Winter, Comics, and Mega-Churches...

After a brief, blissful respite, winter again has us firmly ensconsed in the grip of her icy tendrils, breathing down our necks like a malicious stalker. "I never left," she says, "I was just giving you the old head-fake." A vicious north wind blows as well, again seemingly reminding us that, yes, it is still January, and yes, it is the prairies. Bah. Yesterday, it was 12 degrees on the happy side of freezing; today, it's back down to -16.

All the warm temperatures over the past few days have led to a massive melt of the usual ground cover. In fact, the other night I was lulled to sleep by the comforting sound of water dripping off the roof directly onto the window sill right by my head. Drip, drip, drip. It's a good thing I'm so tired at night, or that would have become very annoying, very quickly.

Of course, the vast thaw had its advantages. The aforementioned snow cover dissipated surprisingly quickly, leaving patches of--you'll never believe it--grass. Spring was taunting us, calling us to its warm embrace like the proverbial Siren. But, like an abusive lover, it pulled its affection as quickly as it gave it, ceding all its gains to the cold artic air. Not much of a strategy, if you ask me.

The warm weather was lovely, but it has its own unique challenges associated with it as well. For example, knowing that the reprieve was temporary, I had to come up with solutions for keeping the rapidly-expanding pool of water away from the foundation of the house, lest it heave and crack the foundation when it inevitably froze again. And it froze quickly.

As it melted, the snow took on that appearance that is so indicative of the passing of the seasons--that dirty, grimy look that indicates its untimely demise. As beautiful as a fresh blanket of snow is (even on the prairies), it sure doesn't die with dignity, instead spending its last futile days fading into a shell of its former self.

And then there's the ice. Because the snow took on the consistency of a Slurpee (without the delicious taste and pound-and-a-half of sugar, mind), when it froze, it became rock solid. As a result, everything is coated with a deadly layer of ice, and the snow lost its familiar give that makes walking through it in boots so satisfying. The soft crunch is now an icy crack wherever one steps, and the remaining pools of water on the sidewalk have become skating rinks. After my unfortunate incident with ice last semester, however, I've learned to just avoid the ice. No need to test the theory of gravity yet again. I'll just operate under the assumption that it's still there, and still pulling objects toward the centre of the earth at 9.8 m/s. How I remember that particular value, I'm not sure--it certainly isn't very theological. Just goes to show the amount of trivial information one can retain.

Speaking of trivial information, try this on for size. I have a daily Far Side calendar this year (the first time in five years the calendar has been issued), which for some unknown reason states every conceivible holiday in the target markets, which cover all of the English-speaking world. Today is Australia Day. And you have now learned something you didn't know before. Unless, of course, you are from Australia. But, judging by the stats spewed forth by my handy site meter, I know you're all reading from Canada. In fact, 90% of you are reading from the Pacific time zone. Big Brother, man, he's watching you.

Ah, the Far Side. Where would we be without it? Well, for one thing, I would not personally be responsible for the destruction of so many trees in the purchase of daily calendars. It has that timelessness about it, a humour that transcends the interstitial years and still makes me laugh today, even though Larson's been out of the business for close to 10 years now.

Like many comics, that one will continue to live on. It somehow had that serendipitous mixture of nonsensical humour and funny illustrations. Oh yeah, and anthropomorphic animals. For me, it also has strong ties to my teenage years. Although I don't look back on them fondly (which is one reason I will be avoiding my high school reunion this summer at all costs), the Far Side was one of the points of joy in my life. How is it that one man drawing silly illustrations can reach out to so many and make a meaningful contribution? I don't know.

There are few other comics that meet this level of quality. Calvin and Hobbes is the other. And, for some unknown reason, Peanuts also falls in that category for some. In fact, the Vancouver Sun continues to run Peanuts comics, even though the man behind the comic died seven years ago. Why? I can't possibly explain it.

Maybe the universal appeal of Peanuts has to do with the personalities of the characters. Who, at some point in their lives, has not identified with Charlie Brown, the poster boy for losers everywhere? There was Lucy, the snobby one, although I'm sure that in today's school environment, she'd likely get a good pounding for that football stunt. There was Linus, the Peanuts equivalent of "nobody-knows-exactly-what-you-do guy." And, of course, Schroeder, the ambivalent musician, always immune to the feminine wiles of Lucy. And let's not forget Snoopy, who had a more active imagination than the average toddler. Seriously, toddlers can't make a Sopwith Camel out of their doghouses. Nor can they imagine bullet holes being punched in the side by the evil Red Baron. Can you tell what era those comics were from? I'm sure if Peanuts was created today, the enemy in Snoopy's fantasies would be an Al Quaeda suicide bomber, but that's beside the point.

Even though it doesn't do anything for me, my postmodern ethos tells me that if it works for you, then it's fine. Just don't mock my Far Side obsession, and we can happily co-exist.

After all that, I'm not sure I have anything else to say. Today was the usual; wake up early and be at school all day. My teachers run the gamut from the guy that hands out the fill-in-the-blanks notes to the guy who puts forth so much good information in 75 minutes that your hand cramps from all the note-taking. A good mix, though. And I'm really starting to get a grasp on the whole area of feminist theology, which is entirely interesting to me, but likely not to you, so I won't bore you with the details.

This weekend promises to be action-packed. One of the consequences of small-town prairie living, as I've commented on previously, is the inherent lack of any business of any use within a 100-km radius. For example, I have run out of ink for my printer. No problem, right? I'll just head over to Staples. Except that the nearest one is in Red Deer. Sigh. I have, however, come up with a great solution. I've been meaning to check out Centre Street Church in Calgary for some time now, and, since I need ink and groceries, I'm going to head in for the Saturday evening service tomorrow, and fold in a shopping trip with the adventure. Small-town living isn't bad, it just requires some creativity at times. Mind you, gas is only 80 cents/litre, so I'm ahead of the game in that respect.

I've wanted to go to Centre Street the whole time I've been here because I'm fascinated with the mega-church model. Huge churches have never held much appeal to me as options for regular attendance, but it's interesting to get the full range of experience. From its website, this church reminds me a lot of the Brooklyn Tabernacle, which we visited on our New York City jaunt a couple of years ago. That was a great experience, and I'm expecting more of the same here. Like I said, the inherent amount of professionalism, polish, and performance (I must be an evangelical with alliteration like that) both fascinate and repel me, which is why I think it'll be fun to check out. And who knows, maybe my attitude will change. Full report Monday.

With that, another week concludes. I've enjoyed my time with you this week, and I hope you feel the same. See you again on Monday.