My simple art

My Simple Art Mix (version II--new and improved) by Montagsonfire on Mixcloud

This is what I do with myself when, after weeks of work and travel, I finally have a free weekend.

Enjoy--or be very worried over the amount of time I spend on not doing housework and exercise.

My bad

. . . joke of the day, that is.

It's a fact: "Sharon" isn't the last name of the lead character in the cartoon version of The Little Mermaid.

You're welcome.

My latest groove

Sunny Levine (and if that isn't a California name I don't know what is) featuring Orelia, "Wouldn't It Be Wild?" Courtesy of KCRW, of course.

It's just sand in my shorts that's making me cr(ank)y

The movie's entitled Beaches because they didn't have the guts to call it "Bitches."

I remember seeing this not long after my brother died and thinking, this is the worst exploration of loss and grief and resolution you could possibly imagine. Done by someone who has never experienced any of the above.

While at the time it felt as though I were alone in that conclusion, I was heartened to see years later in an episode of Absolutely Fabulous ("Death," 1994), one of the guest characters lay waste to the movie's "depth."

Sondra, a particularly unctuous pop psychologist from California ("I brought you a copy of my new book, Hey! It's Great to Grieve!"), noted that she, too, had felt great sadness in her life.

"You are talking to someone who has sat through Beaches twelve times."

Yep, that would count as profound suffering in my book. I'd be crying endlessly for sure, mostly at having been tortured by all the schlock and histrionics.  

Beaches gives a whole new meaning to the term "water-bored-ing."

A message to myself, 02.14.2014

I don't know about our love, but mine is definitely insane. Much like myself.

Happy Valentine's, losers. And I include myself in that category, most definitely.

A message to my love, version 12.31.2013

Another year, another heartache, another chance at life and love and whatever happens in-between.

Happy new year, y'all.

Well, d'ya, Cleveland?

Driving back from Cleveland on Friday night/Saturday morning, I was trying to find the right radio station for the drive home--something to comfort me, something to keep me awake, something to nourish my soul. In other words, nothing at all featuring the Top 40 hits of today, tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow.

Luckily, along the way, I discovered WCSB, the independent, alternative station broadcasting from Cleveland State University, via which I heard this fantastic, hilarious, and contemporary remake of Rod Stewart's semi-execrable-yet-perfectly-of-its-time "D'Ya Think I'm Sexy?" The group is the Hybrid Kids (sorta, maybe, kinda--or maybe it's just the musician Morgan Fisher--or his studio group, British Standard Unit?) and it's a contemporary song alright--1979 contemporary, released within a year of the original.

I was surprised to say the least to learn that this song wasn't new--although, admittedly, who but the very desperate or the very camp would do a remake of a top pop hit from 1978 at this late stage, nearly 35 years after the fact? Nevertheless, the biting humor and delivery, plus the industrial sound, make this cover version seem very current and relevant.

Maybe it's just that so much modern pop sounds so dreadful and synthetic. (Yes, I am old.) I couldn't help but wish this were some new, adventurous musical combo, attacking the "classics" and soon to set its sights on modern times, the usual suspects of Lady Gaga, Britney, Katy Perry, and whatever the boy band du jour is calling itself at the moment.

Alas, no. The late '70s and early '80s had it going on, and we're still utterly lost and hapless at critiquing pop culture, regressing almost to an early '60s let's-take-everything-at-face-value system--just with more tits and more asses.

Oh, but why be bitter? This little ditty sits so pretty in my consciousness now. It's just the brain food I needed to keep me going through the early daze of the holiday season.

Now if I could just do something about getting a decent flight out of Pittsburgh International. Or perhaps just up and move to Cleveland instead. This one little mindbender of a track gives me hope that there's some life out there after all in the Midwestern quadrant of American culture.

Even if the track's performed by a group of Brits.
 

Happy Thanksgiving, pilgrim!

Jonathan Frid as Barnabas Collins. From Wikipedia.

I spent a good portion of the American Thanksgiving holiday celebrating exactly how some of our Puritan forebears did: Eating too much turkey and standing idly by while our friends and neighbors were accused of witchcraft.

In other words, I caught up on several episodes of the 1960s gothic soap, Dark Shadows. I have been watching (slowly) the early black-and-white the return of Barnabas Collins episodes on Netflix, but my dear sister had purchased volume 5 of the DVD collection, covering part of the seminal 1795 storyline.

This is one of the major storylines of the series and probably my favorite era for the show. It goes like so: In the present day (1967), governess Victoria Winters (played by quintessential '60s beauty, Alexandra Moltke) has participated in a séance at Collinwood and has been accidentally transported back in time to the year 1795. There she meets the pre-vampiric Barnabas (Jonathan Frid), who is about to marry the love of his life, Josette du Prés (Kathryn Leigh Scott), fresh off the boat from Martinique with her family and scheming handmaiden, Angelique Bouchard (played by the frostiest of frosty blondes, Lara Parker), a real witch. No, really, she is a real witch. Except everyone thinks that Vicky is the witch--and she's about to be accused of such and tried by the evil, sanctimonious Reverend Trask (Jerry Lacy).

I know, I know: "It's a soap" you say. But it is a brilliant one. Despite the bumps and burps in the production, I still think it's one of my favorite TV series of all time. The creative forces behind Dark Shadows knew what it was about, and they did it well for a number of years. The costumes, the stories, the writing, the sets, the acting (yes, the acting)--all were focused on conveying a vision of this perfect, mesmerizing, frightening universe.

The contemporary American soaps--what's left of them--could learn a lot from a show that only lasted on air for five years and yet still commands an audience--on DVD, on Netflix, and in dreadful remakes--almost 50 years later.

Act II: A Homecoming

Twenty-five years in the making . . . and worth every second of the wait. Agnetha Fältskog may never be the most dynamic performer on stage, but it still seems like a major victory to see her on performing again after all these years, keeping current, in good voice, and looking serene and happy. It's a long way from the more fragile- and dissatisfied-seeming Agnetha of nine years ago, when she released the wonderful My Colouring Book.

Maybe this is my cue and my clue: There are indeed second acts in life, maybe even third and fourth ones. Thanks, Agnetha, for showing us (or even just me) the way with charm, grace, and humility.

Anger really should be an energy

And if it were, I could keep North America toasty warm all winter long.

The attitude will improve . . . someday. I swear.

Mmmmm, yes

Two weeks and counting until I reenter my own sensual world. Hurry sundown(s). Only 13 more to go.

No te preocupes--it's only Día de los Muertos

"2 Hearts" by Kylie Minogue, perhaps the only song off of her 10th album, X, that I actually enjoy. It's rather slight and quite atypical of the rest of the album, but her voice is in fine form on this track, much better than on many of the other songs from X.

This was her first album post-cancer treatment, which I suspect did a number on her energy levels and vocal chords. "But she can't sing!" Indeed, Kylie can, but too often in the 2000s I feel as though she's chosen not to, for whatever reason. Saving her energy for vamping, maybe. Compare her post-cancer treatment version of "Over the Rainbow" with her pre-cancer diagnosis version. Listen to "Aphrodite," the song that should have been a single, from the 2010 LP of the same name. Or tune into Kylie Minogue 1994. She sounds in great form on all of these. Because of her health issues at the time of X's recording and launch, I'll give her a free pass on, at least for her lackluster singing. I still can't forgive crap like "Wow" and "Nu-di-ty" though. Not feeling your best can only be excused for so far.

I really like the imagery for this video, even if, given her recent recovery from cancer, it can seem a tad gruesome. There is the fun glam band look--sort of a Muppets meet Mott the Hoople gone mod--which I have no problem with. But those skulls . . . they're a little macabre.

Which may be the point. The video imagery makes a bold statement: I've played chess with death, I kicked his ass, and I look great in a catsuit to boot.

That widow's weeds version of a Marilyn Monroe dress is not to my liking, however. William Baker giveth and William Baker taketh away.

I don't know if Kylie & Company were inspired by Día de los Muertos, Day of the Dead, the Mexican commemoration of All Soul's Day, in which ofrendas are built in honor of deceased loved ones and candy skulls and bread that looks like bones are everywhere. No matter. The video seems a fitting tribute to what was one of my favorite things about fall in San Antonio.

Te extraño, San Anto. Just not quite enough to move back.

Now *this* is a horror movie

Das Cabinet des Doctor Caligari -- a German Expressionist psychological thriller/horrorshow, made in 1920 and now in the public domain. (You're welcome, universe.)

How and why do I love this movie? Let me count the ways--or not. It's late on Halloween after all, and I need to get to bed at a decent hour.

So the short version--to me this is one of the earliest movies I've seen so far that turns a motion picture into art. The acting, the storyline, the costumes, and mein himmel, those sets!

I try to turn people on to this film every chance I get, but to little avail. Not for everyone perhaps, but I was staggered by it the first I saw it, late at night on Turner Classic Movies sometime in the '90s. I had heard about it long before but had never managed to see it. Bucket list item nummer zweitausend vierundneunzig -- to see this film in a proper cinema.

Despite the silent movie style, I think the film holds up surprisingly well. I still find it chilling--but then again, I scare rather easily. You be the judge.

But bitte, Tim Burton and Johnny Depp, do not attempt a remake this movie. Ever. Despite your professions of admiration otherwise, clearly you didn't get Dark Shadows at all (which somewhat reminds me of Doctor Caligari, if for no other reason than the menacing atmosphere it conveys). If you attempt to re-lens this classic, I couldn't be held responsible for the eternal curses I would heap upon your damned souls.

Llámame, quizás

Paella valenciana - Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

So during one month, the National Security Agency collected data on 60 million phone calls made in Spain--not mainly on the plain nor in the rain, but the NSA would be more likely to know that than yours truly.

Really, hombres, finding the perfect paella recipe shouldn't be that hard. Try a cookbook.

¡Viva España!

You've (not) got a friend in Pennsylvania

This has been my ohrwurm for the week, "Let's Call It Off" by Peter, Björn, & John. I'm not sure why this has stuck in my ear so deeply and intently this week--it's been a pretty good week. I'm not thinking of calling anything off or out in particular. Maybe it's just the sublime catchiness of the song--the beat! those guitars! that calypso steel drum! the higher and lower timbers of vocals singing together! Again, with the modernized '60s sound for me. I'll never change my Merseybeat ways. No, never.

To my ear, Peter, Björn, & John don't always get it right. Songs like "Young Folks," "Blue Period Picasso," "Amsterdam," "Second Chance," and "Let's Call It Off"--these to me are perfect examples of their talent. I think I've never gotten past the excellence of the Writer's Block album--subsequent PB&J long-plays have left me a little indifferent, mainly because the music has become coarser--more rock-'n'-roll, less jangly pop--and the lead singer (to my listening) gets a bit monotonous after repeated listenings. It's why I like "Amsterdam" and "Let's Call It Off" so much--they vary the vocals and transcend the tried and true.

Probably time to go back and give Living Thing and Gimme Some a relisten. I didn't even realize there was a Seaside Rock LP until just now.

Perhaps PB&J are on my mind this week because it is fall in Pittsburgh--although at times this week, it felt like we'd shifted into winter, what with the howling winds, snow showers, and gray skies. The first or second winter I lived in Pittsburgh, can't remember which, I had the chance to go see PB&J at Mister Smalls in Millvale. It snowed that evening, and I bailed on the concert, not trusting my Mini to maneuver the freeway or the hills and dales of a Northside steeltown. It was probably a wise decision, given the Mini's subsequent performance on icy, snowy roads. And perhaps the concert was even sold-out (me and my poor planning). But it is (another) missed opportunity. For musical satisfaction, yes (I still experience pangs of regret for never going to see The Blue Nile when they performed in D.C. some 25 years ago), but also for my adapting to life in Pittsburgh.

I think it would come as no surprise to readers of this blog that Pittsburgh leaves me cold (literally, figuratively). I do not get Pittsburgh--or perhaps I do, and there's just nothing much for me to get. I have felt incredibly out of sync with the town ever since I got here, and the town has more or less has consistently reminded me of my out-of-stepness.

Where do I begin? And do I even want to? It didn't help that I moved here in grief over my father's death and did not take up readily some of the offers made to me for socializing. How could I at that time? I felt like I spent the first year or two here, wishing I was wearing a black armband, like some 19th-century mourner, to let everyone know to stay away. Now that I think about it, I probably did as much without benefit of the armband.

It didn't help that in my first job here, I spent more of it away than at home and did that for the first 3-1/2 years of my existence here. It didn't help that I couldn't get laid here to save my life, that Pittsburgh extended by a few years my mojo-less life in Pennsylvania, that once again I had to go to Canada to get anything going on. I know I'm getting older and maintaining my fighting weight is a constant struggle, but I don't seem any older or heavier than anyone else here. Why have I been unable to connect in that most quintessentially man-to-man way?

It doesn't help that people here seem brusque on the surface and somewhat depressed during the long gray months of winter. (If you can get behind the surface, they are ultimately OK.) It doesn't help that it is an insular town, disinterested in the outside world, isolated from it by the hills and the clouds to paraphrase my Central Pennsylvania friend NoRella. It doesn't help that I have never found a group to fit into, a community to be a part of, or encountered very many like-minded individuals with whom I could be friends, learn from, and share with. Which, for me, is what I'm here for, what we're all here for: To have fun, to be friends, to enjoy each other's company, and hopefully make one another's lives a little bit better.

It doesn't help that I am easily bored, getting older, and probably too cynical for my own good. It doesn't help that I gave up trying to love Pittsburgh, or even just to like it. It doesn't help that I can't even remember when I gave up. It doesn't help that I can't figure out how to get out of here, to move on to the next phase of my life, assuming there is one.

So maybe I do know why PB&J are stuck in my brain this week. Because I'm stuck in my brain this week.

Let's call it off. Let's call the whole thing off. Now how to do so? And when and where?

Doogie Wowser, or, a two-minute hate crime

From Suri's Burn Book. (It's a kind of Bible of celebrity children.)

Early in your life as a gay man, you get the question--either from people you know or from yourself:

"If you could take a pill that would change you from gay to straight, would you take it?"

I've always said no. I can't imagine being any other way. I am who I am. I like being gay. I feel it gives me a different perspective on life, culture, and society, and I wouldn't change that for the world.

(Plus hairy men are very sexy.)

Perhaps I would have had that worldview regardless--while outwardly conventional, I'm pretty on the inside . . . pretty jaundiced, pretty mistrusting, pretty cynical, pretty questioning authority, pretty nobody's fool.

OK, maybe not all of that is on the inside. Point taken.

I can't help myself from having a strong detector of bullshit, and goodness knows there's tons and hectares and kilos and acres of b to the s in the modern world. I would hope I would be that way, regardless of my sexuality and affectional orientation, but being on the outside looking in at the snowglobe of Western life, how can you be anything else but cautious and caustic? I'm not convinced it's any better in the non-Western world--in fact, I'm fairly sure it's not--but I only know one world, and I'm more than familiar with its problems, quirks, flaws, challenges, and . . . bullshit.

Anyway . . . back to the question at hand: Would I change being gay if I could?

No . . . except when I take a look at the Burtka-Harrises, aka Doogie Wowser and Companion (Vinnie Delpenis?), aka the Omnipresence of Self-Satisfaction that is Neil Patrick Harris and clan.

Oh, I'm impressed. It can't be easy being a child star, turning out to be gay, then forging a successful career in modern America as a fly white guy, a lothario on an incredibly execrable sitcom, a manorexic metrosexual of song-and-dance, non-threatening in a way, yet still able to share pics of your happy gay family with the celebrity-slavish world in which we exist.

But enough is enough. I don't want to be this kind of gay. I couldn't if I tried. And I would prefer no one else be either.

This is . . . not normal. And it's not progress either. It's playing to our stereotypes. We're cute! We're thin! We're family-friendly (in a fashion)! We're safe! We're dress-alike clones, sexless twins rather than same-sex lovers! Please don't think about us having butt sex or sucking each other's cocks!

Yes, I am playing to another stereotype: The gay man who treats other gay men with scorn, probably out of my own fear, loathing, and discomfort of our kind. But it's a chicken-egg scenario here: In a way, isn't NPH and family creating a hostile environment with all this perfection and wealth? Aren't we--the single or those of us in less fabulous relationships, the childless and those of us with "average," less print-model-friendly children, the middle class and poor, the non-white and the white cracker, the non-famous or even just the B, C, and D Listers--being held in a kind of contempt? Aren't we considered loathsome and actively being loathed? "Aspire to us! But you'll never be good enough to aspire to us! So fuck you!"

Fuck you back, Neil and Partner and your A-Gay world.

I'm dating someone right now, and, more or less, I couldn't be happier. We are similar, outwardly conventional, inwardly not willing to accept the status quo. Who knows where it will go or for how long? But I love this man because while we are similar in some ways, we are different from each other, too, physically and culturally. And we are different from the world in which we live, outsiders to our culture, gay or otherwise.

We don't want kids. We talk about living together and even marriage (jokingly), but I don't think either of us is into the ceremony or trappings, just the love and companionship.

More power to you if you want all of that. Clearly culture is on your side at the moment. But give the rest of us some room to breathe, to be ourselves, to be different.

That's the power of gay, the power of "queer," if you will: Being different and flourishing in our difference.

I did not come this far to be like everyone else. Or worse, like some happy freakshow families stereotype of heterosexual life.

/rant off.

Jihad me at "infarction"

From CBC News, 20 October 2013

Ah, Dick Cheney. Your overblown sense of self-worth coupled with your corrosive paranoia know no bounds.

Random idea: If you weren't such a horrible human being who caused so much harm to the world (whether through your tenure in the U.S. government or at Halliburton), perhaps there would be less for you to worry over.

But then, you wouldn't be the big Dick that you are, now would you?

I'm just a girl who loves horses

Image created by Nurmsook and taken from Wikipedia

My heart belongs to Heartland, the Canadian TV series based on the Heartland series of books by Lauren Brooke. (Or not, if the Wikipedia entry is to be believed).

I'm not sure I can explain this to anyone, let alone myself, why I enjoy this series as much as I do. It can be maddening at times, the plotlines, the plotholes, and the plot-by-numbers imagery in places. (Oh, we'll get to that, don't you worry.)

There's also the essential premise of the series, that Amy Fleming, the show's teenage heroine, is, in essence, a horse-whisperess, sensitive to the nature of the equine race. It's not quite as silly as it sounds, or as I'm making it out to be. Mostly Amy is just patient, caring, determined, and respectful in her care of horses. Amy's plucky but not in an obnoxious way. In fact, she is headstrong and often makes some dumb mistakes along the way--although these might not necessarily seem like mistakes to what I imagine is an overwhelmingly tween fanbase for the show. I'm sure she comes across as passionate to this crowd, a fiercely romantic and sensitive lead. To her credit, Amy is strong, self-reliant, and not often afraid, which are good values to impart to young women and men both.

You also have to accustom yourself to the idea that every guy wants Amy. Not that her portrayer, Amber Marshall, isn't gorgeous, the epitome of the cornsilk-and-sunshine-haired, Alberta blue-skies-and-eyes cowgirl. But it gets ridiculous sometimes, especially when Amy is so moody.

But ah, heterosexuality, I will never understand you.

I far prefer Lou Fleming, her more urbane (and thus more neurotic--this is the worldview of Heartland and probably Alberta in general, I would imagine) big sister. Played by the lovely Michelle Morgan, she, too, has her fits of pique and drama, but she's also got a good sense of fun, humor, sexiness, and slapstickiness about her. She's the brunette fall girl to Amy's straight woman, if you will.

Once you get past all that--as well as the idea that the books have the story set in Virginia, USA, and the TV series has been tailored to the mythical town of Hudson, Alberta, Canada, somewhere near Calgary--it can be a very enjoyable series.

Maybe it's the beauty of the scenery, which even transmitted through the network HuluPlus, looks gorgeous (and cold, I should add, very, very cold). The mountains, the snow, the rivers, the sun, the charming town, and the expansive landscape. It makes me dream of our own modern Wild West, except one with single-payer health insurance and same-sex marriage. On the surface, Alberta appears somewhat akin to Colorado in terms of scenery and culture. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

Perhaps it's the heartwarming storylines, which alternate between drama and humor, all of it very family-focused--but I hasten to add, not family wisecracky in a cheesy, American sitcom way, nor (un)subtly Christian-themed like I dunno . . . I try never to watch those kind of shows. I've heard the show described as a family saga, and I think that description is most apt. People do have sex in Hudson (at least out of sight). They kiss. They drink. They fight. A few probably even smoke (whether tobacco from Ontario or "tobacco" from British Columbia I could not say). So while the show is wholesome, it's not like it's Canada's answer to 7th Heaven.

In Heartland's case, by family-focused, I mean that stories revolve around the tight-knit Bartlett and Fleming clans and the people and events that come in and out of their lives. People have arguments, get jealous, laugh, cry, tease, do insensitive things, love, hug, shirk their responsibilities, are stubborn, are wise, and more--but ultimately they all come together for the common good.

With the exception of Val Stanton (Wanda Cannon), a character I love for her naked avarice, horsey set nouveau richeness, passive-aggression (at best), and that kinda ridiculous mid- to late 2000s Meg Ryan hairdo. What was that style called? "Suburban Soccer Mom Cornshuck Doll"? *Luv* it in all its horror! And Wanda Cannon plays the role with mucho gusto.

There are also the men, of which Heartland's casting directors have consistently selected well, in terms of physique and character. There's dueling Marlboro Men, Jack Bartlett (Amy and Lou's grandfather) and Tim Fleming (Amy and Lou's absentee father), who are strong-willed, ruggedly handsome, real men's men, and ultimately mensches, good guys even when they're not always kind or right. There's Lou's beau, Peter Morris, who arrives in season 2, a driven "oilman" who also manages to be funny, goofy, and romantic altogether. (OK, so that's a bit of a stretch--I keep envisioning Bobby Ewing blended with Laurel and Hardy--but I can't blame Heartland for trying and succeeding.)

And there's perhaps my personal favorite, Amy's off-and-on beau Ty Borden, who manages to be both incredibly adorable and "safe" while also being fierce, proud, and even scary when provoked. There's a lot of power in Graham Wardle's small frame, both in terms of physical and spiritual energy.

Not every guy is golden. I can understand why Lou is underwhelmed in her romance with Scott, who just seems too dreamy and dewy-eyed to be her heart's desire. Likewise with rodeo cowboy Caleb, who is beautiful to look at and a fine actor but who looks way too pouty-lipped for a bronco-buster to be taken to heart. 

Nonetheless, I think Heartland does a good job of offering a guy for every girl (or another guy, if one should be so lucky). Personally, I struggle weighing the charms of Jack, Tim, and Ty (and Peter, Scott, and Caleb while we're at it. Often the macho Tim lights my torch more than Ty--I prefer prime beef over young buck as a general rule. But then Tim goes and does something douchebaggy, and the affair is over.

I like how, overall, the show seems to get guys right--as proud, competitive, intense human beings who fight when necessary but who can also be kind, thoughtful, sweet, and, yes, even communicative. Contrast the Heartland guys with any of the men from a David E. Kelley show (take The Practice, for example), in which the guys all seem neutered by the presence of the strong female leads. The men don't seem like men. They seem like Ken dolls: sexless, plastic, and compliant.

Oh, there are missteps in the show, plotholes you could ride a pack of wild mustangs through, imagery and cultural assumptions that make me want to choke on my beef jerky and pemmican. Like I said, everything urban is seen as dangerous, neurotic, and needy, whether it's Lou or her girlfriends visiting the ranch from New York ("New York City!"). I'm sure the First Nations population of Canada must have cringed and eye-rolled through the whole Victor Whitetail episode in season 2, in which Victor channels his native mysticism and general quirkiness to help a white girl get back her equine mojo. And we get it, we get it--Ty and the Ghost Horse are one and the same, wild mustangs that cannot be tamed without the love of a good woman/mare.

For the record, I really don't like horses. The Heartland cult of the horse even seems a little creepy sometimes, but then again, I feel that way about people's slavish devotion to cats, dogs, and other animals. Just what are y'all sublimatin'?

Nevertheless, I just finished season 2 this week, and I'm looking forward to season 3. If for no other reason than it gives me more time to work out my fantasy project, the Men of Heartland calendar.

I gladly claim copyright for that idea.

Love jihad

I am in lust with this song, "Love Jihad" by Skip&Die. That is all.

Who knew He was so needy?

So Jesus died for our sins. Thanks, I guess, but did anyone ask him to do this? A card or a gift certificate for an oil change would have sufficed.
Honestly, the people I am "friends" with on Facebook and the groups they follow and share with the rest of the world. Lord, save us all.

It's bad enough dealing with their crazy lust for guns/the permanent exile of illegal immigrants and welfare scofflaws (or whom they perceive as such)/the head of Barack Obama on a rusty trashcan lid. But then two groups--"FB/CuteguysOfficial" and "Shut-Up-I'm-Talking"--have to proselytize for abject Christianity and turn Jesus into some sort of passive-aggressive, stalkery boyfriend-savior.

I think it's fair to say that while I was raised Protestant and can appreciate its history, traditions, and even some of its practitioners (Jimmy Carter, for one fine example), I long ago gave up on participating in its activities and the whole let's-bash-you-to-death-with-the-love-of-Jesus mentality. I'm not sure I was ever on board in the first place, in fact.

I have nothing against Protestantism, per se. In fact, I rather like how Protestants fought against the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church and aimed to have a direct spiritual relationship with God, rather than through some dodgy intermediaries.

I also have nothing against Jesus, mind you. He seems like a great guy, one whom if we actually listened to, we might learn something, and actually treat people by the guidance of Christ's principles, something we often claim to do but fail miserably at.

But I'm bored and frustrated with this tradition. I'm not sure if Jesus is the son of God. I hardly think it matters. The more important thing is what did He (and God) try to tell us? How does it resonate in the here and now? Are we listening? And what will we do about what we heard?

From Planet Earth, Team America Division, in October 2013, I'm guessing we were all staring at our phones while He was talking.