Hot Take - Bible Studies

Written 8 December 2018, 11.40pm.

Let me just say something.

The Gospel is the same for both men and women (and non-binary people, but I'm not getting into that discussion today).

I hate this culture of 'women's Bible studies.' Are we not intelligent enough to attend a 'real' Bible study? Why is there this need to direct women off the 'real' Bible studies to a rabbit trail with flowers and fancy script and (barely) grown-up equivalents of 'girl power' slogans? I know men and women are different on a lot of different levels, but why do I get the sense that women are getting a watered-down Gospel fortified with word faith? Why is 'women's ministry' a whole entire separate subculture of North American Christianity? Yes, there are things that tend to affect women more than men -- homemaking, child-rearing. But honestly that's a fairly limited part of the female population nowadays. What about your professional businesswomen? Your firefighting/police force women? Your single twentysomething women who don't have a husband or children to worry about? Your senior women whose children are all long out of the house? Your artistic women trying to create stuff on par with a Terry Scott Taylor but told they can't because it's 'too personal'?

People -- men, non-binary people, AND women have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. Why then do men get to hear a real gospel from the actual Bible and dig deeply into all that it means for the way they live their everyday lives, while women only get a feel-good devotional reading that, for many of us, has little actual bearing on our actual lives and potential and gifting?

If your God is too weak to help this passionately artistic woman that you say He Himself created, I don't know why you think I should bother with Him.

Resistance and Perfection - Definition Of An Artist

I have been called worthless.

I have been called lazy.

I have been called stupid.

I have been called a whore.

I have been called annoying.

I have been called too smart for my own good (and believe me, that's not a compliment).

I have been called whiny.

I have been called too negative.

I have heard people tell their friends not to associate with me.

I have heard people tell my friends not to associate with me.

I have been told I'm not wanted.

I have been ignored.

I have been yelled at.

I have been told I will never amount to anything.

I have been told I am a waste of skin/of time/of space.

I have been told I'm wasting my life.

I have been called unloveable.

I have been told I mean nothing.

I have been given the cold shoulder.

I know how Larry Norman must have felt -- what it's like to be too worldly for the church and too Christian for the world. I know what it's like to have the church look at you and say "we don't need you and we don't want you."

I know what it's like to cry myself to sleep. I know what it's like to practice until I literally collapse. I know what it's like to rehearse until my practice clothes are sweat-glued to my body. I know what it's like to pull an all-nighter -- for an entire semester. I know what it's like to starve. I know what shin splints feel like. I know what emotional heartbreak feels like. I know what it's like to pay enormous chiropractic bills because I have destroyed my body trying to be good enough. I know what it's like to practice until I can't breathe.

I have known all this in the past two years. I know most of this as I write.

Tell me now how worthless and unlovable I am. Tell me that I am solely responsible leading today's generation astray. Tell me I am the antichrist. Tell me all this sweat, all these hours, all this work, all this pain, all this love in my heart for it -- tell me it means nothing. Tell me the oxygen in my lungs as I practice is a waste. Tell me I'm wasting my life. Tell me God hates me.

Go on. I dare you.

Late Life Or No Life

I usually work until five or five-thirty-ish. And since my father is also my employer, he'll try to finish up early if there's somewhere I need to be in the evening.

Today (well, yesterday) I had music practice at the church at seven. It's no big deal as long as I leave home by 6.30. But we were very nearly done the roof we were shingling, so we pushed the time limit... five... five-thirty... six... None of us thought to check the time. It was six-thirty by the time we left the jobsite.

My dad drove exactly right at the edge of the limit the entire way home. It's possible to do the drive to church in fifteen minutes if you go flat-out so if I could leave home by 6.45, I would still have a chance.

We got home. I changed, washed my face, grabbed the sandwich my mother handed me, and raced back out the door to the rattletrap.

Full disclosure: At the time of my story, I was doing five kilometres over the speed limit. It wasn't intentional; it was that thing where you know you're late and can't afford to go slower than the speed limit so you keep nudging the pedal farther down until suddenly you look down at the speedometer and go, Holy cow, slow down, Flash.

I had just noticed that I was five over the limit when in the sideview mirror I saw the minivan behind me pull out to pass. At first I was gearing up for a rant to share with my persnickety CD player -- I'm late too, so you can't make that excuse. Plus I'm already speeding. You're still going faster than the limit even following me. And you're STILL going to pass me? 

The rant was choked back when I saw the car in the oncoming lane. At first it looked like the passing minivan might just make it in front of me... but, oh my, were we closing in fast. Suddenly the car was almost directly in front of me.

As much as my pride wanted to keep my speed and let the Stupid Idiot Moron in the minivan have a heart attack and be forced to move back behind me until it was actually safe, I couldn't. I slammed on the brakes, if only for the sake of the poor guy in the car. As it was, he almost had to hit the ditch to avoid a collision.

The minivan slipped in front of me without even a touch on the brakes or a signal light. Just cruised on through as if she hadn't almost killed somebody -- or herself.

I expected myself to be angry, but I found myself strangely gutted.

How can anyone do something like that? We look in the newspapers at stories of murders and rapes and stabbings and violent kidnappings and ask how anybody can do such a thing, but taking a chance on the road just because the gas pedal isn't touching the floor yet is not that far removed. Someone almost died on that road tonight. It may have been the man in the car. Or it may have been the idiot driver herself. Yes, there may be enough room to pass, but are you willing to bet your life on it? Is getting where you need to be on time really more important than your own life? What good is being on time if you arrive as a newly minted corpse -- or murderer?

That woman in the minivan owes her life to me. I don't expect her to do anything to thank me, but I do hope she realises that. She gets to see another sunrise. And I could have taken that away from her by simply not moving my foot -- or by not even seeing her in my sideview mirror.

The Problem With My Church

I've ranted before about the church -- both the specific church I attend and the church in general. I've gone on and on about the apathy, the cliques, the exclusion, the frustration of disorganised people and (the worst) people who say they'll do something and don't follow through, often texting me at the absolute last possible second -- oh sorry can't make it, can you fill in for me?

Sure -- except I'm also filling in for about six other people right now. Get off your lazy butt and keep your word.

Yesterday though, two things happened.

One: Yesterday was the official farewell service for our associate pastor and his family. Two: The White Heart Facebook page (you just knew they'd show up in here sooner or later) posted a status asking what is one thing we'd like to change about our churches.

I have to set up the first one a bit. The previous associate pastor had been phenomenal. He pretty much single-handedly introduced me to the real God -- not the sadistic white-bearded 'God' of popular imagination, the real, holy, beautiful God. It's thanks to that pastor's work that I still attend church at all.

So when he left and the next associate pastor came in, naturally our standards were very, very high. Perhaps too high, especially since this one was fresh out of Bible school. Of course, it took him some time to get a handle on the job and it took me even less time than to dismiss him as sub-par (it sounds so horrible when I write it out now, but it didn't seem so bad in my head).

For two years I mostly just tolerated him. Looking back, he implemented some really great stuff that I personally am genuinely thankful for, but I didn't see that. All I saw were the times when he would cancel something and tell everyone involved but me. The times where he would be leading the song service and I would be on PowerPoint and he would randomly change the order of service on the fly, leaving me scrambling and the congregation completely lost.

But today, at the farewell service, several very different people got up and talked about their memories with him and his wife. All of these people had nothing but gratitude in their hearts and in their words. And it wasn't just because the pastor was leaving and they wanted to make it look good -- no, they meant what they said. Every one of those people confirmed each other's statements in their own previously prepared speeches. Every one of them saw his creativity, his passion, his desire to help people.

And I got to thinking: if they all saw the same thing... then I'm the one in the wrong.

Here I had been all high-and-mighty. At least I tell everyone when plans change. At least I arrive at meetings on time. At least I know what I'm doing.

What I failed to realise until this farewell service was that it wasn't that he didn't know what he was doing -- he was just doing it differently than I would have. Different, but not necessarily wrong. After all, he accomplished a lot of stuff in two and a half years -- far more than I would have in his position, that's for sure.

Suddenly I began to realise what I had missed, simply because I was too busy picking apart his flaws to see his strengths. I was ashamed -- for the words I've spoken behind his back, for the thoughts of fury in my mind when his spontaneity clashed with my 'perfect' PowerPoint presentation and made me look like an idiot in front of 175 people. Note the use of the word 'me' in that sentence. It was all about me. He was making me look stupid. He wasn't up to my standards. He was more of a relational person, rather than the theology nerd I wanted.

I was so focused on how he was 'ruining' my plans that I didn't bother to look at him.

Exhibit two: the Facebook status.

I re-read the status after I posted my (severely self-censored but still lengthy) rant on it and noticed it said one thing you like about your church and one thing you wish would change. I had put down two things and three, respectively. Oops.

First up was the clique issue. There's a lot of venom behind this one. I spent five years wasting my time and energy and my parents' gas money attending youth group only to go completely unnoticed. Eventually one of them finally told me I was stupid and annoying. I stopped attending youth group and began plotting my own demise in earnest. If the Christians couldn't love me, nobody could.

Next up -- the 'college and career' group they just started. Oh wait, did I say 'college and career'? How quaint! How stupid one must be to think 'college and career' actually means 'college and career.' Hah! What a joke! What a laugh! And you thought you would actually be with likeminded people. Oh, you poor sap, Kate. How innocent you are!

Welcome to the 'college and career and junior high and senior high and whoever the freak else wants to join because you 18-and-over people aren't actually that important to us -- it's much more fun with the young people there too. You know, the ones who aren't yet being bullied by their relatives into making more money right freaking now and moving out when you're not yet self-sufficient and are still perfectly content with you finishing your education before they cram all that you're-an-adult-now crap down your throat' group.

The third rant I already mentioned at the beginning of this post (the one about people volunteering and then un-volunteering at the absolute last possible millisecond).

I posted the comment, but as I reread it, I started to feel doubly ashamed of myself.

For starters, my first two rants are embarrassingly polar opposite. I hate the cliques -- yet I'm angry that this group doesn't get to be clique-ish. Put another way, I hate the cliques... except when they include me. Then I will whine and argue and fight to the bitter end to keep it exclusive. Way to be all-or-nothing, kid.

So what's the problem with my church?

The problem is me.

I'm a selfish brat. Everything that I see as being wrong with the church stems from how much it inconveniences me. Are there issues with the church? Definitely. Do they need to be worked on? Absolutely. But maybe before I start demanding they fix everything that inconveniences me, I should let Jesus fix me first. How can I expect others to be open and loving and perfect if I'm not? I mean, I already knew I wasn't perfect, but somehow I was still expecting everyone to do everything my way. How can I sit and whine about everyone else expecting everyone to pander to their tastes when I'm expecting them to do the same thing for me?

Is this the church of Kate or the church of God?

Creative Brain Is Being A Jerk

You know what's annoying?

When you haven't done any substantial amount of choreography for like three weeks and then you put yourself on a guilt trip to catch it all up because you don't have forever but every time you so much as click on the iTunes window you fall asleep, even if it's still five hours before your regular bedtime. And then after several weeks of this nonsense your frustration grows to the point where you're thinking 'why do I even bother putting in all that effort to waking up in the morning with intent to do something with my life if my stupid brain is going to put me to sleep every time I want it to do what it was created to do in the first place?'

I think that must be one of the most annoying things in the world.

I'm starting to wonder if I'm not supposed to ever ever ever choreograph Glory To The King... which makes me sad, because it's a fantastic song which totally screams for jumping and high kicks and jazz hands and general all-round joyful exuberance. (In fact, I'm thinking I'll feature this song for Music Day this week, if I still remember by Friday.)

Kicking Things Up A Notch... Again

Even after the rally on 5 March which boasted an attendance of approximately five hundred people (rather good considering there's almost no parking at the Legislature and it was the only cold-ish day we've had all 'winter'), the Premier of Alberta and the Minister of Education refuse to hear our concerns and continue to only patronise and mock us. (Odd that; considering nearly all of Alberta is against this thing by now -- I hear that even a few MLAs have said outright they won't run for this party again because of this.)

As such, there's going to be another rally at the Alberta Legislature in Edmonton on 19 March (details here). This time it's put on by the HSLDA -- the Homeschool Legal Defence Association of Canada. (The last rally was from the Alberta Home Educating Association -- the province-wide people, in other words. The HSLDA are the proverbial 'big guns' here.)

This is a big deal. The president of the HSLDA is flying out here from London for this.

We need thousands of people to be there on Monday, starting at 10.30 am. (The main bit of the rally is slated to take place at twelve noon.)

Apparently the Bill could, if the hearts of the Premier and the Education Minister continue to be hardened, pass into law as early as Tuesday, the 20th of March. We cannot let this happen.

If you are anywhere even semi-close to Alberta, please consider making the trip out here and joining me and my family and friends in the several thousand. Take the day off work if at all possible, drive several hours if that's how long it'll take you to get here. Invite as many people as you can... this concerns all present and future parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings -- not just homeschoolers.

Our freedom, and more importantly our children's freedom -- perhaps yours as well, depending where you live -- depends on this. We would be so encouraged if you could come and support us in this.

But whether you can physically join us on Monday or not, we ask that you please pray. The same God who put the mountains in place six thousand years ago, the same God who breathed the sun into existence, the same God who holds the entire universe in the span of His hand at this very moment is the same God who hears us pray today. Let us not grow weary in working to bring the glory of His name to the next generation of children.

To get up to speed on the situation, read AHEA's blog here and the HSLDA's blog here (note that the post on the HSLDA site labeled 'HSLDA Launches Appeal To Supreme Court' is about an unrelated case, but almost everything else on there right now deals with the situation in Alberta).

There are also information sessions to be held in both Calgary and Edmonton on Saturday the 17th -- details on the event page.

Apologies that this has suddenly become a political sort of blog. (I'm not that much of a nerd, honest!) However, I think the freedom of my country for future generations is an issue of paramount importance -- especially since that 'future generation' may well include children of my own and if/when I do have children, I want the freedom to raise them as I see fit.

What I've Learnt In The Past Week

When I get mad at the political situation in this province, I tend to do one of two things:

1. Quote DeGarmo & Key.
2. Quote White Heart.


You know you're a music nerd when...

Music Day -- And An Urgent Request

(I had a different Music Day post all ready -- complete with pictures and everything. I spent more than five hours on the stupid thing. Oh wait, heaven forbid Blogger can just put one line of text right underneath the picture, not ten tab-returns below it or beside it. So now I guess you can just read part of the text because I refuse to blow the rest of my sleeping night swearing at Blogger. I might post the pictures part later when Blogger decides it has a brain behind its operation.)

Anyway.

(*painstakingly pieced together photo montage with scary-appropriate captions that won't work goes here*)







 

The government of Alberta is taking measures to censor Christianity and erase all moral and ethical code.

In fact, it's not just Alberta. Ontario has already passed similar legislation and I think at least two other provinces have done the same. This is going to sweep Canada unless the body of Christ suits up and comes to fight. This is clearly the work of Satan, trying to make sure the future generations of Canada will not ever get the chance to hear of the just, merciful, loving, holy, majestic God who created them.

Please pray this will not come to pass. That the church of Alberta will rise up and protest -- with love and respect, but also firmly.

And we need your help now. Yes, yours.

Whether or not you homeschool your children, whether or not you even have any children, whether or not you live in Canada, whether or not you're a Christian, today is your day to speak up.

I post this at approximately 2.00 am Mountain Standard Time on the ninth of March. Two of the legal representatives of homeschooling in Canada have declared the ninth of March as a day when the pressure on the Canadian government is turned up -- substantially.

They -- we -- are asking that everyone who is concerned about this, no matter for what reason or where they live, to contact the Premier of Alberta or the Minister of Education today and respectfully make their opinions known. There has already been a phoning and letter-writing blitz going on this week, but it's only been amongst Albertans. Since the Premier and the Minister of Education continue to push for this legislation with alarming determination, we are inviting Canada, North America, the world, to join us.

I'll be posting some links below that outline the specific situation. Suffice to say, if this legislation gets passed, all I can see is Nazi Germany all over again. One of the governmental higher-ups was even quoted as saying, "(Whatever the nature of schooling -- homeschooling, private school, Catholic school -- ) we do not tolerate disrespect for differences." (Emphasis mine.)

Of course the statement was later 'retracted,' but if that doesn't sound like Hitler, I don't know what does.

Please pray. The freedom of Alberta, indeed of Canada as a whole, hangs in the balance. Not just for Christians, but for everyone who doesn't fit the 'Aryan' mould our government clearly intends to impose on us.

Now for the song (I had a nice segway here but it wouldn't have made sense without the pictures).

The other day on the commute from dance, while listening to the ShufflePod (as I call it now -- the iPod nano I listen to on shuffle), this track came on. And immediately I thought of music day.

So here it is.

Title: WAR

'Artist': John Piper

Year: 2007

Listen to and download the free MP3 here. YouTube here.

I'll let the track speak for itself... all I can say is it's powerful.

Again, please help us put pressure on the Alberta government to retract the changes to Bill 2. Whether you pray for the softening of hearts or you actually make a phone call or send an email, I as a homeschool graduate, a Canadian, and a Christian, on behalf of my Christian homeschooling parents, my Christian homeschooled siblings, and all my Christian homeschooled friends, thank you in advance.

Contact information:

Honourable Thomas Lukaszuk, Education Minister

423 Legislature Building
10800 - 97 Avenue NW
Edmonton, AB
Canada T5K 2B6
Phone: (780) 427-5010
Fax: (780) 427-5018
edmonton.castledowns(at)assembly.ab.ca

Premier Alison Redford

Office of the Premier
Room 307, Legislature Building
10800-97 Avenue
Edmonton, Alberta T5K 2B7
Phone: 780-427-2711 (ask to be connected with the Premier’s Office)
E-mail: Use this form.

Links explaining the details of the situation:

http://www.hslda.ca/blog

http://www.aheaonline.com/

Both pages also contain links to other very informative articles.

Just A Thought...

Isn't it ridiculous how no-one lets you do anything with your life until you've wasted four or more of the most promising years of it getting a piece of paper that says you are now 'qualified' to live your life now that it's four years shorter?

I Don't Understand

For years -- over a decade actually -- I've wanted to be a dancer.
That has been my main goal in life since I was five.
Then, of course, it was a childish dream completely founded in a princess fairy tale mindset. But I started taking ballet lessons at age six and by age seven I had considered the angles and the work involved more thoroughly and had come to the adult-like decision that yes, I was going to be a dancer. Yes, it would be hard work, and yes, it would be a long time before I could see it come to fruition. But there was no doubt in my mind.

I was going to be a dancer.

And I am still going to be a dancer.

My family, however, thinks otherwise.

You see, I made the mistake of starting to take pictures of things that I wanted to remember. So when I got old and grey I could show my grandkids the places and the people I'm telling them about. So whenever I get lonely and sad I just pull out the pictures and relive the good times.
Naturally, I wanted the pictures to be as clear and well-taken as possible, so I learnt a little about aperture and shutter speed and other tricks of the trade.
I've been taking dance for more than ten years now, but my family took this little bit of photography knowledge and blew it completely out of proportion.
So now I am going to be a professional photographer and I'm going to do studio portraits and I'm going to run my own business and I'm going to do twenty weddings a year and I'm going to win win win win WIN every photo contest they can get their hands on and I will become a household name and other photographers will simply beg to go on photo excursions with me, the great Canadian photographer.

It's like a nightmare.

We've been at a great deal of family/neighbourhood gatherings recently, and many people ask, 'so what are you up to?'
I say, "Dancing mostly -- taking ballet lessons and looking for a tap class somewhere (do you know how freaking hard those are to FIND?) and I'm working on a lot of choreography."
"Oh cool."
Then, just as they may be about to pursue that train of thought, my mother and/or grandmother comes in.
"Yeah, and she also REALLY likes TAKING PICTURES and she's thinking of starting a photography BUSINESS here in the next couple weeks and she's REALLY GOOD and lots of people COMPLIMENT her on her great pictures so she's REALLY SERIOUSLY thinking about DOING THAT." (Insert murderous glare at me here for 'forgetting' to mention this obviously vitally important matter.)
And then, because most people have some idea what goes into photography and haven't the faintest clue what's involved in dance, they naturally seize on the topic they feel a little more knowledgable about -- photography.
It has gotten to the point where my mouth tastes bitter when my relatives start talking about photography.
I don't want to be a photographer. Sure, I mentioned perhaps starting an online shop and selling a few prints to make some money until I could get the choreography/dance thing going, but that was only ever meant to happen 'on the side.' Photography is not my vocation, and it never has been. I may be good and I appreciate that they think so, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life clicking a stupid button.

And their I-know-what-goes-on-in-your-head-better-than-you-do attitude has completely ruined any joy I did get out of taking pictures, capturing memories. Aside from some Northern lights this past week, I haven't touched my camera in several months, because now I know that every single second they see a camera in my hand is only fuel for the fire -- their argument is, "Well, I never see you dancing, and you're always taking pictures, so I thought that's what you wanted to do."

Yeah, well, you try testing out the timing in that one part in Spirit Mover when you're in the middle of the mall. A camera takes up a space the size of your hand. A dance takes up two or three of those little shops, depending how big your movements are.
And these two are completely different things. Sure, they're art, but the fact is, with the camera, I'm only recording memories and things I find either beautiful or interesting. With dance, I want to express emotion and beauty and marry it to my love of music and the stage.

I don't understand how they can have misunderstood all this so badly. Ten years of dancing should not trump a couple of library books on photography. It just shouldn't.

Roadblock Identified: Everest On Road

(Don't try too hard to make sense of that title; I'm not in writer mode...)

Since I feel so inadequate about writing down the brilliant (I wish) choreography in my head and being utterly unable to read it back later and figure out my own work, the other day I Googled 'ballet choreography notation.' I didn't hold out much hope as I'd done this several times before with no notable results.

This time though, I found a couple of decent sites (no, not Wikipedia).

Or at least they looked decent.

There was this one site that was really making sense. I looked at their preview lessons and was actually beginning to understand it (typically it takes me about three years to pick up on complex things like when someone says they hate you that means they don't want you around). However, the writer of the preview lessons said it was highly advisable to learn the official, more detailed version of notation before moving on to the shorthand (which was what I was viewing). Conveniently, this was also available on their website... somewhere.

More than an hour later I finally came to the conclusion (like I said, I'm slow) that this 'original' version of the notation system was apparently intelligence on par with the highest of Cold War-era US Naval Defence secrets* or something because it was NOWHERE TO BE FOUND. It appeared the site had a grand total of three pages and they all linked to each other and back and no matter what you clicked you ended up cycling through the same three pages over and over and over again.

So I went back to the original Google search results page and ended up on the official Royal Academy of Dance website. Perfect.

I went to the shop and clicked on 'books,' since that seemed the most likely to have something that would help me. There were a few books, but no summary of whether they contained famous dances written in said notation or if the books would actually help me learn to write the notation myself.

So I looked for software choreography programs. There were several that looked quite good -- for a cool grand I could order a sort of 'word-processor-like' program. (That term wasn't really explained, but as the previous computer program I looked at required a doctorate in nuclear-phycisist-level math just to place one hand, 'word-processor-like' sounded attainable.)

I would have actually considered the 'word-processor-like' programs too (thousand dollars and all), until I looked at the all-important system requirements: 64MB RAM (check), CD ROM drive (check), hard disk space (amount not specified but if you're asking for only 64MB RAM I have enough hard drive space to correspond to that), 233 MHz processor or more (check), printer (check), Windows 95, 98, or 2000.

Crap.

(It got better: 'Windows 95, 98 and 2000. Untested on Windows ME and XP; NT is not supported. The [software] will run on Windows 95 but the platform is now obsolete.' Then why bother keeping it up?)


I knew software for the Mac OS is harder to find but given Apple's huge advertising push (and the exposure they get from the iDevices) over the past few years and the fact that now everyone probably knows at least one person with a Mac, you'd think that Mac software would now be almost as easy to find as software for the Windows PC.


Alas, apparently this is not yet the case.


I went back to Google search and looked for 'benesh notation' which, I've heard, is the most-used system for such things.


Nothing. At least, nothing on how to learn to write it -- but plenty of articles lamenting how almost no one -- dancers and choreographers alike -- can read choreography notation of any kind.


Well... it would certainly help the case if the materials were available, wouldn't it? I mean, I'm not the sharpest petal on the rose but it makes sense (at least to me anyway) that if you want people to learn this, making it readily available to them would go a long way to accomplishing that goal.


Just a thought.


But if any of you happen to find some kind of a book on learning to write Benesh movement notation (not famous dances written in Benesh notation), do let me know, because it seems my brain will refuse to thaw and let me do this until I can make it understand that yes, I will be able to later understand what I wrote.


*I realise the US Navy might not have been a big player in the Cold War, but the term 'US Naval Defence secrets' in conjunction with nuclear threats sounds very impressive and probably very accurately describes the secretive state of this elusive choreography notation system.

A Mini-Rant

You know, when you have found one program -- one single, solitary program -- that actually works on a PC (as long as the PC is in a semi-cooperative mood), you expect the Mac version of the same program to work just as well, right?

Fat chance.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but if you want to use the sound recording/editing program Audacity, find a PC. The Mac version is not only a major pain in the neck to install, it crashes every five minutes and heaven forbid that you might want to save your project.

And while you're using the program on one of those lowlife PCs, take the time (perhaps while it's spending two minutes to export a two and a half minute song as an MP3) to find a way to contact Audacity's people and demand that they fix their Mac version.

Because maybe your PC is like mine and it takes forever to do anything, never mind coordinating sound and graphic rendering, and it also has like ten gigabytes of remaining space and that's after you clean off all the junk.

And maybe you have a super fast Mac with several hundred gigabytes of storage for the sound files and it also happens to be the computer you sync your iPod with.

And maybe, like me, you would really like to do your importing into the Mac for the aforementioned reasons.

And if the Mac version of the program sucks, there goes an increasing number of your downloads (on Audacity's part) as the number of people buying Macs increases. Macs may still be in the minority for now, but they're gaining steam fast. If you as a software producer don't keep up, you might as well go take a job as a burger flipper. Sure, Audacity is open source and free and therefore nobody's making a profit from it, but if you can make it work almost flawlessly on a system as deeply flawed and persnickety as Windows, you can most likely make it work almost as well on a system as smooth and well-thought-out as Mac OS X.

But even though this is all immensely frustrating, I have to give Apple credit for one thing: if Mac OS X (or a program it's running) is going to crash, at least it does it quickly and gets it over with. You don't sit there looking at the 'busy' cursor for an hour while the hard drive churns and rumbles and strains before finally coming to the conclusion that the program is not responding.

Why Wikipedia Should Be Blocked After 9.30pm

I have come to a conclusion.
There should be a plugin built into every web browser on the market that blocks all access to Wikipedia after 9.30pm local time.
It's not that I'm addicted to Wikipedia. If I have a question about something, I usually go to the library and borrow a half-dozen books on the topic. If I need something right this minute I'll ask a friend who I think is likely to know the answer. Rarely do I turn to Google and by extension, Wikipedia.
However, on the rare occasion I do Google something, I tend to end up on Wikipedia, because it's the first link on the page and it generally doesn't have viruses that screw up people's computers (I'm a bit paranoid that way about Google searching).
And let's face it, it is informative... too informative. I looked up Rich Mullins once and I learned everything I could possibly have ever wanted to know and then some about microcassettes, analog generation loss, and Space Cadet Pinball for Windows 98 (plus, of course, Rich Mullins).
And that's the whole problem. If they didn't link to other interesting and informative Wikipedia pages, I wouldn't be writing this post. It wouldn't eat five irretrievable hours of my life at a time.
And I wouldn't end up terrifying the living daylights out of myself for a few days.

Have you ever looked up the Wikipedia page for Elvis Presley?
I swear you could print it out on regular paper 8.5 inches wide and lay it across Canada and it would reach from Vancouver at least to Winnipeg. It's insanely long. I'm a fast reader (the fastest I know), and it took me and hour and a half to read it. An hour and a half! And I didn't even read it all... I skimmed quite a bit (mostly the bits about his, ahem, very private life).
A quick subpoint here -- there should seriously be an adult content warning label on that page. Mostly it talked about his songs and movies and maybe a bit about his family life (especially in the earlier years), but I saw -- even though I started skimming -- far more about his, er... intimate life than anybody needs to know. I know the Internet is kind of a free-for-all, but seriously, what if it was your eight-year-old doing a report on Elvis and decided to look at the Wikipedia page? Have a little consideration here, people. No, a warning label is not going to prevent you (or your child) from continuing to read it anyway, but at least then you have a heads-up and if you've trained your kid well they'll at least come ask you if they should continue reading.

Back to Elvis.
I don't even know what possessed me to start reading the Elvis Presley Wikipedia page at eleven pm, knowing the chain reaction Wikipedia lays down for you.
I had been looking for album artwork for my iTunes library and randomly decided to check out the Imperials Wikipedia page that appeared in the list. Why, I don't know -- I could ask my dad about the Imperials and he could tell me more than the Wikipedia page did. And why I opened the link to the Elvis page from there I don't really know either.
I mean, I knew all I really cared about -- singer, started his career in 1950s sometime, acted a bit, served in the US Army, died of some kind of overdose in 1977. Sure there's more than that, but I didn't really care about any of it... except for the question 'what did he actually die of?'
From laypeople (most of them aged four or younger when he died) I'd heard it was drugs, I'd heard alcohol, I'd heard he starved himself to death trying to lose weight but I'd never heard from a slightly more reputable source. And since I apparently have some kind of morbid fascination with how famous people die (especially if they die young), I decided to check it out.
I know, I know, they have that neat little box at the top of the page that links to certain segments of the article, but as the page was loading I suddenly thought, I wonder how he even got started in the first place.
So I read that part. But you know how it is -- as soon as you start reading something, anything, you have to continue; you can't just stop.
So I continued.

Finally, at about 12.30am I reached the part with a heading about the decline of his health.
Now put yourself in my place.
It's 12.30 in the morning.
You're fighting to keep from falling asleep over your keyboard.
It is completely silent save the very, very soft whirring of your laptop (city people may struggle with this one).
Aside from the computer's screen and one fluorescent bulb, it is completely dark.
You've just spent more than an hour with your (very vivid) imagination firmly locked, no distraction, in the world of Elvis or at least his fans.
And you have an irrational terror of music being garbled or messed up.
I'm not kidding about that last point. As far back as I can remember, the drone of a cassette tape in a faulty player would give me nightmares for weeks. I hated that sound -- the slow, painful, mournful death of music. I would hear a song droning like that in the daytime and then in the dead of night I would close my eyes and the song would suddenly be in my head, warped and moaning, almost melting slowly in a flame as the proverbial ghost was wrenched from its being. And I would be too terrified by the awful sound in my head to even consider seeking reassuring company in my parents' room at the other end of the dark house.
I still hate that sound.

And as you sit there in silence, only half-awake and barely aware of your surroundings as the darkness presses against the window just above your head; like the beginning of a horror show -- creepy music in your head and all -- it's as if the light takes on an eerie reddish cast, turning everything that isn't in tar-black shadow into an hazy, choppy scene the colour of blood.
Your eyes become stuck on a paragraph which, coupled with your very focused, very vivid, half-dreaming imagination, becomes a nightmare as your brain invents the sound... like watching a horrific accident that's too terrible to look away from... the account of one of Presley's musicians about a concert on what I gather was his last tour, describing how Elvis had to hold onto the microphone stand for support, how he was so drugged and listless he couldn't even sing the words to his own songs...
And your primed imagination pulls together a shaky, unfocused hand-held video recording of a rock star clinging to a microphone stand with the band thumping and crashing along behind him as if all's right with their world and yet it's so obvious something is very wrong... the singer tries to form the words of his own songs and he can't make them work, he can't keep up with the band, his eyes are half-closed as he channels all his strength into clinging to that microphone stand... the band continues to play along behind him but all that comes through the lead microphone is irregular mumbling... droning and patchy against a much stronger and steadier beat...
You blink and return to your bedroom thirty-five years later but only momentarily as you're suddenly thrown back in time again, a child standing in the doorway to her bedroom, swaying, the sound of a badly dragging music tape looping through her head, echoing through the pitch darkness as she tries to gather enough courage to make the sprint across the house to her parents' room through the sound of the dying cassette tape coming from all around.

How To Spot An Idiot

'It's official... signal at 12:20 it even passed on TV. Facebook will start charging this summer. If you copy this on your wall your icon will turn blue and Facebook will be free for you. Please pass this message if not your count will be deleted. P.S. this is serious the icon turns blue, so please put this on your wall.'

Between 12.30 last night and 1.30 this afternoon, my Facebook news feed became flooded with this one post.
It's the official mark of stupidity -- the chain status/wall post/message/'like' page claiming that Facebook is going to start charging. It's full of misspellings, weird grammar, repetition, and things that don't even make sense (what does 'signal at 12:20' even mean? 'Your icon will turn blue'... what icon?)

First off, if Facebook was going to implement a major, major change such as charging money, they would send you an official message from the Facebook team through... Facebook (what a coincidence!). They've done it before; when they update the privacy settings for instance. If you log in one day and Facebook asks for money and you haven't heard anything about it, obviously you haven't checked your Facebook in like six months, therefore you don't use it often enough to bother keeping up the account, free or not.
Of course, a change like that would almost certainly hit the news, but I'm very sure every Facebook account holder would get the news directly from Facebook very far in advance.

Also, assuming this post was true, it would tell you which TV network it showed up on, wouldn't it? TV in this age includes thousands of channels. Just saying 'it was on TV' does not make your claim (or anyone else's) valid.

One more thing... no way on earth will posting a certain message on a certain webpage change an icon. It would require too much extra time to build the code to make that happen and then be able to launch it on several million accounts all at once. Even their message/chat integration thing was rolled out slowly over a period of at least six months. To write the code that would make a certain (unspecified) icon turn blue when a particular (highly unprofessionally written) status was posted would be more complicated then the message/chat integration and therefore would take at least as much time to roll out for everyone. It would not start working for everyone all at the same time as the status insinuates.

So next time you see one of these things and are tempted to repost it... don't. Think through it logically and then decide not to post it. Because if you do repost it, it will make you look a huge bumbling idiot to your family, your friends, your enemies who are your Facebook friends anyway, and that really cute, really smart guy (or girl) you have a huge crush on.

The Jealousy In Me

Someone from our church was recently in an accident.
She's the associate pastor's wife and a very sweet person, but for some reason I'm jealous.
Everyone in the church has sent out emails and posted on Facebook to pray for her.
Last year I was in a very serious accident. My life (or at least the use of my legs) was spared by five inches.
Aside from four cliché comments on my status requesting prayer for the baby in the other vehicle, nobody gave a crap about it.  'Oh did you hear Kate was in an accident?' 'No. How is she?' 'Fine.' 'Hmph. Figures.'
I realise this person is a lot more popular with the general congregation (not to mention more widely known), but this bothers me. Why does everyone fret about her and not me? All I got was a couple of half-baked 'oh yeah sure, glad you're okay' from everyone who heard about it (save one close friend who actually was concerned) and this person gets dozens of people sending out petitions through various mediums to pray for her plus people saying 'Oh no! I'm so glad you're okay! We love you -- take it easy!' and similar sentiments.
You know, when I was in my accident, I was basically fine -- the standard whiplash and some recurring breathing problems but nothing too serious really. But was it too much to ask for a little sympathy? How would these people feel if I had died that day -- ripped out of the world at such a young age?
Apparently they wouldn't have missed me.
I know it's ridiculous to suddenly get all offended about it nearly a year later, but would it really have been too much to ask to get an 'I love you' or a hug along with one of those 'glad you're ok' clichés? Was the only reason they were glad I was okay because since I was okay they wouldn't need to feel guilty about wishing me dead and then having it come true?
If I bring so much to the world as they say, why then were they so blasé about it? Certainly, this person in the church is lucky to be alive, just as I was, and I really am glad she's all right, but... how come everyone loves her and not me? Have I alienated that many people already? Have I hurt so many by careless words (the last of which were spoken almost three years ago, prior to this being brought to my attention and the subsequent efforts I've made to curb my tongue)? Have I ruined the lives of so many by simply existing? Is my perfectionism (which I'm openly trying to tone down) that intimidating that people would find it a relief to have me wiped off the planet?
Perhaps I should have died in that accident, because apparently nobody needs me here no matter how much they say they do.

Another Rant

For the past two summers I have attempted to throw parties for varying reasons. Not a lot, usually only one per year. But a party nonetheless.
When I plan a party, it's all about the people. The more the merrier, even though I suffer from a hopeless case of social awkwardness. I love getting people together and listening to them talk and watching how they bounce off each other. Perhaps it's the writer in me, the people-watcher.
Since the object of the party is to get lots of people to congregate in the same general area, I tend to invite everyone who lives within an hour's drive of my house that I have any connection at all with. And I will use any means of communication that I can get my hands on that will get the message to them. If I had the self-confidence to do it, I would buy myself a megaphone and run through the streets at three am when people don't expect noise and are therefore more likely to hear it, yelling 'Barbecue party at Kate's on Saturday! One in the afternoon to eleven pm!' or whatever details are necessary.
But because I don't have the panache to pull that off, I use everything else that's available to me -- Facebook, email, cell phone, home phone, handwritten invitations, you name it, if I have their information for it I'll use it if needed.
Generally I start out with a Facebook event. Those who aren't on Facebook get an email. Those who don't have an email address (yes, those people do still exist) get a handwritten invitation with multiple ways of contacting me dropped by my own hand into their personal mailbox, or, in some cases, given directly to them. This is usually done at least a month and a half before the event is slated to take place, if not a month and a half before the RSVP deadline.
But guess what? It turns out everyone gets an email address, than a Facebook, Twitter, and Skype so they can stay in contact with friends and family (and of course to stalk every available redhead they meet who isn't me).
And then they never check the bloody things!
Do you see how stupid this is? Having a Facebook does nothing for if you don't check it at least once a week. Same goes for your email. And your cell phone. And your answering machine at home. I should not have to come personally to your house, sit you down in front of your calendar at gunpoint and demand to know whether or not you can or will come to the party. That's all I want -- a yes or a no.
I don't care if you say no. I might be a bit disappointed, but at least you had the decency to tell me you wouldn't be able to come instead of never saying anything and making me have to guess.
Because you know what?
It gets darn frustrating when every single person you invite has that exact same reaction. I can't plan to have a good amount of food (which is basically mandatory to all parties) if I have thirty-five freaking wildcards.
If you're not going to check your Facebook or your email and you're not going to reply to texts, voicemails, or handwritten invitations, you might as well go live in a cave because you're too important and self-fulfilled to need any other contact with any other humans and no, you're not allowed to bring your laptop with you because you obviously don't use it anyway no matter how much you say your life is wrapped up in it. If it was, I would have gotten a reply to my email/Facebook invite within a week of my sending it out.

The Free Alberta Highway

Two days ago I was driving on the Anthony Henday highway that goes around Edmonton. The purpose of this highway, I'm told, was so one could go from the south side to the north side in fifteen minutes. To the credit of whoever planned it, that is generally the case.

Unfortunately, even though the highway has only been in heavy use for like three years, they have already decided that rather than fill in the moonscape that is 50th Street, they must do their construction on the almost butter-smooth Anthony Henday.

I'm here to tell you few things are more frustrating than sitting in an endless string of traffic going exactly six kilometres an hour for a good half hour (at least). Those orange construction signs line the roads, telling the traffic to condense into one lane but when nothing materialises in the cleared-out lane, the impatients pull out and zoom ahead -- only to finally reach a physical barricade a kilometre later and have to merge back into the lane they just left. Which makes the lane insanely slow for those of us already in it because these idiots keep sticking their hood ornaments in our way so we can't just suck up to each other's bumpers and keep the impatient blockheads out.

So they merge in and we continue. Beads on a string, being slowly added at one end and pushed along a thread, no hope of escape.

Finally, after almost half the highway, we see evidence that the construction signs might actually be telling the truth -- there's a pair of highway maintenance trucks.

As we pass it we see... two men, one holding a shovel.

That's it.

I have been delayed for a half hour because of two men and one shovel.

Only A Stupid Person

Only a stupid person would forget that the other 99.99999% of the world's population do not differentiate between 'are you willing to do this if you have to?' and 'do you actually want to do this?'
Only a stupid person would assume that the half-raised hand means maybe when apparently it obviously means yes.
Only a stupid person would stand there gaping like a fish with no rebuttal as her words are twisted back to her to make it sound like she was lying.
Only a stupid person would be so terrified of disappointing a 'friend' that she doesn't say what she truly wants even though what she truly wants shouldn't offend the 'friend' at all.
Only a stupid person would still trust the person who twisted her words into lies and all but yelled at her for 'deceiving' her.
Only a stupid person would not have said no the very bloody instant doubts began to surface.
Only a stupid person would think the confusion and double-talk would simply blow over.
Only a stupid person would believe the 'friend's' implied claim that she was a liar.
Only a stupid person would assume so much.
Only a stupid person wouldn't think to explain herself more clearly.
Only a stupid person would act as if others are supposed to read her mind.
And only a truly stupid person would still want to believe that there is still something in this world for her.

Why Canadians Tend To Think The Americans Are Out To Get Them

Last Music Day, I was quite excited about the discovery of a suitcase full of old cassette tapes in my father's workshop. I spent several hours Friday evening importing songs from the PFR tape featured in the Music Day post. Over the course of five or six hours, I had imported exactly two songs.
Yes, two.
It appeared that several years of storage in a cold and not-very-well ventilated (not to mention dusty) building had begun to take its toll on the tape. There were muffled patches and places were it droned a bit. Still, the first two tracks were listenable (not nearly CD quality, but listenable) and I added them to my iTunes library. Then I went to bed.
The next morning I awakened giddy at the prospect of spending the day adding old rock songs to my music collection. I showered, ate breakfast, sat down at the computer, and began importing from where I'd left off the previous night.
Two minutes and forty-five seconds later, I began to have my doubts about how well the day was going to turn out. The tape, which had played all right for the first half of the song, started to drag horribly. Driving guitars and the crashing of drums take on a nightmarish sound when slowed to a quarter of their normal speed.
I let it record until the end of the song, but I knew there was no way I would be able to fix the drag using the software. It was too severe.
My father heard it from the next room as it was recording and came to listen.
"It's dragging that badly?" he asked.
I nodded.
"It wasn't that bad when we listened to it yesterday, was it?"
"No."
He took the tape out of the player and put it in another player we had in the house -- one that had been known to work (but, of course, couldn't connect to the computer or we would have used that one in the first place). We found the exact place in the music where it had been dragging and listened. It came through completely clear and at the proper tempo.
"It must be that player then," my father said. "I have another one in the workshop you can try."
He went out and found two. I connected one of them and re-imported the song. Nearly perfect.
I continued to import that side of the tape, intending to get all the songs and then go back and re-import the first two (to see if I could get better quality copies). It was all going very well. I finished the first side, flipped the tape over, pressed Play, and waited.
And waited... and waited... and waited.
I checked the little window. The spools were turning; all seemed to be normal. Still, this was quite a long wait. I stopped the player and took out the cassette. The tape around the take-up spool was a bit loose and out of habit I gave it a few manual turns with my finger to tighten it. It didn't appear to tighten. I tried turning the other direction although I was certain I had turned it the proper direction the first time. No effect. So I gave it a good half-dozen turns in what I knew to be the proper direction. It still didn't tighten.
How could this be? It had just been in a properly working player. The tension had been fine until now.
Perhaps the tape had caught on something. I looked at the bottom of the cassette.
There was nothing.
No tape, either clear or magnetic.
Oh no...
I rushed out and showed my father. He examined it, but declared the damage permanent. The cassette had no screws that could have been removed to open it; and thanks to my patience letting the broken end wrap around the spool over and over again, the ends of the tape were far inside the cassette -- irretrievable.
I checked my old friend, the iTunes Store. Believe it or not, I had finally found an album that the iTunes Store does not yet carry. I submitted a request, but I was bordering desperate. I had been on a roll; I couldn't just stop.
What more could I do? Where else could I get a copy of the album without having to wait an indefinite amount of time?
Then an idea came to me. Actually, two ideas -- eBay and Amazon.
I went to Amazon.com and quickly found a few copies, the least expensive being a 'used' (but still packaged) CD for $3.98 US. Not bad, I thought. I proceeded to buy it.
Unfortunately, I live in a very rural area. This means I do not have a house number or a P.O. box. The only way our mail carrier can tell our mail from the neighbours' is by the name written above the address. This is perfectly acceptable to any other shipping company you can find. They may think it a bit odd, but they'll still send the material. Lo and behold it always gets here.
But not Amazon.com. You must, must, MUST have a P.O. box to get something shipped to you. Oh, and an actual town -- not the little pinprick thirteen kilometres away that is home to several thousand people, thank you very much. Oh, does that postal code have letters in it?
On any other site you order something from, you select 'Canada' in the list of countries, and everything else adjusts itself accordingly. On Amazon.com, you select 'Canada' in the list of countries, and it's like sirens go off. Their servers overheat and go into error loops. Smoke fills the building. The safe housing billions of dollars is about to explode.
The Canadians are coming! Arm yourselves! Man the cannons! Women and children first!
Frustrated with Amazon.com's stubbornness, I decided to see if there was an Amazon.ca. There was, but there the cheapest copy available was twenty-two dollars. Twenty-two dollars! I could go to the ridiculously overpriced local Christian bookstore and buy the exact same album for fifteen, tops (and I would have except said bookstore only sells albums released in the past two months and even then you're delving into ancient history. Don't even ask about an obscure band's farewell album from 1997).
Unfortunately, my desperation had clouded my sense (yes I have some, stop laughing). I bought it. Once the shipping cost was added to it (because of course it was coming from Oregon or something like that), I had relieved myself of nearly thirty dollars.
I am the queen of cheapskates. Anything more than fifteen dollars is a major purchase. It isn't that I can't afford to pay thirty dollars, it's just that I could have gotten the exact same item for only a bit more than four dollars if Amazon.com hadn't been so flipping stupid (and if I hadn't fallen to their level and bought it anyway).
If you ask me, it's a conspiracy theory to strip the 'polite' Canadians of every dollar they own. But regardless of whether it's true or not, I will never again use Amazon's 'service.' Whether you try Amazon.com or Amazon.ca, it's a ripoff. Pure and simple.

A Test

Do you know the easiest way to tell if your 'friends' and relatives think you're stupid or not?
If not, I shall now enlighten you. It's very easy, only three steps.

Step one: Get in a motor accident in which you very easily could have been rather violently killed BUT be perfectly okay except for some breathing problems thanks to the air bag. (For best results, make sure the vehicle you were driving is crushed beyond recognition. Also be sure to take pictures, although a very graphic verbal description will do in a pinch.)

Step two: Get a new vehicle, get back on the road and improve your driving skills over the next few months or so.

Step three: Nearly six months later, go on an hour-long (one way) drive in broad daylight after a snowfall (note that the snow must not still be falling. This is very important. If the snow is still falling it will affect the results of the test).

On the morning of the aforementioned two-hour drive after a snowfall, people will come out of the proverbial woodwork, people who haven't spoken to you in several years, telephoning and asking if you're still going on that trip and if so is anyone coming with you.
The amount of panic they display when you tell them that yes, you are still going on this trip, and yes, you're the driver will tell you exactly how stupid they think you are.

Interpreting the results:
If they say, 'Oh okay. Well, drive safe. Anyway, the real reason I called is...' and continue on to give another perfectly legitimate reason to be calling you, then they most likely do not think you are stupid at all and are merely displaying a normal healthy amount of concern for your safety. These individuals obviously trust you enough not to panic but love you enough to care about your well-being. (Either that or they are very good actors, especially when downplaying the actual real reason they telephoned.)

If they say, 'WHAT?!? Are you insane?' they most likely think you are completely daft for even considering the notion, but do tread carefully when met with this response, as they may think you're crazy for different reasons. This response is particularly tricky to figure out despite its simplicity on the surface.
They may be genuinely concerned for you. Perhaps they have already driven some of the roads that day and know that they're worse than they appear. If this is the case you can safely feel that they actually love you and think you're a wonderful, mostly intelligent person and want you to not run into any hardship because they can't bear the thought of you being involved in another horrible accident.
However, they may also think you are too stupid to realise that you need to use caution and they figure that it's safer for everyone (including themselves, if they happen to be going anywhere) if you stay off the road.

If they say, 'Oh' or 'Oh really?' in a rather high-pitched surprised sounding voice, followed by a rather long awkward pause, you are dealing with someone who thinks you're a complete and total certified idiot and you should terminate the phone call as soon as possible. (Saying, 'yes, see you at my funeral' and then hanging up may be the most effective manner of doing this, but please note that this particular method has not yet been tested and therefore if you attempt this please know that you are doing so at your own risk.)

What you do with the results of this test is not certain. Studies have shown that generally the results of these sorts of experiments get published, but you may not want to publish lists of 'friends' and relatives who think you're stupid in any public place. Doing so may result in being disowned or sued. I suppose you could write the lists down and stash them in the drawer of your bedside table for reference when you move out in five years though.

Please note: Results may vary depending on your particular friends and relatives and how well you know them. Sarcasm or 'gentle teasing' on their part may be a factor in their response. This test is not scientifically proven to be 100% accurate. I assume no responsibility for any strained or destroyed relationships that may result from the use of this test.
If you are a subject of a test similar to this that a friend or relative is conducting, please know that while they may be quite aggravated if you freak out every time they have to go somewhere, they do appreciate concern when shown in a gentle, loving way. Do not rub their failure in their face -- they already know that they screwed up. If they didn't they would still be driving around the piece of gnarled scrap metal that went through their first accident because they wouldn't know that their car was totaled and it was their fault. (If you do happen to know anyone like this, do society a favour and notify the proper authorities; as anyone who has been in a serious accident and doesn't know it likely should not still be driving, especially if the lights, steering wheel, doors, windshield, and/or motor of their vehicle have been severely damaged in the accident.) However, the accident victim may still want to talk about their experience as long as you are not judgmental about their role in it. Be considerate and give them a second chance. You're not perfect either.