Work. Life. Balance. It is a conceit I’m told is important, a requirement for a life well lived, but at this particular juncture I’m content with being the unrepentant workaholic, the metaphorical fat kid sitting firmly on the left side of the metaphorical seesaw, and it’s a malady that runs in my blood. My old man continues to love corporate culture, 180-minute commute be damned, which leaves my four-minute roundtrip with a ways to go.
I still can’t define postmodernism–neither can the public at large, apparently–and dollars to doughnuts I bet this is precisely how the philosophy would like it. Most of my postmodernist framework was acquired from one of the most fascinating professors in college, and by acquired I mean rolling into his epic three-hour seminars fully unprepared. Derrida. Fichte. Hoelderlin. Blanchot. All staunch purveyors of texts dense with pretension and impossible sentence construction, and all of them victim to the rich tenets of unreading. This is my contribution to the movement and, roughly translated from its French roots, it calls for skimming book jackets and “participating” with ideas filched from other professors.
The reason postmodernism is top of mind these days is because Arrested Development, the current staple of my media diet, allegedly lives and breathes it. It’s easy to see why the series was short-lived, with its strange contours and oddball characters, but many of the setpieces must be consumed, especially in measured doses. And let’s not forget The Bourne Ultimatum. Now there’s a guy who knows how to handle a book and channel those subtexts deep into your face.
In my heart of vacuum cleaning hearts, tucked between cobwebs and renegade insects, sits the realization that the Dyson DC07 Animal, powerful name notwithstanding, isn’t too different from most vacuums. You’ve heard the marketing, I imagine, a futuristic landscape swept continually clean by cyclonic technology, as if some British egghead found the wherewithal to cram Mother Nature’s tornadic ass into a plastic cylinder.
The truth is the vacuum, much like Barney the Dinosaur, is heavy and purple. That’s about it. Now, I wish I could flip the switch and go all EF5 at will, but then again I’d also like to lash together a gondola made of Xboxes and sail down a river of chocolate, magic banjo firmly in hand. What in fact comes out of the Dyson is a blast of metaphorical hot air.
But the need to clean is very real. Each week is a war of attrition against the bugs that dare encroach upon my space. Sure, they might’ve been here before this structure was built, so I ask you this: who’s paying the HOA fees now? Precisely. There are your garden-variety spiders and flying terrors, and then there are your more exotic poisonous species, which are responsible for the two welts currently on my leg. It’s all part of living near wilderness, though. On one hand, you’ve got the wildlife, but on the other hand… Actually, no, I don’t think there are any benefits.
There’s a moment, right before the serve, when your surroundings are couched in a kind of inhale, and it’s fast becoming my favorite part of tennis. It happens the instant the ball leaves your hand, suspended between anticipation and commitment, bound to skim just over the net. You connect with the ball. Your form is on, the follow-through perfect, angle precise, and in the exhale–for a second or two–things lock into place. And then it’s time for breakfast, a delicious spread of fruit and yogurt and– Man, I want a steak-and-egg sandwich.
The interplay between secular and Christian media has always fascinated me, and I’m increasingly convinced the two should remain forever sundered. Would I be way off base in claiming the latter seeks to be more like the former, often with disastrous results? And I don’t know if this is a local thing–perhaps you’ve experienced it as well–but why do praise bands insist on trotting out Green Day, U2, or Chris Daughtry during service?
I thought the main point was worship, but Sunday apparently doubles as a venue for goddamn cover bands. Maybe they’re right, though, because based on the profundity of Bono’s lyrics, he could be a minor prophet, and sure, the Good Book warns against idols, but it never mentioned anything about American Idol or the rejects thereof, did it?
Or maybe they’re wrong, and it’s time to build a mental ark designed to navigate the flood of mediocrity. It’s not an impending flood, mind you. It’s already here, where Christian media is indistinguishable from the secular stuff. I’d like to be able to tell the difference.