Airports are weird places. They are placeless places, for the most part, no matter who has been hired to decorate them in the style of the cities in which they exist. They posses a dislocating aura that intersects oddly with emotion, as if being in one is like looking through a sepia toned filter, except it isn’t light that’s being filtered but emotional tone. Sadness and loneliness are magnified. Happily reuniting couples and families scurry for the exits, as if aware that the place generally disapproves of their contentment.
I wonder if train stations felt the same way when they were the modus operandi. They seem so warm and beautiful in retrospect. Is that a function of nostalgic looking back, or something to do with the actual vehicles served? Are trains happier than airplanes in absolute terms?
I spent most of yesterday in airports (three) or airplanes (two). Jieun dropped me off at half past six in the morning. Whatever I’ve said about airports being dislocating and sad, the curb out front is ten times worse. It’ll be three months before I see her again, a fact that lives in the back of my heart like something spiny sharp.
This was my first time traveling in uniform, and I have to say that people give the military uniform a lot more deference than the priestly one. The airline comped my bags, both of which were overweight. The TSA guys shunted me into a special lane, where I had to remove neither the liquids from my bag nor the boots from my feet. I was called to board each plane first, before the first class passengers; on the first plane a gentleman who walked with two canes tried to make me go before him as well.
I’ve gotten used to saying “you’re welcome” when people thank me for my service. In my head I’m speaking for military folks who have actually served. It’s too long a conversation to explain to each person that I’ve barely served yet. All I’ve done is volunteer, and I’m not saying that’s nothing, but it is very little indeed compared to what many of the folks in uniform have given. I’m here to serve them more than to serve my country, though I’m glad certain members of the country appreciate it anyways.
This morning has been quiet, which is unusual for me as it’s Sunday. The room I’ll be staying in for the next ninety days was unavailable when I arrived on post at Fort Jackson last evening, so I spent the night at a local hotel. I forced myself to get up at six in the morning, even though that translates to three A.M. left coast time. Soon six will seem luxuriously late, and I figured I’d better get used to it. We report at one forty-five this afternoon.
Day one, here we come.
 Ready Player One by Ernest Cline A blast from the past, set in the future. Whoa. I know. You’re mind, is like, totally blown. Here’s most of what you need to know: The author photo on the inside back leaf shows him leaning against a DeLorean. Which he owns. Yeah, that kind of book. This is a debut work for Ernest Cline, and honestly, if it hadn’t been on the New Fiction shelf at my library (and thus, free) I might not have picked it up. It sounds so gimmicky. Granted, it’s a gimmick that appeals to me, so that helped. The set-up goes like this: a computer genius spends his teen years in the 1980s. Due to a complete lack of social skills, he spends all his time writing computer games and playing D&D. This earns him a ton of money. He goes on to create a massively multiplayer online roleplaying environment that begins as a game, but as the world falls apart becomes almost everyones favorite alternative to reality. Kids go to school in this virtual environment, all media and entertainment run through it, etc. The story opens, somewhere in the 2040s, with his death. Having no heirs, he puts up his vast fortune as a prize for the ultimate game. A single clue is given. For five years people try to solve the clue and fail, knowing only that an in-depth knowledge of the 80s, with which the deceased was obsessed, will be necessary. It’s a good set-up, with lots of candy for someone like me, who shares a certain nostalgic fondness for 1980s games and culture. And yet, that wouldn’t be enough. Thankfully, it doesn’t have to be. The story stands alone, and I suspect you could enjoy it without caring about the 1980s, though that’s a hard premise for me to test objectively. I really enjoyed the main characters, and the theme of under-resourced independent freelancers vs. over-wealthy, win-at-all-costs corporate drones fits the story well and is handled more gently than you might expect. Subplots (a romantic line and a reality vs. fantasy line) mesh nicely and fill out the story well. Highly recommended to anyone in my age-bracket, though I’d particularly like to hear from someone who isn’t and read the book anyways. View all my reviews
 The Alloy of Law by Brandon Sanderson I discovered Brandon Sanderson’s work in 2009, and not in the usual way (by reading his postmortem completion of Robert Jordan’s monstrosity). In Elantris, a standalone novel, I found his creativity within the realms of fantasy to be amazing. In his Mistborn: The Final Empire trilogy he proved he could sustain such creativity over an impressive number of pages. Besides his apparently bottomless supply of innovative magical systems, most fascinating to me was the way he completed an entire story in the eponymous first book of the Mistborn trilogy, only to have the entire novel be a kind of subtle critique of storytelling in general. At the end of book one the hero has triumphed, the evil emperor is cast down, and we all realize that the emperor wasn’t that evil and that killing him has just screwed the world big-time. It’s like the Rebel Alliance finally managed to kick Darth Vader and Emperor Palpatine’s asses only to discover that hey, maybe they weren’t doing such a bad job of ruling the universe after all. Oops. Anyhow, I was in Bellevue the other day keeping myself occupied during a snow storm while my lovely wife practiced for an upcoming concert. Wandering the shelves at Barnes & Nobel, I chanced upon the New Fiction shelf and found to my delight that Brandon Sanderson had a new novel out, and that it was set in the world of Mistborn. After choking up an entirely too-large wad of cash (seriously B&N, I like your stores, and you served me well that day, but neither of those things is worth what has essentially become a 50% markup over the now-normal price for a book), I set-to reading the cover materials. It seems that even when returning to one of his already established worlds, Sanderson can’t help getting creativity all over everything. The Alloy of Law indeed takes place in the world of Mistborn, in the very same city in fact, but 300 years have passed since the world-altering events that ended the original trilogy. Some of the magic of that original world remains, but some has been lost. And time marches on, of course, so that what was once a creative re-take on standard sword-and-sorcery fantasy has become a unique mash-up of western and steam-punk settings. It’s not tongue-in-cheek Victoriana by any stretch, and the setting works in support of and service to the story as it should. Still, I like me some railroads and gaslamps and was thrilled to see Sanderson treat the genre to his particular madness. The novel ends satisfactorily, but leaves plenty of room for more in the same vein. Here’s hoping Sanderson taps that vein again soon. View all my reviews
 Bobos in Paradise: The New Upper Class and How They Got There by David Brooks The first thing I wanted to know was "what's a Bobo?" I didn't raise my hand though, because it was the middle of the Bishop's address at Diocesan Convention and it didn't seem like question time. The Bishop had just mentioned Brooks' book as containing pertinent information for Episcopalians. This was last October; it tool me a few months to get to it. To answer the obvious question, a Bobo is Brooks' created term. He makes it out of Bohemian and Bourgeois. His thesis is that these two broad cultural forces—the conservative, wealthy, establishmentarian bourgeois and the intellectual, reactionary, counter-cultural bohemian—which used to be so much in opposition to each other are now reconciled. From the 1850s through the 1950s the bourgeois and the bohemian were opposite ends of the cultural spectrum. Since the 1960s the newly risen meritocratic upper middle class has united them in ways that show up in consumption patterns, marriages, and spirituality. It's an interesting thesis, and Brooks writes with deft use of anecdotes and plenty of amusing turns of phrase. I don't often laugh out loud when reading non-fiction, but he had me at several points. It isn't scholarly cultural analysis, which he admits in the introduction, but for broad strokes his argument gives insight. A particularly interesting point for me is that this book was published in 2000. Before the dot-com crash. Before 9/11. Before the housing bubble popped. You'd think these events would render the book hopelessly out of date. There are certainly blind-spots, but on the whole much of what Brooks says still holds true, despite profoundly changed circumstances. In fact, I found myself putting more trust in his conclusions precisely because he'd drawn them without knowing what would happen in the next decade. If you can make a point about culture that still carries water after the culture is profoundly diverted by external events, then maybe your point carries even more water than you first thought. If you're interested in some lightly used populist analysis of the new upper-middle class, give the Bobos a read. View all my reviews
I've been out of town for my past two birthdays (Colorado for 35, Belize for 36), so this year Jieun has been bugging me to do something special. Of course, in her mind "something special" means a fancy (and expensive) dinner. I don't think what I've come up with here is what she was imagining, but hey, it's my birthday! So I started to plan something fun, and since my Birthday is the day after the MLKJr. holiday, I decided to make it a whole day with Jieun and our four closest friends in the area. One of the most significant things to happen to me this past year is my commissioning as an Army Reserve Chaplain, so I set out to compose a vaguely military invitation to the day. I began by listing the addresses and times of the places I'd made reservations, but before long a theme developed and things had gotten totally out of hand. I've read this three times now and it still makes me laugh (self-entertaining is one of my finer points), so I've decided to share it with you. Thus: http://bit.ly/wfiNW6
 Rule 34 by Charles Stross I looked at the cover of this book a long time, once I'd picked it up off the "new fiction" shelf at the Puyallup Library. I was having cover deja vu—couldn't remember the story when I read the jacket material, but it looked so familiar. I ended up taking it home based mostly on the blurb where the author was praised as a "master of the near-future." Near future sci-fi is very hit-or-miss for me, so I was curious about what mastery in the niche genre read like. I'm recommending this book mostly because I want someone else to read it and tell me what the hell...? I'm a pretty astute reader; I've had lots of practice. This one, however, left my brain spinning, and I can't decide if that was on purpose or not. I enjoyed it. Glad I read it. Still not sure if the author mismanaged his (admittedly) complex plot or if I just couldn't keep up. Someone let me know. Meantime, let me tell you something about this novel that is, in my experience, almost completely unique: this novel is written in the second person. [Technical note, since even my really smart friends are asking: 1st person is the "I" perspective, 3rd person is the "he/she" perspective. Both common in novels. 2nd person is the "you" perspective, as in "You walk into the room and smell blood, which is how most of your Mondays begin, now that you think about it." The only other books I can think of that do this are the Choose Your Own Adventure books I read as a kid. Can you think of another?] Of course I noticed the 2nd person perspective right away, and was aware of it throughout. This isn't a great sign, novelistically speaking; you'd rather people notice your story and not your writing. And yet, is it even possible to write in the 2nd person and not have it be constantly noticed? It's just way too rare. My second concern was that the author had done this just to stand out. I can understand the impulse, having studied the publishing context the past couple years. The more I read though, the more I thought it worked. I'm pretty tolerant of oddity in novels, so your experience may differ, but I liked it, if only for the variety. The author doesn't pull a single punch either. He's already made you uncomfortable by choosing this unusual perspective, but then he piles on by writing multiple points of view. Not only are you being forced to experience the novel as one of the main characters, your are being forced to adopt the perspective of different main characters each chapter as the author rotates through his approximately three POV characters. How can there be approximately three main characters? Damn good question, because he's not done messing with you yet. First you're forced into the odd 2nd person perspective, then you're forced into a multiple POV situation, THEN he makes the characters people you probably can't identify with. First chapter I'm a lesbian cop with career issues, second chapter I'm a bisexual muslim man with a family, third chapter I'm a predatory psychopath on meds. And there is no shortage of graphic scenes to illustrate these different life-choices. Let me tell you, as a Standard White Male, all of this required some serious mind-bending. The approximate part comes in when you realize over the course of the early chapters that there is some kind of maybe-artificial-maybe-guided computer intelligence at work, and occasionally there's a chapter from that perspective that isn't clearly identified. Three main characters? Four? You have to finish the book to find out. There's a lot going on here. It may be that you'll find the novel a failure as a work of literary entertainment, but you've got to appreciate the madness involved in even attempting such a thing. I may buy a copy just so I can have this conversation every time someone stands in front of my bookshelves. View all my reviews
[This went out as a Friday Letter to my church, but I thought I'd repost it here for my other friends.]
My Brothers and Sisters in Christ,
26 December, also known as Boxing Day, holds a special place in the life of clergy and their families. With all professional obligations of the holiday discharged, we are free to soak up whatever atmosphere of festivity remains. If we are particularly brave (or particularly foolish, depending on your opinion of the matter) we can partake of the many after-Christmas [sic] sales. This is helpful, as I, at least, often fail to complete the requisite shopping and shipping before the magical date of 25 December.
So it was that Jieun and I found ourselves contending with a myriad others for space in the parking garage at the Bellevue Mall this past Monday. Traffic within was no less crowded, yet we managed to acquire several gifts (at reduced prices I might add) before fleeing the premises. We whiled away the afternoon in downtown Seattle before making our way to Town Hall, an historic meeting room that has become my favorite Seattle venue for concerts.
We'd purchased tickets in advance, but they were only general admission, and here general admission looked a lot like arriving late to board a Southwest Airlines flight. We found seats just a few rows back from the stage, but all the way around at the side. The horn players were mostly hidden from view, but we had a privileged line-of-sight to the drummer and pianist at work.
Grace Episcopal Cathedral in San Francisco began life as Grace Chapel in the gold rush year of 1849. It was rebuilt twice over the years as the city became more prosperous and more populous, and the third church was grand enough to be casually referred to as Grace Cathedral until it burnt down in the fire caused by the earthquake of 1906. Work on the current structure began in 1928 and was completed in 1964.
As part of its grand opening year, the new Grace Cathedral atop Nob Hill was to host many celebrations, ceremonies, and cultural events. Among these was a sacred concert—a body of music composed by Duke Ellington. Ellington had had a religious upbringing (I'm quoting the concert bulletin here) and intended to compose spiritual music for much of his life. He drew inspiration not only from his childhood but also from the civil rights movement, saying, "Every time God's children have thrown away fear in pursuit of honesty—trying to communicate, understood or not—miracles have happened."
Earshot Jazz in Seattle has been putting on annual concerts made up of Ellington's sacred work for the past 23 years. On a whim, following an email sent at the last minute, Jieun and I ended up at this year's performance, sitting due South of a stage facing East and packed full of a twelve piece jazz orchestra, a twelve voice choir, and a pair of soloists. Thank God we did.
They opened with In the beginning God. I assumed the title had been bereft of its punctuation and the verse shortened merely for logistical reasons. I was wrong. Ellington meant to leave that comma out, and he found enough theology in those four words that the three that usually followed had to wait their turn. The lyric is amazingly simple:
In the beginning God.
In the beginning God.
In the beginning God.
No heaven.
No earth.
No nothing.
In the beginning God.
The power of these words is evident just written on the page. When sung they transcend.
The soloist was listed as a baritone in the program, but if he was a baritone I'm glad Ellington didn't write a bass part. If the soloist and James Earl Jones had a conversation I'm pretty sure an earthquake would result from the sympathetic resonance. Throw Barry White in and it's armageddon for sure.
That original sacred concert in Grace Cathedral began with In the Beginning God and ended with David Danced Before the Lord with All His Might, a piece the Seattle Repertory Jazz Orchestra arrived at after intermission. It's really something to hear a full big band—five saxophones, four trombones, four trumpets, piano, drums, and base— really go after a song. Throw in a full choir and you've got something powerful that is seldom heard anymore. Then they brought out the tap-dancer.
I know.
I can't believe I'm going to try to convince you that tap dancing can bring tears to your eyes. Perhaps you know more about dance than I do (not difficult, given how little I know) and will believe me. If not, you'll probably have to see it yourself before you'll credit what I'm saying. All I know is that when that young man in his three piece suit walked out on stage, and stepped forward onto the mic'ed up wooden platform... What happened next was magical. I'll never in my life read that verse again—"David danced before the Lord with all his might"—without thinking of that tap-dancer and knowing the depth of passion that dwelt in that dance.
Music is a language, and Jazz a dialect of that language that I have come to love. I leave you, on this the sixth day of Christmas, with the wisdom of The Duke: "Every man prays in his own language, and there is no language that God does not understand."
Peace,
Ben.
A friend passed this on to me and it is WAY to good not to share. I'm putting it into my personal recipe book just for kicks. Enjoy! (whatever the cost >:-) Bolognese MachiavelliVia Brendan Adkins of ommatidia.org - Arrange to have garlic and onions cast into hot oil.
- The carrot and celery you must divide against themselves. Ground beef, too, shall turn upon the burner; crush any coherent resistance with a spoon of wood. Sautee until no hint of blood remains to stain your hands.
- Perhaps, in a dark place without witnesses, the tomato shall meet with the knife.
- The basil and parsley you may use without consequence. For long minutes, all shall be muddled and roil on the surface of the flame.
- If it is most advantageous, store cold for the proper day.
Sometimes I think that blogs are dead, dying, passe, old news, yesterday's hotness. This might be true (I'm on Twitter!), but they've been saying the same thing about books ever since radios became widely available, and I still like me a good book (note ironical understatement). Thus, I come before you this day to recommend to you a new blog which I think is amazing. Tom and I overlapped in seminary, though he was working on a doctorate in church history while I was a lowly MDiv student. He has an amazing memory for details and a dry, sarcastic sense of humor that that outranks my own easily. He's also a man of great faith as well as dedication to the church--a dedication that comes with a healthy skepticism as regards our fallen nature as an institution. Tom has recently begun blogging under the name of "Crusty Old Dean", a reference to a favorite episode of The Simpsons as well as to his relatively new position as Dean of Bexley Hall Seminary. He is currently in the middle of an extended reflection on how the Episcopal Church governs itself. So this might be of limited interest to you, depending on why you come to my website, but if you are involved in, curious about, have any love for The Episcopal Church, you really owe it to yourself to check out the Crusty Old Dean.
I have previously maintained a kosher-esque separation between this website, which is mostly writing oriented, and my other odd hobbies. No longer. I'm a gamer-nerd, and I'm proud of it!
Soapy-clean little models
A new game I've been wanting to get into is called Dystopian Wars, by Spartan Games out of the UK. It's a 2mm scale game, meaning the models are all vehicles and not individuals. The game is set in an alternate history and has a definite steampunk flair going on. After the week-long game-fest this past June when I went to Colorado to visit my brother Isaac, I bought the starter sets for two different factions of the game. Last weekend it started raining and I decided to bust one out and get painting. The models are resin, which I've not worked with before, but I hear you're supposed to clean them really well so that the chemicals used in the molding process don't later react with the paint. The photo above is a fleet of models drying after their dip in soapy water.
FSA Battleship and Cruisers
In the world of Dystopian Wars, these models represent The Federated States of America. The background of the world is fascinating, covering the second half of the 19th century and postulating a hidden cache of alien/ancient technology that is discovered under the antarctic ice, spreading over the world and leading to global conflict as different nations struggle to incorporate newly powerful weapons and the vehicles that deploy them.
The game incorporates land, sea, and air units, a variation unique in my experience and one I'm excited to try out.
Bombers on megneto stands
The above picture is of the two bombers included with the FSA starter kit, which I'm trying to mount on magnets to their stands, making storage easier. I'll have to report back on how that works, since I'm waiting for the glue to dry before testing them out.
FSA Frigates, with basecoat paint
Here are three Frigates with a trial run of paint. I'll do a coat of stain/poly for shading once I've got the whole lot of them done. I've never painted at this size before and am not quite sure how much of the microscopic detail to try and hit. I've just used three colors on these guys and am hoping the stain will make them look epic, at least from a few feet away.
Areoplanes, which are more steampunky than Airplanes
As of this posting, I am still working on the SIXTEEN bases of areoplanes included in the set. I hope these guys are useful in game, because they are annoying to paint in this quantity.
That's all the modeling/gaming news for now. Stay tuned for more, unless you now think I'm crazy (hint: you're right).
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