Column and some other stuff.

Hey, gang.

What am I, Archie?

Anyway, not a lot of time to write something original this afternoon. Homework to do. I would like to say that I finally stumbled across a fresh copy of Who's News, so I'll likely post a double-feature next Sunday. Given the hundreds of comments following Sunday's commemorative 9/11 edition of the feature, next week's offering should be a home run.

Sigh.

I was just in the Student Center eating my tiny portion of lasagna and in the room next door, separated from me only by a pane of glass, a group of teachers was wrapping up a meeting. They had a table full of cookies, and I desperately wanted to run in there and steal as many as I could before they called security.

I'm losing a lot of weight - too much, probably - and I need to find a happy medium between complete caloric deprivation and sheer gluttony. My Nutrition course will likely prove helpful in my quest; I just hope I don't lose 80% of my body weight in the meantime. I'm below 129. This is crazy.

That's it except for my column and to tell you that I'm sitting at a computer desk that is built such that the keyboard is approximately shoulder high. This is ridiculous. I demand ergonomics. People may be starving and getting raped in the Sudan, but the conditions at this desk are inexcusable.

By the way, someone shoot me an e-mail at rottemeister@yahoo.com and remind me to blog about dolphins tomorrow.

Peace, grout.

COLUMN O' THE WEEK

Every year my mom renews my subscription to Billy Graham’s publication, “Decision” magazine, so once a month I fill the bathtub to the brim, immerse myself in the latest Bath and Body Works concoction and dutifully read the inspirational tales of faith contained therein.

The common theme is how just when people reached rock bottom—as they transferred their last dollar from savings to checking to cover rent—their prayers were answered. The job offer of a lifetime. A $10,000 bank error in the writer’s favor. Aunt Mildred died and left enough to pay off the credit card debt. And all because people trusted Jesus to come through in the nick of time.

Come to think of it, Jesus probably wouldn’t off Aunt Mildred, so scratch that one.

It brings to mind casino billboards featuring beaming seniors proudly holding oversized novelty checks. “Gladys from Oak Park Heights won $5,000 playing the nickel slots.” The photos would have you believe the only thing standing between you and financial independence is feeding coins into a one-armed bandit for a couple hours.

Much as casinos don’t publicize the 99.9% of people who nickel and dime away their childrens’ inheritance without seeing a payoff, magazines like “Decision” never feature folks who, despite their best efforts and intentions, never get a break. The writers of such publications have the greatest minds in Christendom at their disposal, yet their advice often consists of little more than “Jesus loves you, therefore things will be all right;” a millenniums-old sacred text synopsized into Cliff’s Notes.

Jesus may love me, but there are times I think he forgot me. I can picture him checking his voicemail and discovering four decades worth of missed prayers from yours truly.

July 17, 1977, 9-year old Tom pleads with Jesus to help him through his piano recital. Result: Piano bench required professional stain removal.

October 21, 1987, 20-year old Tom requests guidance on whether or not girlfriend is “the one.” Result: Marriage dissolved in ugliest manner possible 11 years later.

May 2, 2005, 37-year old Tom asks Jesus to “Bless my mom and dad.” Result: Dad dropped dead of a heart attack the next day while digging a trench.

And so on. Christ would fast-forward through the messages in a panic, realizing he’d totally dropped the ball. He’d page his secretary and ask “Can we arrange for Bonnett to win the next Powerball or something? Toss him a bone, for Christ’s sake. For my sake, I mean.”

Most people are familiar with the “Footprints” story; how the single set of footprints in the sand represents when Jesus carried you through times of trouble. In my case I wouldn’t put it past Christ to say “Sorry, dude: While you were swept away in the tide, I caught the most awesome wave. Cowabunga!”

Sorry, but Westernized portraits of Jesus lend themselves to liberal use of the words “awesome,” “dude” and “cowabunga.”

In all honesty there are times when I’m reading “Decision” that I get resentful at mom for sending it. Much as I wouldn’t send pictures of food to the African child I sponsor, I wonder why mom sends her struggling son a glossy magazine featuring people who are not only spiritually fulfilled, but seem determined to rub it in.

Just as I’m ready to call mom and ask her to stop sending me the theological equivalent of Army recruitment literature (which stresses scholarships, not death and dismemberment), I remember what I know about her life.

Mom isn’t one of those insufferable specimens, pampered from cradle-to-grave, who have never experienced a shred of adversity and can therefore afford to exhibit blind faith. You know the type: A burned hot dish is cause to rend their garment and cry “My God, why have you forsaken me?”

To the contrary, my mom has experienced things in her life that, but for her dignity, would have fueled scripts for countless Lifetime Network movies. Yet despite enduring trials and tribulations that would make even the most stoic Oprah audience shed tears, she maintains the unshakeable belief that ultimately, Jesus loves her and things will, therefore, be all right.

Maybe my problem is that I’ve been seeking the spiritual equivalent of a giant novelty check when what I’m really doing is wasting my life at the nickel slots. Next time I hop in the tub with the latest “Decision,” I’ll ask Jesus to toss me a bone. Give me something—anything—that remotely applies to my life. Hopefully he's not screening calls that day.