So apparently this weekend the world is going to end. Well, actually, according to these guys the Rapture occurs on May 21st. I think the actual END of the world is sometime in October? Should be a great Halloween.
For those of you not clued in, the Rapture is when all true Christian believers will be taken up into Heaven before the rest of us suffer in the End of Days (in which most of us will die horrible, horrible deaths). I mean, you will just be sitting there on the bus, and then suddenly the girl next to you will just vanish! Thank God it wasn't the driver, right?
Because of my recent Lenten Adventure I don't think I will be caught up in the Rapture, I am sorry to say. So I am getting ready for the horrible time that is to follow. I got a flashlight, some extra batteries, a little first aid kit, some books, and many, many boxes of Little Debbie cakes.
Oh, and please remind me that I should laundry on Friday night. I don't think the laundromats will be open, what with all the fire and brimstone and blood in the streets. Kind of like a really bad snow storm, only a little more so, you know?
Of course, its times like these, when certain death is staring one in the face, that lend itself to quiet reflection (provided you are not engaged in stealing all the vodka and ice cream you can). Me, I have been thinking about my beliefs, my "Creed", if you will. I mean, when you get right down to it, if there were no priests or parents or spouses or children or anyone else around, just you and me, and you said "What do you believe in the very core of your soul, with near certainty", what would I say? Here is what I got:
1. There is a God. Probably just one. More would be way easier.
2. There was this dude named Jesus.
3. Jesus is the window through which we can see God for who God is.
4. Jesus was crucified, rose from the dead, and this is important. What does it mean exactly? Good question (note, this disqualifies me for Rapture). I am working on it.
5. The Holy Ghost? The Trinity is hard. I'll buy in.
6. On Morals: The basics. Don't kill people. Don't steal. Be honest. Don't cheat on your spouse. Inward reflection on one's true feelings is important. The finer points (when/with whom can you have sex? When are women too old to wear miniskirts? Can men wear miniskirts? What about kilts? Can I crack open a beer at 11:59 AM on a Sunday IF the game is about to start?) are up for debate.
7. Don't see why Darwin and Genesis can't be both be right in their own way.
8. On Hell: want to say that it exists, but it's not what imagine it to be. Who goes? I don't know. As to Salvation, I believe that everyone who seeks will eventually find what they are looking for in the next life (IF there is a next life...damn, see how hard this is!) . After all, I may be wrong. It's good to hedge ones bets.
9. The Chateau Frontenac in Quebec City serves the best creme brulee you have ever had. Once you eat it here, you may well never eat it again.
10. Soccer is the greatest sport on God's great Earth.
11. Sarah Jarosz might just achieve what Steve Martin almost did and finally get me into bluegrass music.
12. I believe that on the 22nd of May we will still be here.
That's about it. Not too bad for a Lutheran.
My advice to you as the Rapture comes: Drink Hearty, Ye Heathens! But no orgies, because you will probably live to regret it. Or maybe you won't.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Star Wars Day - Targeting Computer
So my wife has just informed me that today is Star Wars Day (May the 4th be with you...). A quick Google search has confirmed this. That's two sources, it must be true.
At any rate, in honor of the day, I figured I would reprise a facebook note I wrote about Star Wars. Those of you who used to read my notes will recognize it, but now I will share it with the world. I don't know if it is something I should be proud of, but, as Kevin Smith would say, it's pretty fucking funny, at lesat in my own estimation.
Technically, facebook probably owns this note and I am guessing I am riffing off of Star Wars which is owned by the Emporer himself, Dark Lord Lucas. So I don't know if its technically legal. But, since no one is making a cent off this blog (its all for the love of writing so far...), I figure its okay.
"Luke, you've turned off your targeting computer! What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I'm all right."
Shit. We're seriously fucking screwed, and now we are all going to die.
That is what would have coursed from my mind if I was hanging around the Rebel Alliance command and control center during the first attack on the death star. I mean, seriously, try and place yourself there...
Now unless you are an incredible optimist you gotta figure you are pretty much screwed anyway. We're going to what? Send a bunch of fighters down a trench so they can take some potshots at some exhuast port, that may or may not create a chain reaction that may or may not blow up the Death Star as it targets our little moon base? Is that even possible?
Your friends assure you that yes it is, at least for a targeting computer. And you think to yourself, "Wedge Antilles is the best damn fighter pilot this side of Krylon 5". So when you go to lunch that day in the cafeteria to eat some freedom fries and space pizza maybe there is a little spring in your step. Maybe you think that Wedge and his targeting computer just might pull this thing off.
But then of course everything goes to hell. As wave after wave of fighters attempts to skim the trench --- why do they have to do that anyway? Can't they just enter the trench closer to the ehxuast port and fire away? Oh well, someone above your paygrade made that decision-- you begin biting your nails and wondering what you should do as the minutes tick away. Should you die dutifully at your work station? Should you kneel and pray to...what, the Force? Seems strange. Should you raid the commissary and drink as much space vodka as possible?
But you hang around, becuase there is still one chance. Everyone is watching intently as one last fighter skims the trench. The feed from the targeting computer shows he is getting and closer and closer and then
Nothing.
"Luke, you've turned off your targeting computer, what's wrong?"
Luke? What happened to Wedge? He got hit?!! He's gone?!! Fucking shit. We are toast.
Luke -- what's his name? Star Trotter. No, no...Skywalker. Yeah. You remember him. That country bumpkin from Tatooine that boasted about buzzing wamprats in his T-16 back home. Never mind what a wamprat is, you KNOW the T-16 is a soviet era piece of crap plane. And this dude thinks he can just plunk himself in the cockpit of the X-wing fighter, the most sophisticated fighter of the day, without any flight training, and lead the final attack on this exhuast port that may or may not save everyone's ass.
MAYBE he has a shot with a computer guiding him. But now? He's turned it off. No chance. Gone.
Why did he do it? Some old dead guy told him to do it? He's using the Force? That's great. Absolutely fucking great.
You toss your headphones on the consol and leave for the comissary. You pass an obviously worried Princess Leah...didn't that redneck have a crush on her? That's probably what this is all about. Maybe he thinks that if he can do this without a computer he'll show her he's got balls and then she'll let him into her pants or jumpsuit or whatever it is she's wearing. Like he'd be the first....It's those damn hair earmuffs she's got. You just want to squeeze them.
But that doesn't matter now. Fuck her. And fuck this. You open up a bottle of space vodka and wait for the end to come.
And then something amazing happens. You wake up the next morning in a pool of your own vomit and the light practically splits your brain into two. But as you cough and wheeze and stagger to your feet you realize that you are alive. That kid actually pulled it off.
Of course, you wish you were dead, that's how bad you feel after taking a full bottle of space vodka. And it only gets worse two days later when you get cashiered and demoted for leaving your post during the attack, and you get bundled off to the end of the galaxy, Hoth, where you have to shovel Tauntaun shit for 3 days a week and the rest of the time you are on the line with the grunts, freezing your ass off in the trenches.
Hey, what's that on the horizon.....those big grey things.....
At any rate, in honor of the day, I figured I would reprise a facebook note I wrote about Star Wars. Those of you who used to read my notes will recognize it, but now I will share it with the world. I don't know if it is something I should be proud of, but, as Kevin Smith would say, it's pretty fucking funny, at lesat in my own estimation.
Technically, facebook probably owns this note and I am guessing I am riffing off of Star Wars which is owned by the Emporer himself, Dark Lord Lucas. So I don't know if its technically legal. But, since no one is making a cent off this blog (its all for the love of writing so far...), I figure its okay.
"Luke, you've turned off your targeting computer! What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I'm all right."
Shit. We're seriously fucking screwed, and now we are all going to die.
That is what would have coursed from my mind if I was hanging around the Rebel Alliance command and control center during the first attack on the death star. I mean, seriously, try and place yourself there...
Now unless you are an incredible optimist you gotta figure you are pretty much screwed anyway. We're going to what? Send a bunch of fighters down a trench so they can take some potshots at some exhuast port, that may or may not create a chain reaction that may or may not blow up the Death Star as it targets our little moon base? Is that even possible?
Your friends assure you that yes it is, at least for a targeting computer. And you think to yourself, "Wedge Antilles is the best damn fighter pilot this side of Krylon 5". So when you go to lunch that day in the cafeteria to eat some freedom fries and space pizza maybe there is a little spring in your step. Maybe you think that Wedge and his targeting computer just might pull this thing off.
But then of course everything goes to hell. As wave after wave of fighters attempts to skim the trench --- why do they have to do that anyway? Can't they just enter the trench closer to the ehxuast port and fire away? Oh well, someone above your paygrade made that decision-- you begin biting your nails and wondering what you should do as the minutes tick away. Should you die dutifully at your work station? Should you kneel and pray to...what, the Force? Seems strange. Should you raid the commissary and drink as much space vodka as possible?
But you hang around, becuase there is still one chance. Everyone is watching intently as one last fighter skims the trench. The feed from the targeting computer shows he is getting and closer and closer and then
Nothing.
"Luke, you've turned off your targeting computer, what's wrong?"
Luke? What happened to Wedge? He got hit?!! He's gone?!! Fucking shit. We are toast.
Luke -- what's his name? Star Trotter. No, no...Skywalker. Yeah. You remember him. That country bumpkin from Tatooine that boasted about buzzing wamprats in his T-16 back home. Never mind what a wamprat is, you KNOW the T-16 is a soviet era piece of crap plane. And this dude thinks he can just plunk himself in the cockpit of the X-wing fighter, the most sophisticated fighter of the day, without any flight training, and lead the final attack on this exhuast port that may or may not save everyone's ass.
MAYBE he has a shot with a computer guiding him. But now? He's turned it off. No chance. Gone.
Why did he do it? Some old dead guy told him to do it? He's using the Force? That's great. Absolutely fucking great.
You toss your headphones on the consol and leave for the comissary. You pass an obviously worried Princess Leah...didn't that redneck have a crush on her? That's probably what this is all about. Maybe he thinks that if he can do this without a computer he'll show her he's got balls and then she'll let him into her pants or jumpsuit or whatever it is she's wearing. Like he'd be the first....It's those damn hair earmuffs she's got. You just want to squeeze them.
But that doesn't matter now. Fuck her. And fuck this. You open up a bottle of space vodka and wait for the end to come.
And then something amazing happens. You wake up the next morning in a pool of your own vomit and the light practically splits your brain into two. But as you cough and wheeze and stagger to your feet you realize that you are alive. That kid actually pulled it off.
Of course, you wish you were dead, that's how bad you feel after taking a full bottle of space vodka. And it only gets worse two days later when you get cashiered and demoted for leaving your post during the attack, and you get bundled off to the end of the galaxy, Hoth, where you have to shovel Tauntaun shit for 3 days a week and the rest of the time you are on the line with the grunts, freezing your ass off in the trenches.
Hey, what's that on the horizon.....those big grey things.....
Monday, May 2, 2011
On the Death of Bin Laden
I remember quite clearly where I was on September 11, 2001. I was in an introduction to Ocean Engineering class at Virginia Tech. It was an early class, and my professor, Dr. Neu, walked in and told us that a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center. Like I said, it was early in the day, so I don't think he understood the full implications of what was going on; few did, at that time. Because Dr. Neu is a little kooky anyway, we all just shrugged it off and got on with our lesson as normal. I, for one, assumed it was a small plane.
Once the class was over I went to the dining hall for an early lunch, and I remember walking in and noting that it was eerily quiet. It was then that I saw the TV reporting on what had turned out to be a full terrorist assault on our country. The rest of the day was spent mostly in silence and prayer, watching CNN and wondering with great angst what was to come next. Naturally, it is a day I will never forget.
I doubt I will forget this day either, though I don't think it will be as definitively imprinted on my mind. I didn't find out about Bin Laden's death until I picked up the Daily Press on the doorstep on my way to work. It was a typically slim Monday edition, but on the front was Bin Laden's face and the news that the president had announced he was dead late the night before. I uttered a universal expression of amazement, which is best not repeated in a post as sober as this one. NPR confirmed for me what the paper had said: Osama was dead, there was dancing in the streets of New York.
That last part gave me pause. I am not going to sit here and say that that is an incorrect or a correct response. I can completely understand if people are compelled to celebrate this swift and sudden meting of justice (for justice it was). It is not the way I am responding, but then I don't have a very personal stake in the events of 9/11 or the wars that spun off of that horrible day. I didn't know anyone who died on 9/11. I have not had anyone close to me killed or wounded in Iraq or Afghanistan.
So no, if you want my two cents (for that is about anything I have to say is actually worth), I cannot celebrate a person's death. The mere killing of a man does not make me proud to be an American. That pride rests somewhere else. It rests with the men who carried out a great feat of arms on precise and patient intelligence. It rests with those soldiers on the front lines who prepare for the Taliban/Al Qaeda response as the Afghanistan fighting season begins, and it rests with the families of those eagerly awaiting their return home. It rests with our President, who bucked at least for a moment a "lead from behind" malaise that is clouding the public perceptions of his administration's foreign policy and authorized the operation. It rests with the fact that, if reports are correct, we accorded Bin Laden, this most odious of men, with a burial at sea that at least nodded towards Muslim tradition. This was more than this man deserved, much more than he would have accorded any of us.
In short, if I have any pride in our Nation, it is due to the professionalism and the tenacity of those who serve it and the glorious causes upon which it was founded so well. If we would all strive, with the same sense of duty and perseverance that has been put on display by people far more braver than me, to be better citizens, than perhaps we may realize better days for this, our Happy Republic.
Once the class was over I went to the dining hall for an early lunch, and I remember walking in and noting that it was eerily quiet. It was then that I saw the TV reporting on what had turned out to be a full terrorist assault on our country. The rest of the day was spent mostly in silence and prayer, watching CNN and wondering with great angst what was to come next. Naturally, it is a day I will never forget.
I doubt I will forget this day either, though I don't think it will be as definitively imprinted on my mind. I didn't find out about Bin Laden's death until I picked up the Daily Press on the doorstep on my way to work. It was a typically slim Monday edition, but on the front was Bin Laden's face and the news that the president had announced he was dead late the night before. I uttered a universal expression of amazement, which is best not repeated in a post as sober as this one. NPR confirmed for me what the paper had said: Osama was dead, there was dancing in the streets of New York.
That last part gave me pause. I am not going to sit here and say that that is an incorrect or a correct response. I can completely understand if people are compelled to celebrate this swift and sudden meting of justice (for justice it was). It is not the way I am responding, but then I don't have a very personal stake in the events of 9/11 or the wars that spun off of that horrible day. I didn't know anyone who died on 9/11. I have not had anyone close to me killed or wounded in Iraq or Afghanistan.
So no, if you want my two cents (for that is about anything I have to say is actually worth), I cannot celebrate a person's death. The mere killing of a man does not make me proud to be an American. That pride rests somewhere else. It rests with the men who carried out a great feat of arms on precise and patient intelligence. It rests with those soldiers on the front lines who prepare for the Taliban/Al Qaeda response as the Afghanistan fighting season begins, and it rests with the families of those eagerly awaiting their return home. It rests with our President, who bucked at least for a moment a "lead from behind" malaise that is clouding the public perceptions of his administration's foreign policy and authorized the operation. It rests with the fact that, if reports are correct, we accorded Bin Laden, this most odious of men, with a burial at sea that at least nodded towards Muslim tradition. This was more than this man deserved, much more than he would have accorded any of us.
In short, if I have any pride in our Nation, it is due to the professionalism and the tenacity of those who serve it and the glorious causes upon which it was founded so well. If we would all strive, with the same sense of duty and perseverance that has been put on display by people far more braver than me, to be better citizens, than perhaps we may realize better days for this, our Happy Republic.
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