We’ve cleaned up and re-packaged our CafePress t-shirt design shop.
Come and take a gander, won’t you?
Kai Ta Loipa – Relaunching Our Enterprises
Nostalgia
First, let me clear the air: “nostalgia” smacks of grandparents, the Greatest Generation and noir films. The word seems practically encoded into the aesthetic of jazz, the memory of cigarettes in swanky nightclubs and starlets. It may sound therefore considerably more than a bit cinematic. (“Oh, I’m languishing over here in black and white!”). I hope to argue here, however, that there is still a place for this kind of nostalgia. As long as we Americans constantly parody and ironize indiscriminately the culture, received ideas and norms that precede us, this may seem a dim possibility. And yet, somehow even our efforts to parody reveal a certain attempt to remember, to reconstitute (however disfigured) the cultural parameters of a by gone era. Let us take Indiana Jones, for example. The whole original trilogy was premised on absorbing, synthesizing and distilling the great adventure detective novel/films of the forties and fifties. Even the script of the title tells us that what is at stake is the recapitulation of the already ossified noir genre. We as viewers enjoy seeing (with a certain amount of self-awareness) precisely this. Of course, nostalgia of this filmic sort creates stereotypes, turning caricatures into rigid types.
Take for example the longstanding American loving for shooting Nazis in films, a tradition which is itself fading as the new Jones films replaces these perennial villains with Soviets. All that this change (from Nazis to Commies) reveals, however, is that slow transition between historical zones of nostalgia. For movie watchers growing old in the early 2000’s the Cold War looms far greater than even the deeply grooved cultural memory of the Second World War. One villain (as reproduced in the fuzziness of nostalgia) is replaced by another as the essential experience or access to such experience changes. It has always struck me the way people talk about World War I vets dying, as if the whole of that now distant conflict were encoded in the limited personal experience of one of its trench soldiers. If I might suggest the second basic premise of this short post, it is that this tendency (to project upon a person the entire burden of cultural memory) is the effect of nostalgia, as it is encoded into cultural output.
This hypothesis need not be tailored exclusively to a modern era, conditioned as it is by a massive film industry (the makers of Aristotelian art: that which is not, but could be). Our contemporary sense of nostalgia is perhaps, with some qualification, a work definition of mythological nationalism. Greek living subsequent to the Trojan War defined and created themselves in the image of Homer’s poem. A cultural nostalgia (and the borders between Greek/Barbarian that it implies) are fundamental to the reproduction of a national document like the Illiad or the Odyssey. Without oversimplifying the complexities of the question, I would like to suggest that similar tendencies are operational in the contemporary American reception of film. The only sizable qualification we would suggest is the one already made by De Toqueville in the 19th C, and that is that memory in a democratic age is shorter than in the canonic, hierarchical pre-history of an aristocratic state. Functionally, this means that while the Illiad was constitutive of Greek identity for thousands of years, similarly powerful (at least in the sense of wide distribution) products of cultural nostalgia, like Indiana Jones, wash out of cultural memory sooner and with greater ease. The proof of such a suggestion can be seen in the way Americans talk about their favorite films, or even better, the constellation of films and types of films which they continue to watch even after the historical moment in which the film was created has ceased to exist. In the newest Indiana Jones, we already inherit a self-aware reproduction of earlier films, which were themselves nostalgic parodies or recreations. Or take, for example, the polemic over the old and new versions of Willy Wonka. I was present for a screening of the old Gene Wilder classic to several friends who had, for whatever reason, only ever seen the newer Johnny Depp version. The resulting exchange over the films’ merit was strikingly interesting. For those who had seen Gene Wilder first, even if already in a moment of the film’s cult like nostalgia (aka the late 80’s and early 90’s), they were fanatically committed to the older, seemingly more authentic original. At the same time, those whose only experience was Johnny Depp seemed to cling to that original and with some amount of difficulty admitted the merits of the dated 1971 classic, with its visible green screen effects and cheesy candy mushrooms. Is the difference between these two reactions as superficial as two different eras with distinct perspectival sets of cinematic values, or is it, as I have unfortunately only begun inadequately to express, the countervailing tension of zones of received nostalgia (genre, historical cues, “dated”-ness), as it recreates itself in contemporary consciousness.
Cereal Killer
It was recently brought to my attention that there are surprisingly few guides for proper cereal choices in this day and age. For something so seemingly mundane, it is no surprise that it eluded the pundits of the day. So since no pundits are currently available, I will take this task upon myself. Rule number one is to avoid any cereals that contain products grown in Iowa in the name. Examples are things like Corn Cobs, Wheat Chaff, Pig Rounds, and so forth. The best cereals appear to be those with sounds in the name, like Sugar Pops, Sound Puffs, Stewie Blasts, and Shots in the Dark.
But the truly fine cereals are the ones heavy laden with gimmick. A fine example comes to us from the galley of one Cap’n Crunch. Those of my generation must clearly remember the Oops, All Crunch Berries campaign. With the help of a learned colleague, I began musing on other possible Oops, All _____ gimmicks that might not be quite as successful. Possible examples include “Oops, All Raisins” Raisin Bran, “Oops, All Crunchies” Lucky Charms, and “Oops, All Corn” Corn Pops. And anything with “Froot” is absolutely worthwhile.
And as long as we are on the subject of the Cap’n, I believe there are certain questions that must be addressed. What is the nature of this man of the sea? His uniform indicates some sort of adherence to an established military. It is possible he serves in the navy of King Vitaman, but this remains unclear. From advertisements, he seems to sail under his own flag as he marauds about the high seas on his ship, the Guppy. His greatest rival is a pirate, John LaFoote, a French scoundrel who has been nipping at the Captain’s heels since the early 1960’s. So it would seem there are a number of possible explanations for this old salt. He may well be a pirate himself, a mere competitor of LaFoote. He may be much like Sir Francis Drake, a privateer in the employ of a wealthy nation that didn’t want to get its own hands dirty in the protection of the secret of Crunch, and in the ethnic cleansing of the Soggies. Cap’N Crunch was later charged for high crimes, most notably cutting the roofs of his consumers’ mouths.
-Steve McGladdery
Writer’s Block
I have been having difficulty focusing on my writing lately. Certain diversions like books, love, work, and fine weather have been pulling my mind in many different (well, four) directions. So rather than write something new for you, I have decided to write about the writing process itself. The following selection is semi-autobiographical, and details my particular writing process.
9:30 am. Wake up, make myself presentable (i.e., wear pants).
10 am. Put on some music, read from Chomsky
11:30 am. Sit and stare blankly at the laptop screen.
12 pm. Put on chef’s hat, prepare lunch of pasta and a strange side dish from the fridge. It is unidentifiable, but it tastes good and I can still see. So score.
12:20 pm. Stare blankly at laptop screen, hone Cosby impression.
12:45 pm. Put on a few episodes of The Simpsons for background noise.
1:05 pm. Grip the laptop tightly and stare intently at laptop screen in the hopes a brilliant idea might bore itself into the hard drive.
1:30 pm. Check email, browse monster.com
2:00 pm. Brainstorm on a blank sheet of paper.
2:10 pm. Destroy paper
2:12 pm. Take another stab at learning harmonica, while wishing for a chance at the banjo, hornpipe, or 80’s synthesizer.
2:40 pm. Challenge myself to a chess match.
2:41 pm. Accept challenge.
3:10 pm. Checkmate. I never saw it coming.
3:11 pm. Try to write, but who am I kidding.
3:35 pm. Leave for work.
10:45 pm. Return from work.
10:46 pm. Bourbon.
11 pm. Write ridiculous post.
11:30 pm. Bourbon.
1 am. Bed.
9:30 am. Repeat.
-Steve McGladdery
All Along the Clock Tower
I have seen some strange things in my life. I have seen an apparently irritated citizen slap a cab driver in an eastern city. I have seen a bird swoop under the water, nearly take the bait of my fishing line, and then emerge and fly off several feet away. I have seen three legged dogs and one eared cats. But perhaps the most unusual of these is this four faced clock in downtown Grand Rapids. I won’t say where it is, because I have no desire to defame a specific person’s property, but this clock has caused me trouble.
Back when I attended classes at GRCC, I would arrive downtown in the morning, take a look at this clock, and sigh in relief seeing that I am fifteen minutes early. I decide that perhaps I will stop for a cup of coffee or tea before I head to class. After turning the corner I glance back just to be sure, and I stare in absolute amazement. According to this side, I have two minutes before class begins. Just as often the opposite would happen. One side deceives me by saying I’m late. I can almost feel its mocking grin as I run down the road. I glance back suspiciously and see that the time is not quite the same as it was on the last face. Positively infuriating, and suitable inspiration to wear a watch from then on.
There is a life lesson here. Just as it is with clocks, never place your trust in a person who appears to have more than one face. You never know when they might be deceiving you.
-Steve McGladdery
Search and Rescue
I stepped out into the night. Immediately the harsh easterly wind begins whipping the pouring rain into my face. I turn from the stinging drops, and raise my hood over my head. I quickly assess the situation. A number of ours have wandered a good ways off, many as far as the border. I steel myself against the unforgiving night and snap into action. The wind intensifies as I walk. But it’s at my back now. The wind is naught but a push at my back, the rain useless pelts against my coat.
I finally reach the border. The situation is worse than I first thought. Not only are they stranded way out here, but they are sitting in a small lake that could submerge my feet. My resolve is still strong. I forge ahead and begin to collect the fallen. I feel the cold moisture seep in and soak my feet. Lousy good for nothing shoes. I’ve needed new ones for a good while now. I curse to myself and continue on my mission. Normally I can gather them together without a second thought. But working against the lake, the wind, and the rain complicates things considerably. It’s quite a struggle. I manage to collect all of ours. I sigh my relief, when suddenly I see something through the rain and the darkness, illuminated briefly by a flash of lightning. Another.
It’s a miracle I was able to see it at all. It’s collapsed on its side, well beyond the border. No man’s land. I descend the hill, nearly losing one of my worthless shoes in the mud. I dash into no man’s land. I hoist it upright, and bring it back into our territory, nearly being struck myself in the process. I reunite it with the others, and slowly push against the wind and the whipping rain to bring them back home. Better safe than sorry, though. I check once again for any stragglers. I gasp as I see another out in the lake by the border.
How could I have missed it? There’s just no way. I hurry back out to the border to see. That’s when I notice. No wonder I missed it. It’s not one of ours. It’s one of our enemy’s. I briefly consider leaving it behind. I curse again and decide that I’ll not leave it to rot here. I grab hold and hoist it out. I bring it along, catching another of ours along the way that had wandered out on account of the wind. With one in each hand I force my way back. The wind is stronger than ever. Another of theirs is rocketing toward us, impelled by the blustering wind at its back. I have to run to intercept its course. Even running though…I’m against the wind and I’m weighed down with these two stragglers. I need to think.
Acting quickly, I put my plan into effect. With expert timing and all my strength, I hurl the one from my right hand directly into its path. There is a grand collision, and the runaway is stopped in its tracks. I begin to organize them so I can move them together. The wind blusters with its strongest gust yet, nearly pushing me off my feet. I hold tightly to the stragglers. One of them is nearly knocked over.
“Bluster all you want,” I say aloud. “Your worst hurricane couldn’t wrench these from my grip.”
That probably wasn’t true, but I liked how it sounded. I put my head down and head for the lights of civilization. I put the stragglers where they belong, and head for the warmth indoors. I look up and see a number of my comrades, who had apparently been observing my actions. They clap me on the back and compliment my efforts. I lower my hood and stand in the doorway, frozen and dripping. It was difficult, but I can stand tall knowing I did my duty, and did it well. Nothing amazing, nothing spectacular. Just another evening gathering shopping carts.
-Steve McGladdery
Your Avuncular Travel Writer, Back From Abroad
Dear Readers,
I would have gladly provided a periodic update, had not I discovered to my dismay that WordPress is permanently banned in Turkey, and unlike YouTube, which was briefly banned, has so far not returned. The reasons for its removal are interesting, involving a libel case against a Turkish creationist, who felt so defamed by several wordpress blogs, that he somehow got the court to shut down *an entire blogosphere*. You have to ruffle a dude’s feathers pretty bad.
This helps me to make an arbitrary segue into discussing a detail from my voyage. I had the absolute pleasure of seeing a peacock, kept on the grounds of the 19th century Ottoman palace of Dolmabahçe (pronounced “Dohlmahbahchuh” and which, as far I as can tell, has nothing to do with grapeleaves). What strange, magnificent and dirty animals they are. The whole business about Hera putting the many eyes of Argus into the peacock’s tail after Hermes gave him a Chuck Norris-style death is particularly apt. Those “eyes” are so vivid. They even have dark iris-like circles in the center of a bright fields of royal blues and tropical greens. As if to announce that it was indeed fully aware of how badass its plumage was, the peacock opened its span right as we arrived, and I was so mesmerized that even the offer of Turkish coffee and a plate of meatballs could not drag me away.
This, of course, is the view from the front. The more terrifying spectacle, and one which I think few people have seriously thought about or seen, is the back of a peacock. From a tuft of nebulous cotton candy fur at the base of the bird comes shooting up the strangest and most disconcerting stalks. While their function is clear (they are the only thing supporting the beautiful “eye” feathers), their resemblance to plants or bamboo or pvc piping is uncanny. One almost feels bad for the poor bird, which must constantly carry this appendage around, and whose outer edges, as they drag along the ground, become exceedingly dirty.
On the other hand, it is perhaps this fact that makes the peacock a more complex character in the soap opera of natural life. Not only is it from the right perspective overwhelmingly beautiful, but it also hides beneath and behind this lovely veneer faults and blemishes, like an avian stripper with a heroin addiction or something.
I want one.
-Chris
Sola Scriptura
Note: Longer English translations are from the Old King James Bible. Renderings of Greek words are my own.
In his second letter to Timothy, St Paul writes, “All Scripture is God-breathed” (2 Tim 3:16 OKJ). The Greek word employed here, ‘θεόπνευστος,’ can also mean “inspired by God.” This is a concept that has troubled many theologians, because the means or process of inspiration is never described. In this way the nature of Scripture is not unlike the nature of Christ Himself. Christ was born into human flesh, both true God and true man at the same time. Similarly, Scripture comes directly from the mind of God, revealed to his servants, not “by the will of man, but holy men of God spoke as they were moved by the Holy Spirit” (2 Peter 1:21). At the same time, it is by necessity presented in human language, within the framework of human history. So it is both inspired by God and written by men.
Many will follow false teaching and false prophets. Many more still will twist and pollute the Holy Word of God to their own selfish ends. But the Lord promises his Spirit will guide those who seek Truth, and promises to expose and punish all false prophets (Jer. 23:9-40). We know not how, but the Word of the Lord was delivered to His people through the prophets, and later these words were put into writing by men, through Divine inspiration. After Christ’s death and resurrection, this Holy Word was then offered to all men, once more inspired by the Holy Spirit through His apostles, so that all men might hear and be saved (Eph. 3: 2-6). While it is a powerful Divine mystery, it should still not shock us that God is able to act through human thought and human language to convey His message.
Throughout Scripture, we frequently see our Lord in his role as master of history, acting through the means of the world to achieve extraordinary things. As the children of Israel were escaping from the Egyptian host, the Lord by means of “a strong east wind” divided the Red Sea so that they might escape for good (Ex 14:21-29). They were delivered from their slavery by the hand of God, just as later they would be delivered by Him from their Babylonian exile.
God comes to us through these pages in simple, straight forward language. There is no heretical “Gnostic” revelation that lies outside human apprehension. There is no secret code. There is only the simple language right there on the page. Granted, while the words are there, sometimes the content is beyond us. John opens his Gospel by declaring the Son of God has taken on human flesh. This is beyond what we can understand with out own intellect. But it is wise not to become discouraged. Even Peter had difficulty understanding things Paul had written (2 Peter 3:16). As His children we must have faith that God’s promise is sufficient for us. We must place our trust in the Lord, even if we cannot grasp every passage.
A number of people doubt that all of Scripture comes directly from the Lord. Many Christians, for example, find it difficult to believe that God would have any interest in informing us that, “Nimrod was a mighty hunter” (Gen. 10:9). I will admit that I don’t see the exact significance of this information. Then I suppose it doesn’t require any sort of Vertical significance to be God’s Word. But all Scripture is God-breathed. God the Creator takes an interest in everything He created. He is present in these words, though not limited to them. It is only one way among many that He reveals Himself to us. Those who need to be accused by the Law are accused. And those who need to be lifted up by the Gospel are lifted up. God bestows His Spirit on all who read these words. Sins are condemned, promises are bountifully given, and the Good News of salvation through Christ our Lord is cheerfully proclaimed.
-Steve McGladdery
A Foretaste of the Feast to Come
Εν αρχή ην ο λόγος. In the beginning was the Word, as John wrote. The Word was with God, and the Word was God. When God speaks, His words carry the greatest cosmic significance. Therefore in the Scriptures, when God Himself commands us with His Word, it is of the greatest importance, and must be given our closest attention. This is the source of the Sacraments of the Christian church, those necessary acts that are commanded directly by our Lord. Easily the most mysterious of these sacraments, and thus the most debated, is the Lord’s Supper, Holy Communion, the Eucharist, etc.
The debate is centered on exactly what takes place up at the Communion rail. Is it merely a symbolic act, or is it something deeper? The answer comes to us from the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, as well as the letters of Paul. These are the well known Words of Institution, the words Christ said to His disciples at the Last Supper (Mt 26: 26-28; Mk 14: 22-24; Lk 22: 19-20; 1 Cor 11: 23-26). The crucial point here is the verb used in all four instances. “This is my body,” declares our Lord. “This is my blood.” In every single account of the Last Supper, the authors employ the Greek verb εστίν, which always has the force of a predicate; of the substantive verb “to be.”
This verb has never meant ‘to symbolize’ or ‘to represent.’ Though in classical Greek literature, it can often mean “to be present,” and is typically used to equate the subject with the object. This raises some intriguing theological issues. Christ appears to be saying that His body and blood are literally present in the bread and wine. In the Formula of Concord, Martin Luther declares that to doubt this Real Presence is to doubt Christ Himself, as well as the Gospels.
Without the Word, these elements would be naught but earthly wine and bread. It is the Word and God’s command, instituted by Christ Himself on the night He was betrayed, that make them so much more. The bread and wine are set within the Word and are bound to it, which like baptism is what makes it sacramental. It is the Word that creates what some have come to call Sacramental Union. The body and blood of Christ are literally present in the consecrated bread and wine.
This differs from the theory of Consubstantiation in that the notion of Sacramental Union does not subscribe to any three dimensional or circumscribed presence of the body and blood; an idea that was lifted from Aristotelian physics. The bond here is much more mysterious, and consequently lies well beyond human understanding. The same can be said of transubstantiation. The body and blood are literally there, but not in any way our human intellect can detect. When human reason fails us, which it inevitably must when approaching the Divine, we must cling to our faith in God’s love and undeserved grace.
In addition to the verb “to be,” each account of the Last Supper contains Christ’s magnificent promise that his body and blood are given and shed “for you, for the forgiveness of sins.” This firmly establishes our celebration of the Last Supper as a means of grace; a mystic commemoration of our Lord’s ultimate sacrifice for us. Each time I kneel at that rail and accept those elements, my sins are forgiven. The King of Glory stoops to me to provide life and strength for my spirit. Thanks be to God, in Jesus’ name, Amen!
-Steve McGladdery
Confection Confession
As the Easter season comes to a close, we all continue to celebrate the resurrection of our Lord by filling ourselves with all manner of sugary confections. But many people do not realize that there are many more fun and exciting things that can be done with these tasty treats aside from merely eating them, enjoying the sugar rush, and collapsing on the floor three hours later. Consider the Peep. It’s a simple enough item. A marshmallow bird coated in sugar. Brilliant. It seemed only logical to me to roast them around a camp fire one evening up north. Naturally I was worried at first, as I am with all of my food-based experiments. But let me tell you, even I enjoy the occasional flash of spectacular inspiration. It was fantastic. Not only does the marshmallow roast, but the sugar coating caramelizes and hardens, turning an already enjoyable treat into an unstoppable force of excellence. For the betting community, you might also enjoy “jousting peeps.” This is where you place two peeps facing each other inside your microwave. Insert a toothpick into the front of each one. Then activate the microwave. As the peeps expand, the toothpicks will move with them. The first peep to pop its opponent is the victor. See diagram A1.1
Another staple of any traditional Eastertide is the chocolate bunny. One thing I like to do is recreate famous civil war battles, with each bunny representing a different brigade. Naturally I dress them appropriately. But that might not be for everyone. You can also get your hands on a number of G.I Joe’s and/or Ninja Turtles and put on your own production of Harvey. Here’s one I absolutely recommend: If it’s hollow, fill it with more chocolate. Or hot fudge. Make sure to have an ambulance on stand by. Other options: Race them, breed them, juggle them, train them to kill.
I also recommend Cadbury egg omelets. You might also consider rounding up your leftover jelly beans, firing them at high temperatures, and then hammering them into a rather breathtaking mosaic. Oh, and even though it’s not really an Easter food, some time try putting pop tarts into an old toaster, and holding down the lever so that they continue to be heated. Do this outside, and be as far away from it as you can. In short order, flames will shoot out of the toaster a good three feet in the air. (CAUTION: Fire is hot, and has potential to burn you if you touch it. Kai Ta Loipa is hereby not liable if you’re an idiot.)
-Steve McGladdery
