…it’s hard not to love it.

Modern Hollywood did it. They manufactured an intelligent, mainstream movie dealing with Christianity, without it being ham-fisted, trite, campy, demeaning, or relativistic.

That’s all you need to know about The Book of Eli before you see it.

No links in this article, no analysis. Don’t read any reviews, and don’t get into conversations about the movie with your friends or colleagues. Go see it as long as violence doesn’t offend and the kids have a babysitter.

Everybody with eyes, ears, or one of each is familiar with the flap surrounding that Tim Tebo ad set to air during the Super Bowl.

I don’t want that ad.

I don’t want the ad telling me why I should support Obama’s healthcare legislation, or the one telling me I should oppose it. I don’t want the ad telling me I should celebrate life, nor do I want its pro-death compliment.

I don’t want anyone who’s managed to raise $2.8 million pitching me any ideology.

I don’t want a single serious or sentimental moment. If you’ve ever watched the Super Bowl in a group, you’ll remember that sound during those commercials. You know what I’m talking about. Just after father and son embrace after playing catch thanks to Bengay, there’s that sound: “Meh.”

I do want commercials about stupid men doing stupid, funny things with a can of beer in their hands. I want talking babies, geckos, and ducks making vague references to whatever insurance/investment company they shill for.

Friends, I want monkeys dressed to the nines, pitching laundry detergent.

And it wouldn’t be much of an evening without that mildly disturbing “Flo” from the Progressive ads:

“Sell me your soul? Discount!”
“Are you gonna sell it to me online? DISCOUNT!”

*****

Lest you accuse me of betraying my principles or opposing the Cause, let me assure you that I am simply being consistent. Football is sport. Sport is entertainment. It’s what I do at the end of the day, when I’m done working through the intellectual dead-end that is the Culture of Death. I don’t watch the Blackhawks a couple times a week to reexamine my cultural or political values:

The perfect venue for a discussion on the potential
economic benefits of implementing the principles of subsidiarity.
Right?

*****

Then there’s the question of tone.

Imagine that the Super Bowl is going down to the wire. Uncle Bill – lifelong Bears fan – wrings his hands, and everybody is talking a little faster than normal as the Bears look to crush Brett Favre’s Buffalo Bills.* As the Bears – down three – take over on Buffalo’s’ 1-yard line with 25 seconds to go, we move to station break. Payton Manning pitches a feminine hygiene product in an everybody-even-Payton-knows-this-is-awkward moment. All in the room chuckle, even snot-nosed 19-year old Allie, who keeps fingering her new eyebrow piercing.

Then the N.O.W. ad rolls out. Snot-nosed Allie yells, “YEAH!” and Uncle Bill starts beating his chest in a preemptive attempt to stave off heart attack #42, because his family – Polish Catholic to the last – has always opposed abortion, and what would Grandma say if she’d heard that out of her great-granddaughter, God rest her soul?

Now Uncle Bill is in obvious distress, mad at the world when the Bears roll in untouched to end the game. The moment which would have otherwise defined the next two decades of Uncle Bill’s existence (or two days, depending upon that ‘ole ticker) forever tarnished because of a political ad.

Tragic.

*Coming out of retirement for the 10th time, Brett Favre promises to “Win one for Marv.” Marv Levy led the Buffalo Bills to the Super Bowl four straight seasons, ‘91-94. The Bills lost every year.

*****

Hyperbole. Sure. But the point is simple: sports are meant to be light-hearted entertainment, and the Super Bowl is no venue for seriousness. Even if we do take the final score a bit too seriously from time to time.

I have an assignment for you, if you drink Pepsi/Coke and/or Mountain Dew.

If you drink any of these sugar water concoctions, consider trying the Throwback line.

No, I’m not trying to sell you the latest version of Crystal Pepsi. That stuff was terrible, and should remain in permanent retirement.

Pepsi/Mt. Dew Throwback are made as all soft drinks should be made: with cane sugar, rather than HFCS (high-fructose corn syrup). Regular sugar is easier on the body, and it just plain tastes better. Not knowing what I was drinking, I had a Pepsi Throwback earlier this summer, and was severely disappointed when I found out it was only a temporary release.

Officially released on Monday, I’ll be looking for it everywhere over the next eight weeks. If you try and enjoy it, Tweet, Twit, Twiddle, Blog, Wog, or do whatever you can to get the word out there that Throwback is a great product we need available full-time.

The big soda producers will tell you that there’s no discernible difference between HFCS and cane sugar, and they’re likely to back this up with taste-test information.

Either a) they’re lying or b) they hired a bunch of folks with dead taste buds to sit in on the test. The first time I tried MexiCoke (Coca-Cola made in Mexico with cane sugar, since HFCS is of dubious legal standing down there), I immediately noted how much better the product tasted over the American version, even though I didn’t know why.

It sure isn’t the glass bottles.

In the end, HFCS is cheaper for the manufacturer, so that’s why they use it. We discriminating consumers lose out, but O, not for the next eight weeks!

BONUS! If you enjoy Dr. Pepper, you might be interested in the bottler located in Dublin, Texas. They do Dr. Pepper right, with the original formula.

Roger Scruton has composed a wonderful article, relating primarily to the aesthetic collapse of architecture. Applicable to every other art form, Scruton targets the Modernist ideal regarding beauty (or is it a non-ideal?), which has corroded art for nearly a century.

Add my name to the list of those initially skeptical about a Bob Dylan Christmas album. Dylan’s work over the past decade is masterful because of how it showcases his skill for lyricism in such a way that his trademark sandpaper-and-glue voice becomes an asset rather than a hindrance. The listener can identify with the aging bard as he looks back at life, reflecting upon successes, failures, and the mysteries we mere mortals never quite pin down, though they hound us nonetheless. Dylan’s recent albums have received critical acclaim, sold relatively well, and still frequently work their way to the top of my playlist. How, then, can this Dylan pull off a Christmas album, a genre better suited for the likes of Nat King Cole or Bing Crosby? It didn’t seem possible. As a dedicated admirer who will purchase anything Bob puts out, the possibility that this album would end up in my dad’s basement gathering dust seemed less depressing when I learned that all of Dylan’s royalties for Christmas in the Heart will go to Feeding America, in perpetuity.

This disc won’t be headed toward a storage bin in dad’s basement any time soon. Dylan’s absolute sincerity kept me from writing this album off after a few listens. Serious Christmas standards such as “O Come All Ye Faithful,” “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” “Little Drummer Boy,” and “The First Noel” succeed because Dylan sings with a conviction impossible to ignore. The lighter selections (“Here Comes Santa Claus,” “Christmas Island,” Must Be Santa”) work because Dylan’s clearly having fun with the arrangements, encouraging listeners to join in the revelry.

Last week, Dylan himself confirmed the sincerity many of us have detected, while sitting for an interview with Bill Flanigan:

BF: You really give a heroic performance of O’ LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM The way you do it reminds me a little of an Irish rebel song. There’s something almost defiant in the way you sing, “The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.” I don’t want to put you on the spot, but you sure deliver that song like a true believer.

BD: Well, I am a true believer.

Also telling is Dylan’s reaction to the Chicago Tribune analysis:

BF: The Chicago Tribune felt this record needed more irreverence. Doesn’t that miss the point?

BD: Well sure it does, that’s an irresponsible statement anyway. Isn’t there enough irreverence in the world? Who would need more? Especially at Christmas time.

Shame on the Trib, because “irreverence” is a theme foreign to Dylan’s work. His corpus contains many instances of internal struggle with God, in relationship to the individual or humanity at large, but never does he deal in flat-out irreverence. Dylan’s work is rather unidimensional as far as “God movement” is concerned: we might take a few steps back every now and again, and we might end up scratching our heads in confusion, but we’re always moving forward toward the One Who Is – and He’s always happy to see us along the way. Christmas in the Heart is less complex than Dylan’s original material, but the movement toward God is absolutely the same.

In the end, Dylan’s Christmas album reminds me of that old guy at midnight Mass. He can’t sing like the choir, but he belts it all out from memory. And it comes from the heart.

The only good thing about commandeering a dead blog is that I can resurrect it at any time. Usually, I’d post a litany of excuses regarding my absence. This time, I think I’ll lead with a photo explanation:

Nov. 7th: Ordained to the Order of the Diaconate

It’s been a whirlwind these past couple of months, but it’s also been wonderful. That God could call a bum like me is ultimately a testament to both his good humor and ineffable love.

More to follow, now that the flurry of activity surrounding a new academic year and ordination has passed.

Susan Boyle has released a new cover of the Rolling Stones classic “Wild Horses.” See this link for the audio.

Boyle certainly brings her beautiful voice to the song, and there is no denying her innate talent. She has one of the best voices I’ve ever heard, in terms of overall quality.

That having been said, however, this song fails Susan Boyle, and she should’ve never touched it. As I’ve said elsewhere, the lyrics and tone carry an edge of graceful rebellion, one that Boyle is unable to imitate. This is a song that an aging rocker can pull off, a man who has been down a lot of roads (and seen the best and worst of himself), but not one that a good ‘ole girl who helps out at church like Boyle can approach with any sort of authenticity.

Contrast this with her coming-out effort, “I Dreamed a Dream.” It’s authentic because the tone/lyrics match her as an individual: we as listeners buy that she’s dreamed the dream.

This question of authenticity is an important one. Pat Boone can’t do “Enter Sandman” because “Enter Sandman” isn’t Pat Boone. Boone had to know he was turning into a parody of himself, and thought he’d draw some attention (and make some money) out of it. Mission accomplished, given the fact that I still remember this horror-show of an album.

Note, however, that this judgment has nothing to do with the quality of the artist him/herself. Frank Sinatra (much less Pat Boone) has no business doing “Enter Sandman” any more than Susan Boyle has the ability to pull off “Wild Horses.” And Metallica has no business making a serious effort at “Mack the Knife,” either.

The biggest problem with singers is that they rely on other people to write for them. Few actually develop a sense of authentic artistic individuality; nowadays, from Britney Spears to yes, even Susan Boyle, they end up playing whatever somebody in the business gives them to play. In a sense, the modern singer becomes a kind of whore, going where the money and the business tell them to.

And the general public eats it up – for a time. Britney Spears is a joke, and the general audience moved past Celine Dion a decade ago, all in spite of their respective talents. What happens is that even though we enjoy it for a while, we all sense – even if we can’t put our finger on it initially – that what we’re hearing is a fad, a trend, something moving in the moment only to be forgotten in the next.

Susan Boyle’s gift is simply too valuable to be wasted in this way. She needs to establish authenticity, and fast, so that she doesn’t become just another flash in the pan.

…the more this song runs through my head.

And yes: this particular version, which stands as the beginning and end of my Japanese language ability.

More later.

(Savage Chickens wins again.)

As loyal readers remember, I posted in glee over the the release of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies a few months back. I confess that I am not immune to the “zombie mania” gripping popular culture as of late; I’ve always had a thing for classic horror, and I appreciate the recent efforts of Max Brooks (The Zombie Survival Guide, World War Z), who put zombies back on the literary map.

Plus, let’s face it: Jane Austen’s novel just isn’t for boys. Poignant social commentary and criticism? Certainly. Masterful, aesthetically pleasing English? You bet. But entertaining to a modern member of the lesser sex?

Not even remotely, and Seth Grahame-Smith had to know this coming in. PPZ works at a superficial level because it combines elements men care not one iota for (feminine social absurdities long dead and buried) with what they can’t get enough of (the dead no longer buried). Grahame-Smith knows his audience, and he plays to us throughout.

If the overall concept of this novel sounds absurd, let me assure you that it is. Unfortunately, Grahame-Smith misses combining these elements in an effective way, and the absurdity fails to become believable. Scenes involving zombie attacks or the warrior-nature of the heroines are poorly intertwined with Austen’s plot, and the reader can’t help but sense that he (or maybe, she) is reading two novels.

Grahame-Smith retained about 80% of the original as I understand it, and I think this is the problem. If the author had taken more liberty with the original story, perhaps there would be more continuity between the two tales. As it stands, I wouldn’t blame the average, red-blooded American male for feeling hoodwinked by PPZ, since – in the end – he just did what he’d never do otherwise: he read Pride and Prejudice.

What’s more, these are some of the most uninteresting zombies ever fashioned. Where do they come from, and why? What about their level of cognitive and physical function? The author never really approaches these questions, leaving the zombies as little more than weird, interludical props: they spring up suddenly in a sentence or two, are dispatched by page-end, and then we’re back to women fretting over hats.

Despite my criticisms regarding the weakness of this work, I can’t help but recommend it… to Lit Nerds like yours truly, who share my penchant for mashup.

Otherwise, approach this one at your own risk: where zombies are in play, your brain is always on the line.

Postscript: My negative thoughts on this work will in no way keep me from reading Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters, due out next month.

Watch Craig Furguson explain “why everything sucks,” to the end:

Humor is always grounded in the truth. (H/T: A Friend)

A friend tipped me to John C. Wright’s blog, found here. Three reasons to add him to the blogroll and the bookshelf:

1. He writes pretty darned good Sci-Fi/Fantasy. I’d read The Golden Age books before I knew anything of his innate awesomeness.
2. He once declared, “If Vulcans had a church, they’d be Catholics.” Having spent the summer around process theology, I cannot tell you how true this statement is.
3. He continues to write things like this, in response to a review of one of his stories:

No comment about the story says anything about the story-writer: the reviewer here breaks the fourth wall and makes a personal comment about my ability to “get it” because that is the automatic reflex of her particular philosophy, which suffers from one weakness that crops up in every follower of it I have ever met, bar none, no matter their background or education.

Leftists all argue by Ad Hominem. Philosophy, for them, is not a search for truth, but a martial aid to augment a limp and failing self-esteem.

Leftist have to make comments uplifting themselves and putting down the opposition, because their philosophy does not allow for anything else. It is not as if they can say that there is an objective standard that they fulfill better than other men, and base their pride on that. It is not as if they can say the objective rules of logic support their conclusions.

Nope. Moderns are the children of Marx, Hegel, Nietzsche, Freud, and other frauds and charlatans posing as thinkers. What the bigs frauds do is pretend everything evolves, or everything is historical necessity, or everything is willpower, or everything is subconscious impulses. All these theories are vague enough to fit any situation — what Karl Popper called ‘un-disprovable’ — but more importantly, all allowed for ad Hominem dismissal of criticism by calling character of the critic into question: as Marx did by dismissing economists as merely spokesmen for economic interests, as Hegel did by dismissing ancient writers as being undeveloped (as if truth depended on when you spoke it), as Freud did with Jung, and so on and on.

The little frauds follow the big frauds. They assume all disagreement is based on ignorance or malice, and not on differences of axioms, exposure to different experience, or the judicious people placing different weight on the testimony of contradictory witnesses.

What makes it ironic is that these modern intellectuals more often than not do not know who invented the ideas they are reciting, or have not read the original works.

Pretty much sums up why I left the vapid wasteland of leftist groupthink in a college dorm.

More to say on this soon, but here are two major reasons I love Caritas in Veritate:

1. It’s acidic to liberals because the Holy Father expresses love in relationship to objective truth, which “[enables] men and women to let go of their subjective opinions and impressions, [allowing] them to move beyond cultural and historical limitations and to come together in the assessment of the value and substance of things.” Insisting that love is something other than what “feels good” in this day and age is akin to punching a liberal in the face.
2. It’s acidic to conservatives because the encyclical reminds us that God often demands more than what is rationally just. God’s love – his willing the good for all of humanity – is bigger than all of that.

Meanwhile, I’ve enjoyed watching the fur fly.

Contrary to Greg’s comment on the previous post, I’ve not run off to live a life dedicated to the First Church of Michael Jackson’s Glove. Tempting, but I realized it just wouldn’t be feasible to begin any building projects, what with the new Cap and Trade regulations and all…

No, things have just been extremely busy. By the time I get home every night from my summer assignment, I don’t have energy for much but Facebook and private study. It’s not that I don’t have anything to say: I just have no energy to say it.

As the assignment winds down, I’ll be back. You can bet on it.

What’s amazing is how this crosses party lines. Starry-eyed fanboys and girls will look at this and say, “Right on!,” while the other side of the aisle will recognize this as a parody of a leader who will never live up to the Messianic expectation responsible for getting him elected.

At any rate, the Jib-Jab folks just served up an ace.

A couple times a week, I encounter stories which refer to a priest’s “vows.”

Fair enough. Except for the fact that most priests never take vows, and these stories almost always erroneously apply the term to a diocesan priest.

Diocesan priests make “promises,” not “vows.”

As this article sums up nicely:

As history unfolded, these [secular, or "diocesan"] priests lived out in the world with the people they were serving. The Latin word for “world” is “saeculum”, and there’s the derivation of the expression “secular priests”, those out in the world, ministering to God’s people. As the years passed, there were men and women who voluntarily decided to go apart from the world, taking the three vows of religion, namely, poverty, chastity and obedience.

Any man or woman who makes the three vows is called a religious—a religious priest, sister or brother. This essentially is what makes a “religious” different from a “secular”. The secular priests never take the three vows of religion. They do make a promise to their bishop at ordination to obey him as their spiritual leader for a particular diocese, and they also make a promise to remain celibate—not to marry. It bears repeating, to say that diocesan priests do not take the three vows of religion—poverty, chastity and obedience. The promise of celibacy is not the same as the vow of chastity.

A former abbot primate of the Benedictine Order summed it up nicely one day in class, when he reminded us that a man or woman religious makes the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience for the good of him/herself, whereas a secular/diocesan priest makes promises for the good of the community in which he serves.

This is important, especially when discussing issues of sexual impropriety. For example, Fr. Cutie (of recent fame) broke no “vow”; as a diocesan priest, one promises to remain in the celibate state, never marrying. Technically speaking and in accordance with normative morality, however, the celibate state excludes any potential genital contact. But Cutie never directly violated his promise of celibacy (remembering that the term refers exclusively to marriage) – until he decided to leave the priesthood and marry his concubine.

Go, and grind my gears no more.

Howdy! It’s me. Remember me?

My Internet access situation has been rectified, and I’m back in action. I’m also finally developing something of a daily routine here in St. Louis, even though I’m terribly busy with a long work week at the hospital. I’m living in a great parish, and the pastor here has been nothing less than wonderful, so I’m feeling pretty good about the “domestic” part of the summer.

I’m going to blog when possible (now that I have relatively consistent access to the intertubes), but it will be slow-going over the next two months or so. With overnight shifts on top of a 40-hour work week, they keep us going.

Just so you know, I’ve also accepted a generous invitation from Joshua Claybourn to blog over at In the Agora, a group project I’ve followed since its inception. Hopefully I’ll be able to add a “Roman” perspective to the proceedings there.

Until next time…

My summer has officially begun, but I’m currently with limited Internet access. As a matter of fact, I’m currently blogging from an iPhone, of all things.

Sorry to have been so sparse around… well, everywhere lately. More to come soon, I promise.

…but to hold you over in the meantime, I bring you my favorite track off the new Dylan album, Together Through Life. Something about the accordion line on “If You Ever Go to Houston” that I can’t get enough of. It was my constant inner-theme song last week. Enjoy. (And be sure to click on the “HQ” button.)