Christian Counterculture

Via TulipGirl, today I read an excellent piece in Swarthmore College's alumni publication on Read Schuchardt, founder of the excellent Metaphilm.

The Schuchardts are outstanding examples of how Christian faith, consistently lived, can become countercultural. I've only met Read once, in NYC (he's a friend of friends), but have been impressed not only with his media-eschewing lifestyle (grounded in biblical philosophy as well as the ideas of Neil Postman, under whom he studied), but with the family's gung-ho willingness to trade near-poverty for a rich family life. The eight of them (that's right, eight), until recently, lived in a tiny apartment in Jersey City. (I had heard it was only two rooms but I'm not sure if that's accurate, or if I'm remembering correctly.)

I met a lot of missionary kids and home-schooled kids in college who also challenged my middle-class cultural assumptions. I could certainly use more of those challenges right now.

Meanwhile the Moppet watches Beauty and the Beast for the umpteenth time and we're planning a trip to the Land of the Mouse. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak...

Not in the Manhattan fishbowl, and oh so glad

Memo to Jossip: it's called quality songwriting and musicianship. That's why Fiona Apple or India.Arie would ever be considered for a cover story. (And, conversely, why Britney never would be.)

Oh, and the "plenty?" That can be understood, 'round these parts, as "one." (And Godric was working from home that day. Drat the luck.)

Still, we li'l ol' yokuls here in Georgia are chuffed that the snide Gotham eff-offs at Jossip (suggested motto: "We have Jude Law's Johnson") would even notice.

GASP!

This past weekend, my childhood haunt, Six Flags Over Georgia, decided to retire one of its most venerable rides, a parachute drop called "The Great Gasp!" Since the ride is 29 years old, I have fond memories of, first, watching my dad ride it, then riding it myself with him, back in the 70s and 80s.

So this past Saturday found me and the goddess at the park, but that wasn't the reason. We had promised to take a friends' children (ages 12, 6 and 5) to the park and this just happened to be the day we'd planned. Still, I found myself actually looking forward to the day just a little bit, since I'd be able to take a little walk down memory lane and get a button just like the one they'd given to the first riders.

So we get there, and of course we're scurrying about trying to keep everyone happy, fed, and adequately bathroom'd. The Gasp is a priority but it's way down the list. Then around 4 p.m. the heavens open and we get a thunderstorm to end all, and we're stuck underneath the covered audience section for the "Wild West" gunfight show. We keep waiting for the deluge to slacken, but just when it seems like it will, it comes down even harder. Two hours later, it has let up just enough for us to walk the mile to the gate, then the mile and a half to the car, so we start walking and very quickly are soaked to the bone.

The coup de grace comes after we leave the park. There is a tree down across the pedestrian path, which we're able to squeeze under. Then past it is a tremendous flood, muddy brown in color. (We don't know what was in that, but the 12 year old was happy to supply imaginative guesses.) We have no choice but to keep marching through the flood, which rises to our knees at one point. Finally, with ruined shoes, sopping clothes, blue fingers and chattering teeth we arrive at the car, which is parked next to the Chattahoochee River. (That it wasn't flooded there was a minor miracle.)

Naturally, there's backed up traffic and it takes another hour to exit the parking lot. When we come to the site of the flood we forded, it's no longer there. (Of course.) And my rendezvous with the Gasp? Unfulfilled.