Thursday, August 27, 2009 :::
Even if you park your car like so, divine the perfect seat just out of the pastor's eyeline, and wear your Sunday best, the road through church can still wend its way to Awkwardville, province of strained and ungainly social interactions. That's exactly where I found myself last weekend.
Service had concluded, bookending a solid message on diversity, and I was hurtling down a hallway at optimal escape velocity, when out of the corner of my eye I spied a fellow rapidly step out from behind his informational table.
"Hi there!" he exclaimed, all friendly-like. "Is this your first time here?"
The alarms had started blaring already, and I prepared for the worst. Second time, I told him.
"Well, there's actually an international Bible study starting right now," he said, gesturing down the hall, "and you can probably make it if you hurry."
I played it dumb.
"International? How do you mean? Like--"
"Oh, there are Filipinos!" he explained, "And-- And all different kinds."
Certainly I understood his intentions were noble and came from a good place, and I happen to search for people from the Philippines anyway on Sunday mornings, but I had to put the kibosh on this.
"Do you..." I trailed off, grasping for the right way to express this. "Do you have anything more, uh, mainstream?"
Meaning, in Secondhand parlance, a circle of white folks studying the Word of God. Then things got weird, so I mumbled something about needing to go to Petsmart. Or something?
Look, it's likely I made it onto this guy's prayer list. But at the time I mainly had the book of Exodus--to my car, specifically--on my mind, and even if I had gone to the international Bible study, well, you can imagine how well I'd function. I initially felt guilty about my reaction, since it seemed at odds with the sermon that had been delivered minutes earlier. Really, though, how diverse is it to congregate with people who look like you? I just don't feel the draw to cluster. But to be one in a hundred? I can work with those proportions.
Posted by Ben at 11:55 PM
Tuesday, August 25, 2009 :::
The art of escaping a church building isn't particularly well documented. It's a feat dulled by routine, a once elegant act of departure made pliant, no doubt, by centuries of censorial pressure, and so I thought I'd commit to Internet paper tonight the steps I take to leave places of worship. It all begins outside, on the pavement.
You have to realize it's not just you who's congregating. Your car is also gathered with other vehicles outside, all pew-like and probably just as drowsy as you are, and it's critical you're situated near the correct parking lot exit. Ideally you'll only need to make right turns to hit the main road. You'll also want to avoid three- and four-way intersections, because most people are hella polite immediately after a service, when even normally douchebaggy motorists become uncannily patient and gracious.
As far as where to park yourself inside the sanctuary, good ol' classroom rules apply, especially if nodding off--and caring about nodding off--is your thing. Think of the hot zone, or the area that draws the most visual contact from center stage, as a sideways "8," about two to three rows thick in the front and back, thinner on the sides, which places your ideal spot somewhere closer to the rear, two seats in from the side.
I was going to mention what exactly you should do with any smoke grenades or pulleys you may possess, but that's more pertinent to leaving early. Like, during the sermon, right between points one and two. What we've discussed is the basic plan and, come Thursday, I'll tell you how it was slightly derailed this past Sunday.
Posted by Ben at 11:26 PM
Thursday, August 20, 2009 :::
It's insidious, really, the way formal education slyly asserts itself in my mind as something to be desired, despite all the protests I've lodged against it. Even my old man's PhD, replete with all his dire warnings to never pursue one myself, boasts a certain mystique. I've been thinking about additional schooling recently, brainpan brimming with different scenarios, and when I stilled myself, let the pieces settle, it was clear I was addressing two simple questions: why I would want another degree and what precisely it would bear.
I don't like school. Nostalgia's supposed to equip me with rose-tinted shades, I guess, but when I think back to undergrad, specifically the framework of undergrad, I'm left instead with a rose-tinted magnifying glass. I remember asking a professor, one scholarly afternoon, why we couldn't simply summarize the key ideas of the class curriculum and then, you know, move onward to parts unknown. She scoffed, chuckling as she told me that wasn't how things worked. Previously I had viewed the ivory tower as a collective endeavor, an engine to further the body of knowledge.
Too idealistic, apparently. Now it strikes me as something entirely different, with the sundry pieces--from tenure to donation solicitations to eye-gouging book buyback prices--clicking eerily into place to reveal a fiendish enterprise built upon never-ending attempts at answering and re-answering unanswerable questions.
Perhaps I'm overextending myself here. Obviously that breakthrough cure or that revolutionary new invention will likely come from the tower, but beyond the more tangible output, what exactly is there? For an MBA, I learned today, connections and business skills, though I'm convinced I can procure those through alternate channels. All that's truly left, then, is the pedigree, and with it the potential for a fatter paycheck. And when it comes down to this, ponying up $100k for the promise of future returns treads a fine wire between wise investment and the beginnings of a Ponzi scheme.
Posted by Ben at 11:11 PM
Tuesday, August 18, 2009 :::
An amendment, if I may, to my earlier portrayal of dog shelters, where I basically likened them to prisons. Certainly there are parallels insofar as both have inmates, long rows of cells, and ample fencing. But the gen pop in the kennels is, by and large, truly innocent. They honestly didn't do it. They were simply in the wrong place, wrong time, and were it not for an ill turn of fortune, matters would've been different, better, with a real home in the picture. Really, then, the shelter is more like an orphanage. With cages. Another amendment may be forthcoming. Be on the lookout.
Two weekends ago, on a Saturday morning at an ungodly hour, I visited the local Humane Society and left empty-handed, resolved that I would do this thing right. I was far from disappointed, though: 90 solid minutes were clocked into the shelter, pre-approval for adoption was in the bag, and I had resisted any impulsive decisions. Every kennel had been canvassed, a short list devised, narrowed down with input from the staff, and then they trotted out the recommended dog. We just didn't click.
I wasn't going to force it because, as much as I may seem to be planning this whole endeavor, that first step will still ride on what my gut tells me. The planning is for the road thereafter. I'm trying to strike a balance between the intuitive and the deliberate. I'll be going again this weekend. Clean slate, no expectations on the one hand, and on the other hand, a realization that choosing a dog would be a decade-long commitment, if not longer. She's got to be property vetted. You see what I did there.
Posted by Ben at 11:43 PM
Tuesday, August 11, 2009 :::
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, August 18.
Posted by Ben at 12:57 PM
Thursday, August 06, 2009 :::
You'll recall how I put Martin Luther to shame when I affixed my 96 Theses to the proverbial door a few weeks back, laying out in stark detail the conditions required for me to show up at church on Sunday mornings. Since then, I've gone a few more times, which in itself qualifies as an antediluvian miracle in my mind, and I've also come to realize part of why it's so difficult for me to attend.
It's certainly not the prescriptive aspect that bothers me. I'm fallible, know I need some serious work, and it's strangely comforting--renewing, even--to sit in the sanctuary on the seventh day and be reminded of the shoulds. It's like a weekly petri dish, really, where people gather under the microscope, with the dark crevices of existence magnified for review. It's also like a petri dish because somebody invariably coughs into the back of your head, plus there's usually a compulsory round of handshaking at the beginning of service, but that's a separate matter altogether.
The roadblock for me is community. I've mentioned this before, many times, and to give it some color I wrestle with the fellow enthusiastically describing the upcoming church picnic or women's breakfast. I wrestle with the musical duet on stage, two faces perennially enraptured with yet another song that narrowly escaped from easy listening hell. I wrestle with the couple in the supermarket checkout line discussing Romans chapter such and such at a volume just loud enough to invite participation from nearby eavesdroppers.
Not literally wrestling, of course, because, hey, they seem content enough. It's more of a fear, almost: if I get in too deep, take too much of this to heart, will I be like them? Am I supposed to want to be like them? Sounds terrible, I know, and imperious to boot. But this is where I am and, make no mistake, I plan on returning this weekend. Last week's sermon was a compelling interpretation of communion, of all things, and the post-service trip to Chipotle was engineered as a kind of psychological reward. I've also identified two skills I'll need to acquire to function in this environment, tools that will allow be to blend--be at the table, you might say, but not of it.
Posted by Ben at 11:46 PM
Tuesday, August 04, 2009 :::
Lately, whenever I'm not jamming login credentials into Blogger, I've been making a new stop on my daily trips down the Information Superhighway: Petfinder.com. Back in February, I visited a shelter and decided against adopting a dog, so overwhelmed was I by choice, never mind the inevitable financial and mental cost. Now, having had a few months to marinate on the matter, I'm back on the scene, scanning--let's be honest here--mug shots of the canine gen pop in the Charlotte-metro area.
I know what I want. Nothing's changed on this front. Got to be a rescue. Medium energy. Large. Must not be yappy. After growing up with a Cocker Spaniel and, more recently, spending time with my sister's new Pomeranian, the verdict is simple. Small, barkey dogs, in veterinary parlance, drive me fucking insane.
And I'll need every shred of sanity because this won't be easy. I know the effort demanded. When I look in a kennel, any feelings tied to the moment quickly evaporate in the face of all the attendant responsibilities: the initial cost, the shots, housebreaking, trips to the vet, doggie shampoo, early mornings, wrenching end-of-life care. Instead of carpe diem, what unfolds in my mind is per diem, really.
But I believe this is one of those situations where I can mull over four dozen reasons not to act, when all I really need is the one right reason to do so. Even now, I can picture all the corners of my townhouse being christened with dog leavings and a corresponding decrease in property value, but guess what? The housing market already took a shit on every square inch of it, and it's going to be a while before better days arrive. I may as well pony up and enjoy the situation at hand.
Posted by Ben at 11:47 PM
