How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love The Da Vinci Code

What can I say that has not already been said? All I can do is reiterate what the venerable Nelson DeMille said so truthfully: “This is pure genius.”

America’s most powerful and beautiful literary gem succeeds where other attempts have failed: Not only has symbology become sexy again (finally!), but literature as we know it has been revolutionized. Move aside Homer, Shakespeare, Austen, Conrad, and Steele – your works seem paltry and contrived in comparison with Brown’s literary effortlessness. There is a new genius in town and his name is Dan Brown.

With the indelible and potent words, “Robert Langdon awoke slowly,” the wild ride that is The Da Vinci Code begins. With every sentence the plot builds, and my mind is stretched. Brown is a master of the English language, expertly using the common vernacular to create artistic wonder, leading to poetic transcendence. As Brown’s intriguing protagonist wonders “Where the hell am I?” the reader is forced to ask the question: What the hell is this writer doing with literary conventions? The answer: he’s throwing them out the window! That’s right, Brown’s genius lies not only in his ability to depict the nuances of character presented in the figures of Robert and the rest of the stunningly brilliant and conflicted cast (Silas the Albino moved me to tears), but also in his ability to throw grammatical and literary caution to the wind. An almost inhuman dependence upon italics, a preternatural understanding of the modern attention span, and an unbridled affection for unabashedly mixing fact with fiction – all these things contribute to Brown’s masterpiece and the world is changed irrevocably.

Let me be the first to say, on behalf of humanity, that I am forever grateful Brown condescended to lay aside his budding musical career in order to pursue his true calling. Although children everywhere will undoubtedly miss his post-modern musical lullabies, I for one am thankful that after his hit “Happy Frogs” from his album “Synthanimals,” Brown deigned to make his foray into the annals of literary history (or herstory as the case may be).

Knowing full well that I will be unable to do Brown’s talent justice, let me just say that when I finished The Da Vinci Code I ended up in much the same position as Langdon on the last page – on my knees. Only in my case, the Sacred Feminine takes second place to the sacred genius of the world’s most renowned author since John and Stasi Eldredge.

10 things I miss about Nat (in no particular order)

1) Her rendition of Joy to the World/ Jesus, Lover of my Soul
2) Her unfailing tardiness (especially when the activity involves the whole family)
3) Her gigantic "hazel" eyes
4) The laugh that you think is sincere until it lasts just long enough to make you feel uncomfortable and realize she's actually making fun of you. (Often followed by "Now that's what I call comedy!")
5) Her eclectic style and messy hair
6) Her tasteful usage of explitives in every story she writes
7) Her usual morning "Dragon Breath" and bad attitude
8) Her huge purse half filled with garbage (e.g. candy wrappers, old receipts, church bulletins, etc.)
9) Watching her confuse every crusade boy that musters up the courage to approach her with a single sentence.
10) "I want to see that!!!"

Friscalathon XXXIIVVIIX

In homage to the dainty deities of Spring, I propose a literary and comedic commemoration on this second day of the fifth month in this six-and-two-thousandth year. Here be the terms: each able participant shall forthwith inscribe on the walls of this blog the funniest words ever heard by them in the laboratory or the classroom.

Thus, my inaugural sacrifice:

"Nice Pour," spoken to me while pouring 2000 mL of water without the use of a funnel.

Un Petit Dejeuner

"Patty´s signing bitch," John informed me over the phone, and then went on to explain that Patty and he had a complex signaling system that they often used to express vulgarities across the room. The checker woman at the grocery store was indeed being a bitch, as John could plainly see as he observed the scene from the cereal aisle, where he was debating between original Captain Crunch or the peanut butter kind. He asked me which I would choose and I told him that Captain Crunch is disgusting and that he should get Oh´s instead. He laughed loudly back into the phone and for about five seconds longer than the joke warranted. I felt annoyed. He was always laughing at everything. And always laughing for way too long. He´s the kind of guy that laughs uneasily at bad jokes and makes the joke teller wish they had never said the joke at all. No one can fake laugh for as long as John does, so everyone else in the room eventually stops laughing and just looks on with fake smiles at the joke teller and John, feeling embarassed and uncomfortable for the pair of them. John´s a good guy, but come on, someone really ought to tell him about that laughing thing.

A Grimey Thong

In case you missed the news story to end all news stories, here is an excerpt in all its glory from our very own Daily Barometer.

"Nearby [the Genocide Awareness Project display in the OSU Quad] display protestor Ben Grimes stood in public wearing only a blue thong. Taped to his back was a note reading 'Shock value works for me too!' Grimes repeated the message on his back out loud. 'Their claim is to start dialogue - in truth it's just shock value," he said.
A part-time nude model (emphasis mine), Grimes said he'd readily dance around naked to prove his point if it weren't for Oregon public indecency laws. To add to his display, Grimes also carried and played a flute as he walked. 'I'm not cold actually,' he said. 'I'm quite comfortable.'"

The Genocide Awareness Project posts very large, distasteful images of supposedly aborted fetuses juxtaposed with images of ethnic cleansing and murder. This is done to convince individuals that abortion is wrong and to reduce the number of abortions. However, this pundit expects that Grimes' display of his semi-nude person was far more effective at preventing all manner of pregnancy - wanted or unwanted.

Some Reverends wear collars; others wear thongs. To each his own.

Ph"D" is for Death

Curriculum vitae
fills twenty
and six single spaced

pages. My blue ribbons
adorn a
plaid sweater vest-

but mercy flows not
from my vorpal
blue-blood heart.

J.P.

Am I an esteemed colleague, a friend, or both?

My First (pseudo) Sonnet

Gone and dead are the times of romance,
the chalky candy is quickly discarded.
Hallmark greetings fail to create the trance
of love - but this is disregarded.
Flowers withering on the window pane
next to half-bitten chocolates with
stale cherry filling. It feels lame
to buy into this commercial myth.
Cheap cliches inexplicably wrapped
up with love and committment.
All my thoughts and feelings are sapped
of sincerity - I'm not content
with half-truth banalities, sappy dinners,
and waiting for love to inevitably simmer.

To J.P. on the occasion of an affront prior to a forthcoming midterm

My Esteemed Colleagues and Friends:

Ahem. . .

"Woefully Ignorant"
You call me
And people like me

[Now] These feelings lain bare
Eleemosynary praise
Soothes not my soul

My shelf of treasures
Aspires not
To bear your volumes

Have mercy J.P.
Upon the cretinous mind
Who sits before you.


The End

I Am Tantalus

The slow burning paper of a failing cigarette illuminated his tired face. The sweet smoke slipped out of his open mouth and danced along his face, stinging his pensive eyes. The cold fog had already swept over the city and a soft, sad
rain began to speckle the cement.
Save for his pulled up collar, Nolan seemed unaffected by the dropping temperature. As he sat on the curb he mentally revisited the events that had just transpired. He knew something big had happened, but he didn't know exactly what. He knew decisions had been made, but he felt little relief from his inner conflict. The image of Kat crying was almost enough to crack the tough facade he'd worked so hard, for so long to maintain. He felt his eyes gloss with tears and quickly took pains to repress them. Not a single tear fell. He continued in his fruitless conjectures.
He couldn't help feeling like an ill-fated new mother. A mother so excited about her new baby, full of love and concern for the little thing lying in herarms. Feelings welling up in her, from where she knows not, that she would do anything for the little one, anything to protect and care for it. Instinctually she kisses and hugs the babe. Her passion, so ardent and novel, causes her to smother the child. Death by misguided affection. Nolan felt like her.
Sparks flew from his cigarette as he flicked it into the wet lawn. He raised himself and walked away into the fog.

Dear Barry (aka wedding coordinator, counselor, and friend):

Wearing a black shirt,
Dashing,assertive,and strong:
My soul was soothed.

Harry Potter: The Best Worst Movie of the Year

Hollywood has done it again - and this time it's been done with gusto.

That's right: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire has been taking America by storm, ravaging respectable movie theatres until they resemble nothing more than cheap daycare facilities with vomit and pee indelibly tattooed on the maroon carpets.

A fun night at the movies has been turned into a night of screaming babies, fidgety toddlers, and an excuse for 12 year olds to date, while their parents chaperone/chain smoke in the foyer.

So is the new Harry Potter worth the suffering? The answer: a resounding yes, followed by a "well, on second thought..."

While the movie does delve into the darker side of teen wizardry (Harry shows hints of developing a drug problem, and Hermione is well on the way to becoming a pregnant highschool drop-out), it continually lapses back into shallow stereotyping of the Wizard world. The black pointy hats, the long white beards, and the predictable giants all leave a little to be desired.

While the snappy special effects and hipster music do their part to redeem what is lacking in dialogue and plot, this Potter flick is ultimately just a sad attempt at making Wizardry cool again. Let's face it people: Gandalf, Dumbledore, and their Wizard cronies are on their way out, and there's nothing we can do about it.

So go America, stand in line for hours, sit behind a tall guy with a fro, and suffer through the incessant whinings of your neighborhood's children: because if I had to suffer through this, then so should you.

The Friskies (2005)

The circuitous path of this two thousand and fifth year of our Lord is readily being traversed – the sands of time are quickly falling through the hole of that thing that holds the sand. Yes, it is almost six and two thousand.

In the spirit of remembrance and dead Indians, I submit the Friscalating Dusklight BlogAwards 2005 (The Friskies).

Best Review: Blue Like Jazz: A Review, C. Powell “This nationally syndicated review found its way to the pages of Christianity Today, the New York Times, Harper’s and even The Socialist Review. It’s impact is still being felt today as Donald Miller’s life has been rightly turned into a shambles and the only known copies remaining (that weren’t burned in the fires of our wrath) are in Cuba and Texas.” A. P. Rivell, PhD

Best Foreign Post: Whatever the crap Natalie posts when she condescends from her Spanish high horse. Seriously, Nat (If I can call you Nat), we have been waiting and waiting and now we are tired. We are tired of waiting! And you never e-mail…you never call. Sometimes I think of titles of posts you might be stewing over: “The Spanish and their many horses,” “Mino sounds like beano,” or “How many cocktails does it take for N. Smith to dance on the bar? Answer: none.” Please post soon.

Best Comment Appended to a Post: Donald Miller – “Like I give a damn what you think. I'm rich and I'm gay and I don't need you or your stupid book club's approval to feel good about myself.” Sheer Genius.

Best use of Profanity: City Daze pt. 1 ~ J.A. Klein, “Smoke little by little spilled from Maria’s pursed, red lips. “You’re a fuck-up, John,” was the last thing she spoke before turning to face the door, dropping her cigarette on the parquet floor...”

Best Poem: Papers Lay Heaped ~ A. Smith. “Smith’s portly poetry flows like ambrosia prose – satiating my lust and kissing my thoughts…It is the incarnation of ‘Yes, give me more.’” Wolcott Gibbs

Best Investigative Journalism: A Private Cleaning ~ J. Smith – “Jackie didn’t just observe peri-care, she became peri-care. I watched her as she brought in the alabaster flask and washed the elderly persons with her long flowing hair and tears. It was like music. Her post meant everything to me and more.” ~ Linda

Best Prose: The Continued Adventures of Cedric and Teddy Ruxbin ~ N. Smith. “Such lucid composition deserves much adulation, but we will give it none – who asked you to tell our story?!” ~ Cedric and Teddy Ruxbin

Best Overall Post: Death to Jacqueline A. ~ K. Bush. “What can be said about Ms. B-sh other than that I am unworthy to even mention her name so I hyphenate it. She is that good. Frankly, I am jealous, angry, and tired of being myself. Why can’t I be more like her? The felicity with which she adds letters to make words shames me. I am shamed. Shamed. Damn you, Ms. B-sh!” “Dr.” Kathy Greaves