Moving Back: Change Your Bookmarks

Hello beloved readers,

I’m moving back to Blogger. I’ve wanted to do it for a while, but WordPress does not allow an .xml export to another service. So they’ll allow you to transfer in, but not to transfer out. Which pretty much sums up my experience with WordPress. I wanted to move away from Google, but now I’m going back, because, believe it or not, the customer service experience is better.

Please change your bookmarks/whatevers, and sorry for any incovenience. Look forward to seeing you!

joffrethegiant.blogspot.com

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Maybe Christian men aren’t manly enough to be feminine.

Studium et Liturgica

Authors like Anne Douglas (The Feminization of American Culture) and Leon Podles (The Church Impotent:  The Feminization of Christianity) have documented what might be called the “feminization of the church.”  More recent offerings like Why Men Hate Going to Church bring statistical data and anecdotal evidence that men just don’t seem to like, or fit in, at most  churches.  While I think these authors all make good points, I was recently struck at how “feminine” certain Puritan theologians were.  For many in my conservative Reformed circles, the Puritans are the standard against which we measure our own orthodoxy and our spiritual fervor.  Many Puritans are revered for their “manly” courage and heroic gospel deeds.  I don’t want to belittle any of that–I simply want suggest that some of the these “manly” Puritans spoke, wrote, and preached in quite “feminine” terms.

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Resurrectio et Vita

As an amateur Rand reader and as an O’Connor enthusiast, this got the first laugh of the day:

“I hope you don’t have friends who recommend Ayn Rand to you. The fiction of Ayn Rand is as low as you can get re fiction. I hope you picked it up off the floor of the subway and threw it in the nearest garbage pail. She makes Mickey Spillane look like Dostoevsky.”

{Thanks to First Things}

-Flannery O’Connor, The Habit of Being

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Wifey Says I’m Going To Marry A Black Woman

Kimberly (the wife of my youth) is convinced that I’m going to marry a black woman when she dies. She, by the way, is not expected to die for years to come, may God have mercy. Wifey claims that if my my honored father or I speak well of a woman, she’ll turn out to be black or Latina. She says this even though my dad just married a white woman and that she herself is white. So I have only this to say: vocês que são brancos que se entendam. (warning: preceding link is to a list of Brazilian colloquialisms. One is quite gross.)

Still, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to start making a list of eligible ladies. I might have to travel back in time, like I did when I was deciding where to move. Hello ladies.

Lauryn Hill

Paula Lima

Destinee Hooker

Billy Holiday, 1958

Pam Grier, 1973

Gina Torres

The Truth About the Trenta

Remember when Starbucks came out with the trenta size last year? It’s huge, huge, huge. Two grandes in one cup. They only use it for tea and water-based drinks, because the prospect of that much frappuccino or milk seems unholy even to Starbucks.

It was even claimed that the Trenta was unnatural and unholy because it is larger than the human stomach.

Oh, yeah? If that’s the case, what’s with this awesomeness? (This was taken over a year ago, but I just got it.)

 

Impressing Others, Impressing My Woman

Last weekend I was at a neighbor’s Independence Day party. Beer was being drunk, children were running around with sparklers, mulleted rednecks were playing terrible terrible terrible basketball on a hoop placed in the packed dirt and grass of this guy’s yard. I was sitting about twenty yards from the hoop, talking to an older gentleman about his days as a machinist. The ball rolled toward me, so I scooped it up, continuing my conversation, beer in hand, and chucked the ball at the rim with that sweet little rotation you know is a part of my shot.

Nothing but net. I sat back down with supreme nonchalance as the crowd erupted.

I won’t pretend I didn’t love it.

A few days later I was at a construction site with a basketball-loving co-worker. There was another basket on the grass of this house’s yard, and a ball lying about ten yards from the hoop. I picked up the ball, related the above story to this friend of mine, and as I described taking the first shot, I chucked the ball I was holding at the basket. I had to keep the shot low to get through the branches, but there was never any doubt. It rattled in.

I was sure to remind my friend a few more times that day that I’d made a shot while talking about making a shot. That, to coin a phrase, is so meta.

So as we headed out of the house this morning I picked up one of our basketballs and called out to my wife. I told Kimberly the story of the first shot, and of the crowd’s glorious reaction. I told her how I’d cold-bloodedly hit a shot while talking trash to my friend. And as I told her that I’d “made a shot while I was talking about making a shot”, I launched the ball at the rim without a shadow of a doubt that it was going straight in.

It slammed into the front of the rim.

Why am I never able to impress my woman?