Just Another Day

Thirty-five years ago, I sprang forth from my mother’s loins. This is a fact that I like to call and remind her about periodically, usually on Mother’s Day (because nothing makes for a better Mother’s Day card sentiment than discussion of her loins).

As a fitting birthday present, FLASH ME Magazine purchased a story from me for their e-zine that went live, ironically, today. It features a story of mine, Secret Garden, that I like quite a bit. It was my second attempt at doing a flash piece since I was accused (by a black female horror writer who shall remain nameless so that she can’t google her name and come here to mock me) of not being able to tell a story in under 7000 words due to me enjoying the pretentious sound of my own voice. Since I live to prove her wrong, I entered what historians will one day call my “flash period”.

Okay, everyone take a moment, indulge my ego, and take a brief dip in Lake Me.

(And don’t forget to tell your mothers how much you appreciate their loins! Trust me, they’ll love you for it.)






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My Family Bush

So I was over at my mother’s house the other day, and the topic of her family came up. Okay, that’s not a stretch: my mother’s Jamaican. Family comes up as soon as everyone’s awake. This time, however, we were reminiscing about her father. He died over ten years ago, but a guest didn’t believe any of the stories that we were telling (like the fact that, my mother says, that we are eleven generation descendants of Capt. Morgan. Yeah, the rum guy). So she whips out her father’s obituary:

Hubert Morgan
Late of Garland, St. James, born 7.10.1907, died 8.12.93 - leaving 49 children, 139 grandchildren, 59 great grandchildren, and 3 great, great grandchildren.

No, those numbers aren’t typos. He had his last kid when he was 82. Look, I saw him in action. He was this doddering old man, frail and helpless, until a pretty, young woman walked by. Then he stood erect, insert joke here, would walk over to her, then start talking that talk. Yeah, he had his last kid at 82, the mother was 19. The man could talk. Okay, the fact that he held a lot of property helped.

In case you hadn’t figured it out, not all of his kids were with my grandmother. I believe that the official number that he had with her was 16. Then one day she says that she has to go to the grocery store for some bread. She leaves, gets on a plane, and goes to England. She came back for his funeral. All the other mothers were also in attendance; they also showed up for the reading of the will. Before the will was read, my grandmother turned around and said “we never divorced. You can all leave now.”

I love my family. You learn to embrace the weirdness.

Confused yet? Then comes my father’s side of the family. If you wonder why black people haven’t “gotten over” the whole slavery thing, keep this in mind: I found out that the reason my last name is Broaddus (with two Ds) instead of Broadus (with one ‘D’) is due to a spelling error on some transfer receipts. There’s nothing like trying to trace your family tree, then barely getting three generations before you have to start sifting through receipts.

This is a long way to answer the question that prompted this: how many brothers and sisters do I have? Between my mother and father, there are three of us, I’m the oldest, then my brother, then–after a nine year gap–my sister. We then adopted a female cousin about a year younger than my sister (she’s serving over in Iraq right now). I also have two other half-sisters, but since we don’t play the half/step game, I have two other sisters.

That’s my family bush.






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Nerds on Parade (Back Home Again in Indiana)

With all the stuff that was going on this past weekend, I haven’t had time to devote to mocking my city and state.

First, there was the traffic jam that started due to a truck overturning. It was carrying powdered cheese. Did I mention the freakish turn our weather took? Rain, then frigid temperatures. And powdered cheese. I can't begin to describe to you what this looked like, though I suspect that you can imagine.

However, the biggest part of the weekend had to be the Star Wars Celebration III. Never heard of it? I’ve, obviously, had to suffer through three of these things. Of course they make the news when a battalion of stormtroopers march downtown.

Fans of "Star Wars," dressed as their favorite characters in the science fiction epic series, waited in line Friday for the Celebration III costume pageant at the Indiana Convention Center. Celebration III was expected to draw about 28,000 people in its four-day run.


28,000 nerds in one place. I mock because I love. I don’t know if they hit those numbers, but the threat is bad enough. Thousands of cold, wet nerds. Um, it’s a tough love.

George Lucas, the master of all Jedi, was in town Saturday for Celebration III, and for about 10,000 soggy "Star Wars" fans at the Indiana Convention Center, it must have been akin to an audience with the pope of pop culture.

I had friends down there. Strictly in an observing capacity, I'm told. They became a part of the nerd hierarchy: who knew that Star Wars fans looked down their noses at Star Trek fans?

This isn’t enough. The debates have been going on for weeks now, but Indiana might be on the verge of joining the rest of the country:

State lawmakers may vote as early as Tuesday on the controversial proposal to link Indiana with most of America in observing daylight-saving time.

Even if it passes, which I doubt because now we wear it as a badge of honor to be odd, we then have to decide (or have decided for us) whose time we’re going to be on. I watched part of the debates (hey, we don’t have cable at the moment. It was that or a Jerry Springer re-run. Yes, I recognize re-runs now.) A guy against DST made this brilliant argument: if we switch to daylight savings time, “there won’t be any evening activities because there won’t be any evenings.” Wasn’t the West Wing episode making fun of us because of this enough?






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Splits

One of the little known facts about churches, so I hear, is that every 20 years or so, a church congregation splits. Yeah, this is mostly a Protestant problem, but go with me. You have to wonder what kind of message it sends to people outside the church when they see Baptist church A two blocks down the street from Baptist church B.

But the sad reality is that people are people.

Even church folks. Especially church folks.

I once went to a church that split over the issue of baptism. A valid thing to disagree over, you say, after all, it was one of the sacraments that Christ handed down. You’d think that ... if the debate was, say, whether or not we should do away with it. However, the debate was over whether or not you should be dipped one time or three. Seriously. There was a conservative and liberal position. The conservatives argued that the individual should be dipped three times and that if you were only dipped once, you had to be re-baptized to become a member. The liberals thought that if being dipped once was good enough for Jesus, it should be good enough for membership.

Here’s a shock: my stance was that this whole debate was rather silly. I figured that if this was what we were arguing about, no wonder the world was laughing at us. Yeah, I got “called into the principal’s office” on that one. I was accused of spreading “apathy” in the face of challenges to the inerrancy of God’s word. Two words: puh leeze.

Splits can be painful to watch, be a part of, or live through. And there is rarely any room for a view from the sidelines. Especially when you have a vested interests in both sides. It’d be easy if all the people you cared about were on the same side, but that rarely happens. People lined up on both sides of the argument arguing vociferously. It quickly became personal. Long time friendships became suspect or casualties.

Turns out that the baptism issue was the final straw or excuse that a faction needed to break away. The debate exposed a certain level of dissatisfaction within the ministry that the head pastor either didn’t see or thought that he could keep together long enough to weather the worst of the storm. Turns out that the liberals were mostly upset with the leadership style and ministry direction.

But it was hard to not feel hurt or betrayed no matter which side you fell on.

I suppose I should make allowances for the special dynamics of a message board. Like churches, they are fellowship communities, built around common beliefs or interests. A diverse group of personalities, political beliefs, races, sexual preferences (yes, I said it: even in churches). As much as we’d like to believe that the posters are a collection of 1s and 0s streaming across our screens, the fact is that we talk with them. We share with them. We call each other friends.

And people are people.

Splits happen.

Sometimes they can’t be helped. Sometimes no one’s at fault. Sometimes the relationship’s time has passed. Sometimes the people you love simply can’t get along anymore.

Every time ... it hurts.

Good-bye MBOTD. You’ll be missed.





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Blogging Adultery

Sorry for the lack of new blog entries this week. I’ve been busy committing blog adultery. Been posting reviews on my Hollywood Jesus. The HJ site has been wanting to get into comic book reviews, so, obvious spiritual nerd that I am, I was one of the people tapped.

Again, so that you aren’t confused, at HJ, we try and engage culture (as opposed to the all too often Christian stance of throwing stones at, and withdrawing from, it). You see, many Christians take the position to retreat from "the world" that way their spirituality won't be corrupted by disparate elements. This is a by-product, I believe, of a highly individualized Gospel message that basically concerns itself with that individual getting their soul “saved”. A kind of “fire” insurance faith. But, that’s a different debate.

The goal of HJ is to apply our faith in such a way that it is culturally relevant. A friend of mine said that this is a perpetual challenge in any culture. The gospel must be culturally relevant or it will not gain a hearing. Since all cultures possess negative elements, the gospel must also challenge the culture. There is a fine-line between a culturally-captive and a culturally-relevant gospel.

On a practical level, this means that we accept the general conceit to try and find God in all things. You see, I don't like to live my life in some sort of schizophrenic, dualistic hell: this stuff over here is holy vs. this stuff over there is "worldly". I prefer to live with an "all things can be redeemed" mentality. When it comes to art, my belief starts with the fact that all people are created in God's image. All people have what's been called a "God sized hole" within them that causes them to wrestle with certain ideas and questions. And as they seek to answer these questions or respond to these ideas, it comes out in their art. I try to pick up on that thread.

Plus, I love story. In loving story, I’ve started to read the Bible as story and I've come to appreciate how so many stories seem to echo the story of Christ. like people and their God-sized hole. I try to pick up on that thread and use it as a conversation starter. It’s a kind of spiritual exercise for me: I treat art like I do people. I accept it where it is and how it is (spiritually as well as for what it is trying to do) and then try to make a bridge to connect it to Christ.

As you can imagine, this has mixed results. For daring to call Constantine “theologically rich” (which once again, I’ll say is different than “theologically accurate”), I got letters; the ever popular, and not-as-oxymoronic-as-I’d-like-to-believe, Christian hate mail.

So you can only guess what the letters were like when I compared Marv to Christ in my Sin City review (which is not to say that Christ’s message was “repent or I’ll tear off your testicles”). Whenever someone points to a character as a Christ figure, we aren't saying that the character models Christ (even close to) perfectly. Most times, the only comparison is that a character sacrifices themselves for another. Finding Christ in strange places is what I like to do. Because I think that Christ isn’t just in the places we “expect” him to be. And that spiritual walks can take a variety of different paths and look entirely different than we expect them.

This is a long way to go just to say that I have three new reviews up. Identity Crisis, and the mini-series Green Lantern: Rebirth.

And that’s what (and where) I’ve been blogging.




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Green Lantern: Rebirth

written by Geoff Johns
art by Ethan Van Sciver
published by DC Comics

There are times when it's hard to find spiritual connections with whatever media that I am dealing with. Let's face it, some things make it difficult to find God (maybe that's the point) or at least don't easily lend themselves to pointing to Christ. That is not the case with Green Lantern: Rebirth. Rebirth is literally the story of redemption.

First, let me tell you a story. There was once a hero named Hal Jordan, the Green Lantern, a member of an intergalactic police force called the Green Lantern Corps. In the DC universe (the home of Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Aquaman, the Flash, and the Justice League), next to Superman, he was the hero most admired. For decades he was a beacon of light.

He knew no fear.

Then, a terrible tragedy struck. He was unable to prevent a villain from destroying his home city. This senseless tragedy drove him quite mad. He even took to calling himself Parallax and tried to re-write history to his will. Eventually, he ends up sacrificing himself in the comic book cross-over "event", Final Night.

Since part of the super-hero credo says that dying means never having to say good-bye, Hal Jordan returned. His soul was merged, read: trapped inside, the "hero" called the Spectre, God's spirit of vengeance.

[Look, a Green Lantern movie is in the works, so pay attention.]

This, by the way, is the trouble with comics: I have to explain nearly a decade's worth of continuity in order for you to understand/appreciate this storyline. It makes it hard for new readers to jump aboard. However, that's what this series is about: addressing the entire history of this character in order to give it a fresh start.

Two sentence review: Geoff Johns is in peak form and this makes me wish I had more money to spend on collecting the other books that he writes. The art is spectacular.

There are so many spiritual connections in this book it was hard to choose a focus. By one view of redemption, Hal Jordan starts off as a Christ figure. He sacrificed himself to save the cosmos (in Final Night) and then bore the brunt of God's wrath (as the Spectre). And that's before issue one even starts. Green Lantern: Rebirth is definitely one of those "event" books that explores the inner demons of the character and explores what really makes him a hero. Literally, the character's inner demons as all of the Green Lantern's, past and present, engage in a battle against the enemy within. An impurity of men's souls that calls itself Parallax, the living fear. This corrupting nature brings with it a cycle of destruction, warping man's sense of right and wrong, and spirals into a pattern of fear, violence, and death. This taint leaves men vulnerable to the Spectre (the embodiment of God's wrath). The need to deal with this taint is one view of how redemption works.

You see, there is an inherent problem with that view of redemption. It is a very individualized view of how redemption works. In that view, the individual has to realize their taint and do something about it or face God's retribution (and the Spectre is about retribution, not redemption). It leads to a shallow reason to seek redemption and find faith: they become about getting said individual's own butt into heaven. There is a broader way to view redemption, also presented in this comic book.

Hal Jordan faces that very choice of redemption schemes, and basically goes through a re-thinking of his faith. He has the chance to get his butt into heaven (by going towards the light as he nears death). Instead, he is literally "born again." Better put, he is made whole. He joins in God's mission to be a blessing to the world. That is what redemption is all about.

Hal Jordan finds redemption in Green Lantern: Rebirth. He is restored, but that doesn't mean that his sins have been forgotten. Explained? Yes. Forgotten? No. He has a lot to prove, to regain the trust (even the admiration) of his peers. However, being made whole again, he has the opportunity, a lifetime, to live and work out his newfound faith.

Identity Crisis

(Issues #1-7, available in trade paperback)
written by Brad Meltzer
art by Rags Morales
published by DC Comics

Identity Crisis was DC Comics 2004's big “event” comic, one that promised to have lasting effects ripple through the entire cast of the heroes of DC comics. [The DC Universe is home to Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Aquaman, Flash, Green Lantern, and the Justice League (*sigh* the Super Friends, if you must).]

Murder mystery scribe, Brad Meltzer, opens the series with the words of Dr. Fate “Life is a mystery.” In this case, it is a murder mystery built around the conceit that someone is going after the significant others in the lives of the community of super-heroes. Tragedy befalls one of the few happy couples in comics. As the Elongated Man, the character who bears the brunt of the tragedy, says: “anyone who puts on a costume paints a bull’s-eye on his family’s chests.” Though extremely dramatic and an absorbing read, there is something about the story that leaves a pall over the work. I think it boils down to the fact that there are lines not worth crossing, taboos not worth breaking, memories not worth tainting; not even for the sake of a riveting read (see Amazing Spider-Man review).

“An era can said to end when its basic illusions are exhausted.”
-Arthur Miller (quoted in issue #7 of Identity Crisis)

As comic book afficionados were well aware, event comics are cross-over series with ramifications that spread through the other titles of the comic book company. Whereas once they were harmless marketing ploys–used as excuses to have a majority of the heroes gather together in one place--the big events took increasingly darker turns. These events were punctuated by death, as the medium entered this age of realism. Crisis on Infinite Earths, Zero Hour, Final Night, each brought their share of deaths, sometimes to beloved characters. Granted, this being comic books, it depended on what your definition of “dead” is, but for the most part, (for death to have any meaning) many of the characters have remained dead.

There’s nothing like the reality of death to make one examine their lives, especially their pasts. “Even godless physicists can appreciate the past.” (The Atom). Identity Crisis, in a fit of fanboy mania, re-visits the more innocent age of comics in order to reveal that they weren’t so innocent. Our heroes have their silver age morality is questioned.

You see, part of this era of being real and dark involves the deconstruction of the myth of the iconic hero. We love heroes, but we hate the example they set so we have to prove that they are no better than us. We seem to constantly compare ourselves to one another, as if we are trying to find a kind of redemption by trying to find our self-worth through others. Not wanting to have to live up to too high an ideal, this leads to an obsession with proving that our heroes have feet of clay.

In a nutshell, Identity Crisis is a well-plotted series developed from an oddly gratuitous feeling circumstance. The storyline, with its pot boiler whodunnit trappings, is thick with implications because of the series of escalations: grand fight scenes; one-time silly villains deepened and darkened; friendships betrayed; and a slow unraveling of the tapestry of the vanguard fighting team, the Justice League. It is filled with cool scenes and powerful images, if not a cohesive unifying thread. For such a cornerstone series, it can’t resolve the emotional issues at play. Its rushed resolution ends up feeling like the 30 minute sitcom wrap up of a “very special episode”.

The conclusion, at first pass, proves oddly unsatisfying and anti-climatic. That is, until you realize that at its core, Identity Crisis is a story about relationships and our desperate need for them. Identity Crisis ends up offering a better answer than Dr. Fate’s bit of wisdom. Life is about relationships; the deeply personal nature of, and the ties that bind, relationships. Parent and child. (Ex) wife and (ex) husband. Colleagues. We were created as relational beings. We are defined by relationships and we are vulnerable through them. It sounds weak, codependent in therapy parlance, but we aren’t meant to be alone.

A human being is defined by who loves them. Loved by God, we have our identity; defined by that relationship we find our self-worth. Love is risk, but we’re wired to be a part of a community. In that way we are fulfilled.

One could forgive the flaws to make the meticulously constructed mystery work. The series both highlights and humanizes the heroes of the DC universe while at the same time exposing their flaws in a deeply personal story. However, that doesn’t negate the solution to the heroes’ identity crisis. It could be best summed up with this quote from Doc Childre: "Our true identity is to love without fear or insecurity. Our higher potential finds us when we set our course in that direction. The power of love and compassion transforms insecurity."


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Rent a Brotha

I’ve been in singles ministry for over 15 years now. I know the ups and downs, the heartaches and the pains that come with being a single person, especially as one gets to be older. Some of the most devastating comments come from some of the most well-intentioned sources. Questions from family members like “why hasn’t someone snatched you off the market?” (implying that you’re defective in some way) or “aren’t you seeing anyone yet?” (only barely leaving off the other half of the sentiment: “you poor, poor dear”).

I know that in this PC age of ours, my new business venture may leave a bad taste in some people’s mouths, but, well, I’m over it. At the moment, I minister to a mostly white singles group, and in the spirit of racial (dis) harmony, I’m starting a new ministry for the ladies of my group: Rent a Brotha.

Tired of dreading family meals or get-together filled with mom’s intrusive questions or your aunt’s intrusive meddling? Well guess who’s coming to dinner! Yes, we at “rent a brotha” will quickly put an end to the constant pushing for a relationship or inquiries into when you’ll be having kids. You’ll find comments quickly shifting from “when will you be getting married” to “it’s important to be friends for a long, long, long time”. Testing has shown that it only takes one visit from a representative of the “Rent a Brotha” offices to still the topic of your personal life to “don’t ask, don’t tell” levels.

Franchising opportunities available. Hmm, maybe this would only work here in Indiana. So only “limited franchising” available.

[I’m not forgetting about the single men in my group. I am starting a sister company: Rent a Baby. Because nothing is more attractive to women than seeing men with a baby.]

I’m so brill.


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The Amazing Spider-Man

"Sins Past" (issues #509-514)
written by J. Michael Straczynski
art by Mike Deodato
published by Marvel Comics


If you are unfamiliar with modern day comic books, you need to realize that these aren't your father's "funny books." It's high time that we started reviewing comic books since they have been the source material for many of our most popular movies and televison shows. Despite their decreased sales numbers, comic books still impact our culture (though, in Japan, the number one market on the planet, comic books have significantly higher sales and cultural impact).

It's important to remember what got us hooked on comics in the first place: Larger than life heroes and villains in action/adventure serials; simple morality plays where good was good and bad was bad. These days, good isn't as good as it seems and bad is a lot worse than it once was, but we still have to muddle through.

You see, the typical age of American comic book readers is 20+ , not 8+ like they were back in the day. Fanboys have grown up alongside the medium. Thus, the books have become increasingly sophisticated. Unfortunately, "sophisticated" usually means darker and harsher. This rush to insert realism has had the analogous effect of retroactively robbing us longtime fans of the medium of our fond memories of childhood.

However, there are lines not worth crossing, taboos not worth breaking, memories not worth tainting, not even for the sake of a riveting tale. That is the feeling that I was left with after reading J. Michael Straczynski's pivotal story arc, "Sins Past." In this storyline, JMS retroactively taints our memory of an innocent love and time.

Most of what the average person knows of Spider-Man is from the movies. For those who have followed the comics from early on, Peter Parker, "Spider-Man's alter ego, “had a true, pure love before Mary Jane Watson. Her name was Gwen Stacy. However, she was lost to him when he was unable to save her during a battle with the Green Goblin (the first Spider-Man movie plays on this tale by having MJ, in the Gwen Stacy role, being tossed from the bridge. In the comics, unlike the movie, Spider-Man is unable to save her).

In this storyline, JMS fills in a bit of a continuity gap in the comics, explaining why Gwen Stacy jetted off to Europe for a time. Apparently, she had an affair with Norman Osborn, the Green Goblin, then went to Europe to have her babies, twins Gabriel and Sarah. The twins were raised believing Norman Osborn to be the saint who took them in and raised them while blaming Peter Parker, whom they believe to be their real father, for abandoning them. So, now grown up, they wish to kill Peter Parker and avenge their mother's death, which they believe happened at his hands.

Yes, it is a complicated soap opera-esque story that is personal and engaging with flashes of his trademark sense of humor that characterized JMS's Babylon 5.

At first I thought the spiritual connection that I was going to make was coming from the kids relationship with their father and their struggle against their own natures. They had been corrupted, due to their bodies' fallen condition, by the blood of their father. Tainted by his sinful legacy, as it were. "The truth is in the blood," Gabriel proclaims. The storyline paints an intriguing image of these lost, desperate souls attempting to find wholeness and salvation from death, by either embracing or rejecting their father. But that’s not the spiritual connection that I was left with.

After I was finished reading the story, I couldn't help wondering about Gwen. In some ways, this changed my image of her. Hey, I grew up with these characters, so cut me some slack. In JMS's hands, the reader is lead to feel Peter's conflicted emotions, the sense of betrayal, the hurt, the tacit forgiveness and unquenchable love. It reminded me of the story of Jesus and the woman at the well as recounted by Michael Yaconelli in Messy Spirituality: "Looking at her long string of bad choices, many would consider her unredeemable, unsalvageable, unteachable, and beyond help. She hasn't just made a few mistakes; she has lived a lifetime of mistakes, enough to cause most to conclude her life is scarred beyond hope. She comes to the well at the middle of the day because respectable women come in the morning and she understands that she is no respectable woman.

"But Jesus respects her.

"Jesus doesn't see what everyone else sees.

"As far as Jesus is concerned, this woman is salvageable, teachable and redeemable. As far as Jesus is concerned, the woman with no future has a future; the woman with a string of failures is about to have the string broken. Jesus sees her present desire, which makes her past irrelevant.

"You don't suppose, do you, the same could be true for you and me? Our mistakes, our strings of failures, and what everyone else labels unredeemable may actually be redeemable? You don't suppose the mess we've made of our lives can be the place where we meet Jesus?"

We all have sins. Things in our past that we've done, or had done to us, to make us feel unworthy of ever being loved or clean again. But we can be loved where we are, in the middle of our messy lives. Loved, forgiven, and made whole. "The truth is in the blood."

The Church and the HWA: Part II

Continuing my Horror Writer’s Association as metaphor rant, I sympathize with the president of the HWA.

-The moment you announce that you’re running, you have an enemies list. Maybe enemies is too strong a word, but at least people with competing agendas or positioning themselves in (and counter to) your administration.

-Friends you think you can trust--even just to vent to--use your words against you or in other ways leave you with a dull throb of pain in your back. You have to deal with people you like and/or highly respect leave either because of you or because of something (or someone) you have little control over. Especially if you have to make concessions in order to make sure the institution is as open to new people as possible.

-People who have “concerns” about you or your leadership direction, rather than bring them directly to you, instead spread their gripes to everyone else, stirring up dissent in their wake. Conversations become exercises of constant nit-picking and sentence parsing.

-Facing the reality that it only takes one or two (loud) troublemakers to change the tone of the group or otherwise derail your mission entirely.

-Serving alongside a board that you have to lead as well as be accountable to. A board whose members may be building support and power bases or otherwise wield increasing influence.

-Then there are your own insecurities. “I’m under qualified.” “What have I accomplished, especially compared to so-and-so who also wanted this position?” Little experience or name recognition outside of a few circles. Having your character, beliefs, and doctrines critiqued, examined, and questioned at every turn.

-Everyday waking up and asking yourself “Why am I doing this again?” “Is it worth it?”

-However, you try and remember that (you and) they are only human. People are people, no matter their level of ... professionalism. As such, they have apparently taken most of their social cues from junior high school. These are also the same people who care passionately about the institution. They believe they have its best interests at heart.

Yeah, I sympathize.

Before you ask, I’m only an affiliate member of the HWA and have no specific knowledge of anything. I’m only guessing from the fact that “people are people”. I do know that it’s been a non-stop laugh riot out here on the ministry front, and we haven’t even had our first service yet.


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The Church and HWA: Part I

Not too long ago, the Horror Writer’s Association revamped some of their membership requirements. They basically have a two-tiered membership structure, active members and affiliate members. I’m simplifying things for the sake of brevity, but it used to be that just about anyone could be an affiliate members while active status was reserved for those members with professional credentials. So all manner of wanna-be writers and fans were running around as affiliates. In a step toward acknowledging that being a professional writer is difficult, the membership requirements were tightened. To achieve active status, the qualifying markets were narrowed, by how much they paid. And writers had to “achieve” affiliate status. Actives were grandfathered in and those who were already affiliates but hadn’t earned full affiliate status, were given a “p-” (provisional) designation in front of their AF status. They were given a year or so to get to full affiliate status or else be purged from the membership rolls. Thus, they move toward the goal of being open to all, realizing that it’s not for everyone, but wanting its members to treat it seriously.

I can’t imagine the fun of setting this course correction in motion. Glad I missed it, but I think we can learn a lot from it.

I believe that the church could use a good purging. It’s my contention that we have many Christ fans, not enough Christ followers, and thus I’m proposing a new status: provisional Christians [Before you start sending me another round of pissy e-mails, NOTE: “Hello Mr. Tongue. I’m Mr. Cheek. Please insert yourself here.”].

I wish some people would quit calling themselves Christians.

For some, Christianity is a mental assent to a set of facts, saying “the sinners prayer” and they’re in the club (“remember to vote Republican!”). Not enough people count the cost of choosing Christianity. That is so doing, you are choosing to share in Christ’s mission to be a blessing to the world. That you are choosing to follow a living savior for the glory of God and the sake of the world. Not just to insure that your butt makes it into (your idea of) heaven. Maybe our understanding of the Gospel message will change over time. If the Gospel message is that “the kingdom is at hand” (starting now, in the present, not some pie in the sky future), then choosing to follow would demand an immediate response. It might challenge you and the way you live. It would demand a missional (a community minded testimony) mindset over self-focused ideas of personal salvation.

So then, I’m left trying to figure out what it would take for people to lose their “p-” status.

A lot of people simply want a religion that provides a code of conduct. That may be fine for a professional organization such as the HWA, but religion has a different raison d’etre. Morality is not the point. Morality doesn’t redeem, nor, despite the claims on the right, does religion have a monopoly on morality.

The chief characteristic of a Christian has to be love.

Love for God and love for each other. It defines us. It provides the reason for morality. It points us to a person, Christ, whom we seek to emulate. Otherwise, we’re stuck in “who’s morality” land. Heck, I try to be moral, but my morality doesn’t get me very far. In fact, I can’t even live up to my own little moral code half the time. Morality should move you toward people, working with them and for them. Think of morality as relational, connected to a person. Missing the point of morality leads us to declaring war on the immoral people trying to take over our country and culture rather than loving them.

I guess that’s it. Once you’ve been defined by how well you love, how others minded you become (and, when all is said and done, life’s all about “becoming”), the “p-” would drop off. If the “p-” doesn’t fall off, in my hypothetical purging, you would have to re-think what you call yourself. I’m sure the HWA, like the church, is finding out that there is a fine line between being relevant to the (horror) culture and community and being captive to it. As they undergo the soul searching that they need to do, it helps to remember their mission, and as an institution, coming back and re-discovering its missional message.


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WORLD HORROR CONVENTION 2005: On Harlan Ellison

(Or, Why I Don’t Sit in Front Rows)

I don’t sit in front rows, at least, I try not to make a habit of it. Not during sermons, readings, plays, or especially comedy clubs. Why? Because I go to these things wanting to be an observer, not a part of the performance. This list now includes appearances by Harlan Ellison.

For those of you who don’t know who this living legend is, Harlan Ellison is a 71 year old author. To list his credits in science-fiction, fantasy, and horror would fill out my blog for days. Not to mention his work in other media. And he’s a personality. While it’s no secret that I can’t wait to become a crotchety old man, Harlan Ellison puts the “crotch” in “crotchety old man.” He’s been one for, I don’t know, about 71 years. He’s at that age where he doesn’t suffer fools and doesn’t have time for bullshit. Sometimes I wonder if it’s a matter of he’s so into his image, the legend of his antics, that he doesn’t in fact play into them now. Sometimes this makes it seem like he borders on being more caricature than character, but it also means that he’s never boring.

Did I mention that I hate being a part of the performance?

Well, long story short, he’s in mid-rant. He’s gone out of his way to insult every race, creed, sexual preference within sight. He’s going down his list of longest held grudges (apparently hate fuels longevity), when he suddenly starts talking about Christopher Priest. Not THE Christopher Priest whom I admire so much. The comic book scribe and minister. The first black writer in the comic book industry. No, Harlan’s ranting about some U.K. Christopher Priest. But to make sure that we understand the difference, he starts searching for the name that our Christopher J. Priest used to go by. Without thinking, my knowledge of geek trivia gets the better of me and I shout out “Jim Owsley.”

Suddenly, I have Harlan’s attention.

Before I go on, I should mention that I have a reputation of having an over-the-top wardrobe when it comes to conventions. My outfit du jour was a black ensemble with a collar of “glitter” and twin stripes of “glitter” down my shirt (an outfit inspired by the Elvis of horror, Weston Ochse). Needless to say, I was an easy target for Harlan to pick out. He stops, stares at me, then asks me “do you know who you look like?” Now, this is not an uncommon question that black men get. Only earlier that day, Wrath James White was mistaken for Michael Jordan. The problem is, Wrath looks nothing like Michael Jordan. Nothing. So I brace myself for the usual comparisons that I am prone to getting (Benson and Wesley Snipes being the most common. And you know how much THEY look alike). Harlan starts in: Aries Spears (from Mad TV). I don’t watch Mad TV, but I play along any way. Harlan tells me to play along and lie to him that I’m really Aries Spears. So I do.

I should also mention that anyone who gets up during Harlan speaking gets called out, caught in the sights of his razor wit. Well, Chesya pipes up because she’s hungry and wants to leave. I inform her that Harlan has already called on me and if two black people get up and leave, that will only send him on a new, probably offensive, rant. She doesn’t care. As a compromise, I get her to wait until the break when he was supposed to start doing his reading. He turns his back to start looking for what he’s going to read and we make a break for it. Apparently, we weren’t alone with this thought, as a dozen or so others also make a run for the stairs.

Anyway, now I truly feel like a writer: I finally have a Harlan Ellison story.




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WORLD HORROR CONVENTION 2005: Hierarchy of Nerds

The more things change, the more things stay the same. Yes, many intelligent, highly imaginative and creative people, whom for the sake of this discussion we shall call “nerds”, gravitate toward role-playing games. Dungeons & Dragons, Palladium, Deadlands, Vampyre, Werewolf, for a few examples, though there are many, many others. Also, for the sake of this argument, I will admit to being among this select minority. But let me tell you, there is a price to be paid for admitting this in public. It’s one thing to pretend you’re an elf wizard while in the safe confines of your mother’s basement, it’s quite another to put it all on display for the playground to see.

For the playground is a vicious, vicious place.

And no matter how old you get, playground rules still apply.

You see, as I found out this weekend, there are nerds, there are uber-nerds, and then there’s me and Brian Keene.

You see, we took the opportunity of WHC 2005 to play nerd card game, Magic: The Gathering aka Magic: The Addiction for true initiates. Brian, oh so high and mighty famous horror author, had been talking trash on Matt Schwartz’s messageboard, he barely beat me in the games he won, but when I won, he knew his ass had been kicked.

Now before you judge us too quickly, realized that there are few men-cum-nerds fit enough to breathe the rarified air of post-uber-nerdom. The aforementioned Matt Schwartz is fit for such air. It's one thing for author Wrath James White to say “I have to quit watching before I kick both of your asses,” but when the nerds who WRITE role-playing games threaten to beat us up and take our lunch money, that’s when you realize where you stand in the nerd hierarchy.




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WORLD HORROR CONVENTION 2005: The Shout Outs

In addition to the people I have already mentioned, I’d like to send a special shout out to people who especially made this con experience so enjoyable. I can’t name everyone, but watch me get in trouble as I try:

new friends:
Andre Duza, Sheree Thomas, Gary Braunbeck, Tom Piccirilli, Alice Henderson, Ann Laymon (and Jackie!), Eunice and Greg Magill, James Moore, and Dallas Mahr.

old friends:
my beloved Catwoman (Tracy West), Marcy Italiano, Mikey Huyck, Brian Knight, Mort Castle, Tom and Elizabeth Monteleone, Mark and Jeannie Worthen, Gerard Hourner, Matt and Deena Warner, and the ever wonderful, Jen Orosel.


Old enemies:
Nick Kaufmann. Hmm, I guess that makes him the only enemy.

And a special, special shout out to the lovely ladies of Horror-Web.





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WORLD HORROR CONVENTION 2005: A Few Pics

I lost one of my cameras at the convention, so I don’t have as many pictures as I would have liked.

Loren Rhoads and I. Loren published my true life tale of lactation in last year’s Morbid Curiosity, then turned around and took third place in the WHC Dark Fiction contest this year.



Me with Darci Stratton



and Christopher Golden


Harlan Ellison, just before he turned his sights on me. You’ll have to wait a couple days for that story.





The Bastard Sons. I’ll explain it later. We’re toasting good news (I told you I’d tell you later).
John Hays, myself, Lucien Soulban, Richard Dansky.

WORLD HORROR CONVENTION 2005: A Few Random Thoughts

Once again, I learned that important lesson of posting stuff on the Internet: you never know who’s reading your blog. Now, since I’ve been accused of running my mouth here, I’ll just leave you with a few random thoughts.

On Con Spouses:
It is an open secret that Chesya Burke and I are con spouses. Besides cutting expenses by rooming together, we watch each others backs and keep each other out of trouble. For those wondering how my wife views our arrangement, allow me to quote her: “I’ve heard you and Chesya talk on the phone. I’m so not worried.” In fact, many people thought that Chesya and I were married, then quickly realized that we bickered too much, even for a married couple.

For the record, the actual arrangement is that Simon Wood and I are her con wives. I daresay that Simon and I have so indulged her that we’ve created the rarest of beasts: the literary diva.

Lord help us.

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On new drinks:
I discovered a new drink: Ginger Ale and Rum. It was determined that I liked girly drinks a little too much and this would make a good compromise. Having learned from watching my friends at Horrorfind, tequila is not your friend. So there was no repeat of what I will call “The Horrorfind Incident”. Nor, as lore has it, was there a repeat of my “hurling monkeys” indulgence (though I want the record to reflect, Garrett Peck kept up with me, drink for drink, at that WHC!) Um, this probably qualifies as me running my mouth. Moving on.

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On The Gross Out Contest:
I attended my first Gross Out Contest. From what I had heard about this tradition, I was afraid that it was going to be like the old NBA All-Star Slam Dunk Contest: too many props and gimmicks and not enough jam. Though entertaining, I am there for the story. I needn’t have worried. Congratulations Cullen Bunn for winning. The judges had the right top four, though I though Wrath was robbed of second place. He’s becoming the Susan Lucci of the Gross Out.

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WORLD HORROR CONVENTION 2005: The Overview

I survived the World Horror Convention 2005 held in New York City. I’m exhausted. It’s my own fault really: I stayed up until 3 am Sunday night knowing that I had to get up at 4:30 am to make it to the airport to come home.

I got a lot of work done, stuff I’ll be sharing as the projects start seeing fruition. Overall, the con was fun, but a different kind of fun. Since it was held in New York City, home of the publishing industry, a lot more pros, read: editors and agents, showed up. Everyone was rushing around to do pitches or network. With the business, business, business atmosphere, the vibe was definitely more professional. We all felt the weight of it being a professional con, keeping to our lists of stuff to do and people we had to make contact with. So no one got buck wild. There was little excessive drinking. There were no random displays of nudity.

People ask me what kind of things get done at these things. I had pitch meetings with agents and editors. I had old friends I wanted to spend time with. I had new friends to make. Even if you have no books to pitch or push--if nothing else--you get a lot of “soft networking” done. There are three things you always want to be doing: Developing relationships, intentional though they may be, you develop them for the sake of the relationship, because you can never have too many friends; keeping people aware of your name; and celebrating (participating) being part of the community.

In the mean time, I will post a few other things that I observed during the convention.

A Note About My Silence

I'm about eight hours from boarding a plane and heading to New York City for the World Horror Convention 2005. I don't plan on sleeping much, judging from my roommates. However, there won't be any posts until I get back. (READ: no drunken updates!) When I return, guaranteed a week of posts about it.

On Home-Schooling

I’m trying to learn tact.

It is a fairly open secret that I have a low tolerance for the truly sanctimonious. Periodically, I get these litmus test questions. You know the kind, where people want to hear your answer to their pet question to decide whether or not you’re “in”. Did I mention that I don’t test well? Yet, there I was, minding my own business at a get together when a lady gets wind that I am going to be co-pastoring a church with a guy she enjoys hearing speak. So she starts telling me how she “denied herself” that morning by taking her kid to this get together rather than stay at home like she wanted. (See, we Christians love to mix in our jargon at events that aren’t seen as holy that way we can not only feel like a holy moment has been made, but also that we’re applying our Sunday School lessons.)

I like my rants irony free. Don’t interrupt me.

She then starts going on about how she home-schools her children, with the implication that all good Christian mothers should home-school. I cleared my throat, then opted to get a re-fill of that too sweet, yet strangely addictive, orange drink that McDonald’s serves.

Like I said, I’m trying to learn tact.

You see, the last time a woman sauntered up to me to regale me with tales of how she home-schools, I politely responded, before my brain could stop my mouth, with “The only reason that you home-school is because you’re afraid of black people and drugs.” (Too harsh, I know: it’s all minorities, not just black people.)

This is one of those touchy areas that comes up fairly often in the circles I travel in, despite my efforts. A legitimate debate about our children’s future that for some reason has battle lines drawn between home-schooling, Christian (private) schooling, and public schooling. I get that there are concerns about curriculum, yet I always got the impression that this was more of a rationalization than a reason. Not to put to fine a point on it, but the fear of curriculum boils down to agendas encompassing the three big sins of Christianity: sex (abortion), evolution, and homosexuality.

My wife and I had this discussion before we even got married. The conversation lasted about 30 seconds:
“Where would you send your kids to school?”
“Public school. You?”
“Public school.”
“Cool. What’s on TV?”

Our reasons differ, but we come to the same point. I’m lazy and I don’t want to have to teach my kids subjects I barely got through when I was in school. My wife also fears the stuff that I would teach them. (One incident in the church nursery where I had the kids singing “I’m Gonna Pee on You” from the Dave Chappelle Show and I’m branded for life.) More importantly, we don’t have the fears that some people do.

Plus, we have our own agenda.

We aren’t scared of ideas or indoctrination. We like for our kids to be exposed to a variety of ideas, especially ones we disagree with so that we can wrestle through them together. It’s how we teach, learn, and grow. We’re their parents: our job is to equip our kids for life, not abdicate our role to whichever school system or locking them away in our home-schooling spires in order to “protect them”. Our goal is to remain active in our kids lives.

Too often, we want schools to do our jobs as parents. I have a friend who went to a Christian schools and he shared with me that they were more like Christian foster homes. Filled with a lot of difficult kids whom no one else will take. I don’t know how much I buy that, but I do know that some want their kids to have Christian education as if their role as a parent was covered. I have another friend who pays a fortune to send his three kids to a private, Christian school. He does so not because of their outstanding curriculum but because he doesn’t do much spiritual training at home. So he figures that if he cuts the check, the teachers will teach the “Bible stuff” and his bases are covered. Abdication, even this benign, well-intentioned sort, is still abdication.

While we worry about the lack of socialization with home schooled kids, our bigger concern revolved one simple idea: Salt.

“‘You are the salt of the earth.’” Jesus’ words were recorded in the book of Matthew. I’ve been thinking about different models of how the church should be. As much as we may be tempted to dissect this for all this is worth, let’s take this at the simple metaphor level. Think of the implications of salt when it comes to cooking. When you notice salt in a dish, when something is too salty, it spoils the dish. Salt in small doses is a supportive ingredient, it brings out taste and acts as a preservative. Salt, especially in Jesus’ day, was a commodity. People valued it and used to trade for it. When was the last time you heard anyone describe the church, or its representatives, this way?

I, for one, don’t believe that you do anyone a service by pulling all of the Christian kids out of the public school systems and sending them to private or home schools. That would be as bad as all the Christian teachers only working at home or at those schools. Why stop there: why not pull out of our “worldy” companies and only work at Christian companies? If we are to be blessings to the world or in any way relevant, we need to be living out the reality of Christ in our lives, being Christ in our context. We don’t want to be irrelevant to our culture, restricting ourselves to our various Christian ghettos of entertainment circles.

The lady whom I made my “you’re scared of black people and drugs” comment offered the defense of not wanting to sacrifice her children. For one, it’s not like Jesus never called anyone to sacrifice anything. Either you believe in a Holy Spirit powerful enough to protect your children or you don’t. More to the point, however, what the heck does she thinks is happening in schools? (Okay, I know what she thinks because I’ve heard some of the hysterical lunacy spouted by some of the pastors that she listens to.) Orgies in the hallways due to all the condoms the schools supply leading to a bunch of abortions. Evolution taught in every classroom. A bunch of homosexuals pinning kids eyes open forcing them to read “Heather’s Got Two Mommies” (quick, hose your kids down before they catch a case of ‘gay’).

We need to be infiltrating--for lack of a better word--the world. Spiritual depth comes from the real stuff of life, the day in/day out being with each other and working things through. Rather than the importance of relationships and community, what we’re in danger of breeding is more of the same narcissistic and over-individualized spirituality revolving around “just me and the Bible” and “getting my butt into heaven.”

Our spiritual lives should be incarnational and missional, but we’re in danger of being defined by what we’re against rather than who we’re for.

At least that’s how I feel right now. This all sounds good in theory. Then again, my oldest maybe starting preschool this year.

And I do fear for him.




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Sin City

It took Robert Rodriguez (Spy Kids, Once Upon a Time in Mexico) Quentin Tarantino (Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill) and comic book legend, Frank Miller, to faithfully bring Sin City to life. [It was Frank Miller’s vision of Batman in his The Dark Knight Returns that ushered in the first series of Batman movies and his Batman: Year One on which the upcoming Batman Begins leans.] The movie didn’t stop at simply preserving the look of the comic book. Not contenting itself to be a translation from the graphic novel to the silver screen, it transliterated it (if you’ll allow me to use “transliterate” this way). The movie had the feel of simply using the comic book as the story boards and filming it as is (thus earning it’s full title: Frank Miller’s Sin City). There’s a double edged sword of dealing with material beloved by geeks (my term of affectionate for rabid fandom, of which I am a member). On the one hand, if a director stays too faithful to the material, then you go “what’s the point of seeing it if you didn’t do anything with it?” On the other hand, if the director goes with their own vision, reinterpreting or re-imagining the source material, they run the risk of the geek saying “they ruined it.” The key is capturing the spirit of the work without reproducing it, but since reproduction on this scale, in so unique a fashion, hasn’t been done, this movie is landmark.

For those not familiar with the film noir influenced comic books, this movie is a series of interconnected vignettes all taking place in Basin City, a sewer of a town that collects the dregs of humanity. A morally bankrupt town where men are men and women are dames, broads, or prostitutes. The movie does an admirable job covering a lot of ground, combining the tales found in the graphic novels Sin City, The Big Fat Kill, and That Yellow Bastard, any one of which–Marv’s story especially–would have filled out an entire movie by themselves. Another snag the movie hits by being so slavishly faithful is that carefully crafted dialogue that a reader would easily suspend disbelief for occasionally sounds clunky or stilted to the ear when heard.

Robert Rodriguez, assuming he hasn’t made a lot of enemies over quitting the Directors Guild over wanting to make Frank Miller his co-director, should earn an Oscar nomination for the visual direction of the movie. It’s a black and white world–and a very wet one at that–with occasional bursts of color, usually blood or a yellow bastard. The individual sets, framed like a comic book panel, contributed to the unusual look of the movie

Being quite familiar with the source material, I don’t know the last time that I saw a movie so perfectly cast. Marv (played perfectly, every bit the lumbering personality, by Mickey Rourke, in the John Travolta in Pulp Fiction role of career resuscitation), Hardigan (Bruce Willis), and Nancy Callahan (Jessica Alba, late of the television show Dark Angel and starring in the upcoming Fantastic Four movie, continues to increase her genre profile) were just as I imagined they would be. Even bit parts were filled out with such luminaries playing Kevin (Elijah Wood in a creepy performance), Jack Rafferty (Benicio Del Toro), Bob (Michael Madsen), and Manute (Michael Duncan Clark). Comic book geeks beware: Frank Miller, himself, plays the priest that has the unfortunate confrontation with Marv.

“Hell is waking up every G-damned day and not know why you’re here.” –Marv

“There’s wrong, there’s wrong, and there’s this.” –Hardigan

When churches are afraid to talk about sin, leave it to the movies. We all live in Sin City. Everyone has “that cold thing”, as both Marv and Dwight call it, inside them. That calls to them. There’s no judgment in Sin City because all the character know they are sinners so there’s no point in playing the sin game with one another.

Despite the existential worldview that the movies supposes to aim for, Christ can be found. Marv, the hapless goon, and Hardigan, broken-down, retired cop, were the models of Christ in, and the heart of, the movie. This will strike many as absurd, as the movie does not have anything positive to say about clergy. Even in an era of anti-heroes, even in Sin City, there is room for crazy notions such as caring for people, treating poor people the same as rich, and laying down one’s life for one’s friends. This even applies to the Ayn Rand inspired “hero” Dwight, because even he has a “Sir Lancelot/save the damsel in distress” quality to him.

Like Christ, they believed all people were equal. Sinners felt comfortable around them. Like Christ, they were ugly. For those who cling to the image of Christ with long, flowing locks and smooth (Caucasian) features, they might want to check out Isaiah 53:2-3. Like Christ, they liked to gather up people around them. Jesus lived with people, partied with them, ate with them, drank with them, and walked with them. He surrounded himself with women of base repute.

They were losers.

When the cause was just, they had no fear of action. Christ overturned tables and faced down demons. They saved (or avenged) the innocent. The villains, cowards that they are, prey on the weak, the vulnerable, and those people that no one cares about or will miss. Often, as one character points out, they beat up on women to make themselves feel like men. They were framed for crimes they didn’t commit, because “sometimes the truth doesn’t matter as it ought.” And they paid the price for those crimes.

Marv, Hardigan, and Dwight are hard-boiled heroes. Men in search of redemption, all face points where they have to “prove to your friends that you’re worth a damn. Sometimes that means dying,” thus being wounded for other’s transgressions.

This movie is not for the faint of heart, nor is the stylized film-making easily consumed. The twisted tales of rage and revenge provide brutal scenes of violence. The actual nudity is brief, the movie, with its endless parade of fishnet clad prostitutes, is sexually charged. Had Tarantino not been a part of things, the movie still has the sensibilities of Pulp Fiction and Kill Bill. An exercise in style that threatens to supplant substance, the movie is visually stunning and demands viewing. If nothing else, it reminds us that our spiritual journeys are relational, not propositional (a matter of following or reciting a formula). The characters live out their beliefs, showing that even in Sin City, love, in the form of self-sacrifice, can be found.


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April Fools for Five Years

April Fools Day is a lame ass holiday where a bunch of would be pranksters, Pucks, Lokis, or other trickers (read: unfunny people) get an excuse to flaunt their singular lack of humor over the rest of us. Sure, it has is origins in ancient traditions but only one thing truly redeems this day.

It is my wife and I’s anniversary.

Today I’ve been married five years. It doesn’t seem like it has been five years, time seems to have just flown by. Then again, having two kids in that five year span will certainly speed up the space-time continuum. I don’t know that the five year anniversary gift is, but my goal is that if I make this blog sweet enough, I can point her to this and get out of actually having to buy something. [Now, romantic guy that I am, I tried to talk the wife into letting me and a buddy go see Sin City tonight. Oddly enough, that idea didn’t fly.]

Five years.

For five years I have been attending U of S (University of Sally). Truth be told, I almost flunked out the first semester. I either misread or misplaced the syllabus. Come to find out (one of the little joys of marriage is how much you learn about yourself), I’m not the endless bowl of sunshine and laughs that I thought I was.

It was my idea to get married on April Fools Day. Well, my original idea was to get married on February 29th, but that got vetoed. After I thought about it, April Fool’s Day rather sets the tone for our marriage, our entire relationship. So I thought it only fitting that we be married then (the only caveat being that neither me nor any of my friends pull any jokes. Other than my best man tripping down the stairs as we walked out, we mostly succeeded). The downside to our sense of spontaneity was the lack of forethought that planning a wedding on April first would entail. Sure, the church was available, not a lot of demand for an April first wedding. However, as the fates would have it, the Final Four games were being held in Indianapolis that year. Hmm, all hotels within at least a 50 mile radius were booked. Obviously, we made it work. Even had people fly in from two other countries and a live reggae band at the reception.

So, I bet you’re wondering what my secret to marriage is? (Okay, you’re probably not: five years seems like a long time, especially when I’ve had many friends crash and burn after six months. It is no time considering that my parents have been at it for 35 years. And they still have stuff to talk about.) It’s my contention that guys don’t have to do much. Three things: 1) don’t get fired, 2) don’t cheat, and 3) be a good dad. The don’t get fired thing is about security, though it doesn’t have to be about money (though, that is the number one thing couples fight about). It also ties into making her feel loved (how that applies to you, well, mileage may vary). The other two should be self-explanatory.

See, once you get those three down, I’m here to tell you, you can screw up a lot of the little things. You do those three, and you are allowed to have your eccentricities. You can have your hobbies. You can have your quirks (have you been reading this blog?). Those nights where you come to bed at two in the morning singing Jimi Hendrix’s “Voodoo Chile” because you’ve suddenly declared that your theme song get tolerated. Those nights where you decide that you can only do bedroom talk in the voice of Mojo JoJo (uh, not that I’ve ever done that) are looked at as “charming”.

Okay, this “meant to be sweet” blog has, once again, taken a sharp left into “Lake Me”. Looks like I’m off to the store. I wonder what I can buy that says “I love you” from our local Quik-E-Mart.



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