As you have noticed, I have been absent for some time now. My time away has confirmed that four years of blogging is enough for now. I have a few ideas for some projects in the future, but for now I am taking a crash course in home ownership, fatherhood, and librarianship.
It has been fun. Thanks for spending time in my mind.
Thanks to Bobby for the new header. I will rotate it with another, more low-key, one that he made.
When I was younger and living with my parents, I would lay on the royal blue carpet of my bedroom floor and read every single word of the bi-weekly Buckeye Sports Bulletin. My hands were charcoaled with black residue, while my nose filled with the musty aroma of newsprint. Each page detailed the storylines for Ohio State’s sports (mostly football). Box scores, schedules, depth charts, and recruiting news: this paper had it everything. At least, everything that pertained to one particular team.
But the times changed. While O.J. was being tried for killing Nicole, the internet was plotting its attack on college football. The plan was simple. Take a bunch of parochial loyalists and cram them into a digital room together. The effect would be commensurate to having dinner with Ahmadinejad, John Hagee, Ann Coulter, Bill Maher, and Kanye West. Oh yeah, and then forget to tell them that it is impolite to discuss religion and politics with acquaintances.
The next step was even more sinister. While chat rooms and message boards inherently boast a spirit of subjectivity and mass democracy, what would it look like if web sites hired journalists who were equally as subjective as the guys on the message boards? And so they did it.
And college football gasped for air.
No, ratings did not diminish. And popularity did not wane. But the life support status indicates that college football was subjected to the most fateful change of all. Simply, the most provincial, pride-filled, and nostalgic sporting enterprise turned into a national conversation—or argument. We have been asked to choose our favorite stadium, favorite coach, favorite player, favorite fight song, favorite mascot, favorite alma mater, favorite tradition, favorite rivalry, favorite cheerleaders, and favorite hot dog. The answer each time amounts to: ours, ours, ours, ours, ours, ours, ours, ours, ours, and ours.
Very scientific.
The problem is not the bias, for that is the solution. The uniqueness of college football is that it is not only people’s favorite team, but perhaps their alma mater or place of employment. Further, a collegiate team typically represents a region’s uniqueness much more than a professional team, since players are recruited, not drafted. Pete Carroll is Southern California; Houston Nutt is Deep South. Mascots aren’t just fuzzy animals; they are the state’s image. A mountaineer isn’t a mascot, but a career choice. Cornhusking is the way of life in Nebraska. California’s Bears and UCLA’s Bruins represent the state’s heritage as the Bear Flag Republic. To the rest of America, Aggies are mascots. In Texas, they are punchlines, too.
What the internet did to college football was to nationalize it. Consider this, the biggest controversies all relate to national interests. Who should be in the national championship game? Is the BCS broken? How should it be fixed? Which conference is the best? These are national questions. They are interesting for a short while, but nauseating soon after–because we just don’t care that much about others.
If Minnesota was the elite team who always pounded Ohio State, I would be miserable. I don’t care if they are in my conference. I wasn’t born in Minnesota, raised in Minnesota, or educated in Minnesota. In fact, I have never been to Minnesota. My only connection to the state is a nasaly radio raconteur. So I don’t really care if they are good. But, the national media would think more highly of my team if Minnesota was good. So, should I feel this way too?
Not really.
Besides the fact that I am not interested in a shopping mall that has five Foot Lockers, there is the larger issue that the roots of college football are not national; they are local. Local– like places the pros wouldn’t touch, local. Local Norman. Local Gainsville. Local South Bend.
Nobody in Tuscaloosa has ever said, “We are fourth nationally, I think we ought to go over and watch a football game.” They would watch the game if they were fourth in the state of Alabama. National perception matters little there. College football thrives in places where nobody cares what nationals think. It isn’t like Manhattan, Kansas patterns its culture after Manhattan, New York. The span between between the CNN Plaza in Atlanta and the tailgating lot in Athens is more than 70 miles. They are worlds apart. The good people of Athens do not esteem their team because the media esteems them. They love the team because they love the Bulldogs. They have a simple agenda. Show up; play hard; beat Florida. Two out of three ain’t bad.
Back at the imaginary dinner, Ann Coulter will realize that people do not change. So while the internet invites people of varying stripes and checkerboards into a conversation, it must be acknowledged that nobody will concede anything. We like what we like. We do what we do. We are who we are. So maybe your team stinks. Maybe they are overrated. And maybe you are totally sectarian. Perhaps you have never even seen a game played on the West Coast. That is fine. College football is the last habitat for true partisanship and regionalism.
So feel free to cheer hard and cheer loud, even if your team wallows in losses and has been bad for a long time, and will be bad for a long time. The experience makes it all worth it, win or lose.
Trust me, I know; I’m from Cleveland.
During Monday night’s episode of No Reservations, Anthony Bourdain traveled to three cities: Detroit, Buffalo, and Baltimore. He called it the Rust Belt show. The running theme was post-WWII boom towns who relied heavily on manufacturing until the dawn of the information age, which has left them relying heavily on wheels of government cheese. I was curious about whether or not these places actually were boom towns, so this morning I checked the almanac at the library.
In 1950, the list of America’s ten most populated cities would read like this, with the city’s current population rank in (parentheses):
In the meantime, some cities made major leaps. For example, Houston spent those 58 years moving from 596,000 to 2,200,000. Phoenix presently has a million and a half residents; in 1950 it had less than 10% of that (106,000). So, the time was good to the warm-weather cities. It is worth noting, however, that there is a significant difference between the size of a city and the actual size of a metropolitan area. For example, Atlanta registers as having less than 500,000 people. Anyone who has spent more than thirty seconds on an Atlanta interstate knows that something about that count is suspect. Simply, some cities are smaller geographic regions. The suburbs come more quickly, which lessens the total number of city residents. In my city of Memphis this is true. We have a Memphis mailing address, but live thirteen miles from downtown. In most cities my head would not be counted in the city population; but here it is.
Being a resident of the New World, I find it useless to be nostalgic, longing for days long past when some of these cities were titans. We are all immigrants. Moving in hopes of finding better opportunity is the American way.
However, there are some things that should change if we are going to continue in this direction.
First, if cities are going to grow, they must do it in indigenous ways. If new people want to move to Portland, fine. But Cracker Barrell cannot follow. Portland things in Portland ways.
Second, regardless of how many people are in a town, there must be a rule against hockey moving anywhere south of, say, Kansas City. It is simply wrong to have teams down here. If you like the ice, move to a place that has ice. However, I will warn you that where there’s ice there’s potholes.
Third, new cities must develop a cuisine. Look at the 1950 list. You could eat your way through it.
Fourth, people in cities should start traveling before deciding what they think of other cities. Otherwise, they will form their opinions from what people on television say. It is also people on TV who tell us that Dancing with the Stars is must-see and that we are morally incomplete if we don’t own a Sham-wow.
Fifth, no more sprawl. Building up, not out, is more environmentally-friendly and often cheaper.
Barbers cut hair. Period. It is there job. Stylists do all sorts of things: dye, dress, curl, wave, perm, and highlight. So when the time comes for a man to get a haircut, he needs to go to a barber. The barber has spent the entire day warming up on on similar heads with similar requests (tight on the sides, trimmed on the top). It is a matter of repetition.
Repetition is often frowned upon as being monotonous, characterized by mundane tasks like bean-counting, pencil-pushing, and number-crunching. Variety is idealized. Repetition is denigrated as simple, non-creative, and pedantic.
But the masters are repetitious.Many artisans spend their entire lives repeating themselves. The local barbecue pit masters of Memphis spend a lifetime doing the same thing the same way. They don’t do shift work; they turn the lights on every morning and turn them off at night. The same can be said for musicians, artists, builders, and writers. They are good because they do something well. And then do it again. There is no substitute for doing the same thing over and over again.
The most important words ever uttered are often those which are repeated, such as marriage vows (please repeat after me). It pays to repeat things well. Great patriots have been notably repetitious, like Revere: the British are coming, the British are coming, and King: free at last, free at last.
But repeating is not always a good thing. Children are encouraged never to repeat grades, vulgarities, or secrets. The consequences are a mustache by grade six, a mouthful of soap, and no friends. That is a warning that bears repeating.
Repetition is also an essential feature of Christian spiritual formation. Maturity is not formed by stringing together a series of unique, once-in-a-lifetime events. Instead, maturity comes by developing habits, refining them, and seeking to repeat the process again.
Jesus’ teachings embody this principle. Followers don’t go one mile; they repeat it and go two. They don’t disrobe once and give a jacket; they do it twice and offer the shirt off their back. Forgiveness doesn’t happen once; it happens repeatedly (seventy times seven). Conversion means accepting God’s demand on one’s life. Discipleship means repeating that decision daily.
Christianity is not about a set of directions (follow these five simple steps) or rules (do these five things). Instead, Christianity is an art form. Christians are spiritual artisans. But we don’t make things like baskets, boats, or bow-ties. Instead, disciples craft simple maxims into life-changing realities. These realities take years to create. Love you neighbor is not a one time act, but instead a lifetime challenge. Submit to one another is advanced level, requiring extra work. The same can be said about many virtues. Easy to know; difficult to learn. Never mastered.
Maybe the search for Christian spirituality is akin to walking Manhattan’s streets in hopes of finding the famed Carnegie Hall. Of course, the local answer to the question, “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” is never “south on Broadway, left of 57th.” Instead, the hackneyed response of the snarky New Yorker may just be correct.
Practice. Practice. Practice
Bastille Day came and went with a whimper. Fanfare was low; participation was worse. Bud don’t blame the economy; it is not the problem. For Bastille Day is simply not America’s thing.
Why is this the case? Some might say that the timing of the commemorated event (1790) is too close to our own nation’s infancy (Declaration: 1776; Constitution: 1787). We were too preoccupied with events in our land to care about a trans-Atlantic storming of a state prison.
But perhaps the reason is more current. How many French people do you know? The fact is, France has never suffered a crisis that sent its residents clamoring to get into the New World. And it seems true that the best holidays have this back-story: America is seen as a land of opportunity by a group of people. Thanksgiving celebrates the bounty found by nomadic worshippers who couldn’t find a sanctified church in all of England. Saint Patrick’s Day? Take your pick: Steady religious unrest between Protestants and Catholics or a potato famine. And until Lou Dobbs gets a bedroom at 1600 Pennsylvania, Cinco De Mayo will be circled on America’s calendar.
The French have been pretty content to stay where they are. And Americans have been content to visit Paris once a lifetime, admit that they love it, and return to the States by immediately forgetting everything they learned, by returning to traditions such as white tennis shoes, capitalism, and casual Friday. Viva la Americana.
France is a destination, but not a way of life. And it doesn’t have to be, because the odds of seeing a Frenchman outside of New Orleans are slim. But that doesn’t mean that the French have not made a significant contribution to American life. Our kitchens, wardrobes, libraries, and art museums teem with blatant Francophilia. And for this we are grateful.
Maybe next year we will celebrate.
Tuesday a patron called the library to see if he had actually returned a book that we had notified him was missing. The book is N.T. Wright’s Surprised by Hope. I checked the stacks to see if the book had been returned to the shelves without being checked into the computer. That was not the case. There was an empty slot where Wright’s important volume was supposed to rest.
But to the left of the empty slot, there was another book on a very similar subject matter. This volume is entitled The Resurrected Body, by John B. Wong. So, to the left of Surprised by Hope by N.T. Wright was The Resurrected Body by John B. Wong.
You can make your own punchline.
The Farmer’s Markets are in full bloom. East Memphis’ Botanic Garden hosts a market every Wednesday. I went this week to pick up whatever I could get for the $2 in my pocket. At one booth, a boy said to me, “You should get some tomatoes. There’s no such thing as an unhealthy fruit.” Credit is due, first of all, for his knowing that the savory tomato is not a vegetable. But he is also correct that fruits are a good thing, despite what we have been told.
Who has been saying that fruit is bad? It would seem that just about everyone. It is a poisonous fruit, after all, that sends Snow White into a coma. And wouldn’t a simple target suffice for the overly dramatic William Tell?
Fruit was off to a bad start from the beginning. The Bible records the fall of humankind as being related to the consumption of a forbidden fruit. When Adam and Eve are confronted, they hastily reach for the leaves of another fruit tree, the fig. This, of course, doesn’t say much for the actual fig, which is first passed over for the illegal fruit, and again overlooked for its decorative leaves. God becomes unhappy–apparently showing his dislike for figs. Jesus hated figs too. He once cursed and withered a fig tree for no reason. Apparently, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Speaking of figs, it is clear that figgy pudding is among the least desirable of all Christmas treats. It would be the worst if not for the most notorious of all desserts, the fruit cake.
Many theologians have had a rough experience with fruit. Augustine claimed that he developed a sense of guilt only after stealing peaches. John Calvin believed that Eve’s apple-bite was an indication that each of us is born depraved and sinful. Martin Luther criticized rich people of his day for doing nothing more than sitting around and chatting, while they flatulate and roast pears. Some scholars believe he was right; others suspect it was just sour grapes.
Berries are sometimes fruit and sometimes last names. Dave Barry is an iconic writer and a popular humorist. Your last 90 seconds probably would have been better spent reading something by him.
