Lazarus.

Oh, how I've missed the sweetness of the blog; it lingers on my palate and fills me with the divine sensation of utter contentment. This is as I imagine it would be like to be a cow, quietly ruminating cud in a clover-filled pasture. Thankfully, though, I don't have to worry about being stunned in the head and, while I still live, having my trachea torn out of my slashed neck. Thanks for ruining beef for me too, P.E.T.A.com. I'm all about truth, but come on: there's nothing quite like a cheeseburger, especially when I make them. (My secret is basil and thyme).

Like he who walked from his grave, still bedecked in his funerary shroud, I have come forth from finals week unscathed. In an act that rivals the construction of the Pyramids of Giza for sheer stubborn will, I got a B+ in French. If I actually cared about French any more than I care for hearing about your hemhorroid treatments (they used frikkin' lasers!) I'd have gotten an A. Yet, the act of not caring is eerily liberating. Nobody goes to grad school for shits and giggles; you have to care overly about every damn thing. Well, bite me! French class is evil. And now, in a mere day, I will go home to my beloved Maine for holiday festivity, sleep, and at least one polar dip off Seal Harbor (pictures to follow said event).

Today I went Christmas shopping with Keith, who should have backed out of the deal the moment he heard it issue forth from my lips. Yet, lured he was by the promise of Chick Fil-A and their legendary sweet tea; to the Bloomington Mall we went, and of course, it was plane-wreck-in-the-Andes-munchin'-on-your-buddy's-carcass bad. It was hot, it was full of people with the fun "holiday zeal eye-glaze" look, and it smelled like a combination of bad church-lady perfume, skater-dude patchouli, cookies baking and the ripe stench of wanton consumerism. It was all I could do to stay, but I, too, was on a mission! Must! Find! Perfect! Gifts! Family! Friends! Will! Hate! Me! If! I! Do! Not!

While browsing through the stores amid the sounds of children screaming as if being stabbed with hatpins, we found a store that hadn't existed a month before. It was a fun Christian bookstore. What drew us to the shimmery storefront was not the promise of the new Jars of Clay CD or books with titles like "I Hate My Life But Jesus Loves Me" but a small costume kit meant for a wee boy or girl. It was the Book of Ephesians armor kit. In it, one could find:

(One) Loinbelt of Truth.
(One) Breastplate of Righteousness.
(Two) Shinguards of Peace.
(One) Shield of Faith.
(One) Helmet of Salvation.
and
(One) SWORD OF THE SPIRIT.

You think I am lying. I would say to you: nuh-UH! How could I lie about this? More importantly, WHY would I lie about this? I was chilled to my very marrow. (By the way, the "inspiration" for this costume set is the Book of Ephesians, Chapter 6, verses 13-18.) Some child, this very Christmas, will unwrap their very own SWORD OF THE SPIRIT with which they shall smite the unbelievers! Or their little sisters! Whichever comes first! I don't think I have the words to describe to you what was happening in this 24 year-old brain when I saw that, yes, small children can dress up like wee Hebrew soldiers to DEFEND THE FAITH. Wow. And we think the Muslim world is effed-up.

It sorta reminded me of a Christmas, long, long ago, when I unwrapped a present sent to me by my grandmother Barbara (dad's mom). Inside was a doll. Not only was it a doll, but a boy doll dressed in sackcloth. His cheeks were a bit sunken in and his eyes gleamed unnaturally. By his side was a staff. Well, give up on who my mystery doll was? If I said "I wandered in the desert eating locusts and wild honey", would that clue you in? Yes. I was in possession of my very own John the Baptist doll. Now, even at that tender age, I was acutely aware that John the Baptist hadn't died peacefully in his sleep at the tender age of 432 like some of these biblical people; no, John was beheaded. Thankfully for my warped playtimes, John's head conveniently popped off so that I could, in the company of a jury of Ninja Turtles, carry out his sentence. As it says in the Bible, John's head bounced three times on the ground, and at each spot, a fountain of milk issued forth. The head then said "Jesus!" and then expired.

Cheery.

Finally, social commentary for the night. How, and when, did it become socially acceptable to wear leisure items to school, and indeed, public in general? Why is it amusing for people to wear pajama bottoms and slippers to their Calc class? Or the mall? Or to the dining halls? Or to your bar mitzvah? Or your bail hearing? What's happening here? I would never, in a thousand years of insanity, dream of leaving my home in such attire. When I went to the University of Maine, there was a guy who'd go to Hilltop Commons in a nasty blue bathrobe. Do you really want to be remembered as Bathrobe Boy? As someone who paid dearly for being a teacher's pet in grade school and high school, the thought of drawing more attention to myself seemed like signing my own death warrant. Well, needless to say, if I should spy you talking on your cellphone in the mall with pajamas on, I will point, laugh, and shake my head at your folly. I'd advocate public pantsing for you, but haven't enough tears been shed?

Now that things have simmered, rest assured, my devoted, that I shall be a 'blogging mofo once again.

Good night, Bloomington.

Dom