YouTube, once shining conduit for copyrighted media, has caved under the iron fist of Google, its lush corridors sanitized to the point where movie collages woven together by the Fray–please give me a moment to conjure a little pre-vomit–have become the most deviant commodity. But the Internet is unforgiving, and the online highway can only take so much Papa Roach spliced with The Matrix before correcting itself.
Say you want the latest episode of The Office. Oh, you plan on purchasing the DVD’s with real money when they’re released, but for now you want a little taste. You could consume the lame 30-second promo clips on YouTube, in which case you probably also enjoy ordering at McDonald’s, licking the burger wrapper, and then giving up, or you could settle for nothing less than the real thing.
For you media connoisseurs who answered with a resounding “yes,” even though I’ve yet to pose a question, you should know there are alternatives. There shall be no media drought. Drink, and be ye furnished.
The “one” in Charlotte ONE, I discovered, actually stands for the total number of times I’m attending. The idea sounds great on paper, of course, and after discussing why I do and do not crave church community, one of my co-workers painted the event in broad strokes.
“There’s music, fellowship–” and then she bottom-lined it “–really hot girls.”
I’m glad I went, tried something new for a change, but the truth is “girls” described a good cut of the audience, many of whom were probably worrying about how best to prepare for that Intro to Macro midterm or something. The program itself felt geared toward college and, even though there were older 20-somethings to meet, that was the reason I vanished.
The band began well enough, but kicked into high emo gear within minutes when the lead singer, wracked by a kind of suburban passion, promptly delved into tortured introspection about sin and shortcoming, freely tossing out dark nouns such as “distress” before segueing to the speaker proper who, jokes aside, proffered more of the same.
“Shits, tits, I’m awesome, take a hit,” I jotted down on my welcome card.
These are the four cardinal sins reveled in this type of fellowship, where vulgarity, lust, pride, and drugs rotate under a ridiculous shower of warnings most dire. It’s a preoccupation with being bad, being oh so bad, but this is college, people, not a boarding platform for a nunnery.
I’m not throwing in the towel yet, though. It’s on to the next hotspot. I need to get to the bottom of this community thing.
Here, in the deep folds of the Bible Belt, Sunday morning is preordained in its scheduling, the outline of which essentially resembles church, and missing a service can inspire anything from a brief twinge of regret to genuine distress. Merely attending church isn’t enough, however, because invariably there’s a push to delve deeper into the community, make lifelong friendships, fellowship, and possibly engage in some real bake sale type shit.
I understand the appeal, on one hand, yet on the other hand–this would be the gnarled, misanthropic hand–I don’t get small groups and church community. I chalk this up to an abnormally high capacity, maybe preference, for solitude. Add to this a contentment with the people I’ve already met, along with the belief that vulnerability is a devalued currency in church circles–too quickly demanded, too easily minted, too freely circulated–and you have the beginnings of what would’ve made a good Salem witch trial, hangings and all.
But I also believe in fallibility, that I may be completely wrong about this, and to this end I’m going to check out small group tomorrow. I’m set on having an open mind, a good time, and, barring these things, a good escape route.