Webbkins!

Feels like camp this morning. For some reason, I woke up at 5:30 and all our windows are down, and the air is very wet. I could have campers waking up in a few hours. But no, it's my adult life.

me, Didi, Bennythebull (not the one who injured a basketball fan recently) and his great wife Kate all went to dinner last night (please, see the photo to the left)then to see Derek Webb sing.

It was a great night in a run of great days around here. Don't come around Cincy these days unless you want to be tempted to move here. I'm just saying.

I was greatly disappointed that some girl named alli (who was completely unannounced and unadvertised) played her harmless music for about 30 minutes to kick things off. Then I was greatly disappointed that Derek backed up his wife's harmless music for at least another half hour. Then I was greatly disappointed when they announced that this 'tour' (5 small shows, i think) was to support an EP they recorded out of boredom together. And we all know how I get revved up for husband-and-wife music. Don't we all? So they proceeded to sing some of that stuff. Then Derek's wife left the stage. An hour and a half in, and I was finally getting what I came for (this is true for far, far too many concerts). Up to that point, it had been MY GOODNESS boring.

This gives you a feel for what an old, crumbling, catholic mass hall at 1/3 capacity is like. With bad lighting. And bad sound. In a word, awesome. Can you pick out Derek Webb's tiny body in this photo?

Once The Show I Paid For started, it lasted about a half an hour. So, it was overpriced. But I did enjoy that half hour. Derek sang A New Law and A King And A Kingdom from Mockingbird, which are my two favorites. He also turned me onto a couple others I didn't know, like This, Too, Shall Be Made Right--a reminder to us all that we're to be putting stock in an unseen kingdom that's coming and will restore All Things. Yeah. There were several times when my heart beat heavily in my chest at hearing someone else say these words. I feel lonely, often, in my convictions, and it was great to hear someone else say them aloud. I wondered a few things as I watched Derek:

1) Have he and his wife left the religious machine? If they haven't, they must be miserable. I hope they have.
2) Why wouldn't he travel with at least a drummer? He would sound SO much better!
3) What are his statement-making tattoos about? Tattoos often seem to be a screaming message to the world that "I have a secret!!" I see them like t-shirts: if you want everybody to see your message, please don't make it inscrutable. But whatever, I mean it's your body, Jesse.
4) Why wouldn't you get up on the stage if you're particularly small? My wife called them both "tiny" which, had it been said with disdain, would've been hypocritical on her part.

I also thought a few other things:

1) If you have a guitar and some songs, and you keep after it, I really think you can make a living out of it. Really. Call me crazy here, but I really think that if moljer plowed through years of lonely motels playing in terrible places, he would eventually find his audience and be able to make a living out of it. I really do. Jerry Seinfeld says the same about comedy. If you do the leg work, you learn the lessons, period, and you come out okay. I don't think music-making is any more mystical than accounting. It's romantic to think otherwise, but I know better.
2) Throwing him in with Bob Dylan (another guy who said unpopular things and people were drawn to him because of his passion and purity of message, more than anything else), who Derek alluded to several times, I'm encouraged that there's an audience for that kind of message. (If you're not a Webb fan, I'll sum up: the church is constantly being betrayed; she doesn't mind it all that much; her being involved in politics isn't particularly good for her soul; loving our neighbors is a necessary part of the Good News of Jesus. Also, several questionable-value love songs.)
3) I really, really like it when concerts give me a better picture into the heart of songwriters. I want them to TALK. This is decried far and wide ("More rock! Less talk! We come to hear the hits!"), but I own a copy of the songs, if that's all I want to hear. I want to know these people more. That's just me. I enjoyed hearing Derek talk.
4) He and his wife have a really sweet thing going. They have a moderate following, get to say exactly what they want, and seem to live fairly low-key lives. Maybe that assumption (based on very little) is wrong but it seems nice.

Lastly, a comment about the bizarre confines of Vineyard Central in Norwood, Cincinnati. This is a group of people that I roundly like, but they took over this old catholic property and my goodness the strangeness that arises from that marriage.
Here you can see an image composed of colored glass, a practice, I learned, which has nothing to do with Jesus, the Bible, or the early church. This is clearly Ray Beam Avian Jesus, sending his Lasered Grace to -what a surprise!- a praying monk (another tacked-on tradition that has nothing to do with Jesus, the Bible, God's message of the gospel, or anything related. Even Bambi knows how wacked it is when Bird/Jesus zaps a man whose lifestyle is a paen to fifth-century paganism and this sci-fi transaction is commemorated by glass in the year 2008.

Revelation 18:3-5

...all the nations have drunk
the maddening wine of her adulteries.

The kings of the earth committed adultery with her,

and the merchants of the earth grew rich
from her excessive luxuries.

Then I heard another voice from heaven say:

"Come out of her, my people,

so that you will not share in her sins,
so that you will not receive any of her plagues;
for her sins are piled up to heaven,
and God has remembered her crimes.

NBA Playoff Quick Hits

Turn away, Bobby. It's about to get sweaty in here.



-Let's get this out of the way. No, it doesn't disappoint me that the Mavs will lose in 5 to the exciting Chris Pauls. That's what I WANT to happen. Am I a 'fan' of the Mavs. YES, in that I want them to do well and be good and cheer-worthy. Am I fan in the sense that no matter what they'll do I'll give them my money and support? No. I want them to exit quickly because I want it to be GLARINGLY OBVIOUS to those schmucks that this team needs to be BLOWN UP, finally, for goodness' sake. Like, 2 years ago. Wishful thinker Mark Cuban, who's conVINCED that "we're just one little piece away...", has to be slapped to see that this combination of men creates one collective LOSER. He doesn't seem to be getting it, no matter how many playoff losses his team racks up. Well, GET IT, Cuban. These guys don't work. BLOW IT UP.

-I believe that, when players come to the NBA from other countries, they have to sit through flopping seminars. They receive a certificate, then they can sign with their teams. Stevie Nash was sick that day, and missed the classes altogether. (Robert Horry was in Toronto on a road trip and slipped into a class.) Technicals should be issues to all actors (Manu, Tony Parker, Kirilinko, and Varejao spring to mind). That'd put this nonsense to rest in a hurry.

-Stevie Nash seems to think that he must defer to Amare and O'Neal. But we all know that HE's the Man out there and should shoot more and make it happen. The Suns are quickly turning into the heartbreak kids, and I can't bear to watch.

-We all know the refs favor the Spurs and Lakers, but I just can't figure out why. The Lakers, sure. It's about the money. But WHY do they love those teeny-market Spurs so much? Ever seen a kid on the streets outside of, say, Round Top wearing a spurs jersey? Do they have fans outside of the Texas hill country? There was actually a play last night in which a ref leaned over a Sun (who was sat on the floor) in a challenge. What? Where does that happen? Hey ref, you're not in this game, did you know that?

-Brian Skinner should be fined for his ridiculous goatee. Didi laughs at me when I say this, as if to say "oh ho, YOU've had an offensive look or two in your day." Yeah, right.










-Never was there a more meaningless series than Magic/Raptors. (I still can't believe an NBA franchise has a raptor as its mascot. If they drafted me today, I couldn't do it.)

-Go Rockets! You guys are winners! The heart of a champion! 22 game win streak! Woo woo!

Ticker

WARNING: BLAND STORY ABOUT MONEY AHEAD. NO SPIRITUAL DISCUSSION. JUST A MONEY STORY.

Several moons ago (27), I lived with Mr. Robbie Pratt, who's a kind of Louisiana version of Ben Folds, only less angry. Rob is a nice fellow and a very slow talker, and reads Zane Grey novels (seriously. First guy I ever met with this hobby). What Rob also does, which was a completely unknown world to me back then, is that he Owns Stocks. In my middle class world, Owning Stocks was something for robber barons and oil tycoons, and maybe the fat guy on Monopoly. We Tuffskins-wearing, bacon grease-recycling families did NOT Own Stocks, not in the 80s. My father certainly owned no stocks.

But Robbie showed me that this needn't be a forbidden/intimidating scene. He helped me set up a teeny little account with ETrade--I think I literally put in like $50 or $75. I remember our big coup that year was a stock called UTX, which jumped from the $40s to the $80s, much to my ticklement. It was a petroleum company, or a construction company, or somesuch.

Are you intrigued so far? And that was just my intro!

...Well that was a long time ago, now. My stock portfolio hasn't diversified much (I think I currently own like 4 stocks), but there's a recent tale that amazes me that I have to share:

I guess I've been at this around 10 years now, and as you may know, the market's been amazingly steady and productive for about the last 80. So my money's increased. It still feels like play money to me, since I started with very little and have put in MAYBE $200 since then. Well waaaay back in Aught-Four (sp?), I owned a little stock whose name I can't remember. It was some company that made potash, which is used in agriculture and in making asphalt, I think. I bought 100 shares at, I believe, $6.50 or thereabouts. For you math geeks, that's $650 worth of stock. Okay.

Stock Trading has become a Less Important Hobby for me. I don't look at the numbers hardly ever. I recently did look, out of boredom, and noticed that I hadn't checked out the prices in over a year (on it!). Well, my little potash company had been bought out, at which point its prices had doubled, then it had realized incredible growth since. Are you curious at what the price is now? I know I am--this is a fascinating tale of finance!

As of yesterday, that stock (MOS. The new company is called Mosaic) is at $140. That's, uh, 14 grand of stock for me.

This amount of cash doesn't exactly make me a candidate to talk to musrat (Shane is a trader for Fidelity Investments, and you have to be a Million Dollar Baby to talk to him), but it is significant to me. It's more money than was on my tax return in either 1997 OR 1998. It's not enough to buy me a new Porsche (for you Californians out there) but, uh, it sure feels like a nice little pad out there! Not that I'm selling anytime soon.

True story.

Keeping Your Head Down

Few weeks back, some friends wanted us over for their kid's first birthday. Not a normal party. The little guy's afflicted with what looks like cerebral palsy. I say that as a point of reference; really, the doctors don't know what it is. But he has a hard time, and they struggle at giving him the care he requires. It's hard. So the party was a come-pray-for-healing-for-our-son party.

To be honest, I didn't want to go.

I like the fact that these people have faith, and I like people getting other people into their homes for God meetings. I support that. But I've been tired of the praying-for-people-to-be-healed-and-nothing-happens-but-we-keep-acting-like-it-will game lately. We have friends losing pregnancies, people being taken out by cancer (one of my favorite mentors, a Mr. Alan Stickney, who deserves several posts on his fantastic Stickneyisms, is losing the good fight in Dallas), and people just not seeing what God's promised. (And I know all the answers to this, by the way: "walk by faith, not by sight", "do not tire of doing good", "yea, though he slay me, I will trust in him", "KEEP ON asking, and it will be given unto you", etc. Yeah, got it.) It is, to put it plainly, tiring. God doesn't answer to me, and I'm surely not going to call him to account (yikes). I'm just saying that this present system is draining. There's grace for the drain, but it's still there.

So we went, because we love these people and mourn their son's condition with them, and sure enough, we all prayed and quoted God's scriptures to Him, and nothing happened. Concretes the soul, this sort of thing.


What picked me up that night was spending time with the husband, a guy I love. Paul asked Chris how we could pray for him, and he said "I just want endurance. It's been a long year." (shades of Chaz Tenenbaum) I didn't have it in me to pray that, so I said "why don't we consider what the Bible has to say about endurance..."

Here's what we found, in that offensive, baldly honest letter by James (one name only. These old guys were like Prince or Sting with the names). James says that if you want to end up mature and perfect, then you're going to have to add Endurance to your toolbox. Um, okay. I DO want that maturity you're describing. Okay, I'm down. I'll take endurance. Then James (ever the prima donna) says "okay, if you want endurance... you're going to have to have your faith tested." Faith tested? Well I know what that means: that means that things don't work out. That means that God doesn't seem to come through for you. That means that you feel alone and have to believe, for no defendable reason, that you're NOT alone. That means that you look like a fool to yourself. Faith testing is a bitch.

Having one's faith shaken, as I considered it, isn't uncommon for the Bible Times Gang. Peter's faith was totally shaken when it looked like the Romans won against Jesus. (I mean, it REALLY looked like it, didn't it?) Ezekiel asked God to kill him, he felt so alone. (Ever prayed that prayer? I have.) David despaired all the time of God. He never seemed to LEAVE his faith, but it was tested. Severely. And repeatedly.

Well what about the guy who's so often painted up as Bible Super Hero (not to be confused with Bible Man, Willie Aames' absurd portrayal of a Super-Christian!?), the Son of God? Did Jesus ever despair of his faith in the unseen God? Yeah, I'm gonna say he did. He cries out on the cross (and that crying out, remember, was a regular part of his life, according to Hebrews 5) in shock, horror, and surprise. GOD! WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME!?!?

I find that to be an incredibly sad (and comforting) plea from Jesus. Think Jesus' faith was tested in that moment, in what (we can see, in retrospect) was the crowning moment of his life? Seems like it was.


So my faith being tested seems to be par for the course. It's reassuring when the sergeant tells you that your hyperventilation isn't unusual; everybody deals with it. It's good when the doctor tells you that bleeding and nausea is one of the known side-effects. And when the Master says to pray without ceasing, and that being disappointed with the results isn't the end of the world, it's settling to the soul.

So the knot I endeavor to tie is that of faithfulness. God's just crazy about faithfulness, as his book states over and over. He likes a little stick-to-itive. He's got it in spades, and likes to see it coming out of his offspring. Faithfulness is one of the fruits of the Spirit and, if I can make a circle here, is one of the tip-offs to maturity.

We're getting there, kids.

Can't quite read this caption but I'm sure it's pithy/overwrought.

Same Guy!

SuperGrover!

I will destroy your peanut butter!

The planet VLTRRGGGRKLAXX will send its hoary minions to destroy your trans-fat consuming asses in a vapor ray of sizzling potency. YOUR BEANS WILL BE OURS!

ps-all your base are belong to us.

Today I Helped Someone Leave Me

Matt and Cary Moore were the first people I knew in Cincinnati.

Actually, I knew them before coming here. Cary conspired with me in proposing to my wife, at their house, with them away, in November 2001 (it's worth saying that Matt wasn't too keen on the idea: he'd heard that I broke Didi's heart and wanted to talk to me before agreeing to be a party to my proposal. I liked that). Didi became my bride-to-be on their steps. Since then, Cary has become my wife's best friend (not just in Cincinnati). Matt and I met together for about 2 years every week to help each other find God when I was a mortgage broker. He was a pilot for the inept ComAir, a flying partner of Delta, and had open daytimes. They both had Texas roots so we bonded with them in our perception of the midwest and our fond remberances of Texas/southern culture and cuisine (Cary is a Louisiana girl), and Matt is my Longhorn buddy who I chide when the Aggies beat their longtime foes (I have the chance to rib him, it seems, about once every three years). We've been on vacations with them: a Caribbean cruise, and a Los Cabos getaway a couple of years ago. They made us godparents of their second-born, a son, who just turned four. Matt taught me how to SCUBA dive. I helped him lay the concrete for his drive and sidewalk, build his bathroom, and build his back porch. He helped me build my bathroom. Cary is Didi's right-hand woman for the deliverance ministry she shoulders here, and the two of them have run in multiple marathons and 5- and 10-Ks together.

The years of sowing into this relationship have produced the ruby-red fruit of love.


Today I helped them pack up their home into a shipping container.

Matt got his dream job, flying huge airplanes for Cathay Pacific, a Hong Kong-based liner. They'll be based in Anchorage, Alaska. Their goodbye prayer meeting was held at our house last week. Cary will take Sara, Ben, and Emily to Abilene to stay at Matt's parents' ranch while Matt's in training in Hong Kong. Then everybody will relocate north. (I plan on helping drive the cars up there!)

I had a weird moment today, picking up Ben's toys for the last time, and wandering up to the 3rd floor attic office that I helped rough in. I just thought about this young family, their misgivings about leaving the only home their children know, their wonder at the days ahead, and the permanent grasp we give to one another's hearts. I cried. A family moving out of a house is just a sad thing. Summing up a significant chapter of life always always leads me into reverie and melancholy, but it felt worse helping them shove off. I have usually been the shover-offer, and it's not as hard to take. Throw children in there and it's downright painful.

We shared Mexican food today (as is our wont) and, between dismantling their beds and stacking boxes on chairs on desks on boxes on dressers, Cary said "you're a good friend, Steven."

Know that this is the greatest compliment I could be paid, but as I considered that I felt honored, not put upon, to be part of this screenshot, I could only think of this truism: that's the only kind there are.

Here's what you get when you sell out

Peepee Gooseman ("the Junkyard Swan") forwarded this bizarre chart to me. What it says, basically, is that if you're 'religious' (and that's defined by people reporting, in a relatively small study, that 'religion is important to them', and not much else), you're going to end up poor. Now, this could be seen as "poor people turn to religion in their need", which is sociologically viable, but it could also be seen as "getting into bed with religion somehow goes hand in hand with getting into bed with poverty", and that's what I'd like to discuss. Even if the chart is bunk (and I'm not putting a ton of stock in it), it piqued my thoughts. Maybe I've communicated what's below before, but it bears repeating:

When in Nigeria (the most religious place I HAVE EVER SEEN, if you don't remember my writing about it last summer), I came across a guy who told me very matter-of-fact that the reason Nigeria was such a poor country was because of its religious context. My ears immediately perked up and I asked him (the man's name is Jarlot) what he meant. "It's right there in the Bible," he said.

"Psalm 133 clearly states that when the brothers dwell together in unity, God likes and sends a blessing. And we know that one of the goals of religion is division on massive scales. So where there is religion, division comes. Where there is division, there is no unity. God's blessing is revoked: poverty." He said it like it was single-digit addition.

Also, according to this chart, America clearly has a religious hangover from the last "great awakening".

In Time, All Things Change

if this proves anything, it's this: with paciencia, everyone's beard will eventually fill out. " Just wait, my comrades, only wait."

The Thrown Out and The Never Should Have Possessed

I have often freely, and without provocation, dispensed marriage advice. This is ENGAGEMENT advice, because it could never apply to a sane married person. This is for free, and this is fo real: DON'T EVER GIVE IN TO THE IMAGINED PRESSURE TO INCLUDE A 'SALAD SHOOTER' IN YOUR GIFT REGISTRY. This is the most insane possible use of your well-wishers' goodwill. I don't believe we ever used our Salad Shooter, once, and I don't know of anybody who's ever used one. We simply acquire them and store them with the maddening melange of tupperware-related plastic storage. (Man, do I hate THAT cabinet.) The design demons at OXO (their products are so alluring! So form-meets-function! So grippy!) will pull the wool over your eyes at some point in the Wedding Registry process; there's no escaping that. But don't let them play you on the salad tip. Consider this... your last warning.

Also, is it wrong that I just threw out my The Call's Greatest Hits CD?

E'erbody...

Go read Peb's new comment on "Why Christianity Hates the Gospel." It's goooooooood.

The Mayor of Goobtown!

Racquetball is the gap-toothed stepson of the Health Club Movement from the 80s: two otherwise normal people gear up (gear can be cool, like when you put on a fireman's uniform, and it can be Completely Ridiculous, like when you put on knee pads and sport goggles for racquetball), lock themselves in a tiny room, and flail at a bouncy ball for an hour. Health clubs featured this 'sport' because their overhead was low (required of the clubs: a room), and it looked good on the floorplan. Variations were created (we played Wallyball in college, which was volleyball where ricochets off the wall were allowed; this was fun), but it's the straight racquetball that's endured.

I took racquetball in college. Cool factor 10. Trust me.

And I've played weekly with my friend Johnathan Thornberry (Kentucky) for the past 3+ years. It's easy to accomplish, and I end up sweaty at the end, so there you go.

While playing with Shane/musrat 2 weeks ago, though, I realized an astounding fact. Now, you have to know that I am dependent on the drop shot. The feebly hit ball to the corner, which then dies, leaving my opponents no recourse, is a friend of mine. I need it. I use it. This is a regular part of my game. Left corner, right corner, whatever it takes. I'll be there.

What I realized while playing with Shane was that I have had VERY strange connotations for those 'kill corners' (my term) over the past few years. My brain has developed ways of thinking about those corners, but I've never articulated it, or even admitted it to myself. My brain would simply make a comment if I, for instance, used the right corner, then I would let that thought pass without examination, and go on. I was stunned when I brought those connotations out into the light and admitted them to Shane. We were both amazed: I have developed a consideration for the right corner as "blueberry" and the left corner as "mango/pina colada/tropical flavors".

I have NO CLUE what this means except that I have done the impossible by increasing the Nerd Factor of racquetball. Color me ambitious.

Public Notice

If anyone's interested in the following items:

Tom Hanks is Forrest Gump (VHS)

Steven Spielburg's Biography (dubbed, with commercials, from A&E, circa '97) (VHS)

Mansfield Park (VHS) (Can't really tell you about this film. It's Girl Art, so I never really ventured out there.)

Late For Dinner (VHS) Now THIS is a gem! A young Peter Berg co-stars as Marcia Hardin's mentally handicapped brother in this romantic sci-fi drama set in the 60s/90s! What a wild ride!

Sting's All This Time (VHS) Watch Sting look smug. Again!

24, Season 1 (DVD) What were any of us thinking? Had we forgotten MacGyver so easily?


they can be easily retrieved from the large green trash can at 2720 Hyde Park Ave.
Cleaning ALWAYS puts a smile on my face. Cleaning out old art is a parTICular joy.

Why Christianity Hates the Gospel

A friend, in reaction to my Emmaus Chafing, posed me this query:

Regis, I grew up in an area where many of my peers found their way into crime and various perversions. Because of my involvement in Church World (the PRS to you and me), I tried to be a Good Guy, and stayed out of that stuff. I picked up some unhealthy religious stuff along the way, maybe, but can you at least concede that I was better off than my friends who ended up strung out or in jail?

Because my simply saying no would be so artless, I'll let Jesus answer the question (he's SO GOOD at questions).

Speaking to the religious, he said, "I tell you the truth, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are entering the kingdom of God ahead of you."

Here's a story from the Bible: Jesus meets a guy who's on death row. I don't know what he's done, but it's bad. Think murder, rape, this sort of thing. The criminal says, "Look Jesus, I know you're perfect and sinless. I, obviously, am not. So when you get your due in heaven, would you remember me? I'm just a screwed-up sonofabitch." Jesus goes, "I can do you one better than that, friend. I'm going to put you on my back and take you to paradise."

Here's an altogether different story from the Bible: Jesus has all these seminary graduates together and he says, "You guys will be all right, just keep following me. I'll set you free from all the slavery you're trapped in." They snapped at that idea. "Uh, we're the good guys, Jesus. You know, the JEWS? We're not slaves that need to be freed of anything."
"Look guys, I know you sin. If you sin you're slaves to sin. If you were free you'd listen to me and be saved by me. As it is, you guys are stuck trying to defend yourselves. *sigh* Good luck, fellas."

So here's the thing: peddling a misshapen image of God to people is the worst possible lie that can be perpetrated. It bars them from entering heaven, as Jesus said, because they believe a lie about how God receives them, and on what basis, and robs words like Jesus, faith, grace, salvation, church, and love of their meaning. It's a terrible, damnable lie that gets passed around, and under guise of the Gospel at that! The work-yourself-saved pseudo-gospel is the most successful deception ever pulled off, and it's driven the masses into the mouth of hell, because THE GOSPEL ISN'T ABOUT ME SHAPING UP FOR GOD'S SAKE. If you believe that, like I once did, repent of it, for your soul's sake, and let Jesus start you over. Really. So who's better off, the guy on skid row who'd jump at true grace if he ever heard it, or the religious guy who lived clean and approaches God based on his relative sinlessness? Jesus already answered the question, but it's such an important question. THIS is why I get my undies knotted up at the pitiful sham that was the Walk to Emmaus--IT'S THE LIE OF THE AGES!

While I'm at it: there were guys there who did not know Jesus. They went because they were open and wanted to hear about him (bless them! I love that attitude of openness and need!). What they got wasn't the gospel of grace, it was the perverted gospel of performance. At the end of the weekend, one of these guys stood up and said "What I've learned here is that, no matter what I'm doing or how hard I'm trying, there's always more that can be done. And I recommit to give myself to God's work..." the place erupted in applause. Meanwhile, Wii-style dirt clouds swirled over my head. I wanted to strangle the devil. And here's the thing: when I tried talking to that guy during the weekend, he looked askance at me, because the "clergy" had so underlined to him that "WE know what we're talking about. YOU GUYS don't. You've taken no tests. What WE say goes." that he was hesitant and suspicious when I challenged what the guys in suits had said. "This GOD loves you stuff is a little suspect," he seemed to say. "The Official Guys say that I have to work hard, and that's what 'grace' means." At that point, I was sidelined. I couldn't compete with what he'd received from the law wonks. Does that make sense?

Benny has a buddy who feels trapped in homosexuality. He was raised in religion, so tries very hard to overcome his sin, even paying for it in his own acts of penance. Benny has told him point blank that he's to give up on efforting his way out of this mess and cry out to the Spirit of God, who will save him. In response to this, he flatly says no. "I'm not ready for that."

No crying out to God in simple neediness? Okay, good luck, then.

A few years ago, I had a friend who'd been severely messed over by religious people. I told him that religion had its tenterhooks in him as well (which is why he judged them) and that he should repent of religion, crying out to God to save him. He went nuts on me, screaming (literally) that he'd never been religious and had nothing to repent of, that THOSE SORRY BASTARDS IN MY PAST were the ones who should be repenting. Wow. No crying out to God in simple neediness?

Jesus still speaks to the religious:

"Look guys, I know you sin. And if you sin you're slaves to sin. If you were free you'd listen to me and be saved by me. As it is, you guys are stuck trying to defend yourselves. *sigh* Good luck, fellas."

Who are these men?

Are they:

1) all victims of terrible facial scaring, who've found the same solution?
2) members of Band of Horses?
3) guys who've never been in my kitchen?

If you said 'guys who've never been in my kitchen', you're WRONG! (Hamster has graced my fridge for years.) In truth, any of these gentlemen could effortlessly take up stage space with Band of Horses, the oddly-titled musical group I saw tonight in Newport, KY's stanky Southgate House.

My thoughts on this band were typified by their rather strange audience: not a lot of college kids, kind of a nerdy NPR-loving look about them, and more beards than I've seen in one place since somebody sent me that Kenny Rogers lookalike website. I was bemused that the intelligent-looking (? What does THAT mean?) concert-goers were fans of some of the most un-intelligent music I've ever heard. SO simple. One and Four chords, mostly. As Benny pointed out to me, they're there because they want the FEELING. And BoH feels, all told, like POSITIVE music. Their sound's core is slow, big drums, and a non-stop organ under loud, static guitars (there is NO ART to the guitar work, folks. Their 'lead guitarist' ONLY strummed, and maybe played something other than open chords five times. While we're on the subject, the guys favored open tuning on most of their guitars, and lead singer Ben Bridwell has a different guitar for every capo placement. What I'm saying is, there's nobody named Liszt in the group). But they have lyrics like:

The world is just a wonderful place
la- de- da- da

And people like to bob their heads slowly. The strength of their best music isn't the songwriting (these guys have precious little to say, or can't express it well), it's the uplifting mood created by all those guitars (at one point, there were 5 being played onstage). I will say that Bridwell's voice is intriguing to me, and there's something endearing about the farmland getups that bring Creedance or Eagles to mind. In the end, I like a little more meat on my bones, both sonically and lyrically (Benny noted that "I realize I don't often listen to their records front-to-back; when you string them together like this, they all start to sound the same"). But the toking crowd had a great time at Southgate House's underground lair of Throwing Off the Constraints, and Benny and I had a fun Sunday night together.



No seriously: this is a promo photo.

This post in memory of Mark Douglass, once-great blogger. He loved "Funeral".