Except the fact that if I ever become a father of children, I will be so very glad that such a thing happens over a procession of years, and that I won’t get, say, five of them all at once. Because that’s just too much, alright? And frankly, my life wasn’t made to be the plot of a sitcom.

I read a piece of literature the other day about how people need to stop and evaluate what the real effect of technology on their lives is: what will be the societal effects of the utter proliferation of computers and chips into every facet of life?

In fact, I’ve even heard of people talking about computer dust now: microcomputers that can be sewn into clothes, or painted onto walls; the dust is self-networking, and when together en masse formes its own operating system and does whatever you need it to do. The profound effect of having computer power everywhere is something we can’t even begin to comprehend: and by the time we actually do, we’ll have passed it by as a society and be on to something bigger and better. Or, as it seems we’re going, smaller and better.

Speaking of smaller, I’m embarking on a rather unusual mission: to live like the Japanese. Considering how most of Tokyo’s real estate is worth incredible sums of money, the people who live in, say, the technological district are forced to live in spaces that are so small they almost defy my western-born imagination, and the pure art of miniaturization in such cramped quarters is something I would love to aquire. Certainly, I have too much stuff.

But the stuff that I do need to be where it is, that stuff can be fit into more efficient spaces than it is. For instance, my desk is obscene it its proportions, and that’s not even mentioning the CRT monitor and television that I have sitting almost right next to eachother. I’d love, for instance, to have a small, simple desk that could hold a 15″ flatscreen monitor (remind me why I need a 19″ CRT?) on which — should I buy a new graphics card — I could both watch what little television I watch and do my computer things.

My bookcases are another space waster: the books they contain only actually occupy about 60% of the shelf space. The rest is taken up by empty shelving. It seems as if somehow I should be able to buy or make my own bookshelves where the books come to the edge of the shelf. Of course, I’d have to bold them to the wall and everything, but that’s a small inconvenience.

What in the world was my landlady thinking when she installed a wetbar down here? Obviously the basement was intended for tenants, not just for a party room and pool table, so why the bar? Is anyone living in a bachelor pad actually going to care about whether or not there’s a bar? The answer: not many. In fact, the thing is a big (ugly!) waste of space, and it needs to go. But she’s not going to let me do that.

Western colture is a strange creature now that I think about it; Japanese ideals are very much informed by their religion, and also by the fact that their island is only so big. Ours is informed by our materialistic non-religious society, but again by the fact that there is just so much land we don’t really know what to do with it. Frankly, if I were in any position of power over such things, I’d pretty much put a stop on development: less urban sprawl, less suburbia; please, less suburbia.

Along that note, this culture simply doesn’t realize that we need nature. We need the wide open spaces, and we need them close by. How cool would it be to have a city that just ends in farmland? One moment city, the next moment, fields, forests. A pipe dream, you say? Well, if the Japanese culture is informed and influenced by the size of their island, why can’t ours be informed and influenced by the artificial limitations we place on ourselves? Face it, half the people living in those huge houses built smack next to eachother in horribly ugly subdivisions that go up ever year don’t need that size of house except as a status symbol; I would wager that most of them never really use 90% of the floorspace they actually had.

Imagine the priorities we as a society would have to re-evaluate, living more closely together: a sense of family, a sense of peacemaking, a sense of community. The myth of our corporate psyche is that a city is neccesarily crime-ridden and dangerous. it is, however, cheaper to police a city than it is to police large areas of twisting streets and cookie-cutter houses. Why not densify? It’s better for the economy, it forces people to re-evaluate the way they are living, and it certainly helps technology develop as people begin to seek technological solutions to space problems and the like.

However, some suburbanites’ view of the city as a place of high crime and ghettos is probably true to a point; but the ghettos we’ve developed in Canada are mostly a result of poor urban planning and also of fundimentally flawed “social programs” that basically pay people to remain poor. It’s a tragedy, really. There doesn’t have to be a part of the city that people instinctively steer clear of; in fact, the entire city can be safe, with forward-thinking social policy that doesn’t involve bleeding heart liberal chowderheads who throw money at people, as if money every made anyone’s problems go away.

And that’s about all I have to say about that: take it or leave it, this is only one man’s opinion. Maybe it doesn’t matter much to you. Maybe it strikes a chord. Tell me about it in the comment area below.

Also, to the person I called a chowderhead somewhere down there, if you’re someone I know, sorry for calling you a chowderhead. Sign your name next time, thanks.

We have an army, and we’re not afraid to use it:

Above is my broad thesis statement, and you are looking at it and devising ways to convince me that I should care what you think. Well let me tell you something (and please, I’m not trying to be rude: this is just the way it is), and that something is that I need to have a reason to care what you think before I think about caring what you think. If you give me one, I will care what you think.

For instance, if you happen to be in a close relationship with me, I care what you think. On a scale of one to ten, you get a ten. If you are my girlfriend, or my sister, or my best friend, I listen to you, because what you think matters to me: I care about you.

However, if you are in a close relationship to me, and you have constantly proven yourself to be a crackpot, I pick very carefully which bits to care about. You get a conditional eight.

No reason to stop now: if what you think has a profound influence on my life (for instance, if you are my pastor, my elder, my girlfriend’s father, or my life coach) I care what you think, most of the time. And you can probably make me care by force if you are in any of these positions, but that’s a really bad plan. Or you can persuade me that what you think is right: best plan out there. Or you can do a little bit of both. Not a bad plan, and I’ll probably see where you’re coming from, especially if you place some scripture in my hands. I give you an eight.

On the other hand, if you happen to be a raving right-wing nuclear afficianado, I will probably disregard this. I give you a zero.

This much I know. I am not an island, or a boat set adrift on the sea of my own opinion. If you want to see what that looks like, read Slashdot for more on people that think themselves the masters of their destinies (hint: they unconditionally hate Microsoft, George W. Bush, and Christian fundimentallists). I, however, am still a product of my influences. And if you are a person I respect — even though I may not agree with you — you have already influenced what I think. Congratulations, Douglas Wilson, you have profoundly shaped what I think. Kudos also flow to Derek Webb, Dan Haseltine, Augustine, Mssr Calvin (the theologian), Dr James MacDonald, and Ravi Zacharias. I don’t agree with these people all the time, but they have strongly influenced who I am. That group of men get a seven.

However, if you are an American Christian Fundimentalist Gay Basher, you get a conditional zero: that is to say, sometimes I don’t care what you think, and other times what you think makes me angry.

As it happens, I also don’t exist outside of community. In fact, I will go so far as to say that community as a whole shapes who you really are. There will, as always in all circles, be those in the community I respect more, and respect less, but I still love you people and want to also honor you by caring about your conscience. Which explains, of course, why I don’t have that lovely lip piercing that I so much liked. And why I don’t listen to loud rock music at parties when I know people will be uncomfortable with it; you’re still wrong, mind you, and Radiohead is still spinning in my spare time, but let me at least try to not lead you into listening to Radiohead with your murky conscience.

But let’s face it, if you’re a guy off the street, I really only care about your opinion if you happen to not be giving your opinion; that is to say, if you can convince me (it’s not hard, really!) that you’re actually right. And if you care enough to do that without driving me bonkers by insisting that Yes, Bush is the Mouthpiece of God; or that No, Bush is the Antichrist and Should Be Shot; or by being abusive; or by shouting out, “The end of the world is nigh, sinners!”

So I guess you could say that the title to this post was rather misleading. Sorry about that. But creating controversy for people that don’t like to read the entire post is rather fun.

* * *

In other news, I’m pretty sure that our Reformed circles could use a good dose of future hope. Nothing against our circles, mind you, but there’s always room for improvement. Yes, I actually just wrote that. Wow, I am such a rebel.

Anyways, look at Romans 8. I’m sure you’ll be gratified to know I didn’t just pull that out of my Happy Grab Bag of Random Opinions and decide to propigate it all across the world wide web. That is to say that as Christians, our desire to become more Christlike is not merely is not merely a response to the past actions and grace of Jesus: it’s also a response to the firm assurance that there is a future hope. And that hope isn’t something I picked out of Paul’s Happy Grab Bag… well, you get the idea.

The past is a good thing. It had Jesus, Calvin, the Reformation, and catapults. But not only is the past a good thing, but the future is a good thing, because it also has Jesus, Calvin, more reformation, and mini-catapults known to children everywhere as “slingshots”. It also holds the promise that I will one day shed this horrific skin of imperfection, and inhabit a new, glorified earth filled with the presence of God and the absence of any desire to eat forbidden fruit, covet my neighbor’s oxen, or have sex with my neighbor’s wife.

Side note: for any children reading this blog, sex is how babies happen; it’s a biological function that happens (apparently) to be a great deal of fun, and was given to mankind so that he could fill the earth — good job with that, mankind! It was also given to mankind so that mankind would enjoy itself on earth, much like wine was given to mankind. Wine, women, and toasters that connect to the internet. All these things are good things. Also: tomatoes.

* * *

The Supreme Court of Canada has given legislature the go-ahead to legalize gay marriage. And by “gay” I do not mean that marriages may not be a happy affair filled with laughter, wine, and later, sex; rather, I mean that homosexuals will soon be granted the “right” to be recognized as married couples.

You might expect me to be furious about this ruling. I am not. In fact, I am ambivilant. I ask this: do you not expect the heathens to act like heathens?

The country of Canada, as wonderful as it may be with its hockey, Sleeman Cream Ale, and beavers, is still a secular country founded by a bunch of guys who were nominal Christians at best. It is not founded on scripture any more than the USA is founded on scripture. In fact, the best I can say about Canada and the US is that both countries were founded amidst a sort of misplaced Enlightenment idealism that has now lead us to such things as Buying a New Television Yearly, Supersizing Our Mc”Meal”s, Pop Music That All Sounds the Same, and The New Religion of Tolerance.

Yay for the founding fathers; I feel like moving to China, the next Christian nation.

Yesterday, I stabbed myself in the hand with a screwdriver. A Phillips screwdriver. Right inbetween my finger and thumb, in that fleshy bit that resembles the webbing between a duck’s toes, excep not really.

Did it go through, you might ask? No, because it went straight down, but thankfully missed any important vital organs such as my kidneys and small intestine. On the other hand (so to speak) if this heals right, I’ll have a convenient place to store pens and stick candy.

I was at work, see, working, and I decided that I should adjust the settings on a coolant hose had recently detatched itself from the machine. I used a screwdriver that was too small. You think that all star head screwdrivers will unscrew a star head screw right? (With the obvious exception of the screws used to hold down the earth’s tectonic plates — since they’re the size of the space shuttle and/or Rita MacNiel.) Well if that’s what you think, you’re wrong.

There are different sizes, and Phillips screwdriver manufacturers take great pains to make sure that if you have a desire to drive in every size of Phillips screw, you’ll have to leave Home Depot — because let’s be honest, there’s at least seven different sizes that Home Hardware doesn’t carry — with thirty-one different screwdrivers, or a pipewrench if you ask for assistance from one of their highly-trained associates. Associates, I might add, who are really “employees” with fancy names, but who managed to pass the Home Depot Prospective Employee Quiz with flying colours, answering such questions as

• Can you breath? (Mandatory)
• Can you walk? (Mandatory)
• Can you speak English? (Not Mandatory)
• Can you recognize the difference between a 2×4 and a lightbulb? (Not Mandatory, but Somewhat Desirable)

But I digress, severely.

Let it suffice to say that my pain was great, along the order of having my hand covered in Napalm. However, the pain has abated, although I did gnaw my thumb off during the night.

Also, Lisa and Eric are engaged.

I got in to work a half hour late, because I woke up fifteen minutes late. You may be wondering, “Hey, there seems to be fifteen minutes in that equation that have mysteriously disappeared!” Well, let me tell you where they disappeared to: I was forced to give those fifteen minutes to two turbaned Sihk men who were driving Pontiac 6000s about twenty under the speed limit. See, my problem with these men is not that they are Sihk, even though Christianity is still the one true religion; or that they were practicing their culural mores, wearing turbans, goodness know they’re permitted to do that as long as they don’t want to become policemen for crying out loud; or even that they were driving a prototypical Sihk automobile; no, my problems is this: they don’t know how to drive.

See, everyone was driving like crazy people yesterday, when it was snowing. Now, since it was snowing, there was (as happens when it snows) snow on the road. And the snow on the road made thing slippery. Yet people drove like the Fonz. So there were lots of accidents, and with the accidents the uberconcerned voice of the police media representative on 680 news. I can only assume that every other station had a similar conncerned cop telling everyone to drive like it’s 1910, because this morning, you would have though we were driving on an ice rink the way people were having a go at it. I could point out to them that the roads were salted, and the roads were sanded, and the roads had more freaking traction on them then they do in a midsummer’s afternoon!

This is what I get for living in Mississauga and not taking the highway at 7:00 in the morning.

Derek Webb writes a line in one of his songs that goes In our suburb, where we’re safe and white. I think he should live in Mississauga with me, and he’d be writing In our suburb, where I haven’t seen a white person in six years, and any that I have seen were Itallian, playing bocci ball, and saying something about Mother Mary so fast that no reasonable human being could interpret. Yeah, that’s what he’d write.

Now I have stuff to do, like work, and stuff. If you’re wondering what I’m going to say about America’s nuclear stockpile, let me say this: Where are the American blessed-are-the-peacemakers?

Here’s a question for you. In our church circles, we cite the Abrahamaic covenant when baptizing children (in that form that no one seems to be able to let go of, or update, or change, dratted uberconservatives). If I’m correct, that would be The Covenant, the big one, that we all live under still. The only problem is that there is the Mosaic Covenant (instituted by the Law of Moses, yes?) which has as its foundation the Ten Words of the Covenant — so cutely named — otherwise known as the Ten Commandments or the Ten Commands.

So here’s the dilemma in my mind: Hebrews says we’re under a new and better covenant, one based on love, love for Christ and love for our neighbors. Romans 7 talks specifically about how we’re free from the law, and Paul goes on to name one of the Ten Commandments (”You must not covet”) as part of the law that took opportunity to create sin in his members. So if, and this is the if in my mind, the Mosaic covenant has passed, if it is over, why do we still read the Ten Commandments so religiously every Sunday in our morning services? Sure, they’re all — except for one — re-iterated in the New Testament, but have the Ten not passed with the rest of the law of Moses?

Even apart from that, our Christian tradition leads us to worship on Sunday instead of the Sabbath, a command not given in the New or Old Testaments, nor even implied in them. I mean, I’ve heard people say “well Jesus is Lord of the Sabbath,” but that doesn’t really mean anything if the Lord of the Sabbath never said to change it in the first place. In which case we don’t really follow the Ten Commandments, which specifically cite the Sabbath, the last day of the week, as the day on which to worship.

To be honest, I’ve wondered about these things for a long time: I hope there’s some flaw in my logic, or some theological consideration that I’m not taking into account; but then even our great Calvin, the man who is so often not wrong in our circles, was wrong on that point, considering that he was a utilitarian, a pragmatist, when it came to the issue. He said that worshipping on Sunday was fine, and that taking a rest on Sunday is a sensible thing to do, but he never actually went so far as to say we must have a Sabbath-like rest, or that there’s some sort of Christian Sabbath, or anything like that. Far be it from me, of course, to claim that Calvin was right all the time — he was a fallible human being, and made human errors like we all do — but this seems a rather fundimental point that he missed; and maybe he missed it because he considered it irrelevant using some of the same logic I’ve used above.

But there are other Sunday considerations as well: most among us dislike buying gas on Sunday, much less eating out or something like that. Some people are quite strict about these things, and I understand if you’re working on Sunday yourself and its violating your conscience, don’t do it. Especially if you believe that the laws about the Sabbath haven’t passed, and that we’re still bound to the regulations such as not working, resting, et cetera. But even then, how is it wrong to simply do a monitary transaction on Sunday? If the Ten Commandments are the basis of the Covenant, a covenant given to God’s chosen people, how am I adding to the condemnation of a heathen who isn’t bound by that covenant? Paul even goes as far as to say that people ignorant of the Law will be judged by the law inside them — their conscience — and not by the Law proper. Is there any precident for saying that a Sabbath observance is written on people’s consciences? Or even the Ten Commandments proper? It’s a biological necessity, yes, but is it written in their minds and on their hearts?

That’s some food for thought.

Snow has fallen, and I have no shovel. There are two options here: my landlady put it in the garage, or someone stole it. I’m leaning toward stole. Now I need a shotgun so I can track down the thief, get my shovel back, and shoot out his tires. Or if he doesn’t have tires, I’ll shoot his dog. Or if he doesn’t have a dog, I’ll just pack up my shotgun, grab my shovel, and go home. You have been warned, shovel-thief.

I have also had an idea, courtesy of The Rumor Forum:

Let’s get some people together and form a band. A band that produces music that is intensely bizzare, yet somewhat accessible. We’ll make two albums, labour in relative obscurity, and then call it quits and have a “best of” album, and a “making of the best of” DVD.

Then we get back together a year later, and do two more albums. Only, one of the band members is having drug problems, and he’s the lynchpin of the whole thing, so we have to take an “indefinite” break. We release another “best of” album and DVD.

Then a year and a half later we come back *again*, release two more albums, and quit for good, having become a cult sensation. We release a final “best of” album and “making of” dvd. Then we tour one last time, and then again, one last time. One more album: the live “best of” album with a DVD.

Then a year later around Christmas, we release a box set of the “best of” albums, complete with an entire disc of b-sides, and the box set of the dvds, both separate, or course. We get together for one last reunion tour, and retire very rich men.

And, two years later, we release a “Best of the Making of the Best of” and a “Making of the Best of the Making of the Best of” just to mock our now-weary fans, and somewhere in the liners of one of the albums, we tell them how all our songs that they argued about for so long were actually just about fish.

What do people do without hockey, you ask? They shovel snow. What do they do without snow? Rob convenience stores. What do they do without convenience stores? I don’t know. I only know one country that doesn’t have them, and it’s in Africa somewhere, and I don’t know its name. And in that country they also don’t have snow and hockey. Frankly, all they have to do over there is start civil wars and military coups.

Also, France. I would like to talk about France. I don’t like France, because France is full of French people that speak French. All that’s good about France is the food, which is made by French people. At this point, you’re thinking that I’m racist. Well, I’m not. I love all people equally, unless they’re French.

Okay, I was kidding. Maybe I don’t hate French people. I hate poodles, though. I think I’m pretty safe saying that.

So today, I go back to blogging about normal things that involve my life and interplanetary politics, instead of satire pieces about crude language and the religious right of America’s heartland.

I had a good weekend.

On the other hand, interplanitary politics are a bit more interesting; the only problem is that Google has still not implemented its “Zorga to English” filter, making me have to translate all these things by myself.

Here’s a revenue generation idea for the government: make all but ten of every parking lot’s spaces into handicapped spots. Have the ten that aren’t handicapped spots somewhere in a dark, cramped corner of the parking lot. Make sure people know there aren’t any cameras there, so the only people that will park in them belong to various militias and even they’re wary. Then, when people park in the handicapped spots, just ticket them instead of towing.

But really, isn’t it a crime how far Americans have to walk to get into stores? Think, that fifteen extra seconds could be spent doing something productive, like playing video games or killing neighborhood cats. After all, Americans are certainly fit and attractive enought that they don’t need all that extra walking: for crying out loud, install a moving sidewalk!

My girlfriend’s little sisters and brothers did my hair in ponytails while I was beating her at chess last night. It’s odd, but I think they see me as a large, soft plaything to abuse at their lesure. The hair is still missing in patches. However, even with that disturbing act in progress, I still managed to beat her at the game she loves so well, chess. I don’t know if she loves it so well. Maybe she just wants to beat me, but knows she can’t. Beat me. Ever.

And, now back, to your regularly scheduled programming. (You’re being programmed by the government, and I’m the only one wearing a tinfoil hat. That’s right.)