HAHAHA who is this? Mom? Is that you again?

Tim Tebow believes everything he says. I know this because I used to be Tim Tebow. Well, not literally, of course, you dumbass. I mean I used to say the things Tim Tebow says and I used to believe the things Tim Tebow believes.

There’s a temptation among “non-believers” to lump all “believers” into a single category of “crazy religious people.” It’s actually quite easy and fun to do this, especially when the majority of religious people seem to fall so readily into the “crazy religious people” bin. You’ll know they’re genuinely crazy religious people when they take pride in being labeled as such and then proceed to picket military funerals or strap C4 around their belts and ride the bus. I’d like to suggest that this level of “crazy religious person” is actually quite far down the periphery of religious folk and Tebow is definitely not in their ranks.

Tim Tebow is passionate in his belief and love for Jesus. (I’m going for the Most Obvious Sentence of 2011 Award). Although this may be classified as crazy by some, it is not disingenuous. Tim Tebow is a devout, well-intentioned, evangelical Christian in the truest form. This is why he is so beloved. This is why he’s treated like Jesus Jr. within his community of faith and observed like a zoo animal by the rest of the godless horde.

While some may be dismissive of the idea, there actually is quite a large spectrum of belief and praxis within Christianity. The diversity of theology and culture is what makes the faith fascinating (to me, anyway), and what we’re seeing in Tim Tebow is a classic evangelical Christian. Evangelicals wear their God-lovin hearts on their sleeves. In theory, they don’t do it to show off or be prideful in their piety; they are up-front in their expressions of faith because they believe that Jesus is the most important thing they can offer the world. This is the underlying philosophy of short-term overseas mission trips: while clean water and food and a sustainable economic infrastructure are great, the Gospel is the most important thing I can give to my Third World neighbor. Jesus is the bread of life, not you know, actual bread.

So, when Tim Tebow says his annual summer trip to Dad’s orphanage in the Philippines is what makes him most happy, he means it. It is his adherence to a higher calling. It is living life in the most fulfilling way possible - the way Jesus would have done. Evangelicals believe it is their duty to be the hands and feet of God. That means everything they do, whether in word or in deed, is intended to honor the Almighty. As an Evangelical, everything matters: what I say, what I do, how I walk, how I dress, how I behave in front of Brent Musburger.

I’d bet a year’s salary that Tim Tebow has read or heard about a book called, The Prayer of Jabez. It’s a pocket-sized text based on the prayer of a little-known character in the Old Testament named Jabez who invoked a simple prayer: “’Oh that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain.’ And God granted his request.” Evangelicals interpret this prayer to mean, “bless me so that more people will be within my sphere of influence.” In other words, “God, help me be successful so others will look up to me and I can tell them all about You.”

Every time Tim Tebow wins a game, his territory is enlarged and when he mentions his faith or thanks God in an interview or Tebows after a game, he’s doing you a favor. He is sharing with you the most important message he knows. Like The Secret before The Secret. He may not be preaching to you directly and he may not be holding a bible study in your home, but he is bringing God into your conversation, and that honors Him. Tebow believes that his actions and expressions of faith, no matter how indirect they may be, will somehow compel you to be like him. The crazy thing? When you’re Tim Tebow, it works! Tebowing toes the line of irony because it’s often done in jest but is also a huge win for the evangelical Christian community. When was the last time words like “faith” and “God” have so dominated the dialogue of sports? Tim Tebow is God’s bulldozing hype man into the secular world.

When asked by reporters about his frequent conjuring of the Lord in interviews, Tim Tebow disarms the questioner by responding, “If you’re married, and you have a wife, and you really love your wife, is it good enough to only tell your wife that you love her on the day you get married? Or should you tell her every single day when you wake up and have the opportunity? That’s how I feel about my relationship with Jesus Christ.” While godless heathens like Chuck Klosterman are surprised by such a lucid reply (jk, CK, i love you, I’ve got all your books), it’s just one of many canned analogies Evangelicals are taught from an early age. There will be more, especially if you start questioning his beliefs. Tebow will explain the Trinity to you by comparing it to the 3 molecular phases of water (ice/water/steam=God/Jesus/Holy Ghost). Tebow will talk about the faith of Abraham and Job and he’ll encourage his teammates by reciting a proverb about iron sharpening iron. This is what a good Christian boy does, and he does it earnestly.

There are more “crazy religious people” within the Christian faith than I can shake a stick at; and at times, it seems the hypocrisy of the church knows no bounds. It’s the diversity of belief and culture that’s led to the proliferation of hundreds of denominations and the unbelievably asinine nature of “church drama,” but if all the in-fighting has honed one skill, it’s our ability to spot a fake. No one is faster to accuse a believer of hypocrisy or impure motives than a fellow believer. I’ll tell you this: no fellow believer doubts Tim Tebow’s motives. He’s criticized for being calculating and throwing religion in your face. Well, that’s because he is. That’s what he’s trying to do. In everything he does, whether in word or in deed, Tim Tebow wants you to look at him and think about Jesus. If Tim Tebow sold steak knives for a living, he’d be the same way. Except he’d be the “crazy religious steak knife guy.” Football is just what he happens to be doing now. He wants to win games and be the best quarterback of all time because it broadens his territory. His final destination is not money or fame or victory, they are means to an end: to hype Jesus on the biggest platform in America; ‘cause Elway ain’t done shit for Jesus.

Tim Tebow is modest about everything except his faith. That’s because he’s following the words of the Apostle Paul: “I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God for the salvation of everyone who believes: first for the Jew, then for the Gentile” (Romans 1:16). In a world full of Jews and Gentiles, Tim Tebow is not ashamed and he’s not lying.

vicemag:

Take a Stroll…with Rob Delaney - On Hating Gay People

I have a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Musical Theater from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. I studied jazz, tap, and ballet for years. I’m terrible at sports and I’m an excellent chef. I think Judy Garland is sublime. I realize those facts are like a spacious warehouse of red flags broadcasting homosexuality, but the fact is, I’m straight. If I had to guess, the chief indicator that I’m straight is that when I think about or stand near women, my dick gets hard. When I’m around guys—even fit, muscular ones with no shirts on—my dick remains in its dormant state. When I’m around women, I think about my dick and how it might feel inside of their body somewhere (like their vagina; not like in France or something, though that would be nice too (I just remembered that I speak French too, which can often identify an American man as “le gay”)).

When I’m around men, I don’t think about my dick, unless it wriggles out of my boxer flap, as it sometimes does, and touches a cold button of my jeans’ fly, and then I’m like “Get back in your cubby, you little rascal!” and nonchalantly adjust myself.

Bepenised Texan Rick Perry’s been in the news over the last few days for releasing a nakedly bigoted anti-gay ad that he believes will help revive his dying campaign. It won’t, but it made me think of a story I recently heard that illustrated the mindset and motivation of someone who actively fights to reduce and take away the rights of homosexual human beings.

It’s the story of a young man slowly discovering and accepting his homosexuality and it is extraordinarily painful and beautiful to hear. I cried. What’s most interesting is that the guy in the story used to actively and publicly campaign against gay rights.

People who concern themselves with the rights of other adults who engage in consensual acts involving sex, love, and/or eating croissants together are damaged and in pain.

Hating them won’t work. That doesn’t fix anything.

So far, the greatest quote I’ve heard in my 34 years is this: “Hatred never ceases by hatred in this world. By love alone it ceases; this is eternal law.” Gotama the Buddha said that about 2,500 years ago. Since it’s eternal, as he said, that means it applies right now.

I’m not suggesting that Rick Perry or those who campaign against gay rights are gay themselves. Some of them are, some of them aren’t; I don’t care. But they are damaged by, and damaging with, their hatred. I hope, for them, and for the people they are actively harming, that they can begin to experiment with some kindness and sympathy, and try on for size that Golden Rule that benefits both the giver and the recipient with real and immediate peace.

Homophobes aren’t going to hell, like they often say their perceived opponents are. Rather they are in hell, and they prolong their stay with each hateful act, word, and thought. They can leave whenever they want.

I hope you will listen to this story, because it is wonderful. It’s from an episode of This American Life called “So Crazy It Just Might Work.” It’s about a guy named Benny, whom you’re going to love.

Listen

Well I came to the city
I was running from the past
My heart was bleeding
And it hurt my bones to laugh

Jesus.
Another perfect song. Two verses sung and then Derek singing for another.

I knew the weed was kicking in when my fingers became cold. My body temperature was dropping and I felt my head bobbing back and forth with the motion of the bus. Not violently, but in a way that made my head feel about 3 pounds heavier.  

And then came the intense focus on listening. “I have super human hearing right now!” was the first thing I muttered when I was fully lit. I could hear everything: the drunken, murmuring up front, the three clowns arguing about nothing a few feet away, every word to Theophilus London playing in the background, the crunch of Fritos beneath someone’s feet. I was taking it all in. I wished my hearing would stay that way; listening with such clarity and focus. 

Everything was funny. Every insight, groundbreaking. Every moment deserved my undivided attention and love. I was hunched over with my arms crossed into my chest and just staring, listening to my terrific friends and being thankful. I kept making mental notes to remember how thankful I was to have such amazingly funny and entertaining friends, each with his own “classic” identity that amplified itself when inebriated, or at least when I was. I’d keep it together and giggle like mad every 2 minutes when someone would say or do something that so perfectly summed up who they were:

“I’m really feeling like opening these shades is what I wanna do right now. Yea guys, let’s open these shades and see the sun.”
He opens the shades and the rays of a perfect sunset splash in.
“Wow, this is the best idea I’ve ever had in my entire life. It’s such a beautiful sunset guys.”
Without missing a beat, someone yells from the back: “Shut the f*ck up.”
I laugh hysterically. So classic those guys! 

I wanted so badly to write on that bus, to remember what I was feeling and record my thoughts about the characters around me. I was high and freezing. My sense of hearing was incredible and moving proved to be overstimulating. So was eating. Someone tossed me a fun sized Snickers bar and it kicked my ass. Chocolate and nougat pounding away at the tip of my tongue. I raised my hand to get the attention of the drunken horde:
“Guys, this flavorful chocolate bar may have been a huge mistake on my part. It is just too intense for me right now. Please be careful.” 
We all laughed. I was hilarious.

While I kept climbing I became more still, listening harder. I was now picking up subtle changes in road noise and hearing the small rattle of a zipper from the luggage packed behind me. My vision was in tilt-shift, adjusting my focus as I listened in on a quiet conversation up front:

“I’m not f*cked up right now. I’m fine.”
“Yes, you are! Don’t lie!” I yelled across the bus.
Everyone’s head turned.
“Why are you listening in on our conversation motherf*cker? How did you even hear us from back there?”
“Cuz I told you, I can hear EVERYTHING right now motherf*ckers!!”
We all laughed. I was hilarious.  

It was fun while it lasted and it lasted a more than a few discomforting hours. Edibles are to be taken with caution, boys and girls. I think it’s real what they say about our true selves being revealed under the influence; in vino veritas. I suppose that means deep down I’m just a giggly bitch who loves his friends and wants to write about how great life is. What I miss the most, even more than the super human hearing, is the courage that comes with the high. Well, not so much courage as it is diminishing fear and insecurity. I needed a guitar and a mic on that bus. I played DJ without giving two shits what other people thought about the music I was playing. It was good enough for me. 

This is all stoner talk and I sound like an imbecile, but I swear I had some genuine bouts of clarity while I was high. I was happy and grateful and brave. I wanted to write and make music. I had deep empathy and compassion for the people around me, as flawed as we were. I was a funny sonuvabitch too. I’d like to think that’s who I really am. I’d also like to have the super human hearing back. Classic me. 

This is where I grew up. 
This is why I am the way I am and why these kids will probably be too.  

Frederick, MD 21702.  

theweekmagazine:

UC Davis police employed a brand of pepper spray called Defense Technology on peaceful student protesters. The lowest concentration, 0.2 percent, is authorized for tactical deployment. A concentration of 1.3 percent is powerful enough to stop a bear. The type used on the students has a rating of 0.7 percent. The manufacturer recommends the spray be used at a minimum distance of six feet, yet the officers in this case sprayed it on sitting students at near-point blank range.

Police vs. Occupiers: How dangerous is pepper spray?

I won’t lie and pretend to know or particularly care about the Occupy protests, but this is absolutely stupid. What the hell is he thinking here? We need equal and immediate retribution for crimes like these and we need to broadcast it on my network television series “F*cked Up!”

(Source: holymaurymotherofgod)

Vince Gill at The Troubadour 11/16/11.
Can’t remember the last time I paid $25 to see a 20-time Grammy winner play a venue that fits less than 250 people. Did I mention he played for 2 hours and 45 minutes with no intermission or opening act? This is why I love country music.

The guitar playin warn’t bad neither.

Vince told about a dozen stories throughout the night. Stories about his badass judge dad and his inspirations for songs like Cowboy Up (Levitra) and Go Rest High on That Mountain. He spoke a lot about his first time playing the Troubador 35 years ago. He was 19, had just moved to LA and the Troubadour was his first gig. In the audience that night? His two biggest idols: Emmylou Harris and Rodney Crowell. Vince actually covered one of Rodney’s songs that night and was invited up to the dressing room. He and Rodney became best friends and Emmylou wanted to write with him. Talk about fate. 

Back for the first time in 35 years last night, Vince walked up on stage, strapped in his tele and took a good long look at the audience staring back at him. No greeting, no wave, but he had that trademark Vince Gill-ian warmth in his face and the first words out of his mouth were, “it’s gonna be some crazy shit in here tonight.” The band rolled into One More Last Chance and kicked ass for the next two and a half hours. 

Feist at The Wiltern 11/12/11

Chilly Gonzales opened. Funny and brilliantly entertaining with his spiel on politics and transposing well-known major key songs into minor. Minor version of Ode to Joy and Happy Birthday were particularly “jewish” as he noted. Chilly’s piano playing is furious and reminds me why the piano is in the percussion family. Loved it.

Feist is a songbird in every way. She sings her between song banter. Her voice is clear as a bell and her guitar playing is sparse and tactful. The songs take on a whole new life (as they should) in a live environment and her music is so incredibly dynamic if you let it breathe with a full band onstage. Metals has a significantly darker tone than her previous two albums, but the sounds were deep last night. The highlight for me was My Moon My Man which was timed perfectly and loud as fuck. Love it when drummers do that. 

(photo credit: Timothy Norris)

I really hope Fred has more of this ready to go for Portlandia season 2. 

I find prodigies fascinating. This is incredible. 

I used to be a snotty little bastard.*

A song would come on the radio and I’d immediately identify everything wrong with it: “The mix is terrible.” “The bass sounds like my nephew farting.” “The compression feels like a baby drill sergeant is having karaoke night in my left ear.” “Really? Another song about making it rain up in da club?” “This is retarded.”

Then it was on to the artist: “Nippleback really need to stop making music.” “Remember when Katy Perry was good? Neither do I. She needs to stop making music forever.” 

It always ends with some variation of, “[so and so] needs to stop making music.” This is what a critic does, because the critic is a coward.

The critic is a coward because he does not create. He does not participate. In the arena of creative sport, he is a bystander: feckless and incapable or too afraid to enter the playing field himself. The critic is a coward. He is the impotent bastard child of self-doubt and arrogance, frustrated by his own failings and driven mad with envy by the unworthy success of another. I am the critic. We need less of me.

Tumblr is full of critics. Well, critics and curators. Curators are people who compile a buncha shit they didn’t create and put it together as if the compilation itself was a creation. Curators love to quote famous people. Curators reblog pictures of Karl Lagerfeld and Tyler the Creator and Ninja Turtle Noses as discoveries that represent their true selves. Collecting items for show-and-tell is not creation, it is curation. If not for HTML, curators would be pasting magazine cutouts on poster board to hang on bedroom walls - desiring piggish squeals and seal claps for their exquisite taste and classiness. High brows and raised pinkies to white poster board and paste. We need less of these.

What we lack are creators; Pros unfazed by critics and oblivious to reblogs and Like buttons and retweets. Creators with integrity and work ethic and talent. People who create because they have to; not for youtube views or passive income, but just because. People who find an empty space and fill it: something out of nothing. Writers who pen originals and musicians who do the same. Artists unafraid to share because their inner critic is stronger than the ones outside. These are the brave ones. Because when the dust settles, the creator leaves behind something of substance. The critic’s opinions die with him.

Creation is forever. I wrote it. I sang it. I drew it. Nothing can ever change that, and no goliath of snarky criticism can ever wipe it off the face of forever. It won’t always be great, but at the very least, it’s original. 

I guess what I’m trying to say is: create something. Be brave. Have no fear of judgment, because once you’ve created it, you’ve won. You’ve conquered the fear your critics could not. The fear will always be there, but the creators fight with courage, daily.  So, write your stories, sing your songs, snap your pictures. Be You. If they hate it, challenge them. Challenge them to participate and watch them wither like daisies.

Be You, and don’t let the critical misanthropes like me keep you down.    

*By “used to” I mean “am” and by “little” I mean “fat.”

“Yeah… so if you DON’T want junk mail, tell us EXACTLY where we SHOULDN’T send junk mail to… yeah…that’s right, right in the form there… don’t forget the apartment number…yes… this will ensure you don’t receive any more junk mail… yes…”