Eating this Up...

I know, without one shred of doubt that I'm probably going to hell. It's not that I don't believe in God or know that I have many blessings, it's just a general premonition I have. Rightly or wrongly that's how I feel. On top of that, the fact that most religious organizations tend to ostracize and vilify homosexuals makes me extremely wary of organized religion. Especially the showy, mega-church, 700 Club kind. It seems like the new Golden Boy for this brand of God-loving is Joel Osteen. You know the young guy from Houston who looks a lot like John-Boy Walton.

I'm going to preface this. These are my opinions and I am in no way perfect. But, it seems that Mrs. Joel Osteen (aka Victoria) the "co-pastor" of Lakewood Church is being sued by a stewardess from Continental Airlines for throwing a hissy fit on a flight from Houston to Colorado in 2005.

According to one report Miz Osteen asked several stewardesses to clean a spot off of her First Class seat (I'd imagine sometime around or before take of from Houston). After she was passed off to several other stewards, she decided she'd follow one of them to the cockpit. While attempting to do her best impression of one of the 9/11 hijackers in an attempt for someone to clean a spot on her sat, she brushed past the Plaintiff Sharon Brown, elbowing her breast and pushing her against a bathroom door. Miz Osteen was the fined $3000 by the FAA and kindly asked to get her spoiled ass off the plane. Coincidentally because Miz Osteen doesn't realize patience is a virtue (extolled in the Bible, remember this pastor lady) she then delayed the other travelers on the flight 2.5 hours.

I have no idea where to begin with this. For one, I'm sure that Miz Osteen is perfectly capable of handling that spot by herself. Unless she's a paraplegic, but since I've seen pictures of her walking into court unassisted I'm doubtful. Also, was she not aware of the other 50 or more passengers boarding the plane? Has she not flown before so that she's unaware of how much the flight attendants are trying to take care of right before the plane takes off? Could she not have waited? Not to mention: Is this the type of behavior you would expect from someone who tells people how to live their lives? Is she setting a good example for her children, much less the 30,000 plus people who watch her on TV?

Now don't misunderstand. I get that Miz Osteen is human, and that as such, we all make mistakes. I make them daily. All the time. And I have, on more than one occasion, acted like a raving, spoiled bitch in public. But I'm not telling folks how to live or counseling them on the Word of Our Lord. This isn't the behavior you'd expect out of an adult, much less again, a pastor's wife. A really famous one. The new Mrs. Billy Graham. Get the picture? How is it that you've built an empire out of being righteous, but instead, because of the power and status that you've gained you're acting like the spoiled, rich, Houston socialite you've become?

I get so tired of being condemned for something that I cannot help, or even things that I can, only to find out that you're just as much a sinner as me. I'd also like to know if nothing is sacred anymore? This brand of pop Christianity has dangerous consequences. Not only can it be extremely off-putting but I question the sincerity of some one's beliefs when they're flashing them on screens and book covers. Didn't Jesus try to stamp out the money lenders? I'm not saying don't talk about what you believe, I just wonder if this is the most dignified way to behave when you're trying to spread the word of God.

I also think Tele-evangelism is a crock. Look at all of the corruption. Jim Baker, Jimmy Swaggert, God knows who else. Should you be taking private money for what you believe? Where does the line come in? Wouldn't the money Victoria Osteen spent on several first class tickets have been put to better use going to charity? Would that not give her ultimately more credibility as a woman of God whose only goal in life is to spread His love? Bottom line: I know no one is perfect, least of all me, but this is where I think the secular and the divine collide and one of them usually has already gotten stomped on...

But it gets better. Sharon Brown, the poor helpless stewardess is suing for damages to the figure of 10% of Victoria Osteen's worth. "According to court documents, Brown claims that she suffers from anxiety and hemorrhoids because of the incident involving Victoria Osteen and said her faith was affected. She is also suing Victoria Osteen for medical expenses for counseling."

Now I get the anxiety. Somewhat. No one deserves to be treated that way, or abused while doing their job. But maybe the stewardesses on that flight were less than courteous. I know I think of most of the stewardesses I encounter are one step up from bitchy prostitutes who've outgrown their utility. But then, I haven't flown Continental in years. But seriously? 10% of The Osteens means you just don't want to work. How much counseling do you need? It's not like she was wearing a burqa screaming that it was Allah's will do blow up the plane. Not to mention that I've done some research, and unless Ms. Brown shit her pants from her encounter with Miz Osteen and lost her asshole, I'm not sure how the hemorrhoids could be damaged. Did she go into premature labor? Those are the causes of hemorrhoids. Stress to your asshole or diarrhea, not being pushed into a door. That leads me to believe that Miz Sharon Brown might just need to get off her ass, get back onto a plane and do her thing.

The case is now in front of a Houston jury. Pray God it can only get better :).

http://www.nytimes.com/aponline/us/AP-Osteens-Wife-Lawsuit.html

Tapped out

That one Advil PM I took last night is still with me this morning. Almost 4 hours after I woke up, and more than 12 hours after I took it. OK, seriously? My mother says that my body has always been more (overly?) responsive to stimulants and more importantly depressants. "Why honey, if you were being especially grumpy and I needed to get stuff done, I'd just give you a little Tri-a-menic, and I'd have a good 3 hours." Umm, I think folks have been borrowing from Mom's playbook and taken it too far. But I get it. I have to say this must be true. The past few times I've taken anything I wake up feeling like aliens must have sedated me while performing some type of radical experiment on me. But, since I woke up with both testicles this morning, I think it's just the Advil.

I haven't been sleeping well lately. If you read yesterday, there was actual proof. I rambled like the fool I am. But what really bugs me, besides just being exhausted, is that I can't quite put my finger on what's causing my insomnia. Or worse than that, I know deep down what the deal is and refuse to admit it. I have no problem with confrontation. I usually don't mind admitting to my faults or confronting unpleasant things about myself. The problem is never the confrontation. The problem I have with any obstacle is feeling licked. And be it the fact that I feel like the same old things keep popping up or the fact that I feel like the subject in a weird sleep deprivation experiment, today, I just feel licked.

I know this is silly. Stupid in fact, given my life and what I was dealing with last year at this time, my outlook is completely different. I've already survived the hard stuff. I also hate this because I'm feeling sorry for myself, really this whole blog thing is pretty self-indulgent and I can't stand that. Everyone has problems. Mine are pretty mild compared. My rational self tells me that. I have it great. Good job, great friends, decent looks. I can be charming and witty and funny and I can kick some ass to. What more could you want?

It could be too that I am ready to go back to school, meet me kids, get back into my routine, and at the same time I like not having a ton of responsibility. I want a little more time to not care. It's like warm air and cold air and I'm stuck in the storm.

We'll see. It's Wed. the week is all downhill from here. Then I'm taking a few days off next week and getting ready to take on the world for the next 9 mos. And that, boys and girls, is all I've got.

The Run Down

I pride myself on being an elementary insomniac. I don't mean that I stay up for days and days on end, but I usually average five to six hours of sleep a night (7 hours is absolutely luxurious, 8 hours means I'm ill). A normal person gets 8. Somehow being able to function on less than what a normal person gets makes me above-average, this kind of superhuman. I think we're conditioned to think this is the way it should be. You hear of FDR and Churchill and Lyndon Johnson all sleeping only a few hours a night and then making world-altering decisions before sunrise. Great leadership must have to do with lack of sleep. Being someone, doing something, making your impact would mean that you must also be able to run on nothing.

Having experienced this myself in college and now in my career life. This is somewhat true. However, I'm willing to bet that just like myself, these men had shoulder pain, a true need for caffine, a naseous feeling and were generally raving pricks because all they wanted to do was fall asleep. I mean what else are you going to do at 4 a.m. when you can't sleep? That's right, pace your office or apt or God knows what else and think. I'd imagine too much thinking, thoughts churning, bumping and rolling inside a brain, unable to stop have a good deal to do with not being able to sleep.

In any case, I'm making no sense today because I can't think. After 2 nights of under, under-average sleep (I'm talking maybe 10 hrs in the past 2 days) I'm ready to call it quits. I can't think, can't focus and really don't have much witty to say. So, if you read this regularly, I'm sorry. If this is your first reading, come back tomorrow. Tonite I intend to clean my entire apt, go to the store and be in bed no later than 10 p.m. Maybe it's not about how much you can go without that makes you great, but knowing when to slow down and breathe.

In the Stars

The demise of my summer is rapidly approaching and in a matter of weeks (about 2 to be exact) I will have to stop pretending I'm in college again and go back to work. Instead of being receptionist Steven (Complete with phone, computer and the beginning stages of carpal tunnel) I will be Teacher Steven (complete with 30 kids, lesson plans, and stress). I will have to go to bed early, be on all day, and shape tomorrow. So what did I do last night? This bitch went out. Until 2:30, pretending to be 21 even when he knew damn well you don't recover the same way at 25.

This was not the remarkable part of my evening. No. The remarkable part was the palm reader. Now I'm pretty level headed but I do believe in psychics and on occasion have dreams only to experience deja vu later. Since this was something I've always wanted to do, I decided to give it a try. There were no pentagrams or skulls or chicken feathers. The only thing about this woman sitting on the corner of Throckmorton that was remotely stereotypical was that she smelled of patchouli.

I know, I know. I can hear you all shaking your heads now and telling me that she was a fake. Except, I didn't even talk for the first 10 minutes. I just put my hands out, palm up, and we didn't make eye contact until she was finished. She did not ask questions and the most vague thing she said was "someone". There was no "I see a man, or I'm getting a picture".

Some of what she said didn't surprise me. Some of what she told me, my friends have been telling me or will tell me from time to time. But I'd never met this woman before, she doesn't even know my name and I don't know hers. But strangely, I believe her. Maybe because I want to. She said some nice things. But she said some not so nice things for my friend. I could tell from our conversation that she also wouldn't have been shy giving me bad news. I'm not telling you to believe or disbelieve. I am sure that she could not be totally right on. She did not predict events. She did not tell me how I would die or when (other than the fact that I would have a long life). Here's what made me believe her. She told me about myself. Like I said before she told me things that only my closest friends would know, and she didn't know me from Adam.

What if, it all comes true. I'm not saying I woke up this morning and rushed out to greet today worshipping her feet or anything. She didn't even give me advice, that wasn't the point. I did it on a lark. But what she did give me was renewal. Today, if even just for today, she made me a little less cynical and a little more optimistic. I do not feel like I have to fight today. For me, today, I'd like to think she was that little voice from heaven telling me it will all be OK.

Hey Einstein...

Albert Einstein once compared insanity to doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. This would seem to ring true. I totally believe in fate, or divinity. I like to think that there is a Higher Power looking out for me in heaven. They want me to do well. 

"For I know the plans I have for you declares the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future." The verse from the book of Jeremiah sustained me from the time I got confirmed until I was half-way through college. It's a comforting thought. Beyond comforting to know that no matter how dark the sky and how high the wind there is a shelter, a place to go, sunrise peaking over the horizon. Now in my mid-twenties, I still remember that verse. The only one I can still say word for word. I still know, in my heart of hearts, the silent chamber that no one ever sees that this is true. 

If this is my belief, not thought, or dream or what have you, but my belief then why do I sweat the small stuff? I am usually pretty good about seeing the bigger picture, predicting the end. I have no idea whether this is some gift from my redneck ancetors, like Loretta Lynn asking "Whatchu see in them grouns Mommy?" Or, if worse, that this is something that happens because I think it will. A self-fulfilling prophesy. 

I'm not complaining. I also see that no matter how things don't work out the way I want them to, they do work out. That must be some kind of divine intervention. Because here is where the crazy part comes in. That one thing that I keep doing over and over. No matter what I see at the bottom of the coffee cup, or know that things will turn out in the end, I drive myself crazy trying to control what's in the middle. 

I dunno. I'm not one of these born-agains that thinks that they're just at the mercy of God at his chess board. I don't believe that praying will solve all your problems. Thinking maybe, but to just ask God to deliver you, well to me that's asinine. Since I've always given credence to my own power to affect my life I also believe that while there is a master plan, "God helps those that help themselves". That must be why I push constantly. I fully intend to break down doors, knock out windows, break souls all for the outcome that I want. While I'm leaving a swath of destruction a mile wide to bend everything to my will (despite the fact that I usually saw it happening in the first place) I pray like some Catholic fool. I light a St. Jude, finger a rosary and say "Please, Dear God (insert supplication)". Really, I'm not asking him to intercede for the cause. I'm hoping that he'll see that I know no other way out and he will pray for the ultimate lost cause, me. 

League of Their Own (at least that was my favorite)

To look at me now you wouldn't find it hard to believe that I don't really watch a ton of sports. I basically don't pay attention to much that doesn't have to do with me. Since I look like a flailing retard playing sports this isn't a stretch. What you may not know is that I love baseball. Ok maybe not love, but it's the one sport I can semi-play and understand. America's past time was the first sport my brother played, and really one of the few things I remember us doing as a family growing up. Dad was president of one of the little leagues for a few years and when Nolan Ryan's minor league team came to Round Rock we were instrumental in helping the effort to get it in there. So what?

This morning I'm sitting watching "Rookie of the Year" one of the many, many baseball movies we watched growing up. We were weaned on these under-dog type stories. I'm not sure if they were for all of us or for Ben, so that he would become the next Babe Ruth. My favorite two movies were "The Babe" with John Goodman, "Sandlot" that featured the dorky kid who couldn't play but was accepted anyway (yeah, we can see why I liked that one) and a "League of Their Own (I must have had an early affinity for fag hags and lezzies). All of these movies showed their characters to be flawed, human, stoppable. Against all they knew that could stop them they kept going, perservering. 

These movies did a lot. They bonded us to our dad and for all I know are the reason Ben became the Rudy of Texas A&M. They also taught us to perservere. Dad always says "I may have been an asshole, but you can do it on your own. You can survive." That's true. We did learn to survive and keep going no matter what. The three is us are survivors in the best sense of the word. In our search for perfection and out of neccesity we've battled out demons and won. Each of us has had trouble with eating disorders in one form or another. We have all had to support ourselves since we turned 18, and we were pretty much doing most of that in high school anyway. None of us moved back home, like our cousins and I'm sure we could probably kick everyone's ass blindfolded. That or die trying. We are truly in a league of our own. I'm not sure if that's always a good thing. The three of us tend to piss a lot of people off and be misunderstood. Just like Dad. So it seems that what these movies did to us the most was make us want to make him proud. Look for his approval. Reach for perfection. Whether or not he meant it to be that way, it is what it is. Everyone can be extraordinary, most of us are in our own way. Not everyone gets a movie made. 

Five People You'll Meet in Heaven

I've never read the book, but this sounds like a nice idea. Since I'm somewhat at a loss as to what to write today, I thought I would work on my list. I truly believe in God. I shit you not, you can't survive without realizing that some higher power is looking out for you. I consider myself blessed beyond what I deserve. But I do not think that I'll ever see the Pearly Gates. So this will be who I would love to meet in the event they overlook that I have a reserved seat in hell. 

First and foremost, Winston Churchill. I have a huge affinity for the man who saved Britain from the "Huns". When most Britons were calling for peaceful relations with Germany, Winston saw the danger and tried to rally his countrymen to do something about it. He did this a fell from grace, was on the outs with his constituency and nearly lost his wife in the process. He struggled with bouts of depression, he called it his "black dog" and he learned to be a writer (he was prolific: writing articles, speeches and even a biography) to overcome a lisp and stutter and gave the world some of the most memorable speeches of the English language. While he once told a servant he could speak to him any way he chose because he was "A great man", i doubt he ever truly believed it. 

I would also like to meet Anne Frank. However while I'm sure she is interesting, her voice has been heard and I would like to meet her mother and sister. While Anne and her father had the benefit of being heard after the war, Edith Frank and her elder daughter Margot, were silenced forever. According to history Margot was always every one's favorite, the Frank Girl that got noticed, now she is the one that we know the least about. We know even less about her mother. Edith had found her identity as a housewife, and identity she had to give up when she moved into The Secret Annex, and those duties were usurped by August van Pels, the matriarch of the other family in hiding. Shelley Winters apparently played her to the tee in the movie. Since history is always from the perspective of that which is written, I wonder what these two women would say today. In fact, I would like to have a conversation with the other 5 inhabitants of the Annex.

I would like to meet Mary Magdalene, the fallen woman. Was she really the wife of Jesus? Was she a whore, or the pretty younger daughter who was sold as a child bride to a wealthy landowner? Did she love the Roman she had her affair with? Did she believe in Jesus or did she follow him because no one else would have her. A Biblical Belle Wattling. Would she like the fact that she is the Patron Saint of the Penitent? Was she sorry, or just glad that someone, a man saw her for what she was. Imagine what you would do if you had been sold to a man three times your age, to be his play thing. After his death (sometime when you were in your late teens or early twenties) she was expected to stay on her plantation and die with him. Then came the Roman solider, a Centurion, an officer. Was he her lover or was she fulfilling another obligation. I'd like to think she did what she had to do to survive and regretted little. 

I would like to meet Katherine of Aragon, the youngest child of Ferdinand and Isabella. She was sent to England as a child, to marry a Tudor prince who was frail and died before he could become a man. She then married his brother, fell in love, only to be tossed out on her ass so that he could marry one of her ladies in waiting. Did she die loving him, one of England's most famous kings? Did she forgive him for betraying her? In her day she was the most educated woman in Europe, did she realize her own power? Again pushed to the side, we know little of what she said and felt. She deserves a voice. 

I would like to meet my great-grandparents. I'd love to know who they were with out the veneer of reverence they have acquired after death. On my father's side, I knew them only as men and women in their eighties and nineties. Sharing memories they had acquired as part of the Greatest Generation were not what they wanted to talk about. My great-grandmother was a mover and a shaker in Texas City, widowed after the 1947 disaster killed her husband. They had been upper middle class and she did not want to associate with my grandmother's in laws. Sharecroppers who ended up living in the back of a church. I have heard that my great-grandfather who was killed hung the stars and moon. I'm sure this must be true. I know my great-grandmother must have been a lot to handle. I know because I see bits of her in me. Anyone who can put up with either one of us must be special. 

I know literally nothing about my mother's grandparents. I know my mother's Grammy (the Original we'll say) was German. So German she grew up speaking it at home, only to lose it later in life because the man she married didn't speak it.  They were hit hard by the depression. They raised to kids, and he died young, before my Grammy got married and started raising her own family. I met the Original Grammy, in December 1982. She was keeping a promise she had made to her doctor. She was staying alive just long enough to meet her great-grandson. Three days after we left Austin shortly after my first Christmas she died, having done what she said she would do.  My mother's paternal grandparents are even more of a mystery. They were considerably well off, raised 4 kids. Three girls and a boy. "It was like having 3 mothers," Grandpa would say. His father was an accountant, born in a county in Ireland that I cannot find on a map. His wife was born in the part of the Low Countries that changed hands so often you couldn't keep track. She was sent here to go to school and grew up speaking French and English. They both died younger. 

As an adult, as someone who might establish his own family one day, I would like to know them not for who they are said to have been, but for who they were. What were their thoughts, motivations, dreams. What idiosyncrasies of theirs did I inherit? Am I a whole from their parts? Would they be proud?