Best Idea Ever?

I know I said this post would be religiously themed, but I just experienced something wonderful. 

I've fallen into the habit of reading news articles whilst I eat my lunch.  Distracted by a particularly good read on mind-reading (seriously), I picked up a small piece of grilled chicken and an icing flake from a cookie.  After the initial shock wore off, the unlikely combination was surprisingly delicious.  A perfect duo of taste and texture.  Based on this discovery, of which I am most assuredly the first, I am currently developing a business plan for The Real Chicken Pot Pie®.  Potential investors are welcome.

Anyway, I thought I would share that.

Syncopation

In light of the season, this will (well, should) be the first posting in a brief series on topics of a religious nature.  Some will be lighthearted, some will be serious, and some, like the one you are about to read, are so vital to the welfare of your mortal soul that you must absolutely read them.  And now, the topic of the day, the first step on the narrow bridge over the abyss of eternal damnation, is:

JESUS HATES SYNCOPATION

This occurred to me over the course of two Sundays.  Due to the recent illness of the church music director, the choir recycled the music list from the First Sunday of Advent for the Second Sunday.  One of the songs, "In the Day of the Lord," contains a particularly infectious syncopated rhythm in a scandalously titillating 6/8 measure.  Such was the power of these notes that they were in my head for the entirety of those two Sundays. 

While I was humming along, much to the chagrin of my wife, I couldn't think of another church song that contained such a syncopation.  I've come to the conclusion that, for whatever reason, church music singer-songwriters believe God hates syncopation.  Our God must be one that dislikes surprises.  Jesus likes his accents on the beat, thank you very much, and would prefer we don't go all wily-nily with the melody.  Think about it.  How many traditional church songs can you think of with a syncopated melody?

Albeit, there are those that flout the rules.  Beethoven added an unexpected eighth rest in the final strains of his "Ode to Joy" movement in the Ninth Symphony, which, given his advanced and cantankerous age and deafness, could be construed as a giant F*** You to the church.  Indeed, many hymnals today convert this eighth rest into a quarter rest and put the accent on the beat where it belongs.  Christian alternative rock bands depend heavily on syncopation, because God knows their lyrics couldn't carry their songs.  Unable to compete in mainstream alternative rock, these bands brought their acts to the Christian stage for the refreshing lack of competition and the even more refreshing, mostly disease-free, Christian band groupies.

It appears that plenty of devout crazy people agree with me.  A search for "syncopation in church music" turns up a delightful article in Sabbath Fellowship called, simply, "Christian Music?".  Ephesians 5:19 says, "Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord."

This apparently translates into:

"No one who has an indwelling Saviour will dishonor Him before others by producing strains from a musical instrument which call the mind from God and heaven to light and trifling things." 

The article goes on further to target syncopation:

"Syncopated music with its rhythmic emphasis is intoxicating to the mind. The hypnotic effect of strongly rhythmic music using intense harmonies has a damaging effect on the mind and body."

In other words, the melody of "Camp Town Races" is described like cocaine.  Doo-dah?  Doo-dead.

Ridiculously Giant Red Bow Makers Face Tough Times

In the recent Big Three hearings on Capitol Hill the focus has been primarily on the potential collapse of Detroit automakers and the imminent loss of auto worker jobs. Half of which have been outsourced to Mexico.

But lost in the hubbub of these hearings are those honest, hard-working Americans that corporate media sources rarely mention. Like the pilots of those private jets being auctioned off by GM, Chrysler and Ford. And like those guys who make the giant bows that go on the top of cars.

As new car sales plummet in this dismal economy the collateral damage is staggering. Ridiculously Giant Red Bow makers have shared in Detroit's past successes, but these days their Ridiculously Giant warehouses lay full with their celebratory product. The demand these days is nonexistent. To all those hubbies out there asking Santa for a shiny new Lexus, prepare to be disappointed.

Ridiculously Giant Red Bow makers have attempted to diversify. One such manufacturer fitted three elephants last month with his finest Ridiculously Giant White Bows, a wedding gift for a rich man in Dubai. Banks are looking at Ridiculously Giant Red Bows to dress up their foreclosed properties coming up for auction. And rumor has it that an even bigger Ridiculously Giant Red Bow will be used to gift wrap the White House for Barack Obama's arrival in January, smartly taking advantage of the after-Christmas sales.

The Ridiculously Giant Novelty Wrapping lobby has been calling in favors on Capitol Hill and rallying support for the Ridiculously Giant automaker bailout. Will it be enough to save the truly American, truly Ridiculously Giant, red bow? Only time will tell.

(Hubbub is scandalously underutilized in the written word. I'm bringing it back. Hubbub.)

The Ants Go Marching One By One...

Ants in nature are an entomological wonder that are rightly praised for their complex social networks and considerable physical strength. 

Ants in my kitchen are creepy, devious little critters that must be squished with tenacity at all costs.  Right now the loss of my house would be acceptable collateral damage if I could annihilate these guys.  In all wars the loss of innocent life and property are expected bumps in the path to victory.  Only the resolute press on toward their most worthy goal.

We never had an ant problem before.  I am fastidious with crumbs and I've Windexed any stickiness I have ever found.  This morning, however, one of my cats made the decision to vomit near our kitchen.  In the darkness that is 5:30 am I stumbled upon this Monday morning gift and bemoaned the weak stomach of my feline.  Then I noticed the black specs.

After that it is all a blur.  The rage and confusion of war does that to people, I hear.  I sprayed and skooshed, but they kept coming.  I beat them back, but the little buggers were relentless.  My orange tabby helped by licking up several unfortunate members of the ants' front line.  I am sure she vomited them up later.

It was only five minutes, but it felt like five days.  My eye twitched from the toxic combination of adrenal overstimulation and ant poison.  The war dead lay before me on the laminate field of battle.  The shell-shocked wounded wandered about dazed and confused.  This day was mine, but I knew they would be back.  I will be ready.

…hurrah, hurrah.