Truth be told, The Invention of Lying, the recently released-on-DVD film starring Ricky Gervais and Jennifer Garner, caught me off-guard. I knew the basic premise, that no one ever lies, or even knows how to, but one man, our protagonist Mark Bellison, learns to lie. I assumed the movie would be funny because of Gervais’ leading role. Some parts were funny, in that cringe-inducing way that Gervais seems to have perfected. Some parts were more crass, or even mean, in a darkly comic way. I did not, however, expect an overtly spiritual bent to the last half of the film. If you have yet to see the movie, I recommend that you buy it, rent it, or stream it, watch it, then come back to this article. Especially since I’m going to spoil stuff.
Clean Slate is a 1994 movie starring Dana Carvey as a memory-bereft private investigator. You’ve probably never seen it. The only reason I ever saw it was Dana Carvey’s involvement, and about the only thing I remember is the poor dog with the eyepatch who keeps running into walls (a gag used multiple times that never got old to me). The plotline is somewhat along the lines of Memento, only less deadly, more funny, and it doesn’t star Jesus, er, Jim Caviezel (er, Guy Pearce, which a non-blog-reading friend kindly pointed out to me after this post was published, and which, as you’ll see, only serves to further support the main idea of this post).
I’ve come to understand that I like movies dealing with the way we remember, or forget, certain things. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is another favorite, for instance. For a long time I couldn’t figure out why I was drawn to these types of movies. I started to blame this affinity for memory movies on the fact that I can’t remember most of what I’m told. I have a friend who chides me for this every chance they get. Honestly, I think my short-term memory shorted out when I gave myself a concussion during my sophomore year (which is apt considering sophomore means “wise fool”), and which shall remain an interesting anecdote saved for another post…. once I remember what happened.
Where was I?
Oh. Right. Remembering.
More than having a personal connection to these kinds of stories, because I do, in fact, wake up every morning thinking, “Who am I?” and “Why am I here?” and “What am I supposed to be doing today?” (and, let’s be honest, we all ask ourselves these questions every morning, even if they’re not spoken aloud, or even consciously thought) is having the very real desire to be free of who I was, to have a proverbial clean slate, to be able to consciously forget the things I can’t quit remembering.
Yet, for all the complexities of the movies I’ve mentioned (well, maybe not Clean Slate), life is even more invariably complex and vague and difficult and rife with things we’d sometimes rather forget. We accrue memories, both good and bad, like packrats. We can’t help it; it’s just what we do. In the same vein, certain memories are stored, but forgotten. Some are kept close, like treasured heirlooms. The worst memories are tossed like yesterday’s newspaper, only to reappear as front page news on an otherwise spectacular day. We can suffocate and drown in these memories.
But the clean slate offers witness relocation. It promises the hope of an unencumbered past, a new residence minus the detritus of the past. And this is why I like these kinds of movies. I want the simplicity of a white-washed life.
Sure, you can make the case that yes, Jim Caviezel, er, Jesus, promises us just that. He’ll make all things new. I know that. I get that (sort of). But that’s not exactly what I’m talking about here.
If I woke up tomorrow with amnesia, completely forgetting everything that had happened in my life up to this point, who would I be? Would I be happy or hopeful? Would I still consider myself a Christian? Would I believe other people if they tried to tell me who I was? I think the answer to those questions is “no.” I’d have no identity whatsoever, and that would be terrifying. More than that, if I truly wanted a clean slate, I’d have to forget the days my nieces and nephew were born, or the day I had a very meaningful talk with my grandmother, or any other joyful, memorable, moment.
In the end, the clean slate is a dream best left to movie plotlines. In real life, for good and ill (because the ill oftentimes makes the good that much better by contrast), I’ll take, and cherish, all my memories (at least the ones I can remember).
In an effort to not be too entirely downcast, dour, and depressing with some of the things finding their ways through my fingertips to your screen, I present to you THINGS I’M GRATEFUL FOR, henceforth to be known as TIGF, not to be confused with TGIF (which I am, in fact, thankful for, even though mine is actually TGITh, but that sounds like I have a lisp, which I don’t… not that there’s anything wrong with that).
Anywaysth. Onward.
TIGF #1 : Catfish Tuesdays
(Note: The ranking is not by priority, it’s by date recorded, and as this is the first TIGF, it gets to be #1. However, if ranked by priority, it’d probably be in the top ten.)
Catfish Tuesdays began as a mild addiction to a warm, friendly, delightful, and delicious place known as Catfish Parlour. When a co-worker and myself started finding ourselves there on a weekly basis, it became an institution. As a recent observer of Catfish Tuesday, I noted how my salivary glands started to sweat as soon as the thought of Catfish Tuesday entered my mind, an irrepressible Pavlovian response.
What’s so great about Catfish Tuesday? Oh, where to begin…
The food, of course.
The express line at lunch, wherein myself and my cohort-in-catfish-consumption will readily sneak by (and possibly make fun of) any rookies who can’t figure out the complexities of the express line.
The buffet-style nature of the side dishes
The service
The old country ambiance
The leglamp. Yes, the leglamp. Even though I’m not allowed to sit facing the leglamp (for fear of “temptation”), we still always sit in its vicinity. If you don’t know what the leglamp is, that’s probably all for the better. That way, you won’t be “tempted.”
The corn fritters, what we’ve affectionately dubbed “critters.” This is actually the reason that Catfish Tuesdays are on Tuesday. It’s the only day the corn fritters are offered at lunch. Surprisingly, it took us a good few months to figure this out, despite the fact that it’s noted on their menu.
The bad jokes printed on their receipts, to which we devote entirely too much brain power to. For example, today’s was “Why are circles so smart?” I thought I had the answer (and I still think it’s a good answer): Because they’ve been around forever. However, that was wrong. The correct answer is: Because they have 360 degrees. Butt, every now and then a good one rears its head: “What happened when the butcher backed into his meat grinder?” Answer: “He got a little behind in his work.”
These are the things that make Catfish Tuesdays great. What makes them awesome is the time I get to spend with a good friend, talking about life and work and faith. Feel free to join us any Tuesday; just know that we’ll probably make fun of you if you don’t know about the express line.
So, do you have a weekly dining obsession? If so, do share. And while you don’t have to be as detailed, you do have to relate why it’s a weekly haunt for you.
Undercover Boss is a show where the boss of a major corporation goes to work at the ground level of his/her business. The first episode of Undercover Boss follows President and COO of Waste Management, Larry O’Donnell, as he dons the uniform of an entry-level employee at his own company. Larry, a.k.a. Randy, works five different jobs in five separate areas of his company, from recycling remover and landfill trash collector, to garbage truck ride-along and cleaner of port-a-potties. Along the way, he meets and works for the very same people that work for him. None of them know his true identity. Consequently, his employees hold nothing in reserve in regards to their honest opinions on their jobs and their company.
You’re probably familiar with Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream, but do you know its inspiration? From the venerable Wikipedia, a quote from Munch’s own diary, written January 22, 1892:
I was walking along a path with two friends — the sun was setting — suddenly the sky turned blood red — I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence — there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city — my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety — and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.
…an infinite scream passing through nature. That’s terrifying.
It was a year ago today that I wept uncontrollably for everything that was breaking around me. We call it a broken heart for a reason, and I felt as if that muscle inside my chest had been severed, with its separate halves wrenching apart, causing my entire body to split down the middle were it not for the glue of all-encompassing pain. That may sound entirely too melodramatic, but the words I used to describe that day, on the day that it happened, included convulsive, aching, and despair. It was like nothing I knew a human could experience. In retrospect, it was the the darkest valley of this journey.
Munch’s “infinite scream” had passed through me. I fear it must pass through us all, eventually. For me, it was the sudden and brutal realization that I was not the sole creator of my own destiny and that I cannot control the actions or wills of other people. It was hopelessness borne of desperation, awash in bitter tears. It was flailing hands to an uncaring universe, selfish cries of “Why me?!” to a silent God.
But what if that’s only part of the story? What if the “infinite scream” really originated, in part, from the only infinite Being? What if the scream, that unearthly and primal sound that sputtered from my soul exactly a year ago, was God’s rage at the injustice and the pain and the chaos and the hurt and the confusion and the sorrow of the entire ordeal, for all parties involved? What if that’s His infinite scream, shouted at the dawn of time, coursing through our lives at times of utmost despair, echoing throughout creation, a wrenching pain leaving a lasting scar, like a sword to a side of flesh.
My God, my God…
What if His seeming silence… is because He’s been screaming with you?
You’re probably familiar with Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream, but do you know its inspiration? From 
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