I'm a model. No really, I am. I model. In photographs and stuff. Seriously. Try to suspend your disbelief long enough to enjoy the rest of this blog.
A few weeks back I got a call from a friend of mine who's a casting director/ my default agent. She gets me gigs every so often and they usually pay really well with very little work involved. She tells me that she's got a modeling job and the client (that's jargon for 'person what's doling out the moneys') specifically asked for me. Me. They wanted me to be their model.
I had worked for this particular client before so when they asked for me, I was really flattered. Clearly they liked me-- or liked working with me. Either that or they really liked my look. They thought I was good looking-- the kind of face they want representing their company. How awesome is that? I'll tell you how awesome: it's way awesome.
No one has requested me before. No one has specifically asked for me to be their model.
It took me a few days to get over the initially weirdness of that. I mean, let's face it, that's weird. I'm not exactly commercially attractive if attractive at all. At least I didn't think so. But then, with this call, I start to think: "Maybe I'm not as ugly as my mother always told me I was . . . maybe I'm actually a breath-takingly attractive person and just have never known it because of all the shame and self-doubt that was instilled in me from a young age. HOLY SHIT! I'm one of those really hot girls who sincerely doesn't know she's hot and walks around wondering why guys are looking at her!" This blew my mind. It's a total sea change for me. As it turns out, after all these years I really am good looking enough to be a furniture model! Next stop: Sears catalogue!
So I've fairly well convinced myself that I'm a gorgeous man-- wanted by women and furniture companies alike. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but this little bit of affirmation really made a difference for me . . . I started seeing myself differently. I'd look in the mirror in the days leading up the photo shoot and think "my face is largely symmetrical" and "man, I'd kill for eyelashes like those-- oh wait! Those are mine!"
It was pretty pitiful, really. But worry not, dear reader, because our story doesn't end there.
I get to the photo shoot and I'm feeling like hot shit. Sure, I'm pasty, gangly and doughy but about 65%* of me is convinced that it doesn't matter: I'm still a sexy beast. I meet the client, the photographer and all the other folks involved** and as they're picking out my outfit from the ridiculously huge array of clothing I brought along with me (and as usual, even though I brought everything I own, I didn't have what they wanted***) they explained to me what the shoot was for. . . .
Y'see, they're marketing an ergonomic desk that adjusts to fit people of radically different heights. I was to be the representative of tallness. Yes, they hired me, they wanted me purely because I'm a freak. The girl in the shoot with me was over a foot shorter than me-- the two of us were used to illustrate the extremes of human freakishness. 'She's tiny and adorable, he's a massive beast.'
After showcasing the desk for most of the day, we ended by doing a series of photos that would impress upon the viewer the ridiculousness of my size. These photos were things like me crouching way down to look her in the eye or me standing upright and her peaking around the side of me with an impish grin (the subtext being "He's so big I can entirely hide behind him and yet that desk accommodates us both!")
The best part is that during the shoot I was, at multiple times, referred to as 'Shrek.' And I wasn't even wearing green.
Dave the gorgeous model: 0
Dave the ogre model: 1
*though that may not seem exceptionally high, compared to the 17% of me that normally finds me attractive, it's quite a step up.
**turns out, it takes like seven people to create a good picture of me
***How 'bout next time you know what you want me to wear you just freakin' tell me and I'll bring it? It'd save us all a lot of trouble.
15 May 2007
12 April 2007
So it goes.
This morning's news of the death of Kurt Vonnegut was a doubly tragic for me. You see, for the last several years I had been living under the impression that Vonnegut was already dead. So to find out that I had been falsely living in a Vonnegut-less world all this time only to find that now, in fact, I am living in a Vonnegut-less world was pretty brutal.
I thought, in tribute to the man, I'd post some of my favorite quotes from the late Mr. Vonnegut.
"I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center."
"If you can do a half-assed job of anything, you're a one-eyed man in a kingdom of the blind."
"A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved."
"We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be."
"Say what you will about the sweet miracle of unquestioning faith, I consider a capacity for it terrifying and absolutely vile!"
"Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why."
So it goes.
I thought, in tribute to the man, I'd post some of my favorite quotes from the late Mr. Vonnegut.
"I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center."
"If you can do a half-assed job of anything, you're a one-eyed man in a kingdom of the blind."
"A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved."
"We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be."
"Say what you will about the sweet miracle of unquestioning faith, I consider a capacity for it terrifying and absolutely vile!"
"Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why."
So it goes.
03 April 2007
Notes from a House Manager
I feel bad that I haven't had time to post a new blog in a long while . . . and I still don't. So instead, I thought I'd post one of my old blogs (from Myspace) because I re-read it and thought it was funny. Damn I amuse me.
For the past week, I've been working in the box office and house managing sold out performances of "Menopause: The Musical." Yes, it's as much fun as it sounds. And before you ask, no, I can't get you tickets, five thousand eight hundred and fifty some menopausal women already beat you to them.
As I've been dealing with the hot flashing hordes I've been compiling a list of things that, if not for the loss of my job or potential law suits, I would love to be able to say to my patrons. Here is a partial list, feel free to add your own:
1. The floor of the theater is not an acceptable place to leave your used Kleenex. You do realize that someone has to pick that up, right? Someone that doesn't already have your germs nor any desire to receive them? The same goes for lozenge wrappers too, but at least those aren't usually filled with boogies.
2. If you bought your tickets three weeks after the tickets went on sale, chances are you're not going to get great seats. So when you can't see everything on stage remember: I didn't block the show, I didn't design the set, I wasn't the one on stage hiding outside of your field of vision and I sure as hell wasn't the one who waited too long to order your tickets.
3. Sad puppy dog eyes will not make additional seats and/or performances magically appear. Nor will name dropping or flabbergasted ejaculations ('Wow. Sold out? Wow. Gee. Wow.'). I feel bad that there aren't any tickets left for you, really, I do . . . insofar as I dislike having to deal with you when you're trying to get tickets I don't have to sell you.
4. It is unacceptable that while cleaning up the theatre at the end of the night I should find a belt slung over a seat. Seriously, what is that about? Lost keys? Sure. Glasses? All the time. But a belt?! How did that come off during the show and furthermore, didn't you notice when you got up at the end that your pants were falling down? Leave no belts behind.
5. If you are told you are not allowed to bring food or beverages into the auditorium don't try to sneak it in. What are you, five?! Also "I'll just keep it in my purse" is a goddamn lie. You know it, I know it and the guy picking up your half finished Diet Coke and Snickers' wrapper sure as hell knows it.
6. I know you've been told all your life that you are special; that you are a unique person who deserves to be treated as such. It's not true. You are just another face in the crowd. You are cattle. Do not expect me to accommodate you at the expense of the other 400-some people in the room. You're too hot? Take off a belt or something. You're too cold? Put your belt back on. You don't like your seat? How about I just ask the people who bought their tickets in a timely manner to move so that Princess You can have her choice of seats?
7. Once the show is over you have a very important job: Get yourselves the hell out of the building as quickly as possible. It's not a difficult task, but it is very important. You see, I've been here far longer than you have and I haven't had the luxury of getting drunk before coming in like you have so I want to leave and I can't do that until you do. When I turn off lights in the lobby that does not mean I'm trying to give you mood lighting, it's actually just the lights' way of saying 'I'm sick of looking at you.'
8. I welcome all constructive criticism you have for the production. I will listen to what you have to say, and then pass it along to the production stage manager who will promptly file it in the "there's not a thing I can do about it nor is there any real impetuous for me to try" file.
9. If you call on Tuesday and don't purchase tickets, I will not remember you when you call again on Saturday. This is also true even if you did purchase tickets on Tuesday. I take over a hundred phone calls a day, all either from people whom I can't hear very well because they have lousy cell phones or people who can't hear me very well because they are so old that the only form of electronic communication they should be allowed to use is Life Alert. Therefore, unless you have a funny last name there is little chance I will be able to distinguish your call from the huddled masses of phone calls I get. See number 6.
10. Just because I don't know how to spell your crazy ass Polish surname when placing your order for tickets does not mean that I also don't know how to spell your first name of "Kathleen." I cannot tell you how many people spelled out "K-A-T-H-L-E-E-N" for me. I'm not an idiot. Normal names spoken clearly into the phone, I can do. Why do those of you with complicated names or street names figure I'll be able to sort it out while Kathleen Smith on Wood Ave needs to meticulously spell it out letter by letter? Oh, and while I'm at it, why is the area code the part of the phone number people give out the slowest? "Six. One. Six. nineeighttwofivesixfour." Geezus, people.
Thank you. Now it's time for me to turn off the lights.
For the past week, I've been working in the box office and house managing sold out performances of "Menopause: The Musical." Yes, it's as much fun as it sounds. And before you ask, no, I can't get you tickets, five thousand eight hundred and fifty some menopausal women already beat you to them.
As I've been dealing with the hot flashing hordes I've been compiling a list of things that, if not for the loss of my job or potential law suits, I would love to be able to say to my patrons. Here is a partial list, feel free to add your own:
1. The floor of the theater is not an acceptable place to leave your used Kleenex. You do realize that someone has to pick that up, right? Someone that doesn't already have your germs nor any desire to receive them? The same goes for lozenge wrappers too, but at least those aren't usually filled with boogies.
2. If you bought your tickets three weeks after the tickets went on sale, chances are you're not going to get great seats. So when you can't see everything on stage remember: I didn't block the show, I didn't design the set, I wasn't the one on stage hiding outside of your field of vision and I sure as hell wasn't the one who waited too long to order your tickets.
3. Sad puppy dog eyes will not make additional seats and/or performances magically appear. Nor will name dropping or flabbergasted ejaculations ('Wow. Sold out? Wow. Gee. Wow.'). I feel bad that there aren't any tickets left for you, really, I do . . . insofar as I dislike having to deal with you when you're trying to get tickets I don't have to sell you.
4. It is unacceptable that while cleaning up the theatre at the end of the night I should find a belt slung over a seat. Seriously, what is that about? Lost keys? Sure. Glasses? All the time. But a belt?! How did that come off during the show and furthermore, didn't you notice when you got up at the end that your pants were falling down? Leave no belts behind.
5. If you are told you are not allowed to bring food or beverages into the auditorium don't try to sneak it in. What are you, five?! Also "I'll just keep it in my purse" is a goddamn lie. You know it, I know it and the guy picking up your half finished Diet Coke and Snickers' wrapper sure as hell knows it.
6. I know you've been told all your life that you are special; that you are a unique person who deserves to be treated as such. It's not true. You are just another face in the crowd. You are cattle. Do not expect me to accommodate you at the expense of the other 400-some people in the room. You're too hot? Take off a belt or something. You're too cold? Put your belt back on. You don't like your seat? How about I just ask the people who bought their tickets in a timely manner to move so that Princess You can have her choice of seats?
7. Once the show is over you have a very important job: Get yourselves the hell out of the building as quickly as possible. It's not a difficult task, but it is very important. You see, I've been here far longer than you have and I haven't had the luxury of getting drunk before coming in like you have so I want to leave and I can't do that until you do. When I turn off lights in the lobby that does not mean I'm trying to give you mood lighting, it's actually just the lights' way of saying 'I'm sick of looking at you.'
8. I welcome all constructive criticism you have for the production. I will listen to what you have to say, and then pass it along to the production stage manager who will promptly file it in the "there's not a thing I can do about it nor is there any real impetuous for me to try" file.
9. If you call on Tuesday and don't purchase tickets, I will not remember you when you call again on Saturday. This is also true even if you did purchase tickets on Tuesday. I take over a hundred phone calls a day, all either from people whom I can't hear very well because they have lousy cell phones or people who can't hear me very well because they are so old that the only form of electronic communication they should be allowed to use is Life Alert. Therefore, unless you have a funny last name there is little chance I will be able to distinguish your call from the huddled masses of phone calls I get. See number 6.
10. Just because I don't know how to spell your crazy ass Polish surname when placing your order for tickets does not mean that I also don't know how to spell your first name of "Kathleen." I cannot tell you how many people spelled out "K-A-T-H-L-E-E-N" for me. I'm not an idiot. Normal names spoken clearly into the phone, I can do. Why do those of you with complicated names or street names figure I'll be able to sort it out while Kathleen Smith on Wood Ave needs to meticulously spell it out letter by letter? Oh, and while I'm at it, why is the area code the part of the phone number people give out the slowest? "Six. One. Six. nineeighttwofivesixfour." Geezus, people.
Thank you. Now it's time for me to turn off the lights.
02 April 2007
Archive: The Video Store Strikes Back!
In August of last year I posted a blog about how I didn't get a job at a video store because I'm not a Nazis. Alright, maybe that's not entirely fair: I actually didn't get the job because I don't LOOK like a Nazis (they would have hired me no matter my feelings on fascism so long as I looked like I hated freedom). If you haven't read that blog do check it out, it's a classic.
So this weekend I went back to the video store, not to apply for a job, but to rent movies. I hadn't been there for a while because I haven't had time to watch a movie in ages and, frankly, because in the age of Netflix video stores are largely unnecessary relics-- fossils from an age best forgotten. Y'know, like churches.
Anyhow, what did I see behind the counter at Nazis Video? Oh, dear reader, I'm almost afraid to say, lest my revelation cause fainting amongst the delicate womenfolk. But, alas, I feel compelled, fainting spells notwithstanding, to reveal the hard, disturbing truth. Steel yourselves.
Behind the counter at the video store was (drum roll) . . . A GUY WITH A BEARD! Now granted, he had that gross-ish chin strap beard and wasn't rocking the full-on hobo look that I've got going, but still, he undeniably had facial hair!
Can you imagine the amount of business that place is losing by having employees with hair on their faces? Man, I guess I'm glad now that I don't work there, they'll be bankrupt in a matter of days!
Parents were shielding their children's faces from the beard as they quickly fled the store . . . young women were turned into whores at the sight of the beard . . . even I, manly though I may be, felt a flood of regurgitated food in my throat when I imagined having to hand money to the bearded monster behind the counter.
What is this world coming to when men are allowed to give into their baser animal selves and grow hair upon their chins? And more importantly, what type of store would employ such a monster?
So this weekend I went back to the video store, not to apply for a job, but to rent movies. I hadn't been there for a while because I haven't had time to watch a movie in ages and, frankly, because in the age of Netflix video stores are largely unnecessary relics-- fossils from an age best forgotten. Y'know, like churches.
Anyhow, what did I see behind the counter at Nazis Video? Oh, dear reader, I'm almost afraid to say, lest my revelation cause fainting amongst the delicate womenfolk. But, alas, I feel compelled, fainting spells notwithstanding, to reveal the hard, disturbing truth. Steel yourselves.
Behind the counter at the video store was (drum roll) . . . A GUY WITH A BEARD! Now granted, he had that gross-ish chin strap beard and wasn't rocking the full-on hobo look that I've got going, but still, he undeniably had facial hair!
Can you imagine the amount of business that place is losing by having employees with hair on their faces? Man, I guess I'm glad now that I don't work there, they'll be bankrupt in a matter of days!
Parents were shielding their children's faces from the beard as they quickly fled the store . . . young women were turned into whores at the sight of the beard . . . even I, manly though I may be, felt a flood of regurgitated food in my throat when I imagined having to hand money to the bearded monster behind the counter.
What is this world coming to when men are allowed to give into their baser animal selves and grow hair upon their chins? And more importantly, what type of store would employ such a monster?
29 March 2007
Archive: Mean and Honest
This afternoon I received the following message from a classmate of mine:
Hey Dave! I know this is fairly random, but I am writing a paper on the misconceptions and stances of Pro Choice and Pro Life organizations. As a fighting Pro Choice believer, I was hoping you could write me up a brief somethin somethin explaining how you view members of Pro Life and the Pro Life organization in general. If you could do that I would really appreciate it and it would add some awsome spice to my paper. Thank you so much! Hope to hear from ya soon.
I responded:
When do you need it and how much do you need?
Moments later, I received this message:
As much as you care to give me and as soon as you can get it to me :) Basically I am showing how both sides are misrepresented by the other side and by society. How Pro Choice are labled as baby killers and Pro Life are labled as bible thumpers. So be as mean as you want, just give me your honest opinion about the Pro Life organization :)P.S. THANK YOU SOOOOO MUCH!!
Do you see the same problem that I did? Look closer.
Yeah, there it is: she's asking me to be an example of how "my side" misrepresents the other side. Yeah . . . Perhaps she's just tipping her hand too much or maybe she thinks I'm even more of a rabble rouser than I really am, in either case, I'm not loving the scenario. I love too that she wants me to be as mean as I want but give my honest opinion, the underlying assumption being that my honest opinion will be mean.
Take a look at the response I offered her and let me know what you think:
I am Pro Choice. I believe in a woman's right to choose when she wants to have a baby. I believe that denying women that choice is unfair and unconstitutional. That being said, I am pro life in a very literal sense.
I am all for life. I hope everyone lives for as long and as happily as possible without infringing on anyone else's right to do the same. The semantic issue raised by the term "Pro Life" is one of my biggest problems with the "Pro Life" camp-- because it implies that the opposition is "Anti-Life" or "Pro Death." I'm not Pro Death. I'm not even Pro Abortion. I wish there were no need for abortions and that only people that wanted to and were ready to have children would get pregnant. I also wish George Bush were a gas station attendant instead of the president and that I owned the patent on a cheap, renewable energy source but that doesn't make it true. The simple fact is not everyone who finds themselves pregnant is in a position to provide for a child (and no, adoption is not a suitable solution. Don't believe me? Check out the statistics on the number of children up for adoption and the number of children actually being adopted). So, I support a woman's right to choose (should she become pregnant) whether or not she wants to carry the pregnancy to term. I also support a man or a woman's right to choose to have anything removed from his or her body that he or she is not prepared to support for 18 years.
I view the opposing side in the abortion argument not as "Pro Life" but as "Anti-Choice" and I disagree with their argument. But, I don't think they're crazy. Certainly the Anti-Choice camp has its zealots, like abortion clinic bombers and people who murder doctors (killing someone to show them how much you hate killing somehow doesn't seem like the sanest tactic) but that's the fringe element. Most of the opponents of a woman's right to choose are very good people-- which may be more credit than many of them would give to us Pro Choicers. Then again, maybe not.
The argument comes down to a fundamental disagreement over what constitutes human life. Ultimately, I think they have their science wrong. A collection of cells does not equal a human. A fetus is not a baby. A zygote is not a baby. I believe life is that precious little time between birth and death and I believe it's that period of time we should be focusing on. The Anti Choice camp seems much more interested in the period between fertilization (and an hour or so before) and extraction. My biggest criticism of them is simply that their goal seems to be to bring every pregnancy to term with little regard as to what happens next.
I truly applaud the "Pro Life" movement, though, for acting on their convictions. If they believe that a zygote is a human life then it would be shameful of them not to try to preserve it. I disagree with their definition of human life, but I agree with them about its importance. To me, though, seeing that each human has as happy a life as possible is far more important than just making sure every pregnancy ends with a birth. It's a question of quality of lives versus quantity of lives. For me, quality will always win.
Hey Dave! I know this is fairly random, but I am writing a paper on the misconceptions and stances of Pro Choice and Pro Life organizations. As a fighting Pro Choice believer, I was hoping you could write me up a brief somethin somethin explaining how you view members of Pro Life and the Pro Life organization in general. If you could do that I would really appreciate it and it would add some awsome spice to my paper. Thank you so much! Hope to hear from ya soon.
I responded:
When do you need it and how much do you need?
Moments later, I received this message:
As much as you care to give me and as soon as you can get it to me :) Basically I am showing how both sides are misrepresented by the other side and by society. How Pro Choice are labled as baby killers and Pro Life are labled as bible thumpers. So be as mean as you want, just give me your honest opinion about the Pro Life organization :)P.S. THANK YOU SOOOOO MUCH!!
Do you see the same problem that I did? Look closer.
Yeah, there it is: she's asking me to be an example of how "my side" misrepresents the other side. Yeah . . . Perhaps she's just tipping her hand too much or maybe she thinks I'm even more of a rabble rouser than I really am, in either case, I'm not loving the scenario. I love too that she wants me to be as mean as I want but give my honest opinion, the underlying assumption being that my honest opinion will be mean.
Take a look at the response I offered her and let me know what you think:
I am Pro Choice. I believe in a woman's right to choose when she wants to have a baby. I believe that denying women that choice is unfair and unconstitutional. That being said, I am pro life in a very literal sense.
I am all for life. I hope everyone lives for as long and as happily as possible without infringing on anyone else's right to do the same. The semantic issue raised by the term "Pro Life" is one of my biggest problems with the "Pro Life" camp-- because it implies that the opposition is "Anti-Life" or "Pro Death." I'm not Pro Death. I'm not even Pro Abortion. I wish there were no need for abortions and that only people that wanted to and were ready to have children would get pregnant. I also wish George Bush were a gas station attendant instead of the president and that I owned the patent on a cheap, renewable energy source but that doesn't make it true. The simple fact is not everyone who finds themselves pregnant is in a position to provide for a child (and no, adoption is not a suitable solution. Don't believe me? Check out the statistics on the number of children up for adoption and the number of children actually being adopted). So, I support a woman's right to choose (should she become pregnant) whether or not she wants to carry the pregnancy to term. I also support a man or a woman's right to choose to have anything removed from his or her body that he or she is not prepared to support for 18 years.
I view the opposing side in the abortion argument not as "Pro Life" but as "Anti-Choice" and I disagree with their argument. But, I don't think they're crazy. Certainly the Anti-Choice camp has its zealots, like abortion clinic bombers and people who murder doctors (killing someone to show them how much you hate killing somehow doesn't seem like the sanest tactic) but that's the fringe element. Most of the opponents of a woman's right to choose are very good people-- which may be more credit than many of them would give to us Pro Choicers. Then again, maybe not.
The argument comes down to a fundamental disagreement over what constitutes human life. Ultimately, I think they have their science wrong. A collection of cells does not equal a human. A fetus is not a baby. A zygote is not a baby. I believe life is that precious little time between birth and death and I believe it's that period of time we should be focusing on. The Anti Choice camp seems much more interested in the period between fertilization (and an hour or so before) and extraction. My biggest criticism of them is simply that their goal seems to be to bring every pregnancy to term with little regard as to what happens next.
I truly applaud the "Pro Life" movement, though, for acting on their convictions. If they believe that a zygote is a human life then it would be shameful of them not to try to preserve it. I disagree with their definition of human life, but I agree with them about its importance. To me, though, seeing that each human has as happy a life as possible is far more important than just making sure every pregnancy ends with a birth. It's a question of quality of lives versus quantity of lives. For me, quality will always win.
08 March 2007
Archive: May I be struck by lightning
One week ago, my school was struck by lightning. It happened just hours after I had taken a theology midterm, which has lead me to one of two possible conclusions: a) the building was struck by lightning because it's tall and has a lightening rod or 2) there is a god and I upset it with my theology midterm.
If the latter is correct, we learn one of two things about said deity: a) its aim is off-- the lightning stuck the Academic Building (yes, THE Academic Building, we only have the one) whilst I sat in the box office of the Performing Arts Center and marveled at the pretty, pretty lights and several minute long thunder roll that followed or 2) its timing is off-- the lightning struck several hours after I had completed my midterm, thus failing in its attempt to stop me.
This remarkable event proves, I dare say, even more effectively than Darwinian evolution or Einsteinian relativity could, that either the universe is controlled by physical laws that conform to reason and empirical evidence or it is controlled by an impotent magic man in the sky with bad aim or lousy timing.
I leave it to you, dear reader, to decide which is the more likely of the two hypothesis.
Oh, and ever since the lightning strike, the phones have been wonky campus wide. If god did it, clearly he hates land lines . . . or possibly it is a Protestant god lashing out at this damnable Catholic college by denying them phone service for a week. Again, I leave it to you to decide.
If the latter is correct, we learn one of two things about said deity: a) its aim is off-- the lightning stuck the Academic Building (yes, THE Academic Building, we only have the one) whilst I sat in the box office of the Performing Arts Center and marveled at the pretty, pretty lights and several minute long thunder roll that followed or 2) its timing is off-- the lightning struck several hours after I had completed my midterm, thus failing in its attempt to stop me.
This remarkable event proves, I dare say, even more effectively than Darwinian evolution or Einsteinian relativity could, that either the universe is controlled by physical laws that conform to reason and empirical evidence or it is controlled by an impotent magic man in the sky with bad aim or lousy timing.
I leave it to you, dear reader, to decide which is the more likely of the two hypothesis.
Oh, and ever since the lightning strike, the phones have been wonky campus wide. If god did it, clearly he hates land lines . . . or possibly it is a Protestant god lashing out at this damnable Catholic college by denying them phone service for a week. Again, I leave it to you to decide.
22 February 2007
Archive: Hey, there's something on your forehead.
I don't know if I've mentioned this before or not, but I am not religious. No, really, it's true. I don't subscribe to any religious creeds, I don't believe in any gods, goddesses or other supernatural hoodoo.
I was, however, raised in the Christian Reformed Church, sent through Christian schooling from preschool to high school and now I attend a Catholic college. Grand Rapids, Michigan, where I was born and raised, is to the Christian Reformed Church what Vatican City is to the Catholic Church . . . except without the guards in silly pumpkin pants.
I am no stranger to the doings of religious folk. I actually find that I know the bible a great deal better than many people who believe that it's the word of their god. Now, my knowledge of other world religions is considerably less than it is for Christianity . . . point of fact, I'm pretty clueless when it comes to eastern religions and would never claim to have anything but the coarsest of understandings of Islam (I do, however, know that Mormonism is not a world religion but a cult and one in which its members wear magical underwear, but that's an issue for another blog) BUT, I do feel that I have a pretty good understanding of Christian rites and rituals.
That being said, can anyone explain to me what the flying fuck is up with Ash Wednesday?!
In my Prot upbringing Lent wasn't so big of a deal. Mostly it meant all the old ladies at church would wear a lot more purple for a month or so and my dad's bakery would make a killing on Fat Tuesday. I know some Prots do the ash thing, but it wasn't a big part of my experience.
The Catholics, it seems, go ga-ga over this bizarre ritual. Don't get me wrong, as far as bizarre rituals go I think consuming the literal flesh and blood of a man (who never actually existed) as a way of showing your holiness beats the pants off of smudging one's forehead once a year, but Ash Wednesday is still weird.
What's it all about? And how long are you supposed to keep that gunk on your face? All day yesterday I was surrounded by mature adults walking around looking like they had head-butted Pigpen. It was hard to quell my maternal urges to lick my thumb and swab their heads with it so they could look like respectable young men and women.
So can anyone explain the ashing to me? Is it just the priests' way of evening the score? 'I gotta wear this asinine robe all year, now's your turn to look like a douche!' What's the significance? And also, I'm intensely interested in the political and social aspect. Do the ash faces look down on the cleanly? (Yes, I know, you NEVER judge because that's god's job but realistically, is there social ramifications for those who don't proudly bear the sign of the cross upon their forehead?) Is it a Star-Bellied Sneech kind of thing? And maybe most importantly: Where does the ash come from? Does it transubstantiate into the remains of Joan of Arc or something?
Fill me in here, would you?
I was, however, raised in the Christian Reformed Church, sent through Christian schooling from preschool to high school and now I attend a Catholic college. Grand Rapids, Michigan, where I was born and raised, is to the Christian Reformed Church what Vatican City is to the Catholic Church . . . except without the guards in silly pumpkin pants.
I am no stranger to the doings of religious folk. I actually find that I know the bible a great deal better than many people who believe that it's the word of their god. Now, my knowledge of other world religions is considerably less than it is for Christianity . . . point of fact, I'm pretty clueless when it comes to eastern religions and would never claim to have anything but the coarsest of understandings of Islam (I do, however, know that Mormonism is not a world religion but a cult and one in which its members wear magical underwear, but that's an issue for another blog) BUT, I do feel that I have a pretty good understanding of Christian rites and rituals.
That being said, can anyone explain to me what the flying fuck is up with Ash Wednesday?!
In my Prot upbringing Lent wasn't so big of a deal. Mostly it meant all the old ladies at church would wear a lot more purple for a month or so and my dad's bakery would make a killing on Fat Tuesday. I know some Prots do the ash thing, but it wasn't a big part of my experience.
The Catholics, it seems, go ga-ga over this bizarre ritual. Don't get me wrong, as far as bizarre rituals go I think consuming the literal flesh and blood of a man (who never actually existed) as a way of showing your holiness beats the pants off of smudging one's forehead once a year, but Ash Wednesday is still weird.
What's it all about? And how long are you supposed to keep that gunk on your face? All day yesterday I was surrounded by mature adults walking around looking like they had head-butted Pigpen. It was hard to quell my maternal urges to lick my thumb and swab their heads with it so they could look like respectable young men and women.
So can anyone explain the ashing to me? Is it just the priests' way of evening the score? 'I gotta wear this asinine robe all year, now's your turn to look like a douche!' What's the significance? And also, I'm intensely interested in the political and social aspect. Do the ash faces look down on the cleanly? (Yes, I know, you NEVER judge because that's god's job but realistically, is there social ramifications for those who don't proudly bear the sign of the cross upon their forehead?) Is it a Star-Bellied Sneech kind of thing? And maybe most importantly: Where does the ash come from? Does it transubstantiate into the remains of Joan of Arc or something?
Fill me in here, would you?
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