RE-PLACING

“HARD TO REPLACE” for $200.
Who is Alex Trebeck?

It says something about the enduring nature, the near treasured place this thing called “Jeopardy” holds in our culture that the host seems to be irreplaceable. Of course, Alex Trebeck is woven into the fabric of the show, like that ominous little tune that plays while the contestants face “Final Jeopardy”.

Okay. Let’s play a game.

Fill in the blank: There will never be another _______________.

Apparently, there are those people whose mark is so deep and indelible that their place in history stops with them—they can’t be re-placed. The obvious names that come to mind for me: Mister Rogers, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Billy Graham, John Lennon, Nora Ephron, and Ted Lasso (who’s still here; for now).

Of course they will be remembered. Maybe thats goes with being irreplaceable—being remembered.

“No one is indispensable,” I remember our grade school basketball coach telling us, as a team-building lesson. He used this analogy: he had a glass of water and asked one of the guys to stick his finger in the water. “Now remove it.” He held up the glass and asked us if anyone could see a void left by the removal of the finger. I started to mention that while there wasn’t a finger-shaped hole in the water, the overall water level had gone down—i.e. there was an impact. But, I thought better of it. (I was trying to win a spot on the team which meant getting a jersey and riding the bus to out-of-town games. Smartassery could only hurt my chances which were already slim.)

Now that I think about it, maybe being dispensable isn’t the same as being replaceable. Maybe being remembered is better than being irreplaceable.

It’s kind of fun to imagine that when it comes to being a husband, father and a Pops, I might could have a degree of immortality or at least irreplaceability. I’ve often joked that when I ride off into the sunset (so to speak) I want to leave My Amazing-Missus financially comfortable, but I don’t want to leave enough so that her next husband could buy a bigger sailboat than I had—like the one in the background of this picture of our beautiful TRUST ME II. I suppose that’s my misguided path to irreplaceability.

HERE’S MY AMAZING MISSUS LITERALLY BATTENING DOWN THE HATCHES

Other than light bulbs, a carton of milk that’s turned south, etc., is anything really replaceable? I bought a new pair of shoes that were exactly the same size, same design, and same color as a pair I’ve worn for years. Still when I go to the closet to slip on my shoes, invariably I go for the old pair. Those shoes and my feet have a special relationship. They’ve become good friends. It’s like they’ve become one.

How about a of chunk of time; can that be replaced? You know, like the chunk we’ve lost to the pandemic. I don’t know for sure. I’m trying to, as they say, “make up for lost time”.

It’s strange but I think quarantine has made me a better steward of life. The time can’t be replaced, but in a way my days are richer now. I’m paying more attention. I’m savoring moments. I’m cherishing experiences. I hope I’m listening more, loving more, seeing more, feeling more. I hope I’m more open-minded, more liberal (open to the new and willing to discard old traditional dogmas.)

Maybe it’s okay to say of the “irreplaceable”: He, she, or it is no Alex Trebeck, but... And then we find a way to breath and put one foot in front of the other and bet it all on the Daily Double.

THE METAVERSE

MAYBE YOU SAW where Mark Zuckerberg, the Facebook guy, shared his vision for his company.

“I expect people will transition from seeing us primarily as a social-media company to seeing us as a metaverse company.”

In a Facebook earnings call last week, Mark Zuckerberg outlined the future of his company. The vision he put forth wasn’t based on advertising, which provides the bulk of Facebook’s current profits, or on an increase in the over-all size of the social network, which already has nearly three billion monthly active users. Instead, Zuckerberg said that his goal is for Facebook to help build the “metaverse,” a Silicon Valley buzzword that has become an obsession for anyone trying to predict, and thus profit from, the next decade of technology.

It was a remarkable pivot in messaging for the social-media giant, especially given the fact that the exact meaning of the metaverse, and what it portends for digital life, is far from clear. In the earnings call, Zuckerberg offered his own definition. The metaverse is “a virtual environment where you can be present with people in digital spaces,” he said. It’s “an embodied Internet that you’re inside of rather than just looking at. We believe that this is going to be the successor to the mobile Internet.”

—Chayka, Kyle. (2021, August). “Facebook Wants Us to Live in the Metaverse: What does that even mean?” The New Yorker, August 5, 2021.

Show of hands: who wants to live in Zuckerberg’s metaverse?

Sometimes I get the feeling maybe we already do. After all, it seems to be the place where we get our news, have our conversations, where opinions are defended, attacked and rationalized, where theories perpetuate, where stands are taken, where we choose whether the dress is blue or gold, where we tell our “friends” Happy Birthday, where we learn that people have entered or left a relationship, where we decide—as if we must—whether we would eliminate: Starbucks®, Whole Foods®, Jehovah’s Witnesses, or Pumpkin Spice deodorant.

I’m not complaining. Where else can I brag on my brilliant, beautiful GrandKids and get instant “Likes” for doing so? I do enjoy visiting Facebook from time to time, but I don’t want to live inside its virtual environment; a metaverse.

What are the alternatives? Where does community happen these days? Let’s pretend COVID in all of its varieties goes away. Would we, could we, hang out?

Before we met in digital spaces, before cheeseburgers and chips and french onion dip and ice cold bottles of pop were bad for us, before mosquitoes and ticks carried life-threatening diseases, back when kids could play in the street or along the banks of the Arkansas River, before we became addicted to air-conditioning, we would gather almost every Saturday evening in the summers of the 50s and 60s. Dads would grill burgers and hotdogs and smoke pipes or cigars. Moms would visit in the kitchen, preparing platters of burger fixin’s, bowls of potato salad, and cutting pies. Don’t judge. There was no intent to subject anyone to a predefined cultural role. It was just the way it happened and everyone seemed happy.

It wasn’t just a tableau from a Norman Rockwell painting: it really happended that way. In backyards everywhere—people gathered. Then, the only phones hung on a wall in the kitchen or sat on an end table in the living room. No one had one in their pocket. We were just present. Living and breathing and storytelling and laughing.

About the time the fireflies were in full spectacle, someone would say, “Well, it’s getting late.” Goodbyes were said and we would go home to polish our penny loafers for Sunday School the next morning. Then to bed.

Back then, church was a communal place for us. Koinonia was more than just a fancy word. The fellowship of the little churches we attended over the years was a beautiful as that word. Sure it had a spirituality to it, but a simplicity too. A fellowship time would be called to enjoy just-harvested ice cold watermelons; and another for homemade, hand-churned ice cream. Let’s see the metaverse replicate that. Well, because scripture itself warns against remembering the good old days better than they were, I’ll move on.

I’m trying to be careful to not judge the metaverse idea too quickly. I have sought to understand it. For starters I tried to grasp the concept of metaverse: is it a spin on universe. What is the “verse” in uni or meta? Meta-anything is one of those things like post-modern and bespoke, that for me have become convoluted with use, misuse and overuse.

If “a virtual environment where you can be present with people in digital spaces,” sounds as repulsive to you as it does to me, what are our options, other than a 50s style backyard BBQ (not that there’s anything wrong with that), where can we “be present with people”. Maybe I’m making too much of this, but as an extreme introvert, I ponder carefully who I want to be with and in what kind of setting.

Here are some real environments that come to mind. (Admittedly, I’m romanticizing the idea a bit.) A place like the bar on “Cheers” sounds good because:

Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows your name
And they're always glad you came
You want to be where you can see
Our troubles are all the same
You want to be where everybody knows your name

This may sound like a contradiction to my thesis about shunning the virtual for the real by imagining a TV set as an ideal environment, but you know what I mean. It may also sound like a contradiction to compare this to an online pub of sorts; but, since early in the pandemic, I have been meeting every Sunday night with a group of guys in a Zoom meeting we call The Quarantine Tavern. We’re in Oklahoma, Texas, Atlanta and Nashville, but we’ve made it work almost as if we were sitting together at a table in a real tavern, maybe one like this one, The Stubbing Wharf, “…located in a beautiful position between the Rochdale Canal and the River Calder, on the A646 just to the west of Hebden Bridge in the Upper Calder Valley, UK.”

I heard an interview with the assistant manager. She was asked what makes a great pub. “Good traditional pub food and a good selection of ales. You need to be accepting of muddy boots and muddy paw prints. You need service that keeps people smilin’. It’s like a community.”

While I’m in the midst of throwing shade on the very idea of Facebook as a communal catalyst let me suggest you “visit” The Stubbing Wharf on The FB. [click here to visit their page]

Sometimes, these days, our community is in a campground with other traveling friends. We gather in the evening to visit. Sometimes the air is filled with the fragrance of a nice campfire. Sometimes the air is filled with the fragrance of Deep Woods OFF®. We’ve discovered that even with COVID, camping is possible and delightful.

There was a time when we would gather with young artists—one of my favorite communities. Collaborative creativity is such a high sensory experience. Maybe that’s one of the keys, one of the things that will always give real, in-person community the edge. Only there can you have the sights, sounds, the tastes and smells, and of course the touch.

So, when the pandemic finally loosens its grip on our collective throat, what do you say? Let’s meet up: eat good food, drink good drinks, have good music, the sounds of kids playing, maybe some horseshoes, cornhole, bocce ball. Absolutely no phones (except for using the camera app), no red hats (unless it has a St. Louis Cardinals logo on it), no blue hats (unless it has an L.A. Dodgers logo on it). Let’s talk of good times and blessings. Let’s hear good stories. Let’s laugh and maybe cry a little.

That’s all I’ve got. I’m going to take My Amazing Missus to Roxy’s Ice Cream Social now for some homemade ice cream.

LASSOED

“Doing the right thing is never the wrong thing.”

— TED LASSO

I know Ted Lasso is not a real person. (He’s almost too good to be true.)

I know this sensational series is only on AppleTV+. (And, who isn’t subscription poor these days with Netflix, Hulu, Peacock, Paramount+, Discovery+, Disney+. All those pluses add up. But, get a free AppleTV+ trial and binge it.)

I know the narrative is profanity-laden. (It’s a shame because the writing is so good it’s clear the creative minds could have leaned less on that worn crutch.)

Otherwise:

We’re only a few episodes into the second season and I have already listed in it “Pops’ Top Eleven Ensemble Comedies, Post 1980”. (listed alphabetically to avoid a best-of-the-best debate):

Arrested Development
The Big Bang Theory
Frasier
Friends
Modern Family
Newhart
The Office
Parks and Recreation
Schitt’s Creek
Seinfeld
Ted Lasso

Look at the list and the recipe for success becomes apparent: great writing, rich character development, a stellar cast, an endearing storyline, plenty of silliness and enough tenderness to make it matter.

For those of us who grew up living deep in daydreams, where the line between real and fantasy was blurry, we tend to make these characters near-human. We care what happens to them. We value the experience we have with them as we sit in a corner of their world and watch and listen and laugh.

Ted Lasso himself is sort of a mix of Mister Rogers, Ulysses Everett McGill and Andy Griffith. It’s a fish-out-of-water story. Of course Ted would say he’s a goldfish. In an episode where one of his players has a particularly bad game, Ted says,

“You know what the happiest animal on Earth is? It’s a goldfish.
You know why? Got a 10-second memory. Be a goldfish, Sam.”

I know it’s not real life; but neither is the world portrayed on CNN, Fox News, MSNBC and that ilk. I tend to view politicians and fundamentalists as an ensemble cast in a show of their own, except theirs isn’t funny, hopeful, or humanizing.

Part of what makes Ted Lasso, the show, outstanding is its timing—it came along when we needed it most. It is the antithesis of what our national discourse has become. It is a breath of fresh air. A hope that there are still purveyors of good and kind and beautiful.

Let me say again: I know it’s a show, an ensemble of characters. But still it tells a story, one that makes people better.

And, hasn’t the power of storytelling proven to be a way to learn some of the most important life lessons? Who was it that told stories about mustard seeds, seed-sowers, hidden treasure, lost sheep and many, many more.

Real life is real though. Still it’s made up of chapters and verses, beginnings and endings.

Without a doubt the ensemble and episodes I love most and treasure deeply are the real ones; the ensemble of family and friends, and the episodes are the moments we share together.

Here’s one more from Ted:

“Be curious. Not judgemental.”
— Ted Lasso quoting Walt Whitman.

P.S.: At least be curious enough to watch the trailer on YouTube.

FREE?DOM

WHAT DO KATY PERRY, THE JONAS BROTHERS AND POPS have in common?

Well, Katy’s real name isn’t Perry and Pops is not my real name (except to my Grand-Kids). But as far as I know the Jonas Brothers use their actual names, so it’s not that.

Fun story: I’m a big fan of the app for ordering from a certain fast food place. I registered for the site using my Google account so my name shows up on my orders at this place as “Pops”. The other day I was picking up an order there. The young lady delivering my order asked, “Is your name Pops or are you a Pops?”

I told this story to one of the Grand-Girls and she replied “Both!” Well, to her anyway.

Back to the puzzler—what do we all have a common? At least two of the three are nominal musicians? Maybe, but not the answer we’re looking for.

We’re all P.K.s! Preacher’s Kids.

There is a P.K. stereotype. Maybe two, or more:

“First, there’s the model child, who lives by the rulebook and follows in the footsteps of his or her minister parent. In many churches, this is an expectation as much as it is a stereotype. Yet perhaps the dominant stereotype of the pastor’s kid is the prodigal—the wayward child, the rebel who has fallen away from the faith, the backslidden who’d rather strike out on their own than live in the shadow of the steeple.” —barna.com

This is the kid who may or may not have released a flotilla of rubber duckies across the baptismal waters during a service, or added a touch of Boone’s Farm to the communion grape juice, etc. Then other days he might be found mowing the yard of widowed member of the flock.

From my experience the P.K. explanation from Barna, quoted above, isn’t an either/or proposition. It is possible to drift and hover between the two extremes over a lifetime.

Here’s an example: I wasn’t hell-bent on being a full-blown prodigal but I do remember the first time I exercised my FREEDOM to NOT go to church. In our house, we went to church. Twice on Sunday, Wednesday nights, revivals, January Bible Study Week, Vacation Bible School, and any other time the proverbial doors were open. I never saw the end of an episode of “Lassie”, or “The Wizard of Oz” because they aired on Sunday nights.

But when I set off for college, I was free; free to not go to church, for the first time in my life. I took full advantage of my newfound freedom.

Late one Sunday afternoon in the first week or so of my first semester, a couple of guys stopped by to say they were going to a local church for a cookout and “co-ed fellowship”. “Want to go?”

“No thanks. I’m not really going to church right now—especially on Sunday night. I’m free to NOT go, you know.”

They left. I sat there alone, solitary, imagining a bunch of students having a great time together. I had literally become a slave to my definition of freedom. Why couldn’t I understand that actually being free meant I could choose; all by myself. I guess in a way I did: I chose loneliness that night.

All of this came to mind the other day when I heard someone explaining that they were FREE—No one could make them take a COVID vaccination! And I wondered, maybe deep down inside if they would really like to have that vaccine. Secretly, maybe subconsciously, they would like to have the sense of relief and safety it brings. But, maybe they’ve become a slave to their freedom to say, Nope.

Before I wrap up this exploration of the Preacher Kid persona… Could it be that there’s a third stereotype? A rescuer, teacher, good communicator? This version is immortalized in a song. A song from the good-ol’ 60s, by Dusty Springfield:

The only one who could ever reach me
Was the son of a preacher man
The only boy who could ever teach me
Was the son of a preacher man
Yes, he was, he was, ooh, yes, he was

He was the sweet-talkin' son of a preacher man

I suggested to my Amazing-Missus that maybe this could be her theme song. She, in turn, had a suggestion or two for me.