Procrastination Could Save Your Life

All of my life, I've been counted as nothing if not a procrastinator. Why, consider this post...it was planned months ago, and I'm just now at peace with writing it. To be honest, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted to put it off longer. I'm sure there's something on TV. While my wife will argue otherwise, I remain convinced that procrastination produces some of my best work. By the end of this post, you may find yourself reluctantly considering agreement - when you get around to it, of course - that procrastination, in fact, could be the very reason I'm still alive at the ripe old age of thirty-three (soon to be thirty-four, bear in mind). Allow me to state my case, if you please.

The Christmas decorations are just waiting for me to take them back up to the attic. A real go-getter would have this finished by now. For the sake of argument, let's just entertain the notion that I decide to get on top of things, and I take charge, and I hazard a little physical exertion, and I march into the living room, grab the boxes, and haul 'em up the ladder. Consider the possible consequences of such gumption, for just a responsible minute.

What if the ladder breaks - it is, after all, quite old - and I fall from the attic to my death? Did you ever think about that? My wife hadn't, either...sadly.

Even now, she's out buying me a snow shovel, and she'll likely expect me to actually use it this season...perhaps even tomorrow. Let's say I tap into a hidden, and rarely utilized, rush of motivation, run out into the frozen driveway with new shovel in hand, hit a patch of black ice, fall down next to the SUV, hitting my head on the tow hitch...dead. It could happen.

Thank goodness mowing season is months away...there's a whole list of other inherent risks with that little chore. Equipment malfunction causing deadly explosions, varmin that may attack to protect their dwellings and their young, poison ivy, hidden fissures on the earth's surface, landmines left over from the war...no thank you! I'll take my time and mow on my own life-saving terms, thank you very much.

I'm sure you're starting to see my point of view. These things that apparently have to be done yesterday are the very things that could kill you. So please...take a page out of my book (or blog, as it were) and procrastinate. Chances are, it will be there tomorrow. Rush into it, and you may not be.

I've said too much.

The Coolest Graphic I'll Never Use

In my past life, I was a bit of a graphic designer. And before you go and label me a Hindu, you need to understand that past life is simply a playful reference to my years as a woman living in Bangalore during the turn of the nineteenth century.

I kid.

In all seriousness, however, there was a time in my present life when I earned an honest man's wages designing graphics - and thus, I became a graphic designer. Actually, my titles were web designer and art director, which are both occupations in which graphic design is put to use.

Now that I'm a man of the cloth, however, I find that my dabbling in the graphic arts is a skill that is still put to good use... and I find immense enjoyment in that. But this post isn't about that... well, to be fair, this post is about that. More specifically, this post is about one of the many occupational hazards inherent to the role of graphic designer: hair loss associated with Sudden Rage Syndrome (SRS to those in the field). Allow me to illuminate you on this, if I may.

Graphic designers are, by nature of their trade, artists who revel in all that is creative. In fact, many of them are artists who simply want to not starve, and so they enter the world as graphic designers with dreams of using their creative prowess to dazzle consumers. What they find, however, is an industry that is ruled by the corporate man, wrought with "identity standards," and subject to finicky marketing directors who may or may not have a clue what real creative genius looks like.

I'm starting to digress. Let me cut to the chase.

It's fairly common for the graphically inclined to be commissioned with a project - say, a new logo, a magazine ad, or a graphic for an upcoming series at church (purely hypothetical) - and then to invest hours of artistic exertion and masterful designery on said hypothetical project, only to have it take a sudden and tragic new direction that leaves all your hard work for not.

Rage! Hair loss! Gnashing of teeth!

And so I present to you a graphic that was designed for our Christmas Eve service. So much work went into taking the tree from one photo, and adding it to prison cell (that's what that is... a prison cell). Hours were spent in Photoshop to make this look as real as possible. Shadows were simulated, lighting effects were rendered, heart and soul were poured out... only to be dashed to pieces in the final hours with a sudden change of direction. Good or bad, it was mine... and now, however fleeting it may be, it will have it's glory day in the hot sun.

I've said too much.

Random Pluralization Epidemic

As I write this, I am sitting at my computers. While that may not surprise you, it is quite worth mentioning that I'm wearing the only piece of OtR merchandise in existence. It is, in fact, a t-shirt. You might be wondering to yourself what occasion would bring forth such a coveted article of clothing. That, my devoted reader, is top secrets - but it involves a global media event that will go public near the end of this month. Incidentally, that has absolutely nothing to do with this post.

The real reason for writing this (when I could be playing online multiplayer shoot-'em-up video games) is that there has been a rash of incidents throughout my life in which the "plural" designation has been added to various brand names, catch phrases, or words in general, in the most inappropriate manners. This is so prolific that many of us have assumed that the pluralization of the word is the right way of saying it - to drop the sinister "S" almost sounds sillies. Well, I'm here to set the record straight... off the record.

For example, when someone refers to their brains, don't they realize they have but one brain? And that's if they're lucky. Have you ever shopped at Aldies? No you haven't. It's called Aldi. Or how about the great deal you just saw at Meijers. That's funny, I've never been to Meijers... but I have been to a Meijer. Does spicy food give you the diarrheas? I'm not even going there. When was the last time you picked up a gallon of milk at Krogers? I dare say never. Perhaps you're referring to Kroger. I do enjoy the salad bar at Ruby Tuesdays, though. Or was it Ruby's Tuesday? Now I'm confused.

Maybe you'd like to come visit my church sometime... just look for the sign that says "Pathways."

You'll never find it.

That's because it's called Pathway.

I've said too muchs.

Santa Baby

Remember the days when you and your family would just spontaneously break into song? When adults and children alike could whimsically sing a cheery ditty about Christmas without a care? This, of course, was quite acceptable because - hey! - Christmas songs are, by very nature of the holiday they honor, appropriate for all ages. Sadly, far too many God-fearing Christian folk are stupid to the reality of the putrid filth that has infiltrated our adored holiday through the carols we sing. And I was one of them... that is, until recently.

My last post exposed one such song that is so riddled with carnal atrocities, that I shutter in retrospect - that very well may simply mean I should turn on the heat. Nevertheless, I'm back to reveal another such song that has put an acne scar on the face of Christmas: Santa Baby.

Don't be fooled by the fact that this song has "baby" in the title - it is anything but cute and innocent. On the contrary - it is quite the opposite of cute and innocent.

This song uses a subtle, but effective, strategy for lowering our sensitivity to its controversial lyrical content - it is almost always performed by a pouty, attractive woman. Or sirens, I should say! And we, the sailors led to our watery deaths under their captivating spell!

I digress.

As I was saying... the song is often sung by alluring women, such as Shakira, Madonna, Taylor Swift and Natalie Merchant. And they sing with such child-like expression, it comes across as almost cute and harmless. And so we often miss the deeply-seeded message of materialism and greed that saturates this song.

Consider the items the singer of this song has on her Christmas list:

1. A Sable, which she later specifies as a convertible. 
2. A yacht.
3. The deed to a platinum mine.
4. A duplex (and checks).
5. A ring (presumably bought at Tiffany). 

Commercialism. Greed. An "It's-all-about-me" attitude. This is what Christmas would be about if this song had it's way. With such desecration to our esteemed holiday, is it any wonder that Eartha Kitt - the original performer of this song - died on Christmas day?

I've said too much.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

'Tis the season to drink eggnog, cut down pine saplings, curse shopping traffic, and - wait for it - listen to Christmas music! Look - I enjoy seasonal songs as much as the next guy... maybe even more. That's why I have a playlist in my iTunes library that is clearly labeled "Christmas Songs." I must confess, however, that many of these songs - some of my favorites, I'm afraid - reflect more of the consumerism side of Christmas. These are, after all, some of our most beloved strains. I'm sure you would maybe agree. Sadly, many of these famous Christmas songs, or so they have been called, are really just blemishes on the face of our revered holiday.

Before I go any further, you need to understand that what I'm about to share may change the way you listen to Christmas music. It could, in fact, turn your entire world upside down, leaving you void of Christmas cheer for generations to come. And so I offer this warning: If you enjoy the assumption that all holiday tunes are jolly, and also morally appropriate, then read no more. If you're in the habit of belting out every Christmas song that comes across the radio, then close your browser and sing on with ignorant bliss.

If you're still reading, however, do so with preparation to be shaken with a dose of reality as I expose some of the deep, subliminal messages that have been encoded within some of our most cherished holiday carols.

I give you, "Baby It's Cold Outside." It's charming presentation of a sing-song dialogue between a man and woman has captured many of us during these yuletide days of holiday nostalgia. Written by Frank Loesser in 1944, it has been recorded by the likes of Sammy Davis Jr., Mae West, Dean Martin, Jessica Simpson and Lady Antebellum, among many others. For years, I've sung this winsome tune at Christmas time without a care in the world. It wasn't until recently that I actually stopped to consider what this song is actually insinuating.

Listen carefully to the exchange as this young, innocent - and presumably attractive - woman who is simply trying to get home, where her worried mother, angry father, and suspicious sister are anxiously awaiting her return. But NO! This man, so called, is relentlessly trying to coerce her into - children, stop reading - STAYING ALL NIGHT! I'm quite certain his intentions are less than noble.

If you're still doubting this summation, I invite my more mature readers to consider these lyrics:

Woman: But maybe just a half a drink more
Man: Put some records on while I pour
Woman: Say, what's in this drink?
Woman: I ought to say, "No, no, no sir!"
Man: Mind if I move in closer
Woman: At least I'm gonna say that I tried
Man: What's the sense in hurting my pride
Woman: I really can't stay
Man: Oh, baby don't hold out

Appalling, I know. I can only hope that our children's children don't grow up listening to this kind of rubbish in the name of holiday cheer.

And now I've said too much.

Funny (0) Interesting (0) Cool (0)

Someone in the blogging industry thought this would be a good idea; I shake my head in sadness. Is it a "fun" and "interactive" way for readers to offer their response to your heartfelt post? Or an empty promise that has left countless bloggers with crippled dreams? I submit to you the latter.

I've seen this a hundred times... if not a thousand. Bright, young, ambitious bloggers start out with stars in their eyes, and dreams in their hearts. They spend countless minutes writing their posts with the hopes of one day going viral. And what's better than writing a blog? Someone reading your blog. And let's face it - we don't want awards, or accolades, or money. All we want to know is that it left some kind of mark on our faithful readers... an impression, if you will. It doesn't necessarily need to be life changing. But if we knew that it was at least funny... or interesting... or cool... then our fulfillment would be complete.

Then Blogger extends the proverbial hand with this little gem. With the "Reactions" feature as part of your post, you can see what readers thought of your wit and candor. Or so they would have you believe.

Sadly, too many of us find that, post after brilliant post, these aspirations remain just a wishful hope. We write, we post, and we check - with tenacious obsession - to see how our audience was impacted. What started with naive optimism too often ends with the same disappointment. Funny: 0. Interesting: 0. Cool: 0. But there's an unspoken category that gets the biggest tally of them all: Dejected.

Thousands experience this. And I'm one of them.

I've said too much.

Adult Peer Pressure

We all remember those bygone years of yesteryear when our loving parents warned us of the inherent dangers of "peer pressure." They would recite modern proverbs about friends jumping off bridges, and others that I can't recall, just to engrain in us this understanding: Just because everyone else is doing it doesn't mean that we have to do it. For me, however, being the sheltered child that I was, that included all kinds of things... like staying up later than nine o'clock, or using the cheat codes on Contra (up, down, up, down, left, right, left, right...). What they should have been teaching us, however, is that this whole idea of pressure from the peers doesn't go away. Oh no... it just changes focus, and suddenly becomes acceptable. Well I cry foul, sir... I cry foul!

Now that I'm in my adult years, I may not have "friends," so called, who are trying to turn me on to the latest drug on the streets. But that doesn't mean the "peer pressure" beast doesn't show it's ugly face, from time to time! At the risk of being a little graphic, let me share two specific examples that have happened to me in the past eighteen months - both involving food.

The first example that comes to mind happened at a Christmas party. The host made a "delicious" - or so she would have me believe - desert that involved peanut butter and something crunchy. Incidentally, both of which are things I'm not particularly fond of. She offers. I respectfully decline. She insists - asserting that it was the "best thing ever," and that I "had to try it." I caved. Even now, I hang my head in shame.

The second example isn't unlike the first. At a friend's house playing an obscure board game, said "friends" offer me a brownie... a brownie to end all brownies, and will most certainly change my life. Knowing that I only care for box-mix brownies covered with cream-cheese icing, I declined. They threatened me with idle and harmless threats. Again, I caved. Yet another victim of Adult Peer Pressure (APP).

Even now, I'm reminded of the timeless advice we received under the Reagan Administration when we were encouraged to "just say no." Well, I tried, Nancy... Lord knows I tried. But they just wouldn't listen.

I've said too much.

A Fumbled Curse

Call me startled... and I'll answer with a wide-eyed, teeth-gnashing jolt. Why? Because I've just become aware of something that very well could be (but probably isn't) true... and I'm ready to blow the whistle.

I was locked into a conversation earlier today when I heard an interesting, and seemingly innocent, comment from a respected colleague. My "friend" was relaying the weight of the responsibility his role carries within our church. It was at this point he used an interesting phrase. He said, and I quote, "Lord, I don't want to fumble this."I remember it because it struck me as an interesting choice of vocabulary. Little did I know the ripples that would be set into motion with those careless, and yet somehow deplorable, words.

My "friend," who has openly expressed his longstanding fondness of the "Bears," and is therefore a presumed hater of the "Colts," uttered this very phrase just hours before the "Colts" would narrowly conquer the "Redskins" Sunday night. "So what?" you ask. Well, I'll tell you what: The "Colts" nearly lost that match because they fumbled... [pause for dramatic emphasis] the ball... [additional pause] four times! Intriguing, isn't it?

I'm not saying he tried to curse the "Colts"with his "clever" and "heartfelt" statement... and I'm not saying he didn't.

But I've said too much.