those wild and crazy colorado nights

Back in 2002, I was a junior in high school, and my church youth group took a trip to Breckenridge, Colorado for a Spring Break ski trip. My school friend Brad came along, and at the week's begin we got on a chartered bus bright and early and rode nonstop until we reached the Rocky Mountains.

As with any youth function, we were supposed to stay true to some supervisory regulations - check in with adults before going anywhere, don't go anywhere without a group, don't leave the hotel at night, and so on. One evening toward the end of the trip, after a long day of skiing, I mentioned to Brad that I had seen a shirt at a gift shop earlier that week and wanted to buy it. After some discussion, we decided to head into town and look for it. It was like 8:30 at night and we weren't supposed to leave, especially without a chaperone. We discreetly left our hotel and boarded the shuttle into town anyway.

As we road into Breckenridge I felt like a fugitive from the law. Here I was - the model kid, the one who always got called on to pray - openly defying authority. The rush of adrenaline was intoxicating.

We got into town and perused the various souvenir shops. Finally we found the t-shirt I desired, and I claimed it as my own. Brad and I walked through the crowds by the bars and restaurants, two wayward high schoolers in a mass of twenty- and thirty-somethings. I felt so mature.

After we'd had our share of the revelry (which really just consisted of us walking up and down the sidewalks and looking at three or four souvenir stores), we caught the bus back to our hotel, eager to sneak back in. The ride seemed to drag on forever, though, and I began to grow worried. Had we caught the wrong bus? Would we end up somewhere far from our destination? Would we have to call our youth minister to come give us a ride? We joked about our plight, but inwardly I was growing scared.

We ended up passing the time more quickly when some half-drunk guy came onto the bus and started chatting with us. He noted our ski passes hanging from lanyards around our necks. "Come on, guys," he hissed, "You don't have to wear those. They make you stand out, man. You gotta get real about the skiing!"

"Oh really?" Brad asked.

"Yeah." The guy snorted and raised his hand. "Imma give you two pieces of advice." He held up one finger. "First of all, don't wear those things. They just brand you as a tourist."

Brad and I nodded and said, "OK." We made eye contact and knew we had the same thought: Well, buddy, we ARE tourists. 

The guy raised two fingers. "Second, if you really want to get good at skiing, you should just take a couple years off and do nothing but ski. Really, man, it's the only way to get good. You're both smart guys, your brains will still be there."

Simultaneously, we said, "Yeah, then we can be like you!" We laughed at ourselves. The guy nodded wisely, convinced he had been a prophetic presence in our lives. About that time we finally recognized our hotel, so we politely said our goodbyes and jumped off the bus.

It was around 11:00 by now. As we walked back into the hotel lobby, my youth minister was walking in. We froze. He looked at us inquisitively. "Where have you two been?" he asked.

Brad and I looked at one another. I took a breathe and said, "Well, I wanted to buy a shirt, so we went into town-"

The youth minister held up his hand. He said, "Stop. I don't want to hear about it." He then walked off on his way, leaving us standing there.


The first moral of the story is this: My high school rebellions were not very exciting.

The second moral of the story is this: When authority figures think you're "the good kid," you can get away with murder.

allie: a eulogy for a guinea pig

Last December, my wife and I adopted two guinea pigs from a rescue shelter.

I've never really had a connection to a pet before. I had severe allergies as a kid so I never had a dog or a cat. I did have a couple of pet lizards, but you can only bond so much with reptiles in a terrarium.

We decided to get guinea pigs almost as a whim. We were planning on getting a dog, but our landlady nixed the idea. We discussed other possibilities, and somehow came upon the idea of piggies - big and cuddly enough for some level of companionship, but not high enough maintenance that our landlady would freak. We did some research and came across the LA Guinea Pig Rescue in Chatsworth, and went to see the piggies available for adoption.

The first piggie we chose was a five year old named Allie, and the second was a one-and-a-half year old named Ludwig (whom we renamed Luna since she's a girl). 

Allie was far and away the more docile of the two. When we try to pick up Luna, she kicks and squeaks and runs, while Allie would squirm but stay quiet. I think Allie may have been a cat in a former life - she loved to sit in someone's lap and be pet, closing her eyes and making a happy rumbling noise. She also shed like crazy and had a tendency to pee on people's legs, but nobody's perfect.

Allie was a comforting presence. When we let her out of the cage, she would putter around and make a little curious noise - "putt putt putt putt." While Luna would be a burst of lightning squeaking and running back and forth, Allie would take her time and look around inquisitively.

With Allie and Luna, I began to understand for the first time the connection many people share with their pets. I hear others talk about how much they love their dog or their cat and it honestly just used to confuse me. "They're just animals," I'd silently think to myself, trying to be empathetic. Since I've become an adopted-guinea-pig-father, I get it now.

Allie had been kind of lethargic for the last few days, and yesterday evening she began having trouble walking. We tried to give her a carrot, and she meekly pecked at it then put down her head. We put her in a box and sped down to an exotic animal hospital in Torrance, but she died before we were even out of Inglewood. It's scary how quickly it happened.

I never thought I'd cry over a rodent, but I had some tears for Allie last night. We only had her for less than four months, but she left an impression and we'll certainly miss her.

Late last night my wife and I went out with a couple of friends with pets of their own who have met our guinea pigs. They consoled us over a meal at a Japanese restaurant, and it was nice to have someone who understood that even though Allie was "just a guinea pig," it hurt to lose her. Now I'm writing this as Luna, the younger piggie, runs around the floor next to me. Here's hoping we have more time to spend with her.

why introverts don't get job interviews

When I returned to California after my Toronto practicum in 2009, I started applying to just about any job opening I could find. Many of these were retail ventures, and many of them only accepted online applications. And the vast majority of these online applications featured a standardized test called the Unicru Test, a series of statements that the applicants ranks "Strongly Disagree," "Disagree," "No Opinion," "Agree," or "Strongly Agree."

Apparently the way Unicru works is that once you take the test, your results will be sorted into one of three piles. The Green pile goes to management to look through résumés and decide who to call for interviews; the Yellow pile goes to management and may get looked through if a insufficient number of Greens are hired or interviewed; and the Red pile does not go on to management for review.

I’m a good worker. I’ve worked at a coffee shop, a shoe store, and two hardware stores, and I’ve excelled at every one. But if I had taken a Unicru test to apply at any of these places, I probably wouldn’t have even been called in for an interview.

Why? Because I’m an introvert, and apparently, in the eyes of the Kronos company, introverts can’t be good workers.

The vast majority of Unicru statements are infuriating. Some of them simply lack context. Take, for example, “Your family and friends approve of what you do.” I have some friends whose families definitely don’t approve of their lifestyles, but it’s because of differences in morals, passions, religion, politics, or so on – not because my friends make bad decisions. Also consider, “You would rather not get involved in other people’s problems.” For me, I disagree if you’re talking about making sure my friends are doing well and being available for them when they are coping with bad situations, while I wholeheartedly agree if you’re talking about having to listen to the crazy lady next to you on the train ramble on about her landlord; I have no idea which one Unicru means. Unfortunately, you have no way to explain your answer.

Others seem to set some unrealistic standard. Consider “You have no big regrets about your past” or “You look back and feel bad about things you’ve done.” I would argue that any normal person who’s had enough life experience and common sense would have some regrets about things, but apparently the “correct” answer to both of these is, “Strongly Disagree.”

But the items that really frustrate me are the ones geared to weed out the introverts.

The following items should all be “Strongly Agree”:

- It is fun to go to events with big crowds.

- You chat with people you don't know.

- You like to be in the middle of a big crowd

- You like to talk a lot.

- You love to be with people.

- You love to listen to people talk about themselves.

The following items should all be “Strongly Disagree”:

- You are a fairly private person.

- You are unsure of what to say when you meet someone.

- You are unsure of yourself with new people.

- You do not like small talk.

- You do not like to meet new people.

- You like to be alone.

For me and many other introverts, however, the first six would all be “No” and the last six would all be “Yes.” That’s twelve wrong answers right there, so we’re all well on our way to the Red pile.

I think Unicru is dangerous for several reasons, but one is that it confuses an extrovert lifestyle with an extrovert role. I understand the logic behind their methodology: hire extroverted people and they'll be natural fits for a customer service position. However, when you put me in a capacity where it’s my job to interact with people, I do it. I readily go up to customers and ask them about their projects and what they need; in real life, I’d almost never talk to someone I don’t know in line at the store or waiting for the bus stop. Unicru doesn’t even allow for this possibility, however; either you’re an extrovert and you’re qualified, or you’re an introvert and you’re not. 

I thought about this in light of a BBC article by Vanessa Barford that I read this week, called "Do we really give introverts a hard time?" The article argues that most managers, professors, and other authority figures believe extroverts almost always make better employees, students, and - dare I say it? - people than introverts. 

I remember one class at Fuller where our professor asked us to fill out an anonymous survey indicating what learning methods work best for us - reading, class discussion, group projects, whatever. On my list I added that often just listening to a good lecture and thinking about it works for me - not that the other methods aren't valuable, but that's one of several that helps. I personally get burned out in some group discussions because it often turns into the same five people chasing rabbit trails and I'd just end up playing Bubble Spinner.

The professor went over the results of the survey in his next lecture. He singled out that some anonymous person (or perhaps people? maybe I'm not crazy?) mentioned "listening" as a learning method. He shook his head dismissively. "No, that doesn't work," he said. "You have to talk."

With all do respect, I believe that yes, talking is essential, but so is listening, and we live in a culture that almost unilaterally prizes one over the other. 

I am respected at my retail job as an exceptional employee. I made consistant good marks and learned a great deal in university and seminary despite rarely speaking up during lecture. My extrovert friends, please - don't try to turn your introvert friends into one of you. We're fine the way we are. Trust us.

feelings of despair wrought by a ninth inning home run in game five of the 2005 national league championship series

The Astros lead the 2005 National League Championship Series 3-1. If they win this game, they shall reach the World Series for the first time in their forty-four year existence. Minute Maid Park is filled beyond capacity, literally shaking with anticipation.

The Astros are down 2-1 when Lance Berkman hits a three run home run in the bottom of the seventh inning. Suddenly the Astros are leading 4-2, and soon the game goes into the ninth inning. Brad Lidge, who has been an elite (and arguably the singular best) closer that season, comes in to finish the game. The entire crowd stands and roars. Lidge records two quick outs. Everyone in the stadium knows the Astros are moments away from their first World Series.

I watch this on television alone in my dorm room at college. With no Astros fans to help me cheer, I have Instant Messenger open on my computer, where I am dialoguing with my sister and my mother. Baseball means family to me, and this moment is no exception. We have all been waiting for this for years. The moment has come, and I am linked with my family through electric currents and wires to share in the victory.

With two outs, David Eckstein of the Cardinals hits a single.

The Astros still need only one out to go to their first World Series. The single is an inconvenience, but no matter – Lidge can get that final out.

Next, Jim Edmonds walks, putting runners at first and second.


This is trouble. The next batter is Albert Pujols, one of the greatest hitters in the majors. The crowd remains excited, but a noticeable shift in tone occurs. The fans grow uneasy, myself included even 300 miles away. This is not going as according to plan. My sister, my mother, and I maintain our optimism, although doubt has crept into our thoughts for the first time.

George and Barbara Bush sit behind home plate, in the stadium’s seats of honor. Both have been standing for some time, loudly cheering. Nolan Ryan stands a few seats over. His hands are in his pockets, feigning casual ambivalence, but he has a grin that shows joy waiting to burst out of him. Parents that have waited their whole lives for their Astros to reach the World Series stand, holding their children.

The stadium shakes with the hopes of thousands of baseball fans. The anticipation will burst at any moment. Why can Lidge not just put away that final batter?

The crowd holds it collective breath. Come on, boys. Do not get scared. Just get that last out. You can do it.

Albert Pujols steps into the batter’s box.

Lidge throws his pitch: ball one. No, Lidge, no, the crowd thinks.

Pujols is human. Pujols can be retired. This is “Lights Out Lidge” pitching. He struck out the side in his inning at the All Star Game that year.

Lidge throws his pitch: ball two.

The Astros are the team of destiny. Andy Pettitte and Roger Clemens returned home from New York to help us. This may be the last chance for Bagwell and Biggio to play in the Series.

This is for a generation of Houston baseball fans who have never seen their team in a World Series. This can show the world that, yes, the Astros can win, they can avoid the choke, they can emerge triumphant at the end of the day.

Come on, Lidge. Please just don't hang your slider.

Brad Lidge throws his pitch: slider.

Albert Pujols swings his bat and makes ferocious contact, sending the ball flying.

If the retractable roof at Minute Maid Park had been open, the ball would have cleared the left field wall and bounced onto Crawford Street in Downtown Houston.

It is the most monstrous home run I have ever seen in my life.

The Astros are suddenly losing 5-4 in the ninth inning.

Moments before, the stadium had been filled with the thunderous sound of the forty-plus years of expectation being poured out into cheers, the frustrations and disappointments of season after futile season trampled under joy and delight. I think Pujols later remarked that the loudest sound he heard as he ran around the bases was his own two feet hitting the dirt.

The camera replays video of Andy Pettitte in the dugout. As soon as Pujols made contact, Pettitte’s eyes grew wide as he followed the trajectory of the ball. His mouth dropped open, slowly spelling the words, “Oh… my… God…”

The camera then pans to Nolan Ryan. He has tears in his eyes. This is the pitcher who, when Robin Ventura charged him on the mound, grabbed his assailant and repeatedly punched him in the head, and then stayed in the game. He has tears in his eyes.

The camera surveys the entire stadium. It is somber, like a funeral – no, scratch that, everyone is too stunned, to shocked to be somber. Everyone is numb. It takes about ten minutes for almost fifty thousand Astro fans to realize that they need to start breathing again or they will suffocate.

I cannot fall asleep after watching that sickening game.

The next day, I read an article by Bill Simmons on the ESPN web site. He nails the feelings of despair in my heart and the hearts of Astros fans everywhere. Speaking of disastrous sports losses, he writes, “When you get punched in the stomach by a sporting event – I mean, truly walloped – you're never quite the same afterward… You never truly have peace. The strangest things end up triggering painful memories, the stuff you thought had been buried long ago."

I am pleased that the national media is on the Astros’ side for once. However, this is poor consolation. While it seems no one outside of St. Louis wants to see a Cardinals comeback, it also seems that no one anywhere expects anything else to happen.

Some time later, I do what many have done after suffering heartbreak: I write a song about it.

trayvon

The shooting of Trayvon Martin in Florida has certainly kicked up a firestorm of controversy. It's bringing up issues of race, property rights, gun control, murder laws, and race (yeah, I said it twice; in fact, I'll say it three times: race). The controversy has reminded somewhat of the Joe Horn controversy from 2007, which happened in my hometown. The situations are extremely different (Horn shot two men robbing a house while George Zimmerman shot an unarmed teenager), but share the core similarity of a convergence of property and gun laws in a powder keg of racial and ethnic tension.

President Obama recently weighed in on the controversy for the first time, and the money quote used by many websites in their headlines was, "If I had a son, he would look like Trayvon." I was kind of frustrated that this was the only thing it seems most Americans heard from Obama's statement, since the president's words were more well-rounded than that short soundbite.

The soundbite is important, however, and there's a reason it has stuck as quote ringing in everyone's ears. It struck a chord with me, since if I have a son one day, he may look like Trayvon as well.

I am Caucasian; my wife is African-American. Yes, if we have kids they'll be biracial, but the way race is socialized in the US, most people who see my kids will think, "They're black." So when you have a case where an unarmed African-American boy is murdered walking down a street for "looking suspicious," I automatically think, "There's no way I'd want to have a family there." This isn't some abstract concept for me, it's a matter of life and death for my kids. I don't want them in a community where their skin color will automatically mark them as inferior or suspect in the eyes of their neighbors.

Now, it appears that many Americans, mostly Anglos, have dismissed the race angle of this case as overblown political wrangling. The real issue, in their minds, is the meaning of self-defense and justice. This doesn't mean these people support Martin's shooter, but they'd instead argue that the only injustice is that the shooter killed an unarmed child and wasn't arrested. In their minds, to "bring race into it" just causes a distraction.

I think this is because white Americans have the choice to ignore racial politics if they so desire. As a white man, I can choose to look only at the case as shooter and victim and "look past race." However, for many African-Americans and other minorities, race is the heart of the issue at hand. This is because if I go walking through the neighborhood where Martin died, I don't have to worry about someone shooting me because I'm wearing a hoodie. On the other hand, it's impossible for a person of color to walk through that area and not have that fear pop into his or her head.

"But wait! That's not true! There are lots of neighborhoods out there where whites ARE the minority! Lots of white people encounter situations where they feel discriminated against, just like minorities! You can't say that whites don't deal with that!"

Well, OK then, I see your point. I've lived in more than one place where I, as a white person, was statistically in the minority: I grew up in Pasadena, Texas, a predominantly Latino suburb of Houston, and attended a predominantly Latino high school; I currently live in Inglewood, California, a predominantly African-American suburb of Los Angeles. I have walked down streets where I feared something bad might happen to me simply because of my skin color. I have experienced incidents of racism against me.

But I suggest to you that these incidents I have experienced were just that: incidents. The system isn't stacked against me.

When I interview for a job I don't have to worry about whether I'll be denied the job because of my race, or if I'm hired that people will question my credentials. When I sat in lectures at my university and seminary I didn't have to worry that my perspective and my history weren't going to be acknowledged. I have a very distinct memory of walking down an ill-lit street in Pasadena, California one night and passing a cop car parked on the curb; as I walked by and the police officers ignored me, I thought, "Man, that might have played out differently if I was black or Latino."

I recall reading a book called Divided by Faith: Evangelical Religion and the Problem of Race in America. The main point made by authors Michael Emerson and Christian Smith that sticks with me is this: When a white person talks of racism, he or she usually means special instances of racial discrimination. When a person of color talks of racism, he or she usually means the overriding structure of society. Emerson and Smith give a powerful analogy:

"If a building is on the verge of collapse due to an inadequate design, improving the quality of the bricks without improving the design is not a solution. Evangelicals, for all their recent energy directed at dealing with race problems, are attempting to improve the bricks, even having bricks better cemented to other bricks, but they are not doing anything about the faulty structural design. If their focus continues to be only on making better bricks, their expenditure of energy will largely be in vain." (p. 130)

If we look at incidents like the death of Trayvon Martin and respond by simply calling for better background checks for gun owners or a change to castle doctrine laws, we've missed the point entirely. Everyone I know who could have kids that look like Trayvon knows what's at stake here. My hope is those whose kids don't look like Trayvon can get a vision for what's at stake as well.

I'll say one last thing: I resisted writing a post about this because so much has already been written and said that I didn't feel I had anything to add. After a conversation about the controversy with my wife yesterday, I realized that people need to keep talking about it and discussing it across social media if anything's ever going to change. This is a dialogue that needs to continue, so this is my small piece of it.

welcome to the funzone

During the Christmas season of 2008, I was part of a young church plant in Pasadena, California. We had adopted an elementary school and were planning a holiday party for a third grade class for which we had been sponsoring a Mentoring Through the Arts program. The party was set to be an elaborate production, culminating in giving each of the kids a new bike.

Now, our church had a mascot. His name is Funzone Freddy, and he is a giant yellow dog with his tongue perpetually hanging out of his mouth.

Funzone Freddy had made appearances at various events, and he was set to make a cameo at the Christmas shindig. A few different guys had taken to role, and I think at this party one of my roommates was set to don the yellow suit.

I showed up kind of early to help set up for the party. My experience with these kinds of things is that often several unexpected loose ends pop up near zero hour, so I told Alison, our kids ministry leader, and Rodney, our pastor, that I was available to do anything they needed. I came ready to blow up balloons, set up tables, make last minute runs to the grocery store, and so on.

Then, Alison received word that the man who had been tabbed to be Funzone Freddy was not going to be able to make it. Kids were already starting to trickle in with their parents. She and Rodney turned to me. I remembered my promise, sighed, and nodded.

I had never worn a mascot costume before. Let me tell you: The suit itself isn't so bad, save for the scratchy fur that funnels all heat directly in. (If you're ever lost in a snowstorm with nothing but a mascot costume, put it on - it was greatly decrease your odds of getting hypothermia.) The killer, though, is the mask. It has the same heat effect as the suit times two, plus it limits your range of vision so that anything below your nose is invisible - a limitation rendered especially brutal when you're interacting with children under four feet tall.

Anyway, as Alison was introducing the activities to the kids and having them sing songs, I was suiting up with the aid of a couple of church members. As the kids sang "Jingle Bells," I entered from the back dressed as Funzone Freddy, and the kids erupted into a raucous chorus of cheers.

I helped the band and Alison lead Christmas carols with the kids, waving my arms wildly and dancing around like a maniac. I then had the honor of helping Rodney introduce the bicycle giveaway, and had kids screaming and jumping and rushing up to hug me. In short, I was a rock star.

As the kids shuffled out of the room, I was whisked to the back by three or four people, who ripped off my mask, fanned me with papers, thrust bottle waters into both of my hands, and kept asking, "Are you OK? Are you too hot? Are you fine?" I nodded and smiled, my face beat red and my sweaty hair plastered to my forehead.

I then went out in my plain clothes and walked amongst the children. None of them had any idea who this random guy was. I felt a little sad, to be honest, but I had done my job, even if it was more than I anticipated. Who was this shy, quiet man at the party? He was just Clark Kent, taking pictures for The Daily Planet.

revelation, not revelations

As part of my youth director responsibilities, I teach Sunday School for the youth group at my church. Last Sunday we began a study of the book of Revelation, in response to the desires of some of my kids. I haven't done an in-depth book-focused study with my kids yet, so this is going to be something new.

I took a class on the book of Revelation my senior year of undergrad. It was a theology elective with Dr. Allen, a professor who likes to point out how we're all heretical on one point or another. And for this class, we had to write two major papers. However, rather than writing the papers, I and four friends instead filmed two video projects.

Our first project was called Philadelphia, Ephesus, and Laodecia [sic]: The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, and it featured us interpreting three of Paul's seven letters to churches literally in pun-filled ways. (Ex: "I will write on each of them the name of my God and the name of his city" - I write the phrases on Josh's arms and belly with a big marker.) Our second project was called The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and did what it says on the tin - we saddled up makeshift stick-horses and rode them around the campus "killing" people.

I'm going to go ahead and admit something here because we already have our degrees and Dr. Allen can't dock my grade now - we didn't really do much research for these projects. I don't mean to say that we didn't read anything or learn anything about the concepts therein. I just mean that we put a lot more effort into filming and editing and coming up with ridiculous scenarios than, say, doing the actual academic research and reflection that our classmates were. While other students were reading journal articles, we were doing this:

We put the videos up on YouTube, although the Four Horsemen are now incomplete because one (and, mysteriously, only one) was flagged for copyright infringement (music) and blocked. This really wouldn't bother me except that the computer on which these videos were saved crashed and I didn't have the files backed up. Thus, Part 2 may sadly be lost to history. (Part 1 is still going strong, with an inexplicable 3,026 views as of the last tally.)

I've wondered to myself if these videos were an academic waste of time, if we somehow "cheated" the system by getting away without writing anything. However, we were able to rally a diverse cross-section of the Howard Payne campus to participate in these things, even recruiting an entire class to pelt each other with paper balls with the professor's blessing. (Sadly, this amazing scene is in the blocked video.) We engaged with the subject matter in a new and different way, making it our own. We got our friends to actually discuss and think about the book of Revelation without getting hung up on tangental arguments about the Rapture or other topics.

And in the end, isn't that what learning is all about?

Finally, I'm going to show my kids part of the first video before our discussion this Sunday. You can't say the video isn't useful if it can be used as a teaching aid.

words that strangers put in our mouths

I was perusing a book store in San Pedro when I saw a rack of greeting cards. This wasn't anything unusual, so I gave it little thought until I noticed this one:

I thought for sure that I was a joke. I opened it up and the inside message simply said, "You're in my thoughts and prayers." Completely straight. I was baffled.

I then began looking through the other cards on the rack.

OUTSIDE:

INSIDE:

"It won't be the same this year, or next year, or the one after that because you aren't here."

OUTSIDE:

INSIDE:

"Birthdays come and birthdays go. But you're still not here. I miss you."

And so on. It was pretty depressing.

Turns out the cards are made by a company called Three Squares Greetings, "For Those Who Can't Come Home."™ At first I thought the whole concept was ridiculous. If I had friend that got arrested, I don't think I would send him or her a greeting card about it.

As I reflected, however, I appreciated the concept more. There's something artificial about greeting cards in general. There's a scene in the film (500) Days of Summer where Tom, our protagonist who works at a greeting card company, has a meltdown at his job. He's mostly venting in the wake of a brutal break-up, but in the process he delivers a scathing critique of the card industry in general: "Why do people buy these things? It's not because people want to say how they feel, people buy cards because they can't say how they feel or they're afraid to. We provide the service that lets them off the hook. [...] People should be able to say how they feel, how they really feel, not, you know, some words that some stranger put in their mouth."

It was interesting to flip through the cards for inmates because they were pretty honest - disappointment, guilt, regret, hope, stubborn devotion, worry, and so on printed out and ready to be sealed in envelopes. Families and friends of those in prison must often feel like they have no allies, like no one else could understand or empathize with their position. These cards prove otherwise.

So, I'm not totally convinced that a card saying "Sorry about the arrest" is the best way to show concern for an incarcerated loved one, but then a card saying "Happy Birthday" or "Thank You" can be a cop-out just as easily. You can't blame Three Square Greetings for trying to meet a need.

And at any rate, these cards make a lot more sense than the cards for pets I once saw at Vroman's, so that's something else to consider, I suppose.

because the world needs yet another blog post about the ninja turtles

There’s been quite the buzz surrounding the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lately, after the news broke that Michael Bay plans to reboot the franchise with another movie, only this time the turtles will be aliens from outer space. I’ve read a lot of vitriol directed toward Mr. Bay, often with the complaint, "THEY'RE NOT THE TEENAGE ALIEN NINJA TURTLES!" Granted, Michael Bay is pretty much an awful director, but it’s interesting that the franchise that most of us know and love is actually in some sense a “reboot” itself. The original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were comic book heroes that murdered and maimed for the greater good. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles I and most of my peers know and love said things like “Cowabunga!” and taught us to not do drugs. As terrible as Bay’s ideas may be, comic book purists would probably argue that the 1980s cartoon was also a travesty against the original.

Like most kids, I had no idea that the TMNT comics existed as a kid. I just liked the cartoons, the movies, the toys, and the video games. But I think the most interesting thing is that, as I try to recollect, I can’t remember a single episode of the Ninja Turtles cartoon.

Not one. Zilch. Nada.

I can remember things that happened on episodes of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers and Animaniacs and various other shows I watched as a child. But off the top of my head I don’t recall a single episode of the cartoon, and barely remember anything about the movies. (Literally the only memory I can conjure instantly from the movies: at the end of Part III, the turtles, having been transported to the past, are on the brink of death. Michelangelo makes the comment, “Hey, if we die in the past, will we still be born in the future?” I have no idea why that’s apparently the only scene that mattered to me.)

But then, TMNT was never about the show – it was about the characters. I do vividly remember racing around the Fisher Elementary playground with a group of boys pretending to be the turtles fighting the foot clan. I do instantly recollect my Ninja Turtle action figures and playing with them. I loved playing my TMNT game on my Nintendo, even though I could never make it past the stupid city level, even with the Game Genie!

So what makes the turtle characters so relatable to little boys? I suggest: The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles represent personality archetypes diverse enough to appeal to anyone.

Ridiculous? Maybe. But I was spurred to think about this after reading a commentary piece online. Actor Sean Astin has signed on to voice Raphael, and he expressed excitement, declaring that Raph was “everyone’s favorite turtle.” The interviewer, Darren Franich, was shocked - as was I when I read those words. Here’s Franich's take:

"When I was a kid, my friends were split in three very distinctive directions when it came to the Turtles: My cool friends who played sports liked Leonardo; my friends who didn’t play sports but considered themselves cool liked Michelangelo; and I liked Donatello, which now that I think about it explains everything I have ever done since childhood. Nobody liked Raphael."

My experience is basically exactly the same as the blogger. I ran in nerdy social circles, and all of us loved Donatello. My elementary best friend who was way cooler than me loved Leonardo. The goofy kid that got in trouble for acting up in class loved Michelangelo. Nobody wanted to be Raphael because Raphael is a whiner. He’s the emo kid of the bunch.

Before getting married, my wife and I did premarital counseling, and our counselor brought up a personality types theory that splits people into one of four categories. As I thought about the turtles, I made a startling discovery: each personality type corresponds to a Ninja Turtle.

Don’t believe me? Let’s try it:

There are four personality types: Blue, green, gold, and orange.

GOLD: They love to have a plan in place and want everything to be orderly and disciplined. A gold makes a schedule and sticks to it and gets frustrated when others seem to be flying by the seat of their pants. Golds tend to be leaders.

GOLD TURTLE: Leonardo. He’s the older brother of the group, the one who gets the others to follow his lead. Leo works with a plan and whips the other turtles into shape when they slack off.

GREEN: Greens need for things to make sense. They follow the rules when they seem logical, but veer off when they think they’ve discovered a better way. They can be wordy and heady, and get frustrated with illogical plans and behaviors.

GREEN TURTLE: Donatello. The techy turtle, he uses his brains to invent things and find practical solutions to the heroes’ problems. (Incidentally, I am a green.)

ORANGE: Oranges exist for fun. They live in the moment, don’t plan anything out, and get frustrated when forced to follow strict rules. Oranges are people-oriented rather than task-oriented.

ORANGE TURTLE: Michelangelo, the biggest no-brainer of the four. Here’s the life of the party, the clown of the group. Michelangelo never takes anything seriously.

BLUE: Blues are relationship-focused. They work with a plan fairly well, but if they have to choose between connecting with someone or getting something done, they’ll choose the personal connection. Blues are sentimentalists.

BLUE TURTLE: Now this is where it gets tricky. Raphael is the only turtle left, but he’s no sentimental, touchy-feely soul. However, I suggest that Raph is a blue, only he’s the negative side of being blue. Raph is a blue who feels he can’t have those connections, so it frustrates him. That’s what fuels his angst.

On that note, I suggest to you that this is why I know very few people that love Raphael. Leo, Don and Mike embody the best of their personality types, while Raph embodies the worst. Those who love Raphael, such as Sean Astin, must see past the rough exterior to the truth within.

And that’s why the identity of your favorite Ninja Turtle reveals great truths about your character and personality.

walk and gawk

Recently I saw the place where Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated. My wife and I didn't set out to visit it, we just kind of stumbled upon it.

We've been taking various walking tours around the Los Angeles area, using a book as our guide. It's been nice visiting unfamiliar areas of the city where I live and seeing new things that I didn't even realize existed. One day we did a walk around Koreatown and it ended here, at the former site of the Ambassador Hotel, where Kennedy was shot in 1968. It was odd, thinking about how chaotic that night must have been, knowing that thousands of people drive past every day, probably not realizing that this was the place where anyone was mortally wounded - much less a well-known senator and family member of a political dynasty.

It's strange to realize the historical significance of the ground beneath your feet. We also recently visited the Dominguez Rancho Adobe, nestled in the midst of a bunch of industrial complexes in Compton. This is the site of what I believe was the first major Spanish land grant in California. As we toured the museum we learned about men named Dominguez, Carson, Del Amo - names still found in the cities and streets of the South Bay. I suspect most Angelinos have no idea where these names originated.

And this is by no means a Californian phenomenon. Speaking of historical sites in the midst of industry, a nondescript park near the Washburn Tunnel in Pasadena, Texas has an ill-maintained stone marker. This is the site where Antonio de Padua María Severino López de Santa Anna y Pérez de Lebrón - better known to Texans as General Santa Anna - was captured after the Battle of San Jacinto, ending the Texas Revolution. This is a very important place in Texas - and, for the matter, US - history, yet I expect many Houstonians have no idea that it's there.

The ground upon which we walk has stories to tell. What stories wait to be found on the streets you drive and walk?

you say you want a resolution

My wife and I have been watching a show on ABC called Once Upon a Time. It's difficult to explain succinctly, but the general idea is this: There is a universe where all of the classic fairy tale characters live: Snow White, Little Red Riding Hood, Cinderella, and so on. The Evil Queen casts a spell on the fairy tale world that transports everyone to a small town in "the real world," specifically in rural Maine. All of the fairy tale characters are now regular people who don't remember their pasts.

The central premise is this: In the real world, none of the characters can have their fairy tale happy endings.

The only problem with this premise is this: So far in the series, it feels like in the fairy tale world, none of the characters can have their fairy tale happy endings.

(This is going to be spoiler-tastic so if you have any desire to watch the series and haven't started I humbly suggest you stop reading!)

Here's some examples:

- Cinderella finds and marries her prince charming, but he then disappears when she uses some magic to defeat a foe. [Episode 4: "The Price of Gold"]

- Hansel and Gretel survive encounters with a cannibalistic witch and the evil queen, but by the episode's end they are separated from their father and lost in the woods. [Episode 9: "True North"]

- The Genie gains use of a wish of his own and, once he uses it, ends up trapped inside a mirror for eternity. [Episode 11: "Fruit of the Poisonous Tree"]

- Belle has her affections for "the beast" rejected, so she then runs off and (apparently) dies. [Episode 12: "Skin Deep"]

- Grumpy the dwarf, originally named Dreamy, he receives his new name when he is denied romance with a fairy and becomes bitter toward life. [Episode 14: "Dreamy"]

- Red Riding Hood, rather than encountering the Big Bad Wolf, is revealed to actually be a werewolf who then devours her true love (while in wolf form, of course). [Episode 15: "Red-Handed"]

Meanwhile, in most (not all) cases, a tale of tragedy in the fairy tale world is mirrored with a tale of overcoming adversity to a (relatively) happy end in the real world.

Thus, at least to this point in the young series, most of the real world characters are doing better than their fairy tale counterparts.

The show is still new and lots of unresolved questions have been brought up. So far it's been twist after twist after twist with little resolution, which is kind of scary considering the creators of this show also made some other show lots of people like that featured so many twists I stopped watching about five episodes in.

The concept of fairy tale characters not realizing their happy endings is an interesting one, however. One of my favorite book quotes comes from Jack Miles in his Pulitzer-winning God: A Biography, and I'll share it completely out of context because it still fits here: "Nothing that literature contrives, after all, is so artificial as its endings. Real lives never end with artistic finality. Either they are rudely interrupted, as Ecclesiastes says, or they end in a slow fade that has none of the rounded perfection of a well-wrought last page."

In other words, we don't get to script out our happy endings. Though we have moments of triumph and delight, there's a great deal left to chance and the decisions of others. Certainty almost doesn't really exist on an existential level.

My wife and I were also discussing the other day the desire for closure. It seems like often situations in our lives just get sort of left hanging and are forgotten or pushed aside. Dreams sometimes end with a shattering crash, but often they just sort of fizzle out.

We've been frustrated with Once Upon a Time because of its general lack of resolution so far, leaving so many story lines left in these awkward and stressful moments. I think that's a fair appraisal of reality, however. In an interview, Ginnifer Goodwin (the actress who portrays Snow White/Mary Margaret) made a comment along the lines of, "We hope people look to our show as 'the real story' behind the fairy tales." Real stories are uncertain and unresolved.

Fortunately, the show is also very concerned with what happens when hope collides with hopeless situations. So far we've mostly been getting the hopeless, confusing story lines, but hopefully some welcome resolution is coming soon.