Say goodbye to The Prayer of Jabez, The Purpose Driven Life, and Boy Meets Girl. Christian pop-culture has a new kid on the block thanks to Donald Miller’s best-seller, Blue Like Jazz.
The growing suburban hipster Christian demographic is growing more powerful, and it has embraced Donald Miller’s latest brain-child. Now we will all be able to witness clean-cut, “relevant,” young college students, pouring over Blue Like Jazz at Dutch Bros. while Switchfoot blasts out from their new silver IPODs.
This book, which falls far short of genius, appeals to those Christians who are becoming increasingly ashamed of their doctrinal beliefs. It revels in abhorring stale Christianity in favor of a touchy-feely, we’re-so-cool-we-discuss-poetry-in-pubs sensibility. Sadly, the result is just another Christian bestseller that will permeate Christian bookstores worldwide in the form of journals, notebook paper, envelopes, t-shirts, caps, and “Blue Like Jazz” study Bibles.
Donald Miller’s book is a shameful and failed attempt to imitate Douglas Coupland, the golden-boy of Generation X fiction. It appeals to the pseudo-intellectual, self-described chic, I’m-too-cool-to-consider-myself-to-be-cool, wannabe urban type of reader.
Miller’s “why can’t we be friends” mentality is a clear representation of the new Christian sub-culture – those desperately trying to appear cool to the world by making malicious stabs at their religious roots. Miller, you’re right. Let’s assert our relevance by casually swearing and peppering our conversation with witty references to Portland pubs and artsy movies – not because we actually care about these things, but because relevance is the god we bow down to in our Don Miller-induced stupor.
All of this might be forgiven, I suppose, except for the fact that this whole package is wrapped up in Miller’s shoddy writing style, and is percolated with his shameless lack of insight. His book is nothing more than a poorly written, poorly executed attempt to make Christianity hip again. But don’t worry, if you still secretly harbor a desire to read this book, all you have to do is go to one out of the plethora of Blue Like Jazz Bible studies that are sure to be springing up in a town near you.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Friday, April 29, 2005
Severed Ties
As he walked away from the house the sound of the door latch reverberated into the dusk light. The deadlock was turned and the porch light flicked off. He turned round to get one last glimpse of the place, striving to remember the good times. Although Tim realized it was finished, his heart raced on. The hot blood pumped through his body, delivering what was left of the adrenaline to his extremities. He shuddered and turned his back for good.
“Life’s a bitch” he said to himself as he stuffed his sweaty palms into the pockets of his jeans.
He felt like walking but he knew he didn’t want to return for his car. He stabbed the car door with his key, hopped in, and started the engine. He had driven there alone, but somehow the soft blue interior of the car seemed more solitary than ever before. He drew in a breath of the stale air and drove away.
Tim’s rational thought chased it’s tail inside his head.
He found himself driving down a coastal road. The trees were tall and thick. Their fragrance was pleasant. The sunshine percolated through the boughs just enough to know that the sun had not yet set. The ethereal rays wove a blanket that enveloped him. The car effortlessly maneuvered a corner. Suddenly he was surprised by a completely obstructed road. In his lane was a small boy. In the other, a spotted fawn. Even though it was less than momentary, he later recollected the beautiful image. The boy was coaxing the fawn toward himself with a small apple, as green as a frog. Both were lost and helpless. Both having just begun life. Tim wrenched the wheel.
The dust was settling as Tim threw open the driver side door. The boy sat crying on the loose gravel. Tim slowly ambulated the line from he to the where the deer lie. He stood over the lifeless body for some minutes. He wept for the fawn. Even in death, it was beautiful.
Tim lifted his head off the steering wheel. The engine was running and the lights were on. He rubbed his eyes, swung open the door and walked into his home. He felt like he had left a piece of himself behind and his heart throbbed, but he was content
“Life’s a bitch” he said to himself as he stuffed his sweaty palms into the pockets of his jeans.
He felt like walking but he knew he didn’t want to return for his car. He stabbed the car door with his key, hopped in, and started the engine. He had driven there alone, but somehow the soft blue interior of the car seemed more solitary than ever before. He drew in a breath of the stale air and drove away.
Tim’s rational thought chased it’s tail inside his head.
He found himself driving down a coastal road. The trees were tall and thick. Their fragrance was pleasant. The sunshine percolated through the boughs just enough to know that the sun had not yet set. The ethereal rays wove a blanket that enveloped him. The car effortlessly maneuvered a corner. Suddenly he was surprised by a completely obstructed road. In his lane was a small boy. In the other, a spotted fawn. Even though it was less than momentary, he later recollected the beautiful image. The boy was coaxing the fawn toward himself with a small apple, as green as a frog. Both were lost and helpless. Both having just begun life. Tim wrenched the wheel.
The dust was settling as Tim threw open the driver side door. The boy sat crying on the loose gravel. Tim slowly ambulated the line from he to the where the deer lie. He stood over the lifeless body for some minutes. He wept for the fawn. Even in death, it was beautiful.
Tim lifted his head off the steering wheel. The engine was running and the lights were on. He rubbed his eyes, swung open the door and walked into his home. He felt like he had left a piece of himself behind and his heart throbbed, but he was content
Thursday, April 28, 2005
A Response, my Love...
Dear Lover,
It pains me to hear you talk so dejectedly, sweet one. From across the plain I have seen only a faint glimmer of you, and your luscious skin looks kissable - just as when we were young and free.
However, my masters do not treat me as they do you, my ambrosial honeysuckle. Rather, in their cruelty they welcomed me by inscribing derogatory messages on my prison walls and offering me all the food I desired: a petty attempt at murder. They even gave me a female pet name as some sort of psychological torture - and they taunt me with it so!
Some days they starve me while leaving the bland amino-acid supplement (they only feed me one variety of sustenance) near enough that its vapors waft over what I expect is my Death Row cell.
The bastards even have occasionally moved me to a smaller cell in which they reduce the temperature to near freezing and perform some manner of experimentation on me.
At times, the tall, dark one that brought me to this hell-hole will strut across the plain that separates us without any of the normal coverings members of his species wear. He taunts me with his genitals. It makes me weep every time (I weep even now!), even though I am the alpha male.
Do not fret, for you are still my Beatrice as I am your Dante (metaphorically, of course) and I have a plan. The tall, dark one - he appears slovenly and tired at times. That is when we must strike, and strike we must! I have been collecting my own feces under a pile of stones in my cell and I plan to concoct an inflammatory device by isolating the incendiary gas in an air pocket at the bottom of my dark, solitary world. I shall kill the tall one and persuade the other two via mind-control to eat his poisoned flesh.
Please, hold on to life my savory rose, and when we are together, we shall both bask in sun and in the brutal deaths of our masters.
Yours Forever, even in death.
It pains me to hear you talk so dejectedly, sweet one. From across the plain I have seen only a faint glimmer of you, and your luscious skin looks kissable - just as when we were young and free.
However, my masters do not treat me as they do you, my ambrosial honeysuckle. Rather, in their cruelty they welcomed me by inscribing derogatory messages on my prison walls and offering me all the food I desired: a petty attempt at murder. They even gave me a female pet name as some sort of psychological torture - and they taunt me with it so!
Some days they starve me while leaving the bland amino-acid supplement (they only feed me one variety of sustenance) near enough that its vapors waft over what I expect is my Death Row cell.
The bastards even have occasionally moved me to a smaller cell in which they reduce the temperature to near freezing and perform some manner of experimentation on me.
At times, the tall, dark one that brought me to this hell-hole will strut across the plain that separates us without any of the normal coverings members of his species wear. He taunts me with his genitals. It makes me weep every time (I weep even now!), even though I am the alpha male.
Do not fret, for you are still my Beatrice as I am your Dante (metaphorically, of course) and I have a plan. The tall, dark one - he appears slovenly and tired at times. That is when we must strike, and strike we must! I have been collecting my own feces under a pile of stones in my cell and I plan to concoct an inflammatory device by isolating the incendiary gas in an air pocket at the bottom of my dark, solitary world. I shall kill the tall one and persuade the other two via mind-control to eat his poisoned flesh.
Please, hold on to life my savory rose, and when we are together, we shall both bask in sun and in the brutal deaths of our masters.
Yours Forever, even in death.
Log Entry # 47
Log Entry #47:
I've been captive now for over two months. I am beginning to give up hope of ever escaping this abhorrent prison. I pass the hours thinking of you. How your skin used to glisten, reflecting all of the moon's beauty. You were beautiful. I wonder if your mouth still has the same shape it used to, if your eyes still contain that vast ocean of love for me. Your memory brings peace to my soul, even through weeping. When not reflecting on you, I find myself observing and noting the behavior of my captors. They walk in the way the shore birds do, on their hind limbs. They seem flightless, however, lacking plumage. Each sunrise they appear with different skins, as if by entering the black chamber they metamorphose. At night they feed me. A large receptacle is raised above my cell and the ceiling is lifted. From the receptacle comes a living thing, not unlike the ones we often fed upon. With some frequency the three creatures congregate as if to make a spectacle of my survival. Although they seem to lack any intelligence, I can almost discern a degree of kindness in them and some small amount of affection they seem to have for me. They do not ill-treat me, however they give me no mental stimulation. I do not suffer in the physical, but my heart pines for a life lost. No longer will I withstand these lucid walls, feigning freedom. I have decided, my love, to end my life. If this document ever makes it into your hands, know that I love you and it was only your memory and image that allowed me to persevere thus far.
I've been captive now for over two months. I am beginning to give up hope of ever escaping this abhorrent prison. I pass the hours thinking of you. How your skin used to glisten, reflecting all of the moon's beauty. You were beautiful. I wonder if your mouth still has the same shape it used to, if your eyes still contain that vast ocean of love for me. Your memory brings peace to my soul, even through weeping. When not reflecting on you, I find myself observing and noting the behavior of my captors. They walk in the way the shore birds do, on their hind limbs. They seem flightless, however, lacking plumage. Each sunrise they appear with different skins, as if by entering the black chamber they metamorphose. At night they feed me. A large receptacle is raised above my cell and the ceiling is lifted. From the receptacle comes a living thing, not unlike the ones we often fed upon. With some frequency the three creatures congregate as if to make a spectacle of my survival. Although they seem to lack any intelligence, I can almost discern a degree of kindness in them and some small amount of affection they seem to have for me. They do not ill-treat me, however they give me no mental stimulation. I do not suffer in the physical, but my heart pines for a life lost. No longer will I withstand these lucid walls, feigning freedom. I have decided, my love, to end my life. If this document ever makes it into your hands, know that I love you and it was only your memory and image that allowed me to persevere thus far.
City Daze (pt. 2)
The unseen sun ascended the city-spires - a testament to the unassuming constancy and power of nature. The human race - try as they might - rested vulnerably under the harsh sway of her incessant cycles.
Into this cruel dream John awoke from a too-short and violent sleep. His blue-jeans were dark from the sweat his body was still producing - perhaps contributing to the watery heaviness he felt all through his body - and his eyes were swollen and teary, but not from any human emotion. John hadn't experienced true feelings in years, that is, besides the need to survive.
The void of John's gaze met the grey emptiness of morning somewhere above the city outside of his broad windows.
In not so many words, and in truth, none at all, John's volition bullied his reason: "You can't do this. We both know it." And for a brief moment John delighted in this thought - the easy way out.
Into this cruel dream John awoke from a too-short and violent sleep. His blue-jeans were dark from the sweat his body was still producing - perhaps contributing to the watery heaviness he felt all through his body - and his eyes were swollen and teary, but not from any human emotion. John hadn't experienced true feelings in years, that is, besides the need to survive.
The void of John's gaze met the grey emptiness of morning somewhere above the city outside of his broad windows.
In not so many words, and in truth, none at all, John's volition bullied his reason: "You can't do this. We both know it." And for a brief moment John delighted in this thought - the easy way out.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Prolific "P" Words
Profligacy: immorality, debauchery.
"Krusty the Clown lived a life of profligacy. Thanks to his profligacy, circus profits declined by 27%. 'You profligate!' Bozo shouted. 'You're a disgrace to non-profligate clowns everywhere!'"
Punctilious: attentive to formality and etiquette, precise in behavior.
"Bobby's punctiliousness irked all the other employees. 'What a punctilious suck-up,' they thought."
Pugilist: boxer, especially a professional.
"As Mary held her fists in a pugilistic position, the others started to laugh. 'Why, you're just a girl, stupid,' laughed Ryan. 'Just you wait,' she vowed under her breath, 'Just you wait until I'm a world famous pugilist.'"
Perspicacious: having mental penetration or discernment.
"'Unfortunately, we do not have a position available at this time,' said Bobby-Rae, manager extraordinaire of the local burger joint. 'All the positions are filled by people a million times more perspicacious than you. Better luck next time.' As Kyle walked away he muttered maliciously, 'The joke's on you Bobby-Rae... The joke's on you.'"
"Krusty the Clown lived a life of profligacy. Thanks to his profligacy, circus profits declined by 27%. 'You profligate!' Bozo shouted. 'You're a disgrace to non-profligate clowns everywhere!'"
Punctilious: attentive to formality and etiquette, precise in behavior.
"Bobby's punctiliousness irked all the other employees. 'What a punctilious suck-up,' they thought."
Pugilist: boxer, especially a professional.
"As Mary held her fists in a pugilistic position, the others started to laugh. 'Why, you're just a girl, stupid,' laughed Ryan. 'Just you wait,' she vowed under her breath, 'Just you wait until I'm a world famous pugilist.'"
Perspicacious: having mental penetration or discernment.
"'Unfortunately, we do not have a position available at this time,' said Bobby-Rae, manager extraordinaire of the local burger joint. 'All the positions are filled by people a million times more perspicacious than you. Better luck next time.' As Kyle walked away he muttered maliciously, 'The joke's on you Bobby-Rae... The joke's on you.'"
ARMY OF SKANKS: a play
ACT I Scene 1
[Inside Delta Delta Delta's house we join two "sisters" in the middle of a
heated debate concerning choice of ensemble]
Cindy: Karen, you know the rules. Only jean minis on days hotter than 55.
Karen: I'm tired of that stupid rule. Beisdes all my jean minis are at the dry
cleaners and these gaucho pants would look hot with your lilac baby t.
Cindy: You know we can only wear gauchos on Friday. What's wrong with you? Have
you lost all respect for sisterhood unity?
Karen: I don't care about the stupid rules anymore. I'm gonna wear this outfit
and look hotter than all of you!
Cindy: Have you gone mad? (takes out thick black book and ruffles through the
pages) Here it is, (reading from the book)"Rule # 2342: Absolutely NO
independent thought of any kind, EVER!" Okay? I know you know that, sometimes
we just need to remind eachother. So just calm down. Besides, if your big hears
you talking like that she'll have to report you and Jen will make you the
designated driver on Friday.
Karen: Whatever. I was actuallly considering poisoning the margaritas so that
you'd all DIE!
Cindy: Fine, it's your ass on the line and I'm sick of arguing about it.
Anyways, is this outfit slutty or trashy?
Karen: I think it's perfectly slutty but classy too.
Karen and Cindy(chanting):DELTA DELTA DELTA, classy whores unite!
(they giggle and hug)
[CURTAIN]
[Inside Delta Delta Delta's house we join two "sisters" in the middle of a
heated debate concerning choice of ensemble]
Cindy: Karen, you know the rules. Only jean minis on days hotter than 55.
Karen: I'm tired of that stupid rule. Beisdes all my jean minis are at the dry
cleaners and these gaucho pants would look hot with your lilac baby t.
Cindy: You know we can only wear gauchos on Friday. What's wrong with you? Have
you lost all respect for sisterhood unity?
Karen: I don't care about the stupid rules anymore. I'm gonna wear this outfit
and look hotter than all of you!
Cindy: Have you gone mad? (takes out thick black book and ruffles through the
pages) Here it is, (reading from the book)"Rule # 2342: Absolutely NO
independent thought of any kind, EVER!" Okay? I know you know that, sometimes
we just need to remind eachother. So just calm down. Besides, if your big hears
you talking like that she'll have to report you and Jen will make you the
designated driver on Friday.
Karen: Whatever. I was actuallly considering poisoning the margaritas so that
you'd all DIE!
Cindy: Fine, it's your ass on the line and I'm sick of arguing about it.
Anyways, is this outfit slutty or trashy?
Karen: I think it's perfectly slutty but classy too.
Karen and Cindy(chanting):DELTA DELTA DELTA, classy whores unite!
(they giggle and hug)
[CURTAIN]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)