If you grew up in a trick or treating house.... what was the worse thing you ever got in your bag?

Remember those peanut butter things wrapped in the black and orange wax paper? Those were pretty bad. There were always plenty of those left over way into January.

Or what about those strawberry candies that old ladies keep on their coffee tables... the ones wrapped in cellophane that looked like a strawberry. Nasty. I always ended up with lots of those.

Then there was always the house that gave out pennies. Or pencils. Or pencil toppers. What am I going to do with a ghost pencil topper when I go back to school? In November. Guess you mean for me to save this until around next Halloween.

Did you ever get Jehovah's Witness literature? I bet JW's really enjoy Halloween more than they let on. It is the one night they get to stay home and have people come to their door and bug the crap out of them. "Whew. Stella, we can stay home tonight. The prospects will be coming to us."

I never got to keep the popcorn balls or the caramel apple things. My mom made me throw them away as soon as I got home, because she didn't know where they came from and she didn't want me chomping down on a rusty razor blade.

To this day I've never eaten a popcorn ball, though I have briefly owned a number of them.

I always thought that a great, cheap way to do Halloween would be to have a big bowl of ice when trick-or-treaters come, and hold it in the crook of your arm waayy above their heads. When they open their bags you slyly toss a couple of ice cubes in. They hear the thunck on the bag, and they really can't see too well through their masks, so they think they scored something. Later, when the ice melts, they will have this messy concoction of junk in their bag, and if the bag is paper, you have the added benefit of the bag possibly breaking when it gets wet. There's your trick. Sucka.

You know the kid who throws the free community newspaper in your front yard? I wonder if there is any way that I can convince him to throw it directly into the garbage can for me?

There is very little difference between tossing free community newspapers in yards and littering.

I've noticed that down here in Louisiana the phrase "that's fine" doesn't mean the same thing that it means in the Midwest.

For instance, if a waitress in Louisiana asks if you would like a refill and you say, "That's fine.", she will most likely just walk away. If a checker asks if you would like a bag for some small item, and you say, "That's fine.", he will give you the item sans bag.

In the Midwest, "that's fine" is a laid back, easy going, no-obligation, non-demanding sort of way to say "yes". You say it with a little shrug and you mean, "by all means don't go out of your way on my behalf, but if you really want to do that for me, I'm okay with it."

Here, I suppose that "that's fine" is interpreted as "I'm fine", which means, "don't bother."

Maybe the solution is just to always say "yes" and "no", but those words can either sound bombastic or in some situations too clinically definitive. Sometimes you want to leave a little wiggle room, so you need to be able to say, "that sounds okay" or "I suppose" or "I guess" or "If you want to" or other such nuanced ways of answering in the affirmative.

Have you ever had the experience of repeatedly running across a particular word in your reading, where every time you pick up a book or a journal or a magazine or a paper, you see that same word?

I keep running across the word qua. It's everywhere. Evidently it is no longer chic to use the word "as".

So, in keeping with this trend, I ought to say that I am going to be Duane qua Duane for Halloween.

Remember those old vinyl Halloween costumes with the plastic mask? I remember thinking those were so cool. At my school Halloween party every year, it seemed like all of the coolest kids had those, but now thinking about them, they were so lame and unimaginative.

The vinyl vest usually wasn't a costume in the strictest sense of the word at all. It was more or less a billboard for the cartoon or the movie that your particular character was in. It had some sort of action scene pictured on it with the name of the product or show emblazoned across the front. Usually the very character you had chosen was imaged on the costume itself so that you really weren't Indiana Jones for Halloween. You were a kid wearing a picture of Indiana Jones on a little vinyl apron.

Some guy has compiled pictures of a whole bunch of these. (Warning: strong language here and there... I'm not sure what else is there.)

I remember wearing this Stormtrooper costume and this G.I. Joe costume.

He's got some pretty bad ones there too. I can't imagine which kid was a bigger loser. The one who said, "Mom, I want to be Gabe Kaplan for Halloween.", or the one who said, "I want to be an Asteroid, you know, like the game."

Do they even make these anymore?

Okay Florida, you can go back to not caring about baseball.

There are three kinds of people in this world... those who can count and those who can't.

For Hallowee ERRRRR Reformation Day, my two year old is going as Blue. The puppy. From Blues Clues.

Any idea of where I can get a green horizontally-striped shirt on short notice?

Yeah. I think I'm more of a Steve than a Joe.

Here's a question for discussion. Joe... spazz, geek or dweeb?

Just finished "Ideas Have Consequences" by Richard Weaver.

He had some good insights, secularist that he was. For instance:

"The whole tendency of modern thought, one might say its whole moral impulse, is to keep the individual busy with endless induction. Since the time of Bacon, the world has been running away from, rather than toward, first principles, so that, on the verbal level, we see "fact" substituted for "truth", and on the philisophic level, we witness attack upon abstract ideas and speculative inquiry. The unexpressed assumption of empiricism is that experience will tell us what we are experiencing. In the popular arena one can tell from certain newspaper columns and radio programs that the average man has become imbued with this notion and imagines that an industrious acquisition of particulars will render him a man of knowledge. With what pathetic trust does he recite his facts! He has been told that knowledge is power, and knowledge consists of a great many small things."

There are many such quotable sections throughout the book, but while he does a great job of dissecting modernism, his solutions to the problems of modernity aren't much better. If you follow his advice, you'll end up as some sort of dualistic stoic... which is where I think most of the best secular conservatives would have us go.

One thing I've learned about small jobs around the house is that they always turn into big jobs around the house.

A few weeks ago the litte drain stopper in our bathroom sink stopped working. It would go down, but wouldn't pull back up. Turns out the plastic piece that holds it in place was broken, so I just pulled it straight out and said, "I'll get around to it." Of course that left a big empty drain with no way to stop anything important heading down it.

On Sunday morning as we were getting ready to go to church, my two-year-old was rinsing her toothbrush under the water and ended up dropping her favorite Monsters Inc. Sully-standing-on-top-of-a-can-of-scream toothbrush right squarely down the drain. I could see it there and I stuck my finger down there to dig it out. It went further. So I tried again and it went even further. It went through the little part of the drain that looks sort of like a "u" which I found out is a "Bathroom P-trap" or something like that. The part of the drain consisted of twenty-year old rust conveniently covered in a layer of cheap paint. Paint was all that was keeping the water from dripping everywhere, and when I poked the toothbrush down it went right through the paint.

Okay. So I get to replace a little part of the drain. No big deal. The next day I loosen the old trap and start torquing the new one on, I torque a little too hard and pull the main drain apart from the sink. It just happened to have brought with it some fiberglass from the bottom of the sink. Now I've got a hole in the bottom of the sink and a broken drain assembly.

I run out again and find a drain that I pray is just a little bigger to cover the new bigger hole I've made in the sink, and I get a gasket that I hope is big enough to keep the whole thing dry. Turns out that it fit just perfectly, and you can't tell that I damaged the sink at all.

But once I started to tighten all that down, the pipe coming from the floor just goes loose on me, like it isn't connected to anything beyond the floor. That's a problem. So all this time our drain water has been going somewhere, but where? Down into the wall? Under the floor? I fiddle around with it and I feel like I get it butted up against something and I ran the water and it sounded like it was going way down somewhere, but I can't be sure.

Everything is tight and dry, but everytime I run the sink in the bathroom, I'm thinking, where is this water going?

I really should have went with my first instinct which was to just let the toothbrush stay in the drain.

Even though everybody would have been way more interested in a World Series involving either of those Boston or Chicago teams, if I think outside of my Yankee-hatred for a moment, I really believe that we have the two most solid, most well-rounded teams in baseball right now playing the Series.

It has been suprisingly exciting so far. Both teams are so evenly matched. Who would have thought that Pavano would pitch better than Clemens? Pavano? C'mon.

Now it's down to a best-of-three with the Yankees playing two of the games in their own yard. The way the Marlins keep fighting back when you think they are out of it, I think we are going to get to game seven, and it very well might be a classic.

Aw. Poor Iraqis don't have the equipment to play kickball.

Here's the perfect opportunity for someone to go in and teach them baseball like Americans did with Japan after World War II. The reason that they are languishing in ignorance, poverty and depravity is because they have a terrible game. Teach them a better game, a more highly developed game, and within generations their culture will flourish, it will prepare the way of the Lord and make His paths straight.

Baseball is one way to prepare a culture for the gospel. Giving them a new game, a game which is the product of a Christian culture, will create an environment in which churches can grow free from persecution. You'll have the side benefit of seeing an outfielder for the Yankees in 2020 named Mohommed Sirajul, representing the ingathering of all nations under Christ.

So let's stop the Germans before they start importing kickballs into Iraq and somebody get those Louisville Slugger people on the phone.

Oswald the Octapus is awesome. If you haven't seen him, and you have a toddler, you need to check him out. There are no bad guys in the stories. The only conflict comes in the relationships he has with his friends and the misunderstandings they have between them when someone is selfish or inconsiderate. Oswald, the main character, is always self-sacrificing, always giving, always happy to put his friends' happiness in front of his own. The show is so slow paced and peaceful that it really lowers my blood pressure.

I only have one complaint. He is fond of saying, "Oh my gosh!" I don't know what I think of that exactly, but I know that I don't want my two year old using any expletives yet.

What do you all think? I've heard that gosh and golly and such are just modified ways of saying "God". Do you buy that?

You know those gas pumps that have three buttons for three different grades of fuel, but just one nozzle? How stupid do they think we are? All the buttons do is let you pick your price. Did they really think we'd fall for that?

I want to say something abou this but I give up. I'm sure I voted wrong somewhere along the way. I need to vote better in the future.

Here we go.

Another World Series that no one outside of New York cares about.

You think Miami cares? They had more people at the three NLCS games against the Cubs than they had in the entire months of June, July and August. Combined. And I'm guessing that it was only because they were playing the Cubs.

This is just a brief amusement for Florida. They have very few real fans. Win or lose, the Marlins will be scraping to sell tickets again next year.

Go Marlins. Or not. Who cares.

Someone needs to come up with a better imprecation for the New York Yankees. "Damned" just isn't sufficient anymore. We need one of those nice big fat cuss words that makes little old ladies dab their forehead with a handkerchief when they hear it.

Of course you would never actually say it in front of an old woman. One ought not ever use the word "Yankees" in mixed company.

When I was a boy they were my pride and joy
But now they only bring fatigue
To the land of the free, the home of the brave
And the doormat of the National League

I heard that a long time ago. I can't remember where. It was the refrain of a song which lamented the futility of the Cubs, and it has stuck with me.

When I was a boy, I was a Cub fan. Even though I long ago put my immature infatuation with them aside, I was pulling for them this time. I really wanted my boyhood team to do well. I had a special place in my heart for them.

I was born in north Chicago and for the first five years of my life, I lived less than three miles from that ivy-infested pit which sits on the 1000 block of West Addison. I’m told that my dad took me there when I was young. There are pictures of me in Cubs gear from before I could walk. I went around wearing a nauseous blue Cubs lid on my head until I was twelve years old. Never went anywhere without it.

Harry Caray’s voice was the soundtrack of my summers. When we moved around the country with my Dad’s job, and even when we went overseas, there was always WGN. The Cubs followed me everywhere. Larry Bowa. Ryne Sandberg. Andre Dawson. Mike Lavalliere. Leon Durham. Mitch Williams. Rick Sutcliffe. Lee Smith. Doug Dascenzo. Dennis Eckersley. Mark Grace. Rafael Palmeiro. Greg Maddux. I lived and died, ate, slept and drank the Chicago Cubs.

But when I was twelve we moved to St. Louis. 1987. Whiteyball. The Cardinals win the pennant. Jack Clark. Ozzie Smith. Willie McGee. Hey! These guys are winning more games than they lose! What’s this all about? I went to bed every night listening to Jack Buck and Mike Shannon on KMOX. I decided that I could pull for two teams. Twice the fun.

It wasn’t long before we went to a Cardinals game. We went to see them play the Cubs of course. I was out of my mind with excitement. I was getting to see Ryne Sandberg play second base with my very own eyes and write his name on a score card.

And there I was, in that sea of red, seeing all those happy cheering Redbird fans, while my boyhood team loses. 3-2. Cubs lose. Cubs lose. Cubs lose.

Of course that was only one game. But it was the beginning of the end.

Living in St. Louis for any period of time, you have to be made of cast iron not to become a Cardinals fan. I lived there for six years. Went to college. Went back and lived another six years. It was infectious. Cardinal Nation comes on strong. It sucks you in. It isn’t just a team you are cheering for. It’s a lifestyle.

I don’t know when it happened. But at some point, when it came time to replace my worn out dirty Cubs hat, I bought a red hat instead.

Since that first year I found the Cardinals, they’ve only had five losing seasons in sixteen years. They’ve won a pennant and won their division four times. They always give you something to pull for and look forward to. They’ve given me so many great memories.

In 1992, I’m a senior in High School and I cut out of school at lunch time. I convince a couple of friends and my little sister to leave with me. We drive downtown, get lost in traffic, pay $30 to park on some private lot, buy whatever seats they have left at the window and sit out in the sun without enough money left between us to scrape together and buy so much as a small Coke. Cards beat the Giants.

In 1995, when the players and the owners finally agreed on a deal after the strike, I’m in school in Mississippi. I get out of my late class and drive all night to get up to St. Louis to see the first game of the new season. Cards beat the Phillies.

In 1997, I get married on a Saturday, go to church on Sunday, take my new wife to see the Cardinals on Monday. Cards beat the Rockies.

In 1998, Opening Day, I play hooky from work. Go downtown and meet my wife at her office across the street from Busch stadium. We see Mark McGwire hit a grand slam off of Hideo Nomo. He went on to hit 69 more that year. Cards beat the Dodgers.

This year, we drive from Monroe to St. Louis to see a game. The Braves’ Rafael Furcal turns an unassisted triple play to kill a Cardinals rally… the rarest of all baseball feats, but in late innings Albert Pujols hits a homerun off of John Smoltz to win it. Cards beat the Braves.

That’s what it is all about. The Cardinals haven’t been so hot the last few years. But that’s really okay. I’d love to see them do better, but you’ll never hear a Cardinal fan go on forever about curses and century-long losing streaks and how that somehow makes them a better fan. When we’re bad, we know we’re bad. We appreciate the accomplishments on our team (Like the NL batting title this year.) and we hunker down and wait for Spring training.

I’m not a Cub fan anymore, because I needed out. Gradually I realized that I needed to stop pulling for losers that really loved being losers. They revel in losing, and losing in big, bad, fantastic ways. All they want to do is break your heart. They show flashes of potential, but they always melt down. And the further they go into the fall, the worse they will hurt you. But Cub fan just takes it. He likes it. He’s sick that way. There are treatments, but he doesn’t want them. He loves to be abused.

Not me. I’m done forever caring even the least little bit about the Cubs. I hope they finish every season from here to eternity under .500 with half their team on the DL and half of their stands empty.

I’m all for bulldozing Wrigley. Someone has to put a stop to this. It’s crazy. It’s insane. It is not at all healthy. Move the Cubs to D.C. or Charlotte. Break up the team. Start over. Give them a new name. Chicago will still have the White Sox. But cancel the Cubs.

Please. Someone. Listen. The Cubs need to go away forever.

I hear you. History. Tradition. Well I went to Wrigley for the first time as an adult a couple of years ago. And I can tell you, if you haven’t been, you aren’t missing much. We really are better off without it. It was okay I guess, but what made it really nice was that the Cards beat the Cubs.

Remember that one kid in school who always wanted to run the projector? The kid that got to turn the knob everytime the record or cassette went "ding"? I hated that kid.

Remember that other kid who always wanted to turn the lights off when it was time for a movie? He didn't have as much ambition as the projector kid, but he was still out there, doing his thing, working the light switch. I hated that kid too.

Remember the kid that always had to raise his hand and ask a question that really wasn't a question, but was more like him telling about his summer vacation and all the cool things he got to do while you spent your summer at your grandma's house? I really hated that kid.

Remember that kid who kept getting his head stuck in stuff? Like he got his head stuck between the monkey bars and between the rungs of the ladder to the slide and like that one time he even got his head stuck in the hole in the back of a chair because he sort of dove into the seat while playing musical chairs? Well, I was that kid.

I've got it figured out. Cub fan does not want his team to go to the World Series. Because if the Cubs go to the World Series, they have an outside chance of winning the World Series, and then what? Cub fan loses all of his mystique and aura as the one true fan left in the world of sports. No, he doesn't cheer for a successful franchise. He cheers for the team with the longest history and the fewest number of rings.

If the Cubs win the World Series, they become just another one-year wonder like the Diamondbacks or the Angels. They will no longer be the lovable losers or the perennial "wait'll next year" club. They will lose the only thing that they have going for them... the only thing that packs Wrigley every summer. They will lose their identity.

True Cub fan does not want that to happen. Last night was the second time this series a fan has interfered with a foul ball that could have been caught. The first one didn't get any press, because the Marlins didn't capitalize on it. But Cub fan is out there in the stands. He is getting nervous. He wants to grab that ball and keep it as a relic, because he knows that it will be the last time the Cubs will be playing this deep into October for at least twenty years.

So here's to you Cub fan. Run out on the field tonight in the middle of the game. Recruit a few of your brothers from the south side of your city to go jack up a first base coach. Jeer your outfielders, bleacher bums. Boo Kerry Wood off the mound, make him melt down. You know it is what you want. It really is what's best for you. It's best for all of us. The National League needs a doormat, and you've made such a good one all these years. We'd hate to lose you.

Red Sox, that goes for you too.

As much as I hate to say it, we are going to have a Marlins - Yankees World Series.

I had an educational weekend. Here is what I learned:

Gasoline really does get rid of ants.

It doesn't matter how impenetrable your boots look, ants can still get inside them and bite your feet a number of times.

Flipping the breaker back and forth repeatedly does nothing to jumpstart a dead air conditioning unit.

Certain Viking explorers might have been Christians. (But that in no way absolves them of all the raping, pillaging and those gay helmets.)

If you sing "It is Swell, With My Soul" when every one else is singing the right words, no one notices. You still get the laugh, and you don't get elbowed in the ribs.

I bet one thing that kids in Venice really get hollered at for is going across the street right after they've eaten.

I can't eat vanilla ice cream by itself. It seems as if vanilla ice cream was invented for the purpose of going with something else. When you are eating a brownie or a piece of apple pie, vanilla ice cream is the only way to go. I wouldn't use anything else. However, if all you have is vanilla ice cream, you really don't have anything at all, unless you at least have some sort of chocolate syrup or hot fudge or chocolate sprinkles or something like that.

But I'm writing to let you know that hot cocoa mix is not a suitable substitute for chocolate syrup. I tried that the other night. We had only vanilla ice cream and we didn't have any other chocolate substance in the house. I sprinkled the cocoa all over the vanilla ice cream and got a bitter powdery vanilla mess. I thought that the chocolate would bond to the ice cream and make a kind of syrup. I was wrong. I still ate the whole bowl, mind you. But I wouldn't recommend it to anyone else. It was pretty nasty.

The other day we finally got around to visiting the Beidenharn museum... which if you've never been to Monroe, it is this house turned into a Beidenharn museum. Yeah. I didn't know what one was either until I went.

Evidently there was this family that first got the idea to put Coke into bottles and made some money off the idea, so now their house is a museum. So whatever.

We get to the part of the house where they show us all the Coke kitsch... old bottles, signs, posters... and I said out loud, "Boy, I sure wish they still made Coke."

Because you know, it was a Coke museum. And the assumption is, that if something is in a museum, then it is either rare, or not around anymore. But I don't need to explain that to you.

The tour guide just stared at me like it wasn't funny or something. I haven't gotten stares like that since grade school.

There should be a rule that if you are a tour guide, you ought to just laugh at what people say to make them feel better.

Tomorrow morning I'm giving a lecture in my history class on the French Revolution and Napoleon.

I still can't determine at exactly what point Napoleon was ultimately and finally vanquished. What was his proverbial "Waterloo", so to speak? It all seems so subjective. So tough to sort out.

I do know that Napoleon ice cream is about the best that there is out there. I mean who was it that came up with the three flavors of ice cream corresponding to the three French ideals of liberty, equality and chocolativity? That person had to be a genius or something.

Look. It's 12:30. That's all I've got for you.

Question: What kind of Barbie doll has four teeth, a mono-brow, smells like stewed goat, is an illiterate sycophant and bows toward Mecca three times a day?

Answer

Did I mention that my daughter in really into the Care Bears?

(I can already hear the response... and I'll just go ahead and answer it. Yes, she's also really into memorizing the Children's Catechism, the Lord's Prayer, the Nicene Creed, and a few hymns. She just says or sings them with a Care Bear tucked under her arm, or after having just watched a Care Bear cartoon.)

So we can't escape the Care Bears. They're everywhere. So it got me to thinking. You know how all of the bears have some sort of graphic tatooed on their belly that corresponds with their individual personality? I wonder if I were a Care Bear, what I would have there?

Well, I think that I ought to have a big shiny red heart on my belly. With a knife through it. And a snake wrapped around the knife. With his tongue sticking out... no, no, wait... a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. And the snake would have a tatoo of a skull and cross-bones on his side. And he would have one of those really cool pointy shaped electric guitars right where his hands should be. Then there would be a banner over the perforated heart with words written in that really super cool font like the metal bands use to have and it would say something like "born to give you trouble" or "you better keep your distance" or "1987 World Tour".

And I would be called... "Do Not Mess With Me Bear Because I am So Awesome and I Might Hurt You Bear".

But as for the overall color of the bear, I think that I ought to be either pink or pale green. Because you would still want kids to buy the bear and play with the bear and take the bear to grandma's house. I decided against a black bear, because I don't think many kids would play with that.

So I guess the first step to getting a Care Bear modeled after me, is to go ahead and get that tatoo on my belly. Then when I walk around town without my shirt on, people would see it and say, "You really ought to have a Care Bear made after you." And I would act all coy, like I didn't know what they were talking about, and they would say, "No, really. I'm serious. I know this guy..." And then the bucks would start rolling in from there.

Wow. That's so cool. I'm going to do it.

The other day my two year old daughter asked me, "Can I have your Mar-Mart?" (That's how she says "Wal-Mart".)

"You want my Wal-Mart?"

"Yeah, Daddy, I want your Mar-Mart."

"I don't know what you are talking about, baby."

(She points to my pants.)

I say, "You want to GO to Wal-Mart?"

"No, I want your Mar-Mart."

"Show me what you are talking about, baby."

She tries to dig my wallet out of my back pocket.

"Ohhhh. My wallet! You want my wallet?"

"Yeah! I want your Mar-Mart."

So I guess she got the words "wallet" and "Wal-Mart" confused. But the way things are going, it would appear to the most casual observer that my wallet and all of its contents do actually belong to Wal-Mart.

I love you
A bushel and a peck
A bushel and a peck
and a hug around the neck
A hug around the neck
and a barrel and a heap
A barrel and a heap
and I'm talkin in my sleep
About YOU!
About who?
About YOU!

- My two-year old's favorite song to sing

There are a number of good methods of disciplining house pets. For example, if your cat acts up, you spray it with water. When your puppy makes a mistake, you rub his nose in the dooky. But there just is no good way to discipline fish. Until now. I've found that it makes a really big impact on them if you play a recorded toilet flushing sound really close to the aquarium glass. Let me tell you, Chester, they will straighten up and act right after you do that a few times.

You can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you cannot shove a guy down the stairs without expecting him to try to whack you with something.

I'm getting a lot of comments by email, but not all of them are showing up on this page. I just wanted to let you know that I haven't been deleting them or anything. They just aren't popping up.

I did delete one anonymous comment over the weekend, but the absence of the rest of the comments must mean that I need those necessary updates to Sensus Plenior. However, I do not want to aggravate the Barlow with something that silly, and besides, I may be doing something totally different soon, so it isn't worth the fuss right now.

All that to say, keep commenting, but refresh the SP box to make sure your comments show up.

Okay, look. There's no such thing as "half a sandwich". Just because you have half a piece of bread folded in two, or if you cut a sub roll in half, it does not make it half a sandwich. It is still a sandwich. It may be smaller than a regular sandwich, but it is just as much a sandwich.

A sandwich is two pieces of bread with something in between. Maybe a half a sandwich is just one piece of bread. I'll buy that. But if you got two breads and stuff in the middle, you got yourself a sandwich, Leroy.

There are no gradations of "sandwich-ness". You either got a sandwich or you don't. There's nothing in between.

I've noticed that just about everybody who keeps a web log has been interviewing each other. I've thought about asking to be included, but I haven't for fear of getting a question that I don't want to answer. There are some questions that I would really love the opportunity to answer, but no one has ever asked them.

So, rather than asking for someone else to interview me, I'll just interview my own dern self.

1. Duane, first off, we all want to know... why are you so awesome?

Wow. That's pretty heavy. I guess that one reason that many people think I'm awesome is that I have an incredible wing-span. I can reach practically every part of a moving vehicle from the driver's seat. This means that if a toddler tries really hard to throw a sippy-cup in such a way that it can never be retrieved, by anyone, for any reason, I'm usually the guy that you want driving. I can reach and feel around in the back seat, all over the floor board and even up under that part of the car that is sort of inbetween the back seat and the rear glass, you know that rear-dashboard part, without ever slowing down or looking at the road. Oh yeah, baby. I can find it, wherever they throw it. You know you like me for that.

Another reason that I'm awesome is that I have impeccable taste. From clothes to movies to music to athletes, if you want to know what is good and what is crap, you need to ask me. I'm not dogmatic about it or anything. I'm just right. All the time. And that's what make me awesome.

2. Why do you hate styrofoam so much?

Well, to start, styrofoam is just wrong. Also, when I try to drink out of it, it just feels funny on my lips. Cups shouldn't feel spongy, nor should they break down into tiny petroleum-based pellets when you apply too much force to them. Those pellets could get in your eyes. Or in your ears. Then what would you do? See there? Bet you never thought of that. Yeah. Soda on ice seems to water-down more quickly in styrofoam than in paper or plastic cups. I've never experimented on it, but I'm pretty sure that's the case.

3. What do you wish you could do, but can't?

I wish I could smoke cigarettes, but I've never been able to pull it off. I feel so effeminate holding a tiny little tube of tobacco. It makes me feel like I need to extend my pinky to do it properly, which would be gay. Did I say pinky? I mean little finger. Who says pinky? That's a gay word. Pinky. I think one of the Teletubbies is named Pinky. They're gay too. Anyway, some guys look really cool with little bitty thin stubs of wrapped tobacco, but I don't.

4. If you had your way on one issue and everyone had to go along with it, what would it be?

I would insist that everyone refer to me as El Conquistador, and bow with a wide sweeping gesture when they greet me. "El Conquistador, it is certainly a pleasure to see you today. El Conquistador, can I poor you another adult beverage? El Conquistador, you seem to have parked your car on top of my cat. El Conquistador, that jacket looks really smart with those pants. El Conquistador, would you like ketchup for your corn dog?"

5. What do you think you will do once you are done with your studies at the Dabney center?

I will likely go home and ask my wife to make me a sandwich.

I think that an antique store is just a yard sale that is trying to become a legitimate business.

The way I see it, the weather ain't never gonna be right until we take them rocks back up there to that moon.

Wow and wow.

I wonder who will be the first blogger to get his panties wadded up.

Hilarious.

Good thing I don't have a blog.

I promised y'all a few words on Patrick Fairbairn's "Typology of Scripture". Well here they are.

An Incomplete, Unbalanced and Quickly Thrown-together Review

I imagine that Patrick Fairbairn’s definition of the usefulness of symbolism and typology in his mammoth two-volume work “Typology of Scripture” will seem narrow and stiff to most of those who have benefitted from the work of James Jordan, Peter Leithart and Vern Poythress in this same area. There is a good reason for this. These men have helped us to go beyond the cursory reading of the scriptures to see the world of inter-testamental connections and the web of symbolism underlying the Biblical narratives. They have taught us to look at pre-messianic Bible figures and to see Christ pre-figured in their stories. Their observations make the Old Testament pop and sing and they help us to view the entire Bible as one organically unified text which speaks of the covenant grace of God manifested and incarnated in Jesus from cover to cover.

Fairbairn, on the other hand, mid-nineteenth century Presbyterian that he was, seems to have little time for this sort of perspective. To be fair, he is for the most part in this text criticizing those in the medieval church who overloaded Bible texts with mystical and weird meanings. But in his criticism, he draws too tight a circle around what he considers to be a proper usage of Biblical symbolism. He writes:

“Take… as an example… the occupation of Abel as a shepherd, which by many… has been regarded as a prefiguration of Christ in His character as the great shepherd of Israel. A superficial likeness, we admit, but what is to be found of real unity and agreement? What light does the one throw upon the other?… Admitting that the death of Abel somehow foreshadowed the infinitely more precious blood to be shed on Calvary, what distinctive value could the sacrifice of
life in His case derive from the previous occupation of the martyr?… For what purpose, then, press points of resmblance so loosely associated, and dignify them with the name of typical prefigurations? Resemblances in such a case are worthless even if real, and from their nature incapable of affording any insight into the mind and purposes of God.” (Volume I, page 68)

Perhaps he has read a poor interpretation of the similarities between Christ and Abel, but that doesn’t rule out Abel’s usefulness as a prefiguration of Christ in the Genesis narrative altogether. The fact that the Scriptures make note that he was a shepherd, ought to signal us to compare him with the other shepherds in the Scriptures. The Bible doesn’t simply toss out useless trivia. The question we ought to ask is not, then, whether there is any significance to our being told that Abel was a shepherd, but what is the significance of that fact, and how precisely does that fact work in the narrative to point us to the redemption of the human race, and ultimately, Christ. Similarly, we ask why was Abel murdered? And why is that account included in the text? We must be good students and ask how that leads us to a fuller understanding of the second Person of the Trinity, rather than discounting it completely as empty speculation just because there may be no connection immediately recognizable upon the first surface reading… in English… by a Westerner.

Here he is again commenting on the various interpretations of the symbolism of the bronze serpent:

“Hence we find them expatiating upon the metal of which the serpent was formed, and which, from being inferior to some others, they regard as foreshadowing Christ’s outward meanness, while in its solidarity they discern His divine strength, and in its dim lustre the veil of His human nature! What did it avail to the Israelite, or for any purpose the serpent had to serve, of what particular stuff it was made?. A dead and senseless thing in itself, it must have been all one for those who were called to look to it, whether the material was brass or silver, wood or stone… All such puerile straining of the subject arose from an inverted order being taken in tracing the connection between the spiritual reality and the ancient shadow.” (Volume 1, page 152)

Volumes could be written about the traditional reformed tendency to look beyond the physical and the tangible to find “spiritual realities” within, but I don’t have the time to do that here. Simply stated, Fairbairn perpetuates the idea that the physical is only a cheap vessel for the spiritual, and that the content, composition, design and character of the physical is of almost negligable importance, while the spiritual deserves all of the focus and attention. Further, he avoids any attempt to understand why, in this case, God required Moses to make a serpent, why Moses made it out of brass and why Jesus explicitly referenced this event, pointing to the way it symbolized His sacrifice. These details are peripheral for him, it seems. All that matters is a greater "spiritual reality" which, incidentally, he never gets around to addressing.

This plays itself out in his covenant theology wherein he denies the primacy of any physical covenant signs and holds forth that the reality of the covenant lies in the unseen, spiritual realm alone.

He says we learn this “important truth, that the spiritual element was ever to be held the thing of first and most essential moment, and that the natural was only to be regarded as the channel through which the other was chiefly to come, and the safeguard by which it was to be fenced and kept! From the first the call of God made itself known as no merely outward distinction; and the covenant that grew out of it, instead of being but a formal bond of interconnection between its members and God, was framed especially to meet the spiritual evil in the world, and required as an indispensable condition, a sanctified heart in all who were to experience its blessings and to work out its beneficent results. How indeed could it be otherwise? How could the spiritual Jehovah, who has, from the first creation of man upon the earth, been ever manifesting Himself as the Holy One, and directing His administration so as to promote the ends of righteousness, enter into a covenant of life and blessing on any other principle? It is impossible – as impossible as it is for the unchangeable God to act contrary to His nature – that the covenant of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the covenant of grace and blessing, which embraces in its bosom Christ Himself and the benefits of His eternal redemption – could ever have contemplated as its real members any but spiritual and righteous persons.” (Volume 1, page 326)

At least he is consistent. Just as his view of Biblical typology has little room for the details of the physical creation, his view of the covenant has little room for any objective reality with regard to how one enters it, keeps it and is discerned to be a member of it.

In another section, he notes that some scholars have found as many as forty distinct similarities between Joseph and Christ and remarks,

“Of course a great proportion of such resemblances are of a quite superficial and trifling nature, and are of no moment, whether they happen to be perceived or not. For any light they throw on the purposes of Heaven, or any advantage they yield to our faith, we gain nothing by admitting them, and we lose as little by rejecting them.”

So are these similarities mere coincidences or accidents? Does the life of Joseph who was, in a sense, a savior of his people teach us nothing about the character of the Savior of His people?

Don't misunderstand me. I am not at all interested in searching out quaint, cute, or mystical meanings in Scripture nor am I looking for a secret key to unlock all the mysteries of the Bible. That is not the point at all. Further, I realize that throughout the Church's history some men have not always been entirely honest with the use of symbolism in Scripture as they attempt to pull applications from text. (I’m looking at you Spurgeon.) However, if we recognize that the Bible is the primary revelation of an infinite God, then it stands to reason that in our short two-thousand years of study, the Church has not exhausted all of the truths, symbols, connections and types in the Scriptures. We do ourselves no service if, like Fairbairn, we limit our discussion to only those types and symbols that are actually called types by the New Testament writers and even further limiting ourselves to trying to find the “spiritual” meaning with little or no regard to the physical realities of the covenant or the objective nature of life in it.

Female action figures... Did you ever have them? Did you like them?

I had a Princess Leia and the GI Joe girl... Lady Jaye? Something like that. Anyway. I never did much with them. What could you do? Where is the honor in even a bad guy getting his butt kicked by a girl? And where is the honor in even a bad guy killing a girl? I made sure that even my bad guys followed civilized rules of engagement. No civilians get harmed, no children, no women, no non-combatants.

I really didn't like using the girls at all. It felt too much like I was playing with shrunken-down Barbies. Like I was just one step away from brushing their hair or picking out a different outfit for them. No way.

Not to mention the fact that they were too bumpy in certain spots. I had to be sure to hold them in such a way that I wasn't holding them there. Too much to worry about.

I'm pretty sure that female action figures never sell well to the kids who actually intend to play with them. Forty year old comic book collectors who live with their parents are the target demographic, I think.

Top ten best action figures ever...

10. Battle Damage Skeletor
9. The Atomic Man
8. The M.U.S.C.L.E. guy with a hex-bolt for a head
7. Destro
6. Luke in the X-Wing pilot uniform
5. Man-at-Arms
4. The original Storm Shadow
3. Lando disguised as one of Jabba the Hutt's henchmen
2. Gung-Ho with the grenade launcher
1. Boba Fett

Saturday is election day around here, so there are placards, posters, billboards everywhere you look. Every flat surface in Louisiana has some candidate's name stapled to it. Not to mention that regular broadcast programming is frequently interrupted in order to air the latest response to the latest attack ad.

So I feel compelled, even obligated to bring you my picks for the upcoming election.

For Governor: I'm going with "I don't care"
For Lt. Governor: "Who gives a rip" is my choice
For Attorney General: I'm still undecided between "Whatever" and "Can't we talk about something else?"
For Sheriff: I like "Um, lemme think for a minute... oh yeah, now I remember... NOBODY"

Hope that helps.

Limbaugh should know better than to use the word "black" in public.

Yankees fans.

They shoulda got sent home.

There are some days when I just want to be able to forget the mistakes of my past, and move on with my life.

But how am I supposed to do that when the FBI is out back digging up my yard?

Some people are like a bottle of fine wine.

There are days when you just want to go ahead and shove a corkscrew into them, but then you decide to make yourself wait for that special occasion.

In case you are wondering, I'm pulling for...

Cubs
Red Sox
Marlins
Twins

In that order.

I'm apathetic about the A's.

I want the following teams to go out very early...

Yankees
Braves
Giants

If you give a mouse a cookie, you feed him for a day.
If you teach a mouse to make cookies, you never have to read that blessed book again.

I've been accused of not liking any movie, of criticizing everything that I see and hating it all.

Well, to be clear, I'm not attracted to pure spectacle, I am really put-off by wooden acting and retarded dialogue and even the most remote whiff of manipulative cinematography or story-telling causes me to never ever want to come near anything the guilty writer or director produces ever again. Because most films today fall into one of those categories, I find it difficult to go nuts over most of what is produced.

I don't feel the urge to go see something just because it is there at the theater, nor do I feel compelled to rent everything that is put on a plastic disc. Because I spend relatively little on movie-watching, I don't really feel like I have to justify the money I spent by raving over everything that I watch. I go into it realizing that most movies are either stupid or garbage. Or both. I have very low expectations.

However, on occasion I am pleasantly suprised. I've found two recently that are worth watching.

Levity - Billy Bob Thornton portrays a murderer with a life-sentence in prison who is paroled for good behavior. Upon leaving the penitentiary, he immediately seeks out the family of his victim and tries to work out his repentance. Whether or not the writer intended this, the main character follows through the liturgical steps of cleansing, consecration and communion in his path to redemption. I won't give anything else away other than the warning that there is a good deal of profanity, lest you think that this would be good to watch with your parents or children. It also stars Morgan Freeman and Holly Hunter.

A Mighty Wind - This is the This is Spinal Tap of folk music. Same guys, different instruments, different haircuts, same sort of comedy. At some points the humor is so subtle that I didn't know whether to laugh or to actually enjoy the music. It isn't as laugh-out-loud, repeat-the-lines-over-and-over funny as Spinal Tap was, but it is funny in a warm, tender sort of way throughout. They aren't skewering folk music the way that Spinal Tap skewered heavy metal, they are just sort of giving it a friendly slug on the shoulder. I sure that most people don't find the humor, because the actors are playing it so straight that it feels as if you are watching an actual documentary. However, if you go in knowing that every line is a joke about something, you will smile so hard your face will hurt.

See. I like some movies.

Oh, and I also liked Solaris. But you had already figured as much, hadn't you?