Resettlement Chronicles VI: Timing Flies When You’re Having Fun

Author’s Note: Comment moderation is turned back off as while we remain dead to the city, we are yet now alive to the web.

Town living has awakened in me a bloodlust for bugs that is neither slaked by time, nor lessened by distance. Legions of flies have been crumpled by my deceptively light and cheery glamdring , and legions more writhe upon pasted strips. In the evening and under the eaves, with a lance of poisoned liquid I smote down two wasps’ nests ruins upon the ground.

At the second engagement, one foolhardy wasp  dared to meet me in single combat. Blinded by rage and Spectracide Wasp and Hornet Killer, he charged me. So fierce was his flight and so great his confidence that he foreswore his own lance and we literally went head to head. Piercing my windmilling arms of defense, he slipped under the bill of my Boston Red Sox helm, and rammed himself face first into my forehead. Upon impact, I let loose the warmaiden’s cry and pummeled myself in the face; dislodging both my headgear and my pride in the process.

But that bug is deader’n a doorknob now.

Resettlement Chronicles V: Dark and Bitter, Like My Women

We did, in fact, double the congregation of the little church we shall be attending. They meet in the fellowship building prior to services, and we chatted with the half dozen septuagenarians and octogenarians for a bit before church. I’ve never been offered coffee so many times in fifteen minutes. Finally I relented, and followed an old fellow into the kitchen.

“How do you take it?”, he asked.

“Black as you can, sir.”

“Now that’s the only way.”, he approved.

As I mentioned there is no choir. The CD started and the father began singing the processional hymn, “America the Beautiful”. The old folks let him ride solo until we Caldos joined.

Tina, my oldest, can really belt them out. That’s why we moved here. So she let ‘em have it good and strong; a hymn like hot black coffee in the morning. Then the old folks approved, and joined us.

Resettlement Chronicles IV: The Old Made New

The other day I wrote about hearing a train. There have only been 4 so far, and only one at night. Even better: The siren score currently sits at zero. Trains are a mighty fine change of pace.

We’re attending a new church tomorrow. I hear we six shall nearly double their congregation. There is no choir, nor organ. I shall miss them.

By a stroke of providence it is pastored by a former curate of our last church. We liked him very much, and were encouraged by his presence here to make the move. It has been at least four years since we last saw him, and at that time had no intention of ever being within his parish. In fact we meant to be move the other direction. We have mused that he was sent to blaze our path.

Resettlement Chronicles III: I The Relative Importance of Time and Space

Last night we stood out in the street in front of our house and watched the fireworks. Our street is directly in line with the “city” park where this town held its Fourth of July festivities. I suppose town park sounds strange, but city is a strange descriptor for where we live now.

One thing that I’ve discovered is that I do have a natural sleeping pattern: Sleep at midnight and awake at 6:30am. Internet access has obscured this fact for years.

I had come to believe that I had two modes of rest because when I’m on the road for work I’m usually in bed by 10pm, and then up by 5am. At home though, my sleep has always been erratic; bed at 2:30am up at 8am; bed at 3:00am up at 7am; bed at 11pm up at 6:30am…nothing like a pattern.

I had convinced myself that I needed time to unwind after the kids and wife went to bed, and I think that was true years ago; truer anyway. My family stressed me out with an perpetually discontent wife and kids…

Kids are idiots. They’re beautiful and amazing blah, blah, blah. They’re also inconsiderate fools who contribute nothing and want everything. And those are the good ones. If you ignore this truth about children then you’ll miss out on some important lessons about yourself and others, the nature of reaping and sowing, the mystery of the how and when of the joys of work, and the fullness of love and responsibility.

In other words: If at all possible you should homeschool your children. And watch your Internet usage.

Resettlement Chronicles II: Between Crickets and AC

Author’s note: Comments are still set to moderation, but I can spit them through easier than I believed with the WordPress app.

One of the new joys here is a front porch with a swing. Last house didn’t have a porch. Can’t have a porch swing without one of those.

The neighbor came out to meet us last night. I was surprised because his house looks like hell. In fact I thought he didn’t actually live there; a forgotten fixer-upper. Crappy houses usually hold crappy neighbors, or none. But he’s a tradesman; young, fit, bearded, and tattoo’d. His clean-cut but tousled hair and smirking eyes are exactly the worrisome sort to hire as a poolboy. I liked him.

He came out with his son and introduced himself. We shook hands and then he went to go get the rest of his family; a wife and two more girls. I did likewise. He said, “You want to see the inside? I’ve been working on it.”

Beautiful. The floors and ceilings were wood. Walls had been knocked down and more rooms added. The kitchen is monstrous, and the stove is in an island over which a stainless steel hood hovers. He had $50,000 in granite counters, island, trim, and windowsills that he’d got in trade for some work he’d done. He said he’d been working on it for three years. Along the way he’d sold his truck and his band equipment to help pay for it all. He’s the rock’n’roll hunky handyman proto- millionaire, and a pleasant neighbor.

Last night Mrs. Caldo and I were watching a movie on that ancient tech: DVD. We had paused it, and I was in the kitchen. Suddenly I heard a loud, strange noise, and I thought she had started Lethal Weapon back up.

“Hey!” I yelled. She walked in. She replied in staccato.

“No. Way.”

I went outside, lit a cigarette and sat on the swing. I could hear the rumbling of the cars in between the blasts of train’s warning.

Resettlement Chronicles I: Away for Awhile

We moved today and my Internet service won’t be installed until next Monday. I don’t like my phone enough to post and moderate from it so I’ve set comments to moderation until I’m alive in the web again.

It’s dark here, and I just killed a mosquito a half- inch in length; not including the syphon.

How Dare You Associate Me With Them

Advertisers are the evil geniuses of our times, and Dalrock has a great sample of it on his site. I strongly encourage you to head over there and check it out. Talking to the choir here since 75% of my traffic comes from him.

The progression is pitch-perfect. The first montage starts out with a woman saying sorry for being rude (interrupting the presenter; possibly her boss) then it’s women saying sorry for non-offenses. By the end of it they’re saying sorry for offenses against them: crossed-leg in her space, stolen blankets, etc.

In the second, shiny and strong montage they’re not eschewing “sorry”, but the first woman outright challenges the presenter/boss. They they begin to offend, and finally they get to the pay-dirt: “Sorry I’m not sorry.”

The overt message is “Don’t say sorry and have pretty hair”, but the real communication focused on building brand loyalty: “Girl, this is Pantene, and I just wanted to tell you it was awesome when you told him to fuck off. Stay strong! So blessed!” Obviously that is done to sell hair products, but it’s important for fathers and husbands to understand how this is done.

If you try to tell a wife who likes that commercial that the message is “Don’t say sorry and have pretty hair.” she’ll hear you saying she’s an idiot because that’s not the message she heard. She heard the dog whistle about their support of her. But if you say, “Check out how they are appealing to women’s sin nature by communicating their support for you to fight with me. Do you support that? On what grounds do you think it’s a good idea to buy Pantene and tell them that their campaign to cause strife in marriage is acceptable?”

Nobody–Christian or otherwise–wants to be associated with sin nature. They’ll call sin anything else instead of sin. You put sin in her face like that and there’s an excellent chance she’ll automatically back off from Pantene and its message. Even if she still gets mad at you she will do so on the basis of How Dare You Associate Me With Them. Unless your wife or daughter just hates your guts, hates her own guts, and is truly and utterly miserable: She really does not want to be that person.

If she does get mad at you (highly likely), that would be the time to say, “Should I do that to you? How about I stop being considerate. Maybe Pantene’s onto something: From now on, no more consideration.” Then abandon the TV for a bit. Later that night, while she’s watching a show, change the channel and say, “Sorry I’m not sorry. Your hair looks great, by the way.”

I recommend smiling through the whole ordeal. You’re on the side of truth, and you’re fighting for your woman’s soul. You have every reason to fight joyfully. Honest to God: I can’t help but laugh at those times. It’s just ridiculous when you think about it.

Where Your Allegiances…Lie

According to the satanic interpretation of Just War Theory: Rebellion is the only and evergreen ground for initiating violence. Since, by definition, an authority cannot rebel against its subordinates, it follows that the merest use of violence by an authority–even for discipleship and administered in love–is fundamentally unjust according to the satanic interpretation.

Keep this in mind whenever you find yourself supporting an overthrow of some kind. And if you have an unshakeable aversion to the use of violence by legitimate authority regardless of the circumstances, then you should know that part of yourself is in cahoots with the Devil.

If, on the other hand, you revel in the truth that Our Lord Christ will return with overwhelming and unstoppable violence, then you can know that part of you has been redeemed from the bondage of lies.

A Helpmeet Shootable

If you’re bored and looking for another way to measure the media’s purposeful evisceration of womanhood–particularly wifely submission–play a game of His Woman in Film. Here are the rules:

1. Whenever you watch a movie or TV show, grab your His Woman in Film game board.  If you don’t have one, grab some writing utensils and form three columns. Mark the first column Show Title, the second Hero’s Woman, and the third Villain’s Woman. Your game board should look like this:

His Woman in Film

Before I go any further: Already we’re looking at one of the main ways Hollywood and the networks debase marriage. If I had you use the headings Hero’s Wife and Villain’s Woman, then there would not be enough qualifying films to make any thing like a reliable survey. Heroes are usually only allowed wives who are either pushing up daisies, or collecting child support. But, let’s continue with the rules.

2. Write the name of the movie you’re about to watch in the left column.

3. Whenever the hero’s woman undermines, disobeys, argues, mistrusts, or contradicts with the hero: Put a hash mark in the Hero’s Woman column and in-line with the film’s title. Do the same for the Villain’s Woman.

4. At the end of the film, total up the hash marks for each column, and compare to find the winner. Your game board should look something like this:

His Woman in Film Final

If you’re a fan of modern marriage: Congratulations! The Hero’s Woman won by a big, big margin. (It would have been wider, but Kirk Cameron’s character in “Fireproof” played both hero and villain.) The wives romantic interests of the heroes upheld the status quo, and used every opportunity to exert their empowerment to thwart the hero; thereby proving their worthiness as his equal in modern measures of courage and perseverance against The Man. She is The Helpmeet Shootable.

The significant others of the villains are equally instructive: Only bad women reliably submit to their men, and almost always to their own detriment. That’s part of how we are to know they are bad. However; because they are women and moxie is always within their grasp, Moderns should not lose hope. There’s always the breaking point at the climax of the film–a point of treachery that done does-in the dastardly dude–and the villain’s woman is redeemed to her noble and rightful place in the filmament. Or she doesn’t and dies a fool at the hands of her wicked master; thus cleansing all womanhood of wrongdoing.

I’m tempted to suggest that the rest of us fogies take a note from that other paragon of frustrating games, score by lowest number wins, and call the bad as good. But that doesn’t really address the problem, does it? That problem being: We’re grading ourselves according to a sociopathic standard. Doing bad is never good. We should start recognizing that by ceasing to say that it is.

Me So Holy: Evangelicals Love You Long Time

A touching story of modern Christian charity among those who need it most:

Belo Horizonte (Brazil) (AFP) – Brazilian pimps and a Christian evangelical group played a football match Saturday in World Cup host city Belo Horizonte, taking over a central street to raise awareness about sex worker managers’ rights.

Gathering just after Colombia played Greece in the southeastern city, the men set up an impromptu pitch using traffic cones for goalposts and played to the enthusiastic cheers of onlookers.

The pimps, calling themselves the Bootycall and Football Club — though in fact they played in the green and yellow uniforms of Brazil — teamed up with the visiting evangelicals from the United States to take on a local university team in a match with a message.

“Rights must be the same for everyone. We’re no different from anyone else just because we run dem hoes,” player Patrick Bonges told AFP.

“We are finally breaking that prejudice and stigma.”

His American teammate Jack Jenny said the game was about showing that “you just love people, you don’t judge, you don’t change people, you just love them.”

Pimps in Brazil have long complained of discrimination and called for the government to treat their profession like any other, including with programs to help older sex worker managers.

The match was organized by the Hand of the Pimp Association of Minas Gerais, the state where Belo Horizonte is located.

The association has also helped some of the city’s ballers prepare for the World Cup by offering free currency exchange, because a pimp has got to get his money in local denominations.

Hey Baby! You got girlfriend Brazil? Me so holy.

(H/T: Dalrock in this comment.)


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