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New Facial Hair/videoblog broadside!!

When was that last time you lunched on twunch

New Facial Hair and Twunch Broadside.

New Lameness

Your next 1:30 broadside is happening over at the Twunch. 
Leave a comment this time, laddies and lasses.

Islamic Theodicy

Theodicy is an odd word.  It seems like a combination of theology and idiocy.  However it means the search to rectify the issue of God's omnipotence with the fact that bad things happen on earth.  An example, albeit skewed, of theodicy would be Jerry Falwell's declaration after 9/11 that God had lifted his "veil of protection" from America owing to our godless, homosexual ways. 
Christianity is full of theodicians and hacks and scribes eager to parse the happenings on earth as the activities of a just and active God.
So, the other day I was at work and things were particularly slow and I realized I had no real sense for the theodicy of the Islamic world.  I mean if Allahu Ahkbar, why do bad things keep happening to good people? 
So I did a google search to pull up some Iraqi email addresses (about 125) and sent them the following email.

Dear new Islamic Friend,
    My name is Bob.  I am an American working at a hotel and I would like to understand more about the ways of Islam.  Specifically, I wonder if you could tell me your explanation of why a just Allah (may all praise his name) allows people to perish in catastrophes. 
Please choose only one of the following events and explain the justification for Allah's (may his wonders never cease) behavior. 

• the 9/11 attacks
• Indonesian Tsunami
• Fires in Malibu
• The Iraq War
• Global Warming
• Hurricane Katrina

Thank you for your time.  If at all possible please include a photo with your response.
                                                                   Wa Salaam Alaikum,
                                                                                        Bob Saget.

P.S.  I'm dead serious.
P.P.S. When I say dead serious, I'm referring to including a picture and to only mentioning one of the events in question.

So, the thing that amazed me more than anything was the NUMBER of responses
I got to this sort of funny and random email.  Within twenty four hours, I had thirty responses.  Within 72 hours I had a hundred responses, many from countries other than Iraq.  It turns out people in  the Middle East were actually using my email as a sounding board for their feelings and emotions.  To be honest, I felt like a creep- because I was just sort of trying to entertain myself and I had all of these people reach out to me.  Incidentally, these translations can get a bit weird because I don't speak Arabic and I had to use the google universal translator so if something didn't make sense to me in a quote I placed a [sic] (latin for "thus") next to it.

911 was the one I got the most response about. Khalid Najoyan of Indonesia wrote what a bunch of people said:
"Allah (may his enemies cower) behaved justly on 9/11 because while many died a great number of muslims were awoken to the greatness of Allah (blessings be upon his followers) and Durango [sic] of the Koran."

In the months following 9/11 there were massive earth quakes both in Iran and Pakistan, two remarkably Muslim countries.  Though not a specified topic Abdul-Alim Maalaki of Fallujah opined about it.                                                                     
"The actions of Allah in the great earthquakes
in Iran and Pakistan were justly ordained events because there were too many 'good time Charlies' jumping on the Islamist bandwagon simply because of recent successes.  While Allah is just and all powerful, He is extremely sensitive about fairweather followers."

I was perhaps most amazed  by the lone email I received from America.  A man who recently moved there who recently changed is name to Rahkman Rock'n'roll Ramallah
had this to say about the fires in Malibu.                               

"The fires in Malibu were simply a response to Malibu's rejection of Allah's messenger Mel Gibson!!
Be my Myspace friend!!"

If I have a little time, I'll post a few more of these responses- but honest to God it was an eye opener about the power of the internet for me.  However, I was not willing to extend the privelege of Myspace friendship to Mr. Ramallah.

Incidentally, I recently asked if you knew the difference between Sunnis and Shias and since none of you responded during the course of the week, I'm going to explain it to you:

 

There it is.  Clear as an unmuddied lake.
Also Sunnis have beards.

The Great Work Begins

I am home now.  At long last I have returned to the bosom of my family.  My family's bosom are at present seperate- the larger bosom is in Missouri however my red-headed brother is the other tinier tit presently residing in Michigan.  However, as of tonight he is quite likely to be moving to Australia for the next four years.

They are depicted here in what appears to be the year 1987. This is a church photo. My father would have the moustache for three more years.  My youngest brother, sneering up front, was in the middle of a three year streak of photographs that would rival any period of German abstract expressionism.  I would, at a later date, post all of his pictures from 1st through third grades here except that I fear he might respond by placing any number of high school photos of me. My awkward phase still makes me feel awkward.

I'm here as a stage manager of a educational theater tour that is entirely confined to the St. Louis area.  As a matter of fact, I've done this job before- however this time I'm doing it with fewer responsibilities and for more money and a years worth of subsequent Health Insurance. 

I've accepted this job because I wanted to be nearer to my family. More specifically it was my hope to be closer to this part of my family

The girl on the left is Emma.  She's four.  She's my niece.  The one on the right is Vivian, she just turned two and likes to stick her tongue out at people.  She's my god child so her soul has been entrusted to me.  Negligence.  Probably actionable.  Emma is great.  But Vivian is an experience.  She has this manner of repeating the last word in any sentence for it's highest possible comedic value. 
For example, while talking to my Older Brother (the sire of the young lady in question)

Me:  Did you see the beating of that guy on TV? I was talking to Mom today and she says she thinks the police were completely justified.

Brother: Did you argue it was racist?

Vivian: Racist!

She yells these words with that harrowing glee that makes you wonder whether comprehension lies far behind. 

I look at this child, this Vivian, with her endlessly bizarre sense of humor, her emotions that corner like sports cars, and her curly flip of missouri-compromise mullet that heads down the nape of neck and I immediately think of my Uncle. 

That's him down there with my grandmother and my father (the older gentleman).  My uncle died two years ago in a mental hospital in Florida, so it's not real cool to mention that a little little girl with her whole life before her looks like him but to me she does. 

So now, I'm home.  And it's still home.  And I still very rarely feel comfortable.  The house is too big.  The politics are very right wing.  My folks are dyed in the wool republicans.  Their dogs have leather couches for dog beds.  They acknowledge no social contract.  Our political fights are tearful and rarely seem to be about politics so much as the fact that I'm a bit disappointing in the dutiful son department.  Which is not to say that things are bad.  But I do notice that I get angry fast around here. 
Do you ever punch yourself in the chest as hard as you can when you can't find your keys?  Me neither.

The job is a job.  The acting opportunities around here are a little slim.  A little spooky.  I've been called back for two  plays which are somewhere between hideously fluffy and egregiously unimportant.  When Del Shores and David Ives hold two thirds of your summer season you're really looking for laughs at any cost.  I've been called back for two leads.  I don't even know if I want to play the roles.  I do know that if I'm not offered one or both of them I will feel badly about having gone to graduate school out of state and then not being able to return to my hometown and get the same roles I got before I left. 

Tonight, I went to bed early.  I drank a beer after eating two helpings of pasta.  My house is like a gingerbread house made of carbohydrates.  Beer flows from the spigots.  The furniture is made out of pretzels.  We try our faces with bread in the bathrooms.  Weight is a tough issue to control.  So, after one beer and three quarters of a pound of pasta it was off to bed.  When my little brother MAX called me and told me it was fifty fifty he was moving to Australia for the next four years.  I was happy but I couldn't go back to sleep. 
So I wandered around in the basement after pleasant chat with my parents and saw the first picture of this little blogging. 
Then I went into the closet with the photo albums and looked for an hour.  I wept.  I laughed.  I couldn't help myself.  Here was my life.  The one I lived and don't remember.  I recalled some of the stories. I recalled having seen some of the pictures.  Some times I recognized an article of clothing and new the picture couldn't be a forgery.  I saw all of the pictures that took place after you know what you look like.  After your general mien and disposition are all set.  For me, I always look like I'm trying not to look unhappy.  Like I'm playing at being a good sport about all this. 
But then I found the book.  The book of when I was not yet four.  Of when I had not yet begun to look depressed or over compensating.  When my hair was red and curly but I didn't yet have bifocals (ages 4-18).  I saw what my life was when I was the new kid in my family and my parents bent the world to spend time with me.  And for whatever reason, it gave me such a start to see me at the age that my nieces are now.  I don't recognize that face.  I don't recognize this person as having anything to do with me. (the person in the ghost costume I do recognize. That's Tycho.  My older brother.  He was, at that moment in my life, the funniest man alive.)

This brief personal renaissance lasted all of three pages of the photo album.  Until my little brother Max was born.  Being bested by Max was a sad thing but it was really unavoidable.  He had charisma, panache, and a natural sense of photography.  Just look at the size of his eyes!  They're perfect.  Look at the panache.  He had the senes to pose, hand in his chin, in front of the family pet as though he knew that this picture would now be a family heirloom not merely because it showed his young photogeneity but also because it would remind us years later of the handsome domesticated animal who was no longer with us. (Incidentally, at the death of this dog I screamed at Max that I would forever care more about MacDuff than my little brother.  Not true.   And good luck in Australia.  I'll visit soon).

Just when I thought that the photo books had yielded up all of the peculiar joys for this night, I found this.  The picture is from the baptism of young Max before he was able to dethrone me from my place in the photo album.  It's my Uncle Fran actually visiting St. Louis.  Holding me and my brother Tycho on his lap.  The man was crazy.  Clinically insane.  But here he looks happy to be with me.  I spent a lot of time with the guy as he was dying.  I don't think he was very much aware that I was around.  And here I am with him. And I have absolutely no memory of this taking place. 

But here are the pictures.  In living color.  Proof that my life happened to me. 

Updates...

It's that time of the year.
The time of year when I leave New York. 
I have to go home.  My town needs me.  As of 1/1/06 I will be in St. Louis for the foreseeable future- really until summer time.  So, this blog will enter a transitional phase or pupae.  A catepillar from which a strikingly odd moth will emerge.  Watch this space for future updates.  But be advised... it will be extraordinary.  Probably.

My Gratitude Will Stalk You Until Death

I needed a catchier heading than I like Taco Chips because while the verity of the statement is undoubtable, the sexiness of the sentiment leaves a great deal to be desired. 
So updates!  UPDATES!  UPPPPDDDDDAAAATTTTEESS.  (great.  I've typed four sentences and it already appears that I am drunk.)

First, I'd like to mention that two people have checked my blog from Europe.  Now, that means they may know of jobs.  I just want you to know that I speak very fluent English  and am willing to do anything that doesn't involve me being on the business end of the white slavery trade.

Second, Deanna came to visit.  It is hard to believe but the visit completely lived up to the hype.  We saw the film "The Aristocrats," ate at a chain vegetarian Chinese Restaurant, and went to Barnes and Noble.  This is how we celebrated our year anniversary.  And it was awesome.  Of course.  We saw a play, we saw friends, we went to a museum, we went to Hoboken.  We had zero fights and felt good and sad to see each other go.  I have already purchased my next ticket to see her.

Third, I will be making my feature film debut in Spike Lee's Inside Man with Denzel Washington, Clive Owen, and Jodie Foster.  Not a joke.  Tuesday morning, I went to the second floor of the Brill building at Broadway and 50th where Spike Lee sat on a couch in the lobby of Studio One.  Upon seeing me he said in that nasal Brooklyn dialect, "Ken, we've been lookin' for you."  To which I responded diminutively (because honestly, what else could you be?) "I haven't been hiding." 

How did things come to such a pass?  Collusion, friends.  I arrived in New York as a member of SAG and hoped to do some background work as a means of supplementing my income.  No sooner had I made this decision than I saw a call for extras for Spike's film.   I signed up.  I called my friend Matt who has for several years worked for Spike and earned the distinction of Lone White Man on salary.  When I told him i was working on the film, he said he'd see what he could do.  The day of the shoot, i was moved to the very sought after position of directly in front of the camera and spent my day of extra work shouting at hostages in a bank robbery.  The day concluded, i had a nice time.  Months later I got a call indicating that I had been upgraded to principal, would be handed a sum that will make for both a rent check and an ipod nano, and would have a day in a sound studio with Spike Lee.  It was charming.

Third.  My days on the night shift continue, limping towards a conclusion.  My replacement has been hired.  The man I am to replace, transferred.  I have one more weekend after this one.  My Slovakian bellman seems nonplussed.  We have forged the sort of bond that can only exist between night auditor and bellman.  Two weeks ago, I finally convinced him that not only was it allowable for him to sleep between the hours of two thirty and five a.m. I actually preferred it.  So now, I am largely left to my own devices in the wee small hours.  Edmond, the Slovakian Bellman, turns to me and says, "There is an expression in Hungarian that tells my feelings.  I will try to translate it.  'My gratitude will chase you for the rest of your life.'

That is so much of how I feel these days.

Duck and Cover

I haven't written in a while.  I've been sort of savoring my time lately- devouring the present even as it slips by because of what is about to come.

My girl is leaving me. 

Not for the usual reasons of neglect, infidelity, and beatings but because she's got a job.  She got the job offer only a couple of months after we'd started dating so I've known that this day was coming for almost eight months.  And yet.

The summer has not been an easy one.  She and I lived together in a studio apartment in Astoria- the studio is a large one but yet life without walls proved to be more than a metaphoric hurdle.  But we braved it all- with lots of crying and yelling and threats to leave.  But also a great deal of cameraderie and friendship- I don't know that I've ever felt as close to someone and doubtlessly that owes itself as much to living in this one room.  She and I did everything together this summer- we worked together for a couple of shifts at a restaurant (until our boss discovered we were living together and I was fired.  I was never told that I was fired but he let Deanna know some weeks later).  We are just about to finish a play together in which we got to play lovers.  That's been almost too sweet an ending to the summer- to get to kiss a pretty girl you're in love with on stage is a thrill I've never gotten to have before. 

And as of Monday, I'm living by myself.

I've not lived alone in more than four years.  I'm terrified.  I've tried to take steps to dampen the blow- I've joined a gym, I've got a play I'm working on, but I know that sometime soon I'm going to come home from work or play and arrive home and feel all that space.  The space we don't share anymore.  Did I mention I'm terrified.

So this is a sort of shout out to friends in New York City and around the country that I might be having a rough go for the next month or so.  I'm not seeking pity but if you could find it in your hearts to try to drag me out for a beer or a cup of coffee- it'd be nice.  Or give a call.  Also, Sarasota friends- Deanna will be there.  So don't be a stranger. 

Sorry to go begging in this usually fun space.  The transition is necessary and appropriate.  We're going to make things work as best we can despite distance.  My heart is scheduled to break in about 36 hours.  With your help, she and I will move through this difficult time effortlessly and happily.  Please do what you can.  Operators are standing by.