That, right there, is what you call a “teachable moment.”
tweet thisFiled under: Deep South, education, Everyday, family, humor, life
In one of my flippant, wine-accompanied, philosophical moments, the other night, I found myself saying, “Well, if it’s possible, it’s necessary.” It just fell out. You know, I was standing around, my mouth was open, and then, Boom. There it was, a whole sentence, a sentiment of ontological bent, floating around the room. Now, I usually say things for two reasons: Either I like the way it sounds (which is a sort of philosophy in and of itself), or I’m not aware of what I’m saying (which is more often the case). Of course, far be it from me to retract a statement....
One of my favorite games, growing up, was Beleaguered Librarian.
Filed under: Deep South, education, End of the World, Everyday, humor, language, life
Here’s something you don’t know about me: I enjoy doing my taxes. I rarely get anything back from them, so that’s hardly the reason why – there’s no monetary motivation behind it – it’s just that, deep down, I really like filling in things, forms, blanks. I like putting things where they go, seeing them meld into the template of the 1040EZ, or the W-2, or the New York Times Crossword. I like it because when things fit, I’m pleased. I like it because, when it’s all said and done, it looks neat. And I like it because it looks intimidating: To think that...
I’m not sure if you know this or not, but it’s never wrong to steal a pen.
Filed under: Deep South, education, Everyday, faith, family, humor, life
I can count on one hand the number of things I’ve stolen in my entire life: four. I’m holding up four fingers, at this very moment, even though you can’t see them. But, that’s it: four items. Four, random though purposeful, inconsequential items. One of those items was a candy bar. A Kit-Kat, actually, and it was easily stolen because I used to run the “candy store” between class periods, at my high school. The smart kids got to do everything fun, especially when it involved cash handling. I only stole one candy bar and only the one time because I had convinced myself that...
“That’s not lying,” he said, “That’s good manners.”
Filed under: Deep South, education, Everyday, faith, family, humor, language, life, theatre, writing
Of all the hobbies I have, I most enjoy lying and eavesdropping. Because I, personally, like a hobby that's a challenge. And both of these are. It is not so easy to lie, as you might think. The closer you are to someone the craftier you have to be. But, I like that. I've always been good at crafts, thanks to Vacation Bible School. Ask U.L. He’s kept every single thing I ever made at VBS, with the exception of that frightening plastic Jesus-on-the-cross-shaking-hands-with-PawPaw objet d’art I made, when I was six. I don’t blame him for that, though; it’s difficult to know how long...
He was called Bear because he looked like a bear.
Filed under: Deep South, education, Everyday, family, food, language, life, theatre, writing
I figured something out yesterday: The closer I get to someone, the more of my name I lose. It's not the first time, I admit, that I've had this thought. I’ve often been concerned with the apparent fluid boundaries of what constitutes Identity, especially where names are involved. I got it naturally; after all, I’m no average Chris…I’m Kris…with a K. I even wrote a song about it once. It was always a delicious fantasy for me, though, in grade school, to change the spelling of my name on my homework assignments. I mean, Chris (with the “Ch”) was as foreign a person to...
She said tetherball, and I immediately felt sorry for her.
Filed under: Deep South, education, Everyday, family, language, life, theatre
Before I begin the section on Theatre History, for non-majors, I always start the class off by discussing children’s games. I ask them what their favorite games were when they were little, and then I segue from that into the ideas of exaggerated expression, storytelling, being larger than yourself, and then lead them all the way into that post-adolescent Catch-22 of knowing which parent to ask to get permission to do whatever it is the other parent said No to. Because a lot of those ideas are exactly where theatre’s roots lie, at least coming at it from the...
Am I merely a heathen, now? Is that what this heartburn is indicating?
I don't want to write this blog. I really don't. (Of course, I'm going to, but still...you should know that I don't really want to). I don't want to write it because it's going to force me to seriously consider the points I'm about to make, or attempt to. Points that are more than likely going to be offensive, both about myself and the culture I live in...and probably to one or two of you, at the least. I like God, let me just say that, upfront. I even like Jesus. I don't know when the last time was that I...
Mercy Blog, Part 3: A Nearly Christian Apology for Eighth Grade
So, the other day I was in Piggly Wiggly (or as U.L. calls it, The Pig) to purchase an eggplant, and while fondling the produce, legally - i.e., all fruits and vegetables were at least 18 days or older - I overheard two people, down by the locally grown peanuts bin (the peanuts were locally grown, not the bin - it was cardboard) discussing the stupid behavior of one of their other friends...I imagined the friend was the topic of conversation as the result of some weekend revelry. One said, "And I was like, God, this is stupid. You're being so eighth...
He'd just always wanted a hearse, he said.
U.L. and I like to take Sunday drives, after dinner, each week. There's no rush to this ritual. We enjoy a long dinner with the rest of the family; we gossip, we share news (even the made-up News, an old habit we used to do when I was younger, that's found some way to stick, even to this day). What you do is, you mute the TV, you guess at what's being said by looking at the graphics, and then you tell your version. It was quite a shock, for instance, when I realized that Bush had actually been re-elected, and even greater still,...
I drank it as if it were holier than Coke.
Hold on, now. Don't think I'm crazy, entirely, but I have on three separate occasions dreamed things that have then occurred. In actual life. The first involved a childhood pet, Scruff, who had gone to live with my grandparents at Fish Camp, a family compound surrounded my cabins, ponds, a basic swimming pool, and a torturously long vegetable garden, where we gathered each summer for a fish fry and the annual task of grading blueberries and other such fruit; several on my father's side were in the fruit farm industry; after an afternoon of grading blueberries, there is no child on...
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