Mark Twain said: "go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company."
For three days, I was in Hell. And I loved every minute of it.
On November 9th through the 11th, 2007, the Center For Inquiry/ New York City presented “The Secular Society and Its Enemies,” a conference which featured a veritable Who’s Who in Hell. For three days many of the world’s most brilliant minds gathered to laugh, drink and discuss the big issues in the new home of the New York Academy of Sciences, on the 40th floor of WTC Building #7.
The poetry was lost on no one as we spent the weekend discussing threats to the secular world while just out the window was history’s greatest example of a “faith based initiative.” And yet, there was very little mention of that fact. It wasn’t necessary. Even as we stood around and noshed on mini-quiche, the shadow of those two towers loomed as large as ever. Rather than putting a damper on the conference, though, it had a galvanizing effect. It showed us just how important the cause we are all fighting for is. This isn’t just an intellectual or philosophical exercise: there are real, devastating forces taking on secular society.
The first night of the conference featured honors given to Neil deGrasse Tyson (my new hero), Ann Druyan (the sweetest, most brilliant woman I’ve ever met . . . who also happens to have been married to Carl Sagan) and 17-year-old Matthew LaClair.
You may have heard about young Matthew who, last year, caught a teacher of his on tape saying in class (among other horrid things) that a student was going to go to Hell because she did not believe in Jesus. Because of Matthew, not only was his teacher exposed, but so was the larger problem in our public schools, where things like that often go unchecked. Matthew was given the James Madison Religious Liberty Award and then gave the kind of speech seventeen year olds, by all rights, should not be able to give. I’m jealous of his poise and eloquence. I’d hate him for it if he weren’t such a damned nice guy.
The evening ended with a rousing speech by Eddie Tabash that warned of “the threats of the religious right to our modern freedoms.” I believe someone referred to it as Eddie’s “scare the hell out of you” speech.
After the evening’s events were over, I went up to Ann Druyan (the first celebrity I dared approach), and told her I had just heard her on Radio Lab* and how her story of her love for Carl being sent out into the cosmos made me weep like a baby. Truly, it’s that part of science we need to stress—the beauty, the poetry of it** and the work of Ann and Carl is greatest asset we have to that end. Ann and I talked for a few minutes—she told me how much she admired me for going into teaching, said how that was the most noble thing a person could do . . . That’s a moment in time I’m keeping with me. Ann Druyan told me that what I was doing was important. I could have shat myself.
The next morning, my fellow young activists and I were put to work. Kristine and I were set up as ticket checkers at the door to the overflow room. Y’know, just in case anyone wanted to sneak into the overflow room, rather than sitting in the main room. As you can predict, ours was an important job. But, it did mean that I got to see everyone as they came in (the door to the main room was right next to the door to the overflow room). Not only did I manage to piss off Dawkins (he didn’t think it was funny when I asked to see his ticket) but I also stopped a man who’s had a fatwa issued against him from entering (sorry about that, Mr. Warraq) and I had a conversation with Alan Dershowitz about the Ten Commandments without realizing he was Alan Dershowitz.
Since we were guests of CFI (in that they paid for us, flew us out and arranged for our hostel stay) the other students and I were relegated to the overflow room. And actually, the view there, courtesy of a big projection screen, was much nicer than that enjoyed by many of the people in the main room. It was funny, too, because we all still applauded for the speakers as though they could really hear us.
Saturday morning was a series of panel discussions featuring the likes of Susan Jacoby (writer of Freethinkers, probably the best book on the history of secularism in America ever), Rebecca Goldstein (Betraying Spinoza), the poet and historian Jennifer Michael Hecht (Doubt: A History), Ann Druyan, Neil deGrasse Tyson, Victor Stenger (God: The Failed Hypothesis, a wonderful counter-apologetic work), Richard Dawkins (as seen on South Park), Michelle Goldberg (Kingdom Coming: The Rise of Christian Nationalism), Wendy Kaminer (Sleeping with Extraterrestrials which is the name of a book she wrote, not an activity that made her famous), journalist Damon Linker, and everyone’s favorite trial attorney, Eddie Tabash.
The panel discussions were each, in their own way, brilliantly fascinating and fascinatingly brilliant. Hearing very smart people disagree (at times, almost heatedly) but retain the intellectual integrity of the discussion is just awesome.
Perhaps my favorite part of Saturday morning was the panel (moderated by my hero D.J. Groethe) featuring Dawkins, deGrasse Tyson, Druyan and Stenger. The panel discussion itself was great and all, but the coolest thing about it was that during it, Paul Kurtz, the father of the modern Humanist movement and the reason all of us were there in the first place, came and sat with the rabble in the overflow room. Two seats down from me was the man who created CFI, the man whose words helped me put a label on what I believed when I had no clue what ‘Humanism’ even was. The fact that he decided that rather than sit in the front row of the main room and listen to the big headliners, he would sit with the students who couldn’t even afford to pay for their own stay in a hostel and watch it on a projection screen, told me everything I need to know about this man.
The rest of Saturday was kind of a mixed bag. Christopher Hitchens, unable to attend himself, sent a video interview, which unfortunately, was really hard to hear (at least in the overflow room). Then, there was the obligatory “Give us money” presentation, which, of course was very important, but mostly just frustrating to those of us who have no money. Luckily for CFI, those of us who don’t have money were in the minority at the conference.
The evening really picked up, though with a presentation by Peter Singer. More than anything, Singer made me feel really bad about only being a vegetarian. He was like that far away from making me feel guilty about eating vegetables.
After that, D.J. Groethe conducted an interview with Richard Dawkins (which was recorded for Point of Inquiry, one of my three favorite podcasts***). I was kind of disappointed initially—after all, I’ve heard Dawkins interviewed a whole bunch of times, but I’ve never heard him lecture. While I still would have liked to hear him lecture, the interview ended up being the best I’ve ever heard with Dawkins. He was very candid about his role in ‘the movement,’ freely admitting that his approach may not be the best. If only all of his detractors were able to hear him like that, maybe then they’d see that he’s not the arrogant monster they paint him as. Then again, probably not.
And for those of you who aren’t jealous of my weekend already, get this: Saturday night, I got to have dinner with Richard Dawkins! Yes, My Dinner with Dawkins will be an event I cherish and gloat about for the rest of my life.
Of course, it wasn’t just me and Richie—that’s what he likes to be called****-- sitting around a table chewing the fat. It was actually a few dozen of us student leaders sitting around with Richie in the backroom of a pub in the financial district, chewing the fat. He wanted to hear about our groups, what we were doing, what challenges we faced etc. He didn’t say a whole lot, except to ask a question or two (can you believe he didn’t know what a bong is?) and offer words of encouragement. Still, having Richard Dawkins’ ear for even a few minutes is a pretty damn cool thing.
On Sunday, there was a panel on the next generation of secularism in which a few of my new friends took part. Not to be all generation-centric or anything, but I’m really glad they had that panel discussion because I don’t think we can overstate the importance of this younger generation. We’re the ones who are going to keep this movement alive decades down the road. It was nice to see so many people over the weekend that understood that fact. And exciting to see how brilliant and eager that younger generation is. But there’ll be more on that in Part IV.
This conference made for one of the most amazing, intellectual stimulating and exciting weekends of my life. And, I got to be a total fan boy all weekend around people who are just as geeky as me. I mean, this was like going to a Star Trek convention and having Gene Rodenberry buy you a drink as you sit and talk to Nemoy and Shatner. Ann Druyan touched me! Her thoughts are in space (literally) and she freakin’ touched me!
Thanks to this weekend, I can die happily. And, if it turns out we’re all wrong and there really is a Hell, at least I can look forward to great company.
*For those of you who aren’t familiar with Radio Lab, let me just tell you: It is the BEST thing on NPR since This American Life. Please, do yourselves a favor and check it out at http://www.radiolab.org/
**As Dawkins wonderfully describes it, saying that the utilitarian view of science is what is important is like saying that music is good because it exercises the violinist’s right arm.
***See the first footnote for the other two of my three favorite podcasts.
****No, no he doesn’t. Don’t tell him I said that he did. And if you’re reading this, I’m very sorry Professor Dawkins, sir.
20 November 2007
19 November 2007
Heathens Take Manhattan: Part II: New York, New York
While I enjoyed spending time in New York City, I didn't fall in love with it the way I did with Paris. Part of that might be that I didn't get to see a whole lot of the city. Didn't make it to Magnolia Bakery for a cupcake, didn't see the Statue of Liberty, didn't get to see Spider-Man web-slinging his way through the streets. Part of it, too, might be the fact that I speak the language there, and that always takes away a bit of the charm . . . When I was in Paris, if someone had said, "Hey, you're not allowed back to Michigan, you're going to have to stay here," I would've smiled, ordered a celebratory crème brulee and then made arrangements to have my cat mailed to me. While I liked visiting New York, I wasn't quite ready to move there.
Some people fall head-over-heels for NYC. And while I can see why they would, it just didn't happen to me. If I had found one in a shop, I would have bought a t-shirt that said: "I Like But Am Not Sure I'm Ready To Commit To NY." Paris was love at first sight, NYC was someone I'd like to date for a while and see what develops.
That being said, there's no other place like NYC.
Times Square was awesome. I just love being in a place where people are actually fighting to get theatre tickets. And there are literally dozens of shows to choose from. I happened to see "The Drowsy Chaperone" on the night before Broadway virtually shut down because of the stage hand's strike. There's no way I can describe "The Drowsy Chaperone" without it sounding really lame (including the fact that Bob Saget was headlining) so I won't even try, except to say that I had a blast. And there was a song about a monkey-- which was worth the price of admission alone.
I love the restaurants in New York, too. There was a choice of vegetarian restaurants within walking distance of the hostel I was staying in. In Grand Rapids, I have to create my own burrito in order to have something on the menu that I can eat; in New York there were options . . . loads and loads of options. We went to a vegetarian pizza place called 'Cafe Viva' a couple of times. The food there was brilliant. As were the spinach and feta croissants from the little bagel shop across the street which was run by an adorably brusk group of people of indeterminate ethnic background.
While we didn't get to spend nearly enough time at either, we did manage to hit the MoMA (which I'm told stands for "Museum of something something") and the Natural History Museum.
The MoMA had a special exhibition of George Seurat sketches and paintings. And while they were really cool to see, it did mean that I had "Sunday in the Park with George" stuck in my head for the rest of the day. They also happen to have Andy Warhol's soup cans, Van Gogh's Starry Night and a whole shit load of other stuff you've seen on posters in college dorms and young hipster's apartments. There was one Jackson Pollock painting that I've seen reproduced a number of times, but until I was right up next to it, I had no idea that beneath the paint is a whole mess of thumb tacks, keys, cigarettes and other folderol. So cool. One of the highlights for me, though, has got to be the series of photos that Edward Muybridge took of a horse running. These photos (cool as they are in and of themselves) and the technological advances Muybridge had to make to take them, were a major step on the road to the creation of movies. What can I say? I'm a big dork.
Natural History Museum is one place where I definitely need to spend more time next time I'm in NYC. What a treasure trove that place is. I mean, narwhal skeletons hang from the ceiling. Freaking narwhals! And we didn't even get to check out the Hayden Planetarium which almost certainly would have made me squeal with delight.
The hostel we stayed in was nice. We were on the fifth floor with no elevator. The beds were uncomfortable, the room was balmy, there was an almost complete lack of functioning electrical outlets and the pillows were about as thick and fluffy as my stomach is tanned and muscled. Having never lived in a dorm or been in the military, I couldn't say how the experience of sharing a room with eleven other co-ed virtual strangers and only one bathroom compares, but I imagine there are more similarities than there are differences. And yet, it wasn't bad. Kind of neat, actually. Now, had I been staying there another few days or had the bed above mine been occupied (yeah extra pillow) my memories of it might not have been quite so pleasant, but I mostly had a good time in the hostel.
I feel like I've done 'city' now. Like going to the top of the Eiffel Tower, city-ing is one more thing I can check off my list of things to do before I die.
NYC is the paragon of city-ness and now that I've done it, every other city will just be a pale imitation. I love Chicago, but it doesn't have the same level of city-ness. It's a nice try-- still leagues ahead of Grand Rapids-- but it lacks that singular experience of "I'm in the city" that New York has to offer. I'm a little disappointed, actually, I feel like I peaked too early . . . I haven't done Vegas or L.A. or, I don't know, St. Louis or Seattle*. Not that I expect to be disappointed by those places now, I'm just saying that for whatever else they have to offer, they won't be able to compete in their level of city-ness.
New York has got 'city' covered. Try as they might, no one else is ever going to be able to compete.
*Cities outside North America don't really count-- their city-ness is entirely different. They aren't all aspiring to be New York City, they seem content to just be what they are.
Some people fall head-over-heels for NYC. And while I can see why they would, it just didn't happen to me. If I had found one in a shop, I would have bought a t-shirt that said: "I Like But Am Not Sure I'm Ready To Commit To NY." Paris was love at first sight, NYC was someone I'd like to date for a while and see what develops.
That being said, there's no other place like NYC.
Times Square was awesome. I just love being in a place where people are actually fighting to get theatre tickets. And there are literally dozens of shows to choose from. I happened to see "The Drowsy Chaperone" on the night before Broadway virtually shut down because of the stage hand's strike. There's no way I can describe "The Drowsy Chaperone" without it sounding really lame (including the fact that Bob Saget was headlining) so I won't even try, except to say that I had a blast. And there was a song about a monkey-- which was worth the price of admission alone.
I love the restaurants in New York, too. There was a choice of vegetarian restaurants within walking distance of the hostel I was staying in. In Grand Rapids, I have to create my own burrito in order to have something on the menu that I can eat; in New York there were options . . . loads and loads of options. We went to a vegetarian pizza place called 'Cafe Viva' a couple of times. The food there was brilliant. As were the spinach and feta croissants from the little bagel shop across the street which was run by an adorably brusk group of people of indeterminate ethnic background.
While we didn't get to spend nearly enough time at either, we did manage to hit the MoMA (which I'm told stands for "Museum of something something") and the Natural History Museum.
The MoMA had a special exhibition of George Seurat sketches and paintings. And while they were really cool to see, it did mean that I had "Sunday in the Park with George" stuck in my head for the rest of the day. They also happen to have Andy Warhol's soup cans, Van Gogh's Starry Night and a whole shit load of other stuff you've seen on posters in college dorms and young hipster's apartments. There was one Jackson Pollock painting that I've seen reproduced a number of times, but until I was right up next to it, I had no idea that beneath the paint is a whole mess of thumb tacks, keys, cigarettes and other folderol. So cool. One of the highlights for me, though, has got to be the series of photos that Edward Muybridge took of a horse running. These photos (cool as they are in and of themselves) and the technological advances Muybridge had to make to take them, were a major step on the road to the creation of movies. What can I say? I'm a big dork.
Natural History Museum is one place where I definitely need to spend more time next time I'm in NYC. What a treasure trove that place is. I mean, narwhal skeletons hang from the ceiling. Freaking narwhals! And we didn't even get to check out the Hayden Planetarium which almost certainly would have made me squeal with delight.
The hostel we stayed in was nice. We were on the fifth floor with no elevator. The beds were uncomfortable, the room was balmy, there was an almost complete lack of functioning electrical outlets and the pillows were about as thick and fluffy as my stomach is tanned and muscled. Having never lived in a dorm or been in the military, I couldn't say how the experience of sharing a room with eleven other co-ed virtual strangers and only one bathroom compares, but I imagine there are more similarities than there are differences. And yet, it wasn't bad. Kind of neat, actually. Now, had I been staying there another few days or had the bed above mine been occupied (yeah extra pillow) my memories of it might not have been quite so pleasant, but I mostly had a good time in the hostel.
I feel like I've done 'city' now. Like going to the top of the Eiffel Tower, city-ing is one more thing I can check off my list of things to do before I die.
NYC is the paragon of city-ness and now that I've done it, every other city will just be a pale imitation. I love Chicago, but it doesn't have the same level of city-ness. It's a nice try-- still leagues ahead of Grand Rapids-- but it lacks that singular experience of "I'm in the city" that New York has to offer. I'm a little disappointed, actually, I feel like I peaked too early . . . I haven't done Vegas or L.A. or, I don't know, St. Louis or Seattle*. Not that I expect to be disappointed by those places now, I'm just saying that for whatever else they have to offer, they won't be able to compete in their level of city-ness.
New York has got 'city' covered. Try as they might, no one else is ever going to be able to compete.
*Cities outside North America don't really count-- their city-ness is entirely different. They aren't all aspiring to be New York City, they seem content to just be what they are.
02 November 2007
Mistaken Identity
"I saw someone who looks just like you!"
Apparently, I'm the least original looking person on the planet. About once a week, someone will tell me that they saw someone who looks just like me somewhere (you'd think with that kind of universality I'd be able to get more modeling jobs . . . ).
For instance, there was the guy who used to frequent the gay bar who wore a monocle, a cape and carried a walking stick and looked just like me according to several of my friends.
Then there was the guy that Catie spotted walking down the street in Easttown, who, even though he looked just like me she knew he wasn't me because he did not walk with my elegance. Seriously. That's what she told me. If that particular doppelganger lacks my level of grace it's hard to believe he's even able to stand upright.
And there was the high school senior, according to Amy, who looked just like me that was recently crowned Homecoming King. Clearly, much like my own spot on Grand Rapids Christian High's homecoming court lo those many years ago, if this poor bastard does look just like me, his coronation was the end result of a cruel prank perpetrated upon him by a large portion of the all-hating student body*.
Most disturbingly is my double in Ohio whom Rose spotted shushing a child while sitting in a Catholic mass.
With my likeness being so horribly abused, do you suppose I could sue for defamation of character?
"You remind me of . . . "
Maybe this is something that happens to everyone (I don't know, I've only ever been the one person) but it seems like people are always telling me what celebrities they think I look like.
Just this last Wednesday at the bar I was told by one person that I look like Will Ferrell and by another that I look like "James Dean . . . if he were, like, a dad." Huh? Oh, and as a bonus, one guy told me I sound like Nicholas Cage.
Some other great comparisons that I've heard are Errol Flynn (because we both had goatees at one time!) and Ryan Reynolds, one of the titular guys from TV's Two Guys, a Girl and a Pizza Place. And while I both appreciate the artistic and cultural significance of Two Guys, a Girl and a Pizza Place and agree that, in fact, Ryan Reynolds is an attractive fella, one must acknowledge that only one suffering from Magoo like myopia could ever compare me to this.
Oh, and have you noticed how none of the people I'm compared to look anything like each other? Apparently, I'm like Martin Sheen who looks exactly like Charlie Sheen and Emilio Estevez even though the two of them look nothing alike.
What is your hair?
With increasing frequency, people have been referring to me as a redhead lately. Don't get me wrong, I love redheads and I take no offense at being called a redhead except that I DON'T HAVE RED HAIR! I even kind of wish I did, but I don't! So why in hell do people call me a redhead? Even other redheads have included me when referring to "us redheads." Really, I'm flattered but you're bringing down the redhead movement by trying to induct me. I can only hurt the cause.
Also in hair related news, an older gentleman at the bar the other night told me that I had gorgeous hair. I know that doesn't really fit with the whole mistaken identity theme I'm working with, but frankly, I was flattered and I wanted to share it with you anyway.
*Of course, there's always the possibility that, in fact, he was voted into the office of king (which, for the first time I'm realizing is exceptionally ironic) because he's a good person and people like him because of his work ethic and sparkling personality. Then again, we are talking about a high school so the cruel prank theory holds more water.
Apparently, I'm the least original looking person on the planet. About once a week, someone will tell me that they saw someone who looks just like me somewhere (you'd think with that kind of universality I'd be able to get more modeling jobs . . . ).
For instance, there was the guy who used to frequent the gay bar who wore a monocle, a cape and carried a walking stick and looked just like me according to several of my friends.
Then there was the guy that Catie spotted walking down the street in Easttown, who, even though he looked just like me she knew he wasn't me because he did not walk with my elegance. Seriously. That's what she told me. If that particular doppelganger lacks my level of grace it's hard to believe he's even able to stand upright.
And there was the high school senior, according to Amy, who looked just like me that was recently crowned Homecoming King. Clearly, much like my own spot on Grand Rapids Christian High's homecoming court lo those many years ago, if this poor bastard does look just like me, his coronation was the end result of a cruel prank perpetrated upon him by a large portion of the all-hating student body*.
Most disturbingly is my double in Ohio whom Rose spotted shushing a child while sitting in a Catholic mass.
With my likeness being so horribly abused, do you suppose I could sue for defamation of character?
"You remind me of . . . "
Maybe this is something that happens to everyone (I don't know, I've only ever been the one person) but it seems like people are always telling me what celebrities they think I look like.
Just this last Wednesday at the bar I was told by one person that I look like Will Ferrell and by another that I look like "James Dean . . . if he were, like, a dad." Huh? Oh, and as a bonus, one guy told me I sound like Nicholas Cage.
Some other great comparisons that I've heard are Errol Flynn (because we both had goatees at one time!) and Ryan Reynolds, one of the titular guys from TV's Two Guys, a Girl and a Pizza Place. And while I both appreciate the artistic and cultural significance of Two Guys, a Girl and a Pizza Place and agree that, in fact, Ryan Reynolds is an attractive fella, one must acknowledge that only one suffering from Magoo like myopia could ever compare me to this.
Oh, and have you noticed how none of the people I'm compared to look anything like each other? Apparently, I'm like Martin Sheen who looks exactly like Charlie Sheen and Emilio Estevez even though the two of them look nothing alike.
What is your hair?
With increasing frequency, people have been referring to me as a redhead lately. Don't get me wrong, I love redheads and I take no offense at being called a redhead except that I DON'T HAVE RED HAIR! I even kind of wish I did, but I don't! So why in hell do people call me a redhead? Even other redheads have included me when referring to "us redheads." Really, I'm flattered but you're bringing down the redhead movement by trying to induct me. I can only hurt the cause.
Also in hair related news, an older gentleman at the bar the other night told me that I had gorgeous hair. I know that doesn't really fit with the whole mistaken identity theme I'm working with, but frankly, I was flattered and I wanted to share it with you anyway.
*Of course, there's always the possibility that, in fact, he was voted into the office of king (which, for the first time I'm realizing is exceptionally ironic) because he's a good person and people like him because of his work ethic and sparkling personality. Then again, we are talking about a high school so the cruel prank theory holds more water.
28 October 2007
Big Apple Beware!
Because the Center for Inquiry is completely awesome, they're sending me to New York City for the weekend of November 8th through the 11th to attend a big, huge, ridiculously amazing conference.
I've never been to New York City before, so I was wondering if those of you who have spent time in NYC could give me some pointers. The conference is in building seven of the World Trade Center and the hostel that they're putting me up in is, I'm told, pretty near there so I guess Lower Manhattan is going to be where I'll be spending most of my time.
Any 'can't miss' sites that you can direct me to? I mean, I want to do some of the typical touristy stuff (see the Statue of Liberty, maybe catch a Broadway show, buy a prostitute in a green dress and talk to her all night, go to Time's Square and yell "Yatta!," get mugged etc.) but I'd also like to do some not-so-typical touristy stuff (hit bars where famous people died, visit cool cemeteries, buy used books etc.).
Please pass along your advice and suggestions (either email me or post it as a comment), I'd greatly appreciate it. And if you have any friends in NYC who might be interested in showing me the town, feel free to put me in touch with them too.
I've never been to New York City before, so I was wondering if those of you who have spent time in NYC could give me some pointers. The conference is in building seven of the World Trade Center and the hostel that they're putting me up in is, I'm told, pretty near there so I guess Lower Manhattan is going to be where I'll be spending most of my time.
Any 'can't miss' sites that you can direct me to? I mean, I want to do some of the typical touristy stuff (see the Statue of Liberty, maybe catch a Broadway show, buy a prostitute in a green dress and talk to her all night, go to Time's Square and yell "Yatta!," get mugged etc.) but I'd also like to do some not-so-typical touristy stuff (hit bars where famous people died, visit cool cemeteries, buy used books etc.).
Please pass along your advice and suggestions (either email me or post it as a comment), I'd greatly appreciate it. And if you have any friends in NYC who might be interested in showing me the town, feel free to put me in touch with them too.
14 October 2007
Bathtubs
I remember the exact moment I became an Atheist. Most people don't have that-- that single moment of conversion. A lot of Christians do, the "born agains" all do. Most of them will happily recount for you the exact moment in time when they were "saved."
I met a guy at the mall one time-- an older guy named Charles. Charles took it upon himself to proselytize to me, even though I had probably logged in more hours in the church than he had. I was a student a Grand Rapids Christian High who had been forced to go to church twice each Sunday since birth*. I also went to Sunday school each week and was forced (until my protests grew too loud for my parents to bother fighting against) to take part in weekly Cadets** meetings. There was little Charles, a new convert to the wonderful world of Jesus, could tell me about "the good news" that hadn't already heard a dozen or so times.
Luckily, Charles wasn't from one of those churches were they stress "theology" and "thinking," oh no, he was from one of those "feeling" churches. Which, suffice it to say, as a member of the Christian Reformed Church, I was not well versed in.
He told me about the day he was "saved": One day, Charles recounted, he was in the bathtub and all of a sudden he got a warm sensation (no, really, that's what he told me), he felt like everything in the room was glowing. It was the Holy Spirit and Charles knew-- he just knew-- that it was the Holy Spirit and that he had just been saved. Charles then relented from whatever unspecified sinful ways he had been indulging in and opened a Yamaha shop. I remember that he clarified that it was bikes, and not keyboards or keyboards and not bikes, but for the life of me, I can't remember which.
After sharing his story, Charles asked if I were saved. Stupid, stupid me said: "I guess so." Charles and his Holy Spirit don't 'guess.' You know you are saved or you know you're damned. So Charles decided that because I couldn't specify the date, time and tub in which I was saved, I needed to be prayed for. Right there in the mall. The middle of the mall. At closing time. The security guards were making the rounds as the employees locked up their stores and the last few customers filtered out.
Had this been the middle of the day with more people around, it would have been less of a spectacle, but since there were very few other people milling about we were the main event. As Charles laid his hands on me and prayed with his head tossed back (the better to reach god with, I guess), the empty mall became one giant echo chamber for Charles' efforts to save me. He fervently prayed for my soul, that I might "know the sweet love of you, dear Jesus and take in your spirit to transform [my] life" for all the employees of Woodland mall to hear.
Of course, at the time, I was a Christian. Y'know, except for the part where I had serious doubts about the authenticity of the Bible and didn't really think of God as anything but something to yell at when life sucked, I still considered myself a Christian. This was during my "I just don't like organized religion" phase. Which means I still went to church, but I didn't like it. If I could find Charles again, I could really give him something to pray about now.
A few years before I met Charles, I had my own conversion experience: my siblings and I were gathered in our basement as our father berated us for some awful sin or another. Perhaps we had said we'd rather watch "The Simpsons" than go to Youth Group-- something terrible like that. Already by this time, Dad had become less threatening to us and more ridiculous. Especially when he was trying to be righteous. This was around the same time that he started watching videos which blamed the Jews for the terrible state our country was in and when he had our house declared "The Church of the Second Chance" so he wouldn't have to pay property tax. Being the smart kids that we were, that whole 'honor thy father' thing was getting pretty tricky.
Anyway, he was pointing out some speck in our eyes while ignoring the Viking long ships in his own when he pointed up at the ceiling and said "the big man upstairs isn't going to be very happy with you."
My older brother (always the quickest wit in the group) replied, "There's a guy upstairs? What, is he taking a bath or something?"
My father didn't find it very funny. His sense of humor had been killed off by years of hate and impotence. But my siblings and I loved it. We embraced the idea of a mysterious and uninvited figure hanging out in our bathroom. We named him Bathtub Jeff.
We would caution each other not to incur the wrath of Bathtub Jeff. I always pictured him as a fat bald man, (with blue skin for some reason) scrubbing his back with a toilet brush and just barely able to cram himself into our tub. I imagined him yelling at us from the bathroom to "Knock that off!" as he struggled in vain to get himself out of the tub, displaced water sloshing over the side. But, of course, Bathtub Jeff couldn't get himself out of the tub. He kept slipping back into it, getting more frustrated until finally he'd stop his struggling and exhaustedly settle back into the tub, muttering something about those "damned kids downstairs."
The moment Bathtub Jeff was born was the moment I became an Atheist. It'd be the better part of a decade before I'd admit it (even to myself) but the creation of Bathtub Jeff is what planted that seed. Something clicked in that moment and suddenly the notion of "the big man upstairs" was silly. It was absurd to think that there was this bloated being, looking down on us with disapproval but unable to do anything about it. Bathtub or no bathtub.
Maybe Charles and my bathtub related conversions (him to and me from) are karma's way of keeping balance. Maybe that's just Nature's way of making sure everything stays in tune . . . Or maybe an old man made a tinkle while taking a bath and he misinterpreted it as a divine intervention. I guess we'll never know.
*Actually, when we were little my twin sister and I didn't have to go to night church and instead would stay home watching "Charles in Charge." I think it's safe to say that I learned at least as much from "Charles in Charge" as I would have in church.
**The Cadets, for those of you not from the Christian Reformed Church, is like the Boy Scouts for Calvinists. We didn't just have to earn merit badges; we were predestined to earn them.
I met a guy at the mall one time-- an older guy named Charles. Charles took it upon himself to proselytize to me, even though I had probably logged in more hours in the church than he had. I was a student a Grand Rapids Christian High who had been forced to go to church twice each Sunday since birth*. I also went to Sunday school each week and was forced (until my protests grew too loud for my parents to bother fighting against) to take part in weekly Cadets** meetings. There was little Charles, a new convert to the wonderful world of Jesus, could tell me about "the good news" that hadn't already heard a dozen or so times.
Luckily, Charles wasn't from one of those churches were they stress "theology" and "thinking," oh no, he was from one of those "feeling" churches. Which, suffice it to say, as a member of the Christian Reformed Church, I was not well versed in.
He told me about the day he was "saved": One day, Charles recounted, he was in the bathtub and all of a sudden he got a warm sensation (no, really, that's what he told me), he felt like everything in the room was glowing. It was the Holy Spirit and Charles knew-- he just knew-- that it was the Holy Spirit and that he had just been saved. Charles then relented from whatever unspecified sinful ways he had been indulging in and opened a Yamaha shop. I remember that he clarified that it was bikes, and not keyboards or keyboards and not bikes, but for the life of me, I can't remember which.
After sharing his story, Charles asked if I were saved. Stupid, stupid me said: "I guess so." Charles and his Holy Spirit don't 'guess.' You know you are saved or you know you're damned. So Charles decided that because I couldn't specify the date, time and tub in which I was saved, I needed to be prayed for. Right there in the mall. The middle of the mall. At closing time. The security guards were making the rounds as the employees locked up their stores and the last few customers filtered out.
Had this been the middle of the day with more people around, it would have been less of a spectacle, but since there were very few other people milling about we were the main event. As Charles laid his hands on me and prayed with his head tossed back (the better to reach god with, I guess), the empty mall became one giant echo chamber for Charles' efforts to save me. He fervently prayed for my soul, that I might "know the sweet love of you, dear Jesus and take in your spirit to transform [my] life" for all the employees of Woodland mall to hear.
Of course, at the time, I was a Christian. Y'know, except for the part where I had serious doubts about the authenticity of the Bible and didn't really think of God as anything but something to yell at when life sucked, I still considered myself a Christian. This was during my "I just don't like organized religion" phase. Which means I still went to church, but I didn't like it. If I could find Charles again, I could really give him something to pray about now.
A few years before I met Charles, I had my own conversion experience: my siblings and I were gathered in our basement as our father berated us for some awful sin or another. Perhaps we had said we'd rather watch "The Simpsons" than go to Youth Group-- something terrible like that. Already by this time, Dad had become less threatening to us and more ridiculous. Especially when he was trying to be righteous. This was around the same time that he started watching videos which blamed the Jews for the terrible state our country was in and when he had our house declared "The Church of the Second Chance" so he wouldn't have to pay property tax. Being the smart kids that we were, that whole 'honor thy father' thing was getting pretty tricky.
Anyway, he was pointing out some speck in our eyes while ignoring the Viking long ships in his own when he pointed up at the ceiling and said "the big man upstairs isn't going to be very happy with you."
My older brother (always the quickest wit in the group) replied, "There's a guy upstairs? What, is he taking a bath or something?"
My father didn't find it very funny. His sense of humor had been killed off by years of hate and impotence. But my siblings and I loved it. We embraced the idea of a mysterious and uninvited figure hanging out in our bathroom. We named him Bathtub Jeff.
We would caution each other not to incur the wrath of Bathtub Jeff. I always pictured him as a fat bald man, (with blue skin for some reason) scrubbing his back with a toilet brush and just barely able to cram himself into our tub. I imagined him yelling at us from the bathroom to "Knock that off!" as he struggled in vain to get himself out of the tub, displaced water sloshing over the side. But, of course, Bathtub Jeff couldn't get himself out of the tub. He kept slipping back into it, getting more frustrated until finally he'd stop his struggling and exhaustedly settle back into the tub, muttering something about those "damned kids downstairs."
The moment Bathtub Jeff was born was the moment I became an Atheist. It'd be the better part of a decade before I'd admit it (even to myself) but the creation of Bathtub Jeff is what planted that seed. Something clicked in that moment and suddenly the notion of "the big man upstairs" was silly. It was absurd to think that there was this bloated being, looking down on us with disapproval but unable to do anything about it. Bathtub or no bathtub.
Maybe Charles and my bathtub related conversions (him to and me from) are karma's way of keeping balance. Maybe that's just Nature's way of making sure everything stays in tune . . . Or maybe an old man made a tinkle while taking a bath and he misinterpreted it as a divine intervention. I guess we'll never know.
*Actually, when we were little my twin sister and I didn't have to go to night church and instead would stay home watching "Charles in Charge." I think it's safe to say that I learned at least as much from "Charles in Charge" as I would have in church.
**The Cadets, for those of you not from the Christian Reformed Church, is like the Boy Scouts for Calvinists. We didn't just have to earn merit badges; we were predestined to earn them.
13 October 2007
Archiving
I have sorely neglected this blog. But then again, so have you. I think we both have to share the responsibility for my failure.
In an attempt to rectify that, I am posting most* of my old MySpace blogs to this site and will be using Bathtub Jeff as my primary blogging destination from here on out.
Enjoy the archives and look for more new material coming some day other than today.
~DF
*except the non-irrelevant material, such as my classic review of Star Wars: Episode One ("Seriously, what's the deal with Jar Jar? And why the CGI Yoda? He's standing behind a desk, for crying out loud, that's what Muppets were made for!") and the like.
In an attempt to rectify that, I am posting most* of my old MySpace blogs to this site and will be using Bathtub Jeff as my primary blogging destination from here on out.
Enjoy the archives and look for more new material coming some day other than today.
~DF
*except the non-irrelevant material, such as my classic review of Star Wars: Episode One ("Seriously, what's the deal with Jar Jar? And why the CGI Yoda? He's standing behind a desk, for crying out loud, that's what Muppets were made for!") and the like.
21 September 2007
Archive: Bitch!
The show started fifteen minutes ago. I'm sitting in the box office, but we are no longer open for ticket sales because, again, the show started fifteen minutes ago.
A woman walks in. She comes up to the window.
"Can I help?" I say.
"I need to get in," she says.
"Do you have a ticket?"
"No, I need to buy one.""I'm sorry, but the box office is closed for the evening."
"You won't sell me a ticket?""No, I can't. The box office is closed down.""There are empty seats in there?""Yes.""And you won't let me go in?" "Well no, the box office is closed, I cannot sell you a ticket.""Well then I'm just going to go in." She leaves the box office and starts heading toward the door into the house. I hop up and cut her off.
"M'am, you don't have a ticket, you can't go in.""You're being ridiculous. I'm ten minutes late and you won't let me in?""No, m'am, the show started fifteen minutes ago, I can't sell you a ticket and you can't go in without a ticket. We have another show tomorrow, you could come back then." "My children are in there, I'm going in. I can either give you twelve dollars or I can just walk in, those are you options."
'How the fuck did she become the one in the position of power?' I think to myself, 'This is not how it works. You show up fifteen minutes late-- that does not entitle you to a free seat! And I'll be damned if I take your twelve dollars because in your head then I'll have kept the money and I refuse to have you think I'm as much of an asshole as you are!'
"That's not really how it works--" I begin to explain."You're being ridiculous.""Okay, no, I'm not. This is how it works. It's not ridiculous, it's business. We are closed, therefore I can't sell you anything. Everyone else in there showed up on time and paid for their tickets--" "I'm going in."At this point, I wanted to push this five foot nothing woman to the ground and say "NO! GODDAMNIT! YOU ARE NOT IN CHARGE HERE! You are rude and mean and I hope your children hate you! If you had asked nicely, I would have let you in right away and that would have been it, but you fucking DEMANDED it as your fucking RIGHT as a fifteen minute late ASSHOLE to get to see (most of) the show for FREE! If I could, I would slap your parents for teaching you that you are somehow special and entitled to equally special treatment when you arrive late and act rude! Not only are you not special, you are an awful human being and I hope that ill befalls you! And because you are a rude and mean lady, no one will be there for you and your funeral will be more sparsely attended than Willy Lohman's!"
In a desperate struggle to assert some power I say, "Fine, you can go in, but understand that we would not normally allow this." We both know it's a futile gesture, my pretending like I'm the one letting her go in. She walks past me the way I imagine she would drive past a pile of roadkill that she herself ran over a week prior-- she's vaguely disgusted by it, but still proud to have been the killer.
I stood there for a moment, feeling as powerless as a eunuch in a whorehouse. How the hell did that just happen? Who the hell was that woman? And was I being ridiculous? I have often in the past let people into the theatre without tickets after the box office closed WHEN THEY ASKED NICELY. Hell, it didn't even really have to be all that nicely, they just had to ask. This woman told me: "I'm going in and that's that."
Was it ridiculous of me to put up a fight? Well, sure, probably. Was I on a power trip? Yeah . . . I guess. But really: Can you blame me?* I mean, what a bitch!
*Yes, yes you can.**
**But seriously, have you ever heard of anything quite so bitchy before in your life?
I didn't think so.
A woman walks in. She comes up to the window.
"Can I help?" I say.
"I need to get in," she says.
"Do you have a ticket?"
"No, I need to buy one.""I'm sorry, but the box office is closed for the evening."
"You won't sell me a ticket?""No, I can't. The box office is closed down.""There are empty seats in there?""Yes.""And you won't let me go in?" "Well no, the box office is closed, I cannot sell you a ticket.""Well then I'm just going to go in." She leaves the box office and starts heading toward the door into the house. I hop up and cut her off.
"M'am, you don't have a ticket, you can't go in.""You're being ridiculous. I'm ten minutes late and you won't let me in?""No, m'am, the show started fifteen minutes ago, I can't sell you a ticket and you can't go in without a ticket. We have another show tomorrow, you could come back then." "My children are in there, I'm going in. I can either give you twelve dollars or I can just walk in, those are you options."
'How the fuck did she become the one in the position of power?' I think to myself, 'This is not how it works. You show up fifteen minutes late-- that does not entitle you to a free seat! And I'll be damned if I take your twelve dollars because in your head then I'll have kept the money and I refuse to have you think I'm as much of an asshole as you are!'
"That's not really how it works--" I begin to explain."You're being ridiculous.""Okay, no, I'm not. This is how it works. It's not ridiculous, it's business. We are closed, therefore I can't sell you anything. Everyone else in there showed up on time and paid for their tickets--" "I'm going in."At this point, I wanted to push this five foot nothing woman to the ground and say "NO! GODDAMNIT! YOU ARE NOT IN CHARGE HERE! You are rude and mean and I hope your children hate you! If you had asked nicely, I would have let you in right away and that would have been it, but you fucking DEMANDED it as your fucking RIGHT as a fifteen minute late ASSHOLE to get to see (most of) the show for FREE! If I could, I would slap your parents for teaching you that you are somehow special and entitled to equally special treatment when you arrive late and act rude! Not only are you not special, you are an awful human being and I hope that ill befalls you! And because you are a rude and mean lady, no one will be there for you and your funeral will be more sparsely attended than Willy Lohman's!"
In a desperate struggle to assert some power I say, "Fine, you can go in, but understand that we would not normally allow this." We both know it's a futile gesture, my pretending like I'm the one letting her go in. She walks past me the way I imagine she would drive past a pile of roadkill that she herself ran over a week prior-- she's vaguely disgusted by it, but still proud to have been the killer.
I stood there for a moment, feeling as powerless as a eunuch in a whorehouse. How the hell did that just happen? Who the hell was that woman? And was I being ridiculous? I have often in the past let people into the theatre without tickets after the box office closed WHEN THEY ASKED NICELY. Hell, it didn't even really have to be all that nicely, they just had to ask. This woman told me: "I'm going in and that's that."
Was it ridiculous of me to put up a fight? Well, sure, probably. Was I on a power trip? Yeah . . . I guess. But really: Can you blame me?* I mean, what a bitch!
*Yes, yes you can.**
**But seriously, have you ever heard of anything quite so bitchy before in your life?
I didn't think so.
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