Though I’ve been wanting to try out the camera on my new phone in a variety of settings, photography testing wasn’t among my original plans for Wednesday night. My beloved wife Anne agreed to this unusual photo-op while we were waiting calmly for the physicians on duty to determine the cause of the chest pains she’d been having all day.
Make no mistake: that pretty smile belied some pretty frazzled nerves.
Right this way for more about Anne’s fate. Also: a musical number!
Except where noted, all art in this entry is by Sal Buscema, Dave Simons, and George Roussos.
Behold the big save-the-day rallying moment from What If? (vol. 1) #44, cover-dated April 1984, which left an indelible impression on me when I was eleven. Three decades later you can take this dramatic splash page totally out of context and pretend it’s symbolic of you as the one true arbiter of What America Is Really All About, Spider-Man and alt-universe Sam Wilson’s army are your friends who agree with you on everything as far as you know, and the other Captain America is everyone whose idea of America is the exact opposite of yours, thus making them evil impostors who must be crushed. With all those Zip-a-Tone layers giving it more lighting depth than any other page in the issue, I have no idea why no one ever turned this into a poster.
For Father’s Day weekend my wife and I drove up to Lafayette to hang out with my son and catch a showing of Jurassic World a week after the rest of the world already saw it. We headed over to the nearest theater and found ourselves greeted by the above-pictured phantasmagorical ursine sentinel, who totally wasn’t there last month when we saw Age of Ultron.
Photo credit: The steeple of Emanuel African Methodist Church, Charleston, SC via photopin (license).
If you haven’t already heard about the tragic murders of nine people Wednesday night at the 150-year-old Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleson, SC, pick an American news service (well, nearly any American news service that isn’t using this as tactless, opportunistic, political scapegoating leverage against their imagined arch-nemeses that have zero to do with any of this) and go read up on what we know so far.
Once you’re up to speed and properly disturbed, have some ideas for what else you can do in response, including but not limited to:
* Pray. Followed by more praying. And then still more prayer. For the families of the victims. For their community. For your community. For those whose duty will be the trial and prosecution of the perpetrator. For the perpetrator as a malignant lost soul. For all of us as a country and as a lifeform.
* If you’re racist, maybe try not being racist for a while and see how it feels. Not-racism carries some fabulous perks, such as that invigorating feeling that, in this way if nothing else, you’re not a warped relic from an era that’s bygone for reasons.
* As a reading exercise, consider the words of an actual relic of another era: an 1861 speech by Alexander Stephens, Vice-President of the Confederate States of America. Skip the first several verbose paragraphs until you see the word “negro” start popping up a lot. See how many sentences you manage to take in before you can’t go on. Now consider, 154 years later, we have 21st-century American-born citizens who buy into lines of thought anywhere within the same area code as what Stephens held to be true. See which hits you first: deep sorrow, righteous outrage, or the worst migraine you’ll ever feel.
* Skip the comedy generalizations of all Southerners. I’ve seen a few folks quick to jump on that too-easy bandwagon. Until just now, all this year’s worst nationwide headlines about race-related death came from Yankee states. My wife and I will be traveling in the southern U.S. soon and I fully expect to meet countless examples of American citizens not prone to acts of evil like this.
* Instead of boosting the public profile of the racist murderer of nine by railing about him by name, read tributes about the nine victims, about the faith that moved them, and about the good works they performed here during their time in this broken world. You can check out the Washington Post‘s version, which includes interviews with bereaved family and friends telling the rest of us about those dear folks the rest of us never had the chance to know personally, or there’s the Buzzfeed version, which has fewer exclusive interviews but supplements that with some social-media screen-grabs that are a little less tacky than their normal fare.
* Donate. Major news services are reporting that Charleston Mayor Joseph P. Riley, Jr., is in the process of spearheading a relief fund for affected parties. As of this writing the official fundraiser site isn’t live yet, but I’m linking to it anyway in case that changes soon. If it doesn’t, if you’d rather not wait for it, or if you’d prefer a more direct approach, Emanuel AME’s home page has a PayPal button. The money goes directly to them, no government intermediaries. Point, click, donate, help, do something.
Three Saturdays ago my wife and I returned to town after a long, long drive and had neither energy nor willpower to cook supper at home. We weren’t in the mood to wait 60-120 minutes for a table at your Olive Garden/Red Lobster level of weekend hotspots. We’d already racked up a number of single-day expenses and were neither amenable nor properly dressed to go overspend on a nicer, classier, posher, less crowded establishment. So we decided to stop for fast food.
On a Saturday night. I know better than this.
When things went south, they set off a series of flashbacks to my previous career track and reminded me exactly why I should know better.
The monstrous “Amish donut” was offered for breakfast at the 2014 Indiana State Fair. It had enough calories to power you through a month of Olympic events, or you could use it as a spare golf cart tire.
It’s that time of year again! This coming Friday, June 5th, will be National Donut Day, the greatest non-federal holiday that Hallmark wishes they had invented. Imagine an entire line of National Donut Day greeting cards, with a saccharine message inside and an edible sugary breading on the outside. If Hallmark could spin it expertly enough, they could rake in billions and afford to ditch some of their fake calendar-padding celebrations.
I worked for McDonald’s for twelve years and wouldn’t be who or what I am today without the experience, but the place keeps getting funnier every time I see them try something different.
In the past week the venerable fast food behemoth had announced plans to ditch several superfluous menu items, add a few new superfluous items, test a McDonald’s delivery service, and consider raising its workers’ wages across the board so they’ll have an excuse to double their prices. Today the veil of secrecy was lifted on an upcoming TV project in which the company has paid an ad agency to reboot the Hamburglar for a 21st-century audience, maybe because his copyright was about to expire and Arby’s was ready to make a play for him.
“Take as many as you want,” said the nice clerk at the polls five minutes before closing time. I tried to keep it subtle.
Dunno about your locale, but here in Indiana today we had our annual opportunity to participate in the Election Day primaries that determine which political candidates will be allowed by their respective parties to run for office for real in November. It happens on the same Tuesday every year, so it’s not exactly a trade secret, but the voter turnout is always paltry. Voting for positions such as city-council seats or school board members or tax referendums isn’t as glamorous or intoxicating as voting for mayor, governor, President, or American Idol, but it’s a privilege someone has to exercise so the system will keep running according to The Way Things Are and we don’t have to appoint new leaders by choosing from random LinkedIn profiles.
If you’re unlike me, your idea of a fun afternoon is inviting your friends to come over with their laptops, their ethernet cables, and all their favorite games that were meant to run at DSL speeds. Everyone gathers around the ethernet wall hub like Scouts around a campfire, plugs in to the same jack, boots up Windows XP, pops in their CD-ROMs, and has themselves a grand old wired time.
I’m assuming that’s what the previous owners of this house did. Or maybe they taught Applied Computer Science classes from home to all the neighborhood latchkey kids. Or they weren’t sure which jack the phone company would endorse but they figured you can’t go wrong with “Bigger is Better” or “Holeyer is Holier”. Maybe they were anticipating the one magical day when Internet Science would let you could hook two ethernet cables to your PC and double your processing speed. If only that had ever been feasible, perhaps RealPlayer would’ve been watchable.
Pictured above: the main auditorium stage at our church home throughout the month of March.
It hasn’t been an easy, gracious month ’round these parts. Everywhere we turned, believers and non-believers alike were up in arms. Christians of all denominations, at all levels of faith, at various save points of their walkthroughs with Christ, have had plenty of questions, countless disagreements with others, even debates with each other. Anyone among us who never felt challenged or moved to sincere contemplation all month long wasn’t paying attention.
Easter Sunday is one of those too-rare moments when we collectively set aside our divisions, recognize why we do what we do, remember what our successes mean, realize what our failures don’t mean, and reaffirm why we ought to keep trying to do better.
We’re looking forward to service tomorrow morning. We welcome it. Right now, we need it.
* * * * *
“So then, brothers and sisters, stand firm and hold fast to the teachings we passed on to you, whether by word of mouth or by letter. May our Lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, who loved us and by his grace gave us eternal encouragement and good hope, encourage your hearts and strengthen you in every good deed and word.” — 2 Thessalonians 2: 15-17 (NIV).
Purple! Purple’s a flower.
It’s that time again! Spring has seen fit to return to the land, and my wife and I have a new batch of photos from the Indiana Flower and Patio Show, a delicate rush of fresh spring air to dispel the morose ugliness of winter and remind us of life waiting for us outside.
“Yep, that’s right. I’m a llama. You know you love me!”
For those just joining the internet today: hearts and minds across America were swept away by the spellbinding spectacle of a pair of lively llamas on the loose in Phoenix who apparently came from nowhere, took a while to run down, and by the end of their escapade had become the heartily hailed heroes of a thousand news sites that were bored with covering the whole “net neutrality” thing. Internet freedom was out; llama freedom was in.
I may have missed out on today’s llama craze, but I’m okay with that. This wouldn’t have been my first llama rodeo. Our family has encountered these affable animals on two of our previous road trips. Those Arizona lawmen may have struggled to keep up with their quarry, but it’s been our experience that llamas aren’t that hard to catch if you go meet them where they like to hang out.
Say! You, there!
Has this ever happened to you?
You’re at home trying to live or rest or hobby or whatever other normal things you do when you’re not working, unless you work from home and every day is an existential struggle over the Duality of Man, and then suddenly one day you realize you have a hole in your ceiling. Sometimes if you’re lucky, you’re present in the room when the hole is punched and you know exactly what to blame and how to swear vengeance properly. Most of the time, it’s a gradual process that may or may not have begun with a water stain that turned malignant. Still other times, you’d swear that hole wasn’t there when you left for work that morning, but now there’s a surprise ceiling hole and an innocent-looking family holding a football with everyone’s fingerprints on it. Whatever the cause, no two ceiling holes are the same, but the heartbreak is universal.
If you’re a renter, ceiling hole repair is as easy as 1-2-3:
1. Call landlord.
2. Complain about hole.
3. Watch your stories till hole is gone.
If you’re a homeowner with a home-improvement skill set, it’s not so simple, but you’ve probably got it covered. If you’re a homeowner without a clue like me, it’s a conscientious burden, it’s a drain on your heating bills, it’s an eyesore that has to be hidden from guests, and it might as well be a geotechnical engineering project for all you know. What do you do?
There’s the highway (i.e., abandon the house)…or my way.
President Barack Obama delivered tonight’s State of the Union address with a cartoon angel and devil at either shoulder.
From the Home Office in Indianapolis, Indiana:
10. Biden blinking in Morse code “BIDEN/BEYONCE 2016”
9. One lone applauding Republican getting tased by the Senator next to him
8. A frustrated John Boehner wishing his bottled rage could turn him into Red Hulk
7. Ambassadors from Iran and Cuba giving each other cutesy quizzical Jim-and-Pam looks
6. Three-minute ovation every time Obama took a selfie
5. Special guest Sidney Poitier awarding nine honorary Oscars to Selma
4. Anointing of Anita Sarkeesian as head of newly formed Department of Gamer Tolerance
3. Preview footage from The Force Awakens in which Jedi Knight Obama and John Boyega fight Imperial ninjatroopers
2. Sheepish apology for preempting Marvel’s Agent Carter
And the number one Best Part of Tonight’s State of the Union Address:
1. Scene after the end credits: all-Democrat conga line while speakers blare “Everything is Awesome!!!”
Some holidays were made for lethargy.
After a busy Christmas weekend and a restless year in general, I determined New Year’s Day would be an oasis of peace and inaction. No working, no running errands, no visiting relatives, no spending hours on home improvement or inessential chores, no new projects even if they’re fun ones, no heavy lifting, no hard thinking, and no activities that resemble my day-job responsibilities.
Good news: complete lack-of-mission accomplished. My concentration levels are rising. My worries are muted. My nerves are steady. How our dog Lucky spent New Year’s Eve (pictured above) is how I spent today. I love it when a plan comes together.
Some of this re-energizing trance will be wasted because I’m denied the luxury of a four-day weekend and will be reporting to work Friday. Chores and home activities will likely be Saturday’s themes. For now, I’m taking what I can get, enjoying the moment, and living for a short while longer like a spoiled house dog. If you haven’t tried it I highly recommend it, but only in moderation. If too many of us choose to live this way 24/7, our society crumbles and all the older citizens will write indulgent thinkpieces shaming us all. So today only, the rest; tomorrow, back to the stress.
…
Too much typing. Stopping now.
zzzzzzzzzzzz
Closeup of my wife’s grandmother’s Christmas tree. The family sees to it that it’s put up and decorated and standing tall for her every year.
Christmas! Christmas! Christmas! Just, y’know, for the record.
Lots of folks out there are busy, bustling, hustling, jostling, careening around their nearest shopping district and/or enduring work for just one more shift until that wonderful time arrives. So much to plan, so many gatherings to negotiate, so much food to hoard and craft into pleasant shapes before the stores shut down, so few moments to spare for reading or internet interaction or Liking stuff. It’s okay. I understand. We’re busy here, too, even though this is MCC’s 900th entry and I feel like I should be celebrating or something. But hey, Christmas and all that, right?
In that spirit of bouncy Christmas merriment and limited free time, we present Christmas pics of recent vintage never before shared on MCC, until now for your split-second perusal and positive Christmas reinforcement. Please enjoy, then go do whatever you gotta do, up to and including CHRISTMAS!
This photo contains SPOILERS for some of our relatives, but they never visit this site. Lucky me!
I don’t know if your local strip malls have Bath & Body Works stores, but ’round these parts they’re the uncontested champions of creating and marketing soaps, shampoo, shower gels, lotions, sprays, and other assorted cleansing liquids in imaginative flavors, scents, or made-up poetic themes. You can’t buy just one B&BW item in a given kind such as Juniper Breeze, Country Apple, Twilight Woods, Midnight Pomegranate, Dancing Waters, or Warm Vanilla Sugar. You have to collect the entire set or else your bathroom cabinet contents won’t match and all your showers and baths will go horribly wrong. Other customers can just tell, and their concerned glares will heap shame upon you and your failure to treat hygiene as pretty-smelling Serious Business.
The women in my wife’s family love, love, love their B&BW products. Every one of them has a favorite flavor or scent from the vast catalog of personal cleansing products. Amazingly, my wife has memorized the favorites of every single relative so she’ll know exactly which stocking stuffers to buy. I’ve never once seen her swap their gels by accident, nor vice versa. Somehow they all have a system and it works for them. This sort of thing doesn’t have to be divided among gender lines, but my son, my brothers-in-law, my nephews, and I are united in our befuddlement while this part of the annual gift exchange goes on. We figure as long as we’re clean, or at least clean-ish, we’re good to go.
Right this way for your last, best, most desperate holiday gift-giving guide!
Every day at work this week, the small talk turned largely to one of two topics: “Here, have some sugary snacks!” and “Got your Christmas shopping done yet?” I hate when small talk uncovers a festering wound the questioner didn’t know was there.
In last night’s entry we shared pics of our geek-intensive Christmas decorations, including our collections of Star Wars and super-hero ornaments, a few Christmas-based action figures, and our li’l Charlie Brown tree. Longtime MCC readers were united in their complete lack of surprise at the characters who stand on Christmas watch around our house, bringing festivity and joy and smiles and repulsing any Scrooges or Grinches or ACLU lawyers who would dare darken our doorstep.
Pictured at left is our primary tree, which from a distance looks like any other. To the untrained eye it fits the minimum flair requirements, but you’d never know by looking that this isn’t our normal setup. Compared to the household customs exemplified in the previous entry, this year’s tree theme was, for us, an unusual approach.
My wife and I have our conventional traditions. I drag our Christmas tree down from the attic so we can reassemble it and choose which ornaments see the light of day this year and which ones stay packed. She frees our Christmas dinnerware from the back of our kitchen cabinets. We send and gratefully receive Christmas cards. We watch a few Christmas specials. We avoid Christmas TV-movies. We look forward to Christmas Eve service at our church.
And then there’s our Christmas diorama, a time when geek and non-geek decorations gather ’round our Lord and Savior and celebrate the occasion in their own special ways, without any partisan courtroom squabbling to suck the spirit out of them.
Midlife Crisis Crossover! 