Tagged: relationships

“Friday was good. Saturday was good.” – A Short Story.

Whatever similarity the following short story has to a real conversation last night, a conversation between a husband and wife, I assure the reader that the account is one sided and therefore pure fiction—at least according to all the women.

Our south facing bedroom was dark and remained so despite the sounds of a few belated fireworks which our extraordinarily wealthy and patriotic neighbors to the north were letting fly. I had just plugged my phone in and put it in its final resting place on the nightstand. I remained on my side, facing out, my back to my wife. I had a good amount of covers to work with and couldn’t help but release a final chuckle-turned-outright-laugh at The Office blooper short we had just watched.

Friday was good. Saturday was good. Today had been alright.

There was a pleasant mood for those two days as my wife, bless her heart, had not had a chance in hell to work and so was herself at ease and agreeable for once. She seemed to have truly come to peace with the fact that the great serpent of old, the one with the red, scaly appearance and bifurcated tongue, seemed to genuinely not be her husband. Can you understand what I am trying to say, reader? Married life felt kind of normal.

I decided to test the waters and say something true. I knew it was a risk, but I was feeling risky.

“J- seems to actually need a few days to warm up to me every week that I am home. It’s like he becomes softer as the days go by,” I said. Truth be told, halfway through my brief report, I started to wonder if she was even awake anymore.

“I don’t understand, Baliye,” she replied.

I suppose I ought to clarify here that Baliye is her heathen tongue’s ‘my husband’.

“I’m saying,” I started again, “that I can feel that J-, while happy to see me when I first come back home from my week away, seems to take a few days before he fully relaxes and becomes himself. It’s hard to pick exact behavior differences, but I feel it,” I continued. I didn’t share the one instance that was on my mind, the at church earlier when I had pulled him back from the center aisle into the pew. I sat him next to me again and looked down at him, placing my stern, glaring but sparkly-eyed face right over his. He looked up at me and purposely bonked his nose into mine. He does that sometimes. But not on day one, two, or three. Anyhow, I continued, “And the other week, when I was making a trip to load the car before leaving, he actually burst out crying, saying he thought he told me that he wanted a hug before I left.”

I paused for a few seconds. And then picked it up again, “It’s hard to believe he will actually be home for one more whole year before he goes off to kindergarten.”

I had done it. Or I had thought I had done it. I have long held the belief, informed by who knows what, that women, even depressed, selfish, greedy, complaining wives, want to hear what their husbands really think and notice about the family. Like I thought there was a universal truth: every wife, at any moment loves to hear her husband express something that sounds vulnerable and comes across as intimate.

I was proud. Dare I say I thought I deserved a reward? No, I dare not. I honestly just felt like giving. Like I said, Friday was good and Saturday was good.

She then says, “There is a school nearby, R-, I think-”

-there is no force as yet studied by students of natural science that can cause boiling faster than the words I was hearing-

“-which has a preschool, like three days a week.”

(Here the copy of this fictional tale which I found seems to be missing a paragraph of caps-lock ferociousness.)

She responds, “You said what you think. But I can’t say what I think?”

I think is she genuinely unaware of how conversations work? “No, mee-stee-yay, no. You don’t get to say what you think. Not when the person who spoke before you just expressed how happy they were at a set of circumstances and your thought is a brainstorm of how to destroy those circumstances.” (Mistiye is the heathen ‘my wife’.)

Friday was good. Saturday was good.

Review of the Christian Nationalist (haha) Stage Musical, “Finding America”

I have a friend who, in short, helped shuttle the worried BIPOC migrants around Minneapolis during last winter’s Surge. He loved PTA’s One Battle After Another. And we had a few conversations exploring the Talerico-style interpretation of Jesus.

That friend is to whom I texted pictures of the auditorium. This was the screen.

We bantered back and forth for a minute about how different this crowd likely was from the No Kings rally in San Francisco that his trip there had randomly allowed him to witness. My main point was despite all expectations, my room was pretty diverse (mostly due to international crowd), whereas the No Kings crowd is almost exclusively white (and not internationally relevant).

I put the phone away and sat back, unsure of what to expect.

Afterwords, I sent him the following notes, accompanied by the program/scene descriptions.

Here, I want to take a moment to flesh these observations out a bit.

“Nothing like the Lefties would expect”

I like to believe that I am very sensitive and in touch with the passing scene. In other words, I don’t need communists’ help to notice the group or subgroup known as “Christian Nationalists.”

The difference (besides the fact that I am no longer hell bound, Glory Hallelujah!) between the Lefties and me, however, is I will bravely enter the CN’s den. And guess what? The Lefties have it all wrong. The main problem with their imaginations is that white supremacy has no part in Christian Nationalism.

Again, white supremacy is certainly a reality for some folks, no different than Christian Nationalism is real. But the two are not linked. Here’s how I know. Ever since I married an immigrant from Ethiopia, I have dreaded the experience of being around “whites”. You know who I mean. Those people who need to compensate for something by making a point to come over and chat. I know who they are because I am the same person I have always been—and they never showed interest. But now that there is some manner of compensatory atonement available, they are chatty Kathy. Again, I don’t avoid these moments, but I dread them.

But here’s the point: among these Christian Nationalists, we were totally ignored. Ignored by Hindustan-ians (Dot not feather), Europeans, Africans, Asians, etc. The group was legitimately diverse.

“Somehow Not Silly”

Anytime adults play-act as GW and William Tyndale and pilgrims and settlers and Indians (feather not dot) and colonial Blacks anymore, I totally expect silliness. And I know this is the result of the Left’s influence on me. And yet this Stage Musical was somehow not silly. My gut says that it was because even these Christian Nationalists are very aware of the criticism the Left has launched at overly romantic portrayals of colonialism and colonial times in America. So the script just avoids landmines.

I also commented to my wife (who had spent a couple days earlier in the week at the Family Camp and was the reason we went yesterday) that sometimes the phrase “loosely based on true events” is used. And that in this case, the “looseness was so loose that it would be difficult to say they even were making historical claims that could be verified or found wanting.” But I am on Vol 5. of GW’s biography and can comfortably feel the thematic relationship to history. In short, the musical definitely claimed “historical accuracy” but not completeness. And in this, it succeeded.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t comment on the whole Christian part of the lesson. Does it take more than one Indian Christian, more than one Black Christian to teach us that Jesus died for all? No, no it does not. I can’t make their decision for them, no different than I can make your decision for you.

“Easier to pick on audience than the performance.”

I have young kids. The effect this has on me is that I enjoy the idea of dressing or acting more loudly than my “quiet professionals”, special operations trained self would otherwise allow. I don’t wear an American flag as clothing, but I do like being around people who do. And I might get there someday.

Just the same, it is merely fun to me. And it bedazzles even me. Are these people serious? Or just having likewise fun? I can’t always tell. But again, the performance was so polished that it would be difficult to mock. And this was not the case regarding certain stars and bars bedecked citizens.

“Attracting Out Group”

I would include more links etc, but the website bills the show for today and yesterday only. And this is part of my issue with this idea of these uber Christian events (Chosen being most well-known, ergo most egregiously guilty) as evangelism. How would a non-believer even know about these things? And I am number one movie-fan and music-fan on earth when it comes to flatly admitting the best of secular music/movies/shows is generally incomparably more appealing than religious attempts. There is just something missing in Christian attempts at entertainment. I would say it is the fear of impurity. But whatever it is, the whole idea that Finding America or Chosen is on par with Broadway and Hollywood or even “close enough” is laughable to me.

Hear me clearly: in evangelism the goal is to faithfully proclaim the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the same one the Bible writers do. This includes your actions too.

Final Thought

I like talking and contemplating politics. I love America. I fully believe American-led, Western Civilization is unique and a great boon for the inhabitants of planet Earth. And this belief is the result of great study and wide experience among different cultures and conditions. I went to the musical because our other plans here in tinderbox Colorado were cancelled and I wanted the kids to see Christian Nationalists for what they were. I would go again because it is fun to be around people who like life—not for a history lesson or to learn from it. That’s what books are for.

Oh. Final, final thought. Did my kids do anything to indicate they have a brain? Good question. Yes. The performance opened with some GW revolutionary war scenes, and when they switched to the Christian/church history stuff, unprompted, A- (5.87 yr old) turned to me (after declaring that she thought it must be night outside because it was so dark inside) and said, “Now they’re talking about Jesus.”

That’s all I could ask of a person. Discernment.

Dad vs. Park Grandma

A- (5.85 yrs old), J- (4.25), and I biked 2+ miles to our favorite park. No training wheels. No issues. It wasn’t the first time.

Somehow, once at the park, while walking their bikes, I heard a noise and turned to see J- had fallen. Two moms nearby fulfilled their unsolicited and unhelpful duty of pitying the boy. I pedaled on, wondering why my progeny ever got off their bikes.

After our lunch at the park, it was now A-’s turn to make a noise while falling which attracted my attention. This time it was a nearby, skinny grandma who lurched and wobbled in indecision as she couldn’t decide her place in the wide world.

I, projecting loud enough to be sure this skinny (I want to say “crackhead” but you’ll think I’m judgy) grandma would hear, said, “She’s okay! She’s okay. Bruce Wayne’s dad let him pick himself up, and he became Batman. So I figure that’s the best way.”

I would’ve expected silence, and maybe a chuckle. I mean, what options had I left open for response anyhow? Firstly, it ain’t her kid and the father made his pronouncement—even giving the reason. Secondly, mind your own business, especially when a father is around.

But nooooooo.

She replied, “Or how ‘bout she just has girl power?”

It’s been over an hour and I am still under a disturbed spirit.

If my daughter had girl power, if girl power existed, then she wouldn’t have fallen, ya stoop-id b-!

No, ma’am. My daughter doesn’t have girl power. She has a dad. And her dad likes Batman, especially in the role of allegory. And her dad knows that humans of both sexes fall down, and when that happens, the only thing to do—the best practice for all places and times—is to let kids learn how to pick themselves up.

Maybe My First Podcast Recommendation Ever

I can’t recall ever using this blog to recommend a podcast episode before. In any case, I haven’t done it often. But I just listened to one that is a “must listen”, if such a thing exists.

It is Peter Robinson’s latest. He interviews a historian on the topic of The History of Communist China. (It is just over an hour.)

Do you know any communists? If so, listen.

Have you somehow marooned yourself and your WordPress Reader alone on an island? If so, listen.

Let’s just say, upon completing the episode, I have begun teaching A- and J- (5 and 4 respectively) two general and absolute truths. (I do it catechism-style, Q&A.)

Firstly, What is the first defense against communists? The first defense against communists is books—communists hate books.

Secondly, Who do guns protect us from? Guns protect us from communists.

In the same vein, it seems now is as good of time as ever to share another national security proverb my young progeny get to repeat, “The Democrats are not the fifth column.”

On Juneteenth’s Despair

Anyone else’s read of the passing scene include that the Juneteenth folks are desperate? They are even more lame than most pastors and evangelists. No matter how ambiguously noble they make their particular “holiday” sound, no matter how much of the population they invite, no matter how family friendly they make it, I will never celebrate Juneteenth.

Why?

Because it is rooted in victimhood.

Lincoln didn’t wait for someone to tell him it was okay to be free. Neither did GW or TJ.

The slaves, however, waited. The enslaved waited. And they always will wait. That’s what makes them slaves. That what allows them to become enslaved.

So “no”, my family and I won’t be celebrating.

Their cause isn’t noble. Their invitation isn’t sincere. And the whole family friendly ploy is a joke. If bounce houses had any value, world peace would have broken out, starting in urban neighborhoods—last generation.

Literate vs Illiterate Love According to Hollywood

I recently rewatched The English Patient. (You should too.)

I also am looking forward to seeing Avatar’s latest installment, but refuse to pay.

Today I want to draw attention to the way Hollywood handles the constantly interesting problem (to literates) of illiteracy still existing on the Earth.

In EP, she says, “I wanted to meet the man who could write such a long paper with so few adjectives.” Any man who could write that paper would know instantly that she was his for the taking.

In Avatar, there is an assertion (“I see you”), which is context dependent. Men can say it to men in greeting, but it can also mean, “I want to have babies with you.” Here’s the second meaning’s scene.

Question to ponder: Are they actually communicating the same idea?

Follow-up for “this-is-difficult camp”: Are they even able to communicate the same idea, as in, can illiterate people actually “see as far/much/deep” (metaphorically) as the literate?

Enjoy!

One Teeny, Tiny Flaw

I remember catching my mom in a bookstore aisle, kind of tucked away once. The book she was reading was self-help for “control freaks”. Understand, then, that she was the control freak in our family, and my sense of the encounter was that she was embarrassed that her son had seen that maybe she didn’t want to be.

I barely need to repeat the following, but for the unfaithful readers, please accept without question that my wife isn’t in love with yours truly anymore.

Books actually play a pivotal role in the drama, albeit in an unpredictable way. One of her main complaints to me, about my way of life, is that all my book reading does not lead to more money.

For my part, one of my main “asks” of her is that she stop reading the latest Christian bestselling “health and wealth” sermon transcripts masquerading as books. And truthfully, I don’t care that she reads them, but I would like her to read, at least some of the time, real books—not “The Secret” part 73. I mean even pulp fiction or Louis L’Amour or whatever is flying off the grocery store shelves these days.

This last time home, I saw an unfamiliar book stacked upon her bible called something like, “How to Live With A Manipulative Husband”.

Do you see the problem, folks? It’s easy to miss, so I understand if you don’t.

As for me, I am seriously considering putting out a best seller for us husbands. What do you say?

The title will be, “How to Smarten Up Your Wife AND Get Her to Stop Buying Crap.” Or maybe, “How to Make Your Wife Understand That She Doesn’t Need Makeup and Wigs Just Because All Other Women Wear Them.”

This might need to be a series, actually.

Another could be, “How to Live with a Woman Who, as It Turns Out, Is an Immature Child Who Lacks the Ability to Reason.”

Then there could be one on, “When Your Wife Married You, But Listens to Every Other Human Being Who Has Ever Uttered Speech Sounds Instead.”

The capstone, and I mean Fifty Shades of Grey success, will, of course, be, “How to Actually Get Your Wife to Stop Complaining and Be Happy.”

Men of the blogosphere, I’ve got you pegged as less than 10% of my readership. But what say you? Would you pay to unlock these secrets?

“White Sinners”, A Review of The Bride!, by Maggie Gyllenhaal

Motionless pictures can be art, too. The Bride!, like Sinners, is art for the reason motionless pictures can be art. The trouble, the thing that has everyone ate up, is Ms. Gyllenhaal’s picture is in motion. Hmm.

Lucky for her, the door for this kind of post-post-modern, detached, boundary-less art was opened by Mr. Coogan (and I am sure others). Just the same, I have always heard about some people who are able to be captivated by a single painting for hours. That is the closest this wind-riding-knuckle-dragger-with-a-blog can use in describing how this movie works.

Is The Bride! a reimagining? I have no idea. The interwebs confirm that there is no book by Shelley. Apparently there is an early movie and some other movies and books of the titular concept (Bride of Frankenstein). But I am pretty sure this film is just an original continuation story—and it should have been marketed and reviewed as such.

The most striking part of the movie was the leading lady’s effortless range. I mean she goes from repulsively demonic to irresistibly infatuating in the blink of an eye.

The gore is realistic and nauseating—another instance of “I hope my kids never find out I watched this”.

There are scenes of obvious first wave feminism (…like I know what that distinction means to experts. What I mean by first wave is that some women don’t want to be stay at home moms). But unlike some reviewers, I didn’t see it as proselytizing or advancing an agenda. It’s just a movie, folks. At ease!

On the whole, in addition to Sinners, I place it alongside Joker 2. I would like to give it a second chance now that I know what’s coming. But I am not sure there will prove to be enough time.

The Contest is Not Certain

When I moved to Minnesota I immediately noticed the Somalis. If you’re unaware, they are in many towns up there, not just the Twin Cities—small and large.

The most obvious thought I had—being a geographically and climate-varieties informed American—was, “Why the eff are they staying in the cold?”

I would see them, men especially, wearing one thin layer of buffalo plaid pj pants, holding their parka tightly with ungloved hands when the wind was blowing around below zero chills.

“What is wrong with this moron?” I would constantly think.

Don’t misunderstand me. This had nothing to do with that part of the body between the brain and the wind. I thought the same thing about any poorly dressed soul. It’s just that typical Minnesotans, if they know anything, know how to put on a coat. So the Somalis stood out.

For the life of me, I couldn’t think of any industry or job that these Somalis worked in that wasn’t in every other state in the Union.

The God’s honest truth is that I just shook my head and reckoned, “Well, I have heard of Chinatown(s). So I guess a feature of American life is that some country’s immigrants just arrive and stay close.” I had never experienced the desire to stay with “my people” beyond the concept that moving out of America has never been a consideration. America is mine. So I will move around it as I please or where the wind blows me.

Just the same, I still thought they were dumb for staying in the cold. Like even my Midwestern-grown self had no idea how different the weather really is in latitudes north of Nebraska. But I also wasn’t from latitudes north of Nebraska. These people, the underdressed Somalis, were from the desert. They had actual experience in a different, surely more pleasant climate. Why didn’t they drive south? The St. Louis airport has the same work available that MSP does. Why not just move down to the Midwest and start the life there? Or, hell, why not just keep going and end up in Dellis. Or Tampa?

I thought and I thought and I thought. I just couldn’t figure it out. Why did they stay?