Levi Justin Rogers

I’m in the process of making my way through as many of the Oscar nominated movies I can. I’m usually only 50% impressed with which films end up winning and which ones don’t even make the list, but then again I like really weird films. However, last night I watched Zero Dark Thirty. I wasn’t expecting much to be honest. When I first heard they were making a film about the death of Osama Bin Laden, I assumed it was a cheap Hollywood race to rake in money over a major historical event, akin to Act of Valor.

I left my house at 8:45 to walk to the Gateway and meet my friends Joel, Jeremy, Matt, and Justin. Joel and Jeremy used to be in the military, but now have sort of a hippie ex-pat vibe going, though you know that either one of them could crush your skull if they so desired.

When the five of us left the film, I felt as if my entire moral compass had been spun on it’s head. It was the most morally confusing film that I’ve seen in a long time.

On the one hand, you want to see the dramatic unfolding of the hunt for perhaps the the most infamous terrorist our world has seen. You’re kinda of excited to see him get taken out by an elite group of bad-asses. On the other hand, there’s the inevitable series of events that has to occur in order for Bin Laden to be captured. Mainly, torture. People getting water boarded and led around naked on dog collars.

Director Kathryn Bigelow does a terrific job however, of letting the story unfold before us, not letting her commentary on either torture or Al Queda to get in the way of the bigger themes of the film.

Since I am a Christian with no particular ties to any one nation, I wasn’t going to sit there and chant U.S.A.! in the theater when Bin Laden finally died. But I was kinda of excited. I felt bad that I was excited because as a Christian I’m told to love my enemies, but it also felt like an act of justice. On the other hand, I’m not the biggest fan of empires and part of me kinda felt like rooting for the “bad guys.” The fact that certain operatives could evade capture from the most powerful and technological military the earth has ever seen for as many years as they did, is fairly impressive. It’s a little bit like the underdog kicking the bully in the junk.

Basically, at one point I was rooting for the underdogs, and then I wanted all to be a Navy Seal and get Terminator on some terrorists. I’m a very confused man right now.

I didn’t like how happy I was to see a person die, albeit, a very horrible person. But on the other hand, maybe it was okay, maybe it was justice. I didn’t like the fact the Bigelow actually made me re-examine my beliefs in pacifism and militarism, but then again I think that’s why it’s such a great film.

Zero Dark Thirty begins and ends with a heavy sort of silence. An appropriate way to bookend the questions it raises.

It Starts With a Dog And Then You’re Dead

I’ve got a dog now,

soon we’ll get a Subaru

go to dog parks and the zoo

move to the suburbs to join the white flock

start a family with two kids and a dog and a Subaru

and

and

and

a holy-trinity of ands with a two-car garage to match the two-story paper cut box house some company built employing Mexicans so they could save money on labor costs and they use cheap materials, they do, they use cheap workers too. Mexicans don’t mind though.

Or we’ll move to chic urban areas,

cause we’re progressive like that,

and reclaim old buildings with a liberal slant

Then we’ll be dead

In our suburban house with a play thing in the back

Or in our brick loft with some fancy wine on the rack

She’s fucking cute though, this dog,

Damn motherfucking cute. 

The Twelve Days of Charming

In Which We Bring You Stories Relating to Christmas and/or Coffee and Shamelessly Self-promote Our Company and Goods.

The Story of The One Ring as Told by Someone who Can’t Discern the Difference Between Lord of The Rings and Harry Potter.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. His name was Bilbo Baggins.
Bilbo had just been asked by Gandalf to go on a quest with the dwarves to the Lonely Mountain when in walked Dumbledore.
“Gandalf!” said Dumbledore. “What are you doing here?”
Gandalf blew a smoke ring.
“I have just given my little friend here an adventure to go on.”
“But I have an adventure that I need Bilbo for.” said Dumbledore.
“Well you can’t have him. I was here first.”
Bilbo glanced back and forth between the two wizards not sure what the Mordor he was supposed to do.
“You don’t understand. The Dark Lord has regained his strength.”
“Which Dark Lord?”
“Psh! Who do you think?”
“Well, there are two dark lords. One is an eye and the other a snake.”
“Oh, of course, I meant the snake one. Do you mind if I steal Bilbo real quick?” asked Dumbledore.
Gandalf furrowed his brow. “Fine, but I fear for the caves into which you will bring this young hobbit friend of ours. He may not come back.”
Bilbo gulped.
“Go on.” said Gandalf.
“Yes!” said Dumbledore. “Bilbo grab my arm.”
“Why?”
“We’re going to apparate.”

The next minute Dumbledore and Bilbo stood in the center of a cold and dank cave.
“What are we doing here?” asked Bilbo.
“There is a creature who lives down here,” said Dumbledore sending a light from the tip of his wand to the top of the cave. “He possesses a very powerful tool that we must find and take. Without it, the Dark Lord will lose much of his strength.”
“Is it a horcrux? Or perhaps a ring?”
“What? No. It’s a Bee House Coffee Dripper.”
“A coffee dripper?”
“Yes. It’s a form of coffee brewing called a ‘pourover.’ The Dwarves and men with beards are super into it.”
“Well, what does it have to do with The Dark Lord?”
“This Bee House Dripper, while producing no inherently magical qualities, makes one of the best cups of coffee you will ever have. The Dark Lord uses it to make his coffee every morning. It gives him the strength he needs to go on taking the world over.”
Dumbledore and Bilbo crept around the slippery rocks and foul smelling pooled water.
“It’s close.” said Dumbledore. “I can smell the aromatics of it.”

As they crept around a large boulder that looked like a dementor, they saw him. The creature Gollum with a Hario Kettle and a Bee House Dripper making Charming Beard Coffee. He was wearing suspenders, a knit cap, and sporting a handlebar mustache.

“What does it wants with us?” asked Gollum. “They wants our precious. That’s what they wants with us.”
Dumbledore moved quick. “Acio Bee House Dripper!” And the dripper flew out of Gollum’s reach and into the hands of Dumbledore.
“Quick!” said Dumbledore. Bilbo grabbed his hand and they apparated back to the Shire.
“No! It tricks us!” screamed Gollum. “My precious!”

The next morning, after Voldemort yawned loudly and slapped his cheeks a couple time to get his evil grin going, he went into the kitchen to make himself a pour-over. He ground some Charming Beard Coffee (it wasn’t particularly evil, but it was damn good coffee), but as he went to summon the dripper he couldn’t do it. In a flash he realized what ha happened. His precious was stolen.

It took him two boxes of tissues and a dozen donuts to cure his depressed spirit that morning. He didn’t even know if it was worth it to keep doing evil. Not without his morning coffee anyways.

The Twelve Days of Charming

In Which We Bring You Stories Relating to Christmas and/or Coffee and Shamelessly Self-promote Our Company and Goods.

Day 10:

Do you like canning? Or embalming tiny octopuses in formaldehyde? Well then, have we got the gift for you.

Presenting: Drum roll please, bah da bah da—the ever so sleek and modern glassware from Weck Jars. (Never mind about the drum roll, it didn’t quite work). Weck Glass jars are a perfect way to store your goods with the same air tight technology aeroplanes use to keep passengers safe inside. AND, you can look at it, because it’s made of, well, glass.

They’re perfect for canning tomatoes or toes or keeping your Steel Cut oats nice and fresh. Also, coffee. They are excellent storage containers for keeping coffee fresh. Why? You might ask, my dear Watson. Well because of the whole airtight thing. It keeps the coffee just a tad bit fresher than a bag that’s been opened. Only one thing to be aware of though—it is a good idea to keep the glass Weck Jar in a cupboard or a pantry or in a somewhat dark place so you are not exposing the coffee to a ton of sunlight. Coffee originates from the Pacific Northwest and it is not used to sun the way people from California are. It’s back tends to get as red as a lobster.

So if you have the money and feel like being a good American consumer (and supporting small business) check our the Weck Jars on our website (they come with coffee). 

Charmingbeard.com

The Twelve Days of Charming

In Which We Bring You Stories Relating to Christmas and/or Coffee and Shamelessly Self-promote Our Company and Goods.

Day 12

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me, the Charming Beard Holiday Basket Which Includes a Bag of Charming Beard Coffee, Uganda Coffee in a Weck Jar, and Amour Spreads’ Blackberry Jam, and also, a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

“Do you realize that Christmas is only twelve days away?” asked Justin.

“Shut up!” said Jamie, brushing her long black hair over the nape of her smooth and nearly translucent neck. “I haven’t got any of family Christmas presents!”

 She kept brushing. Jamie had always loved her black hair. It contrasted nicely against her extremely pale and lucid skin. For years she had been ashamed of how pale she was. Part albino, kids used to tease her. But now she saw it as a sign of beauty, like a Snow White sort of beauty. And the other kids in her high school were beginning to think about her like this as well.

“I know.” said Justin. “Me either.”

Justin was gazing intently at Jamie. Ever since they shared a chemistry class in the tenth grade at Fillmore High last year, Justin had wanted to be Jamie’s boyfriend. He felt extremely lucky to be sitting here, next to her, on her pink and white bed. He was going to propose that they go Christmas shopping this weekend. While they were Christmas shopping perhaps they would hold hands. Or go out to dinner afterwards.

“I don’t even know what to get for everyone,” said Jamie.

“I know. Well, maybe…you know, you and I could go to the mall this weekend. Do our Christmas shopping together,” Justin smiled desperately.

“Hmmm.” Said Jamie. “Yeah, that could be fun, it’s just…”

“What?”

“Well, I just get tired of buying the same old trinkets for everyone. It’s all just crap made in China and everyone goes shopping at Wal-Mart and Barnes and Noble and nothing is ever original.”

Justin gulped inside. This was not sounding good.

“So you don’t want to go to the mall?”

“Not really.” Said Jamie, getting a sour look on her face.

All of a sudden, Justin leapt up in the air.

“Wait! I know the perfect Christmas gift.”

“What?”

“My older brother’s friend runs a coffee roasting company and they have a holiday gift basket for sale!”

Jamie’s eyes brightened.

“It’s all local and they’re pairing it with a Blackberry Jam from a company called Amour Spreads.”

“That sounds too good to be true!” said Jamie.

“No! It isn’t.”

 “My parents love coffee! And they’re total snobs. But wait, is it good.”

“Good? It’s specialty, ethically traded, single origin coffee that’s not over roasted or burnt. In the future, they will have been called the “Best New Roaster of the Mountain West,” by the New York Times

“Well terrific.”

“I can call my brother’s friend now! How many should we get?”

“Let’s see, four maybe. This sounds so great I think all my family will want some.” 

“Ill go call.” Justin went outside.

After he made the order he went back in.

“You’re so great.” Said Jamie, gazing at Justin with a sparkle in her eye.

Justin went to go sit by her.

And then, she kissed him. 

Halloween

There was a knock on the front door. He awoke from his dreamless sleep, slowly, fumbling around for his glasses. He pressed the side of his phone to see what time it was. 2:30. Rap, rap, rap. There it was, three sharp knocks. He wondered if he should be worried. He shouldn’t, he decided. But just in case, he grabbed the tomahawk his part-Cherokee-crazy-uncle had given him as a Christmas present one year.

He walked down the hallway and parted the curtains to the left of the door. His breath fogged the window making a hazy circle three times the diameter of his mouth. His eyes reflected back to him above the circle of fog.

He could see nothing. With a deep breath he opened the door. “Hello?” he called.

No one was out there. He stepped onto the front stoop. Everything around him was dead and quiet. The lampposts flickered dimly along the street.

Freaking kids, he thought. He closed the door, locked it, and went back to bed.

In the morning he had a hard time remembering what had happened last night. He remembered the knocking, he remembered getting up, but not much else. Halloween was tomorrow, probably some early teenage prankers, he thought.

It was Saturday and so he spent a majority of the day raking leaves, arranging firewood, and spiking his hot apple cider with rum. His street was very quiet he thought. It was still nice, around sixty degrees and sunny, so he figured more people would be out and about today. But he barely heard or saw anyone the whole day. The streets were as empty as the community park in his suburbs.

Around dusk he started a fire in his woodstove and grabbed a book to read on the couch. He’d had about five cups of spiked apple cider and was feeling very warm and groggy. As the sun set outside he fell asleep, head on his chest, book in his lap.

In his dream he heard the knocking, but it was more distant, abstract, from another world. When he awoke the fire had dwindled to nothing more than coals and all the streetlamps shone through a slight layer of fog swirling the street. He put his book down and rose to look out the window. He saw no trick or treaters, no people dressed like cats or zombies. In fact he saw no one. As he turned around to lumber to his bed, he heard the knocking. But it wasn’t at his door, but across the street. He swiveled his head quickly back to the window. At first he saw nothing, then his neighbor across the street opened the door, “Hello?” his neighbor called. “Hello, who’s out there?”

The neighbor stared for a minute before he stepped out onto the front porch. Then, with a determined gesture he dropped the bat he was holding and walked confidently into the street and to the left until he was swallowed by the swirl of the mist and dim lampposts. The neighbor’s door was ajar, gaping like the dark mouth hole of skull.

He had a hard time going back to bed. He could not sleep. He wondered where his neighbor had gone.

When he awoke the next morning to make coffee, it took him a good fifteen minutes before he looked out the window and realized his neighbor’s door was still open. Some leaves had blown from the porch into the first few feet of his neighbor’s entryway.

He thought about calling the police but decided that there was some explanation. In fact, he didn’t know this neighbor or any of his others and so there could be a million explanations as to why a front door would be open. It would be presumptuous to make a scare about some neighbor you barely knew.

His neighbors didn’t know him either. He was not sure if anyone on this block actually knew anyone else. Did any of them know anything more about each other than simply what kind of car they drove?

As he went to bed the next night he had a strange feeling. Halloween was yesterday and he had absolutely no visitors. He wondered if people thought he was crazy, if people avoided his house.

Around one o clock he finally drifted to sleep when he was quickly awoken by three sharp knocks on his door. Rap, rap, rap.

He rose quickly, grabbed the tomahawk and ran to the front door to swing it open. “I’ll catch you tonight!” he thought. As he swung the door open he yelled a muffle “HAWW!” But it was in vain because once again it was quiet and dead. He shifted his eyes around the streetscape.

The cars, the trees, the lampposts, his neighbor’s door still ajar.

And then he caught a glimmer of light. It was from the house to the right of the neighbor with the open door. He saw two eyes looking at him. They were the normal eyes of a middle-aged man like himself curious as his breath fogged the window. And all of a sudden something to the left caught his eye. He couldn’t tell what it was, a dark shape of some kind. But in a swell of confidence that was both indescribable and powerful, he placed the tomahawk on his front porch and walked with a determined strut into the street. He felt the other neighbor’s eyes on his as he did this, he wondered if the neighbor would call the police if something happened. “Probably not,” he decided. I never called.

And with this thought he took a few more steps before he was swallowed by the swirl of the fog and the even dimmer lampposts, his door ajar behind him, the black cavern of his house gaping into the night.

I’ve been thinking about an article I read in Slate yesterday. The article is about Christian blogger Rachel Held Evan’s new book and how a major Christian publisher decided not to carry it. You can read the article here:

http://www.slate.com/articles/double_x/doublex/2012/10/a_year_of_biblical_womanhood_rachel_held_evans_followed_the_bible_and_wrote.html?fb_action_ids=582468632278&fb_action_types=og.likes&fb_ref=sm_fb_like_chunky&fb_source=aggregation&fb_aggregation_id=288381481237582

Why? Well, she said the word “vagina.” In her new book, A Year of Biblical Womanhood, Evans uses the v word as well as the f word, and by f word I mean feminism. Which, for many traditional Christians can be just as dirty of a word as fuck (sorry, I couldn’t resist).

It got me thinking about all the obvious frustrations—the stranglehold of purity and self-righteousness many Christian publishers and bookstores hold over the Christian writing scene, as well as the ridiculousness of using a word that simply refers to female anatomy. I haven’t read the book so I’m not sure how she used it. Maybe she was talking about her lady parts or maybe she used it in a derogatory way like “Hey little brother, stop being a vagina.”

On the one hand it makes sense. Christian bookstores and publishers do not want to publish books of a lewd or obscene nature, because to them it does not work towards the glory of God. I get it.

But what are we allowed to talk about and still get published? I’m afraid I’m screwed If I ever try to write a book with even the slightest of Christian undertones—oh, wait, I am. I talk about God too much for people not interested in religion to read, and I probably use enough colorful language to scare away fifty percent of the Christian population. To me, the question seems to be why certain writers use certain language and what kind of worldview Christian publishers are interested in promoting.

In the Slate article Evans remarks that “If Christian bookstores stuck to their own ridiculous standards, they wouldn’t be able carry the freaking Bible.”

The Bible talks about sex, rape, murder, and love in a way that is entirely realistic. What many Christian publishers and bookstores seem to want is a slightly altered view of reality where no one struggles with sin (or if they do they describe it in very vague ways) and where if someone stubs their toe they don’t say damn it, they say dang it.

For someone like me, in my writing, I say what some consider a “cussword” every now and then. Not to make a point, or to be “edgy,” or excuse sin, but because that’s literally what I’m thinking. I’m not saying it’s okay, but when I’m frustrated, sometimes I say the f bomb. So, if I’m a writer who’s trying to tell an honest story about who he is and his relationship to God, and who one time got frustrated and said shit, should I cross this word out and say “crap?” Maybe, I think it’s a bit dishonest though, untrue to life.

And really though, if Rachel Held Evans was literally talking about her vagina, what other word was she supposed to use? Any other word I can think of right now that related to vagina is um, well, it just sounds dirty.

Vagina is the only anatomically correct word to use.

Paul Thomas Anderson’s latest film, The Master, is a terrific piece of work. The former writer/director of There Will Be Blood, Boogie Nights, and Punch Drunk Love comes out with another stunning film, though it stuns us into a sort of puzzled stupor. As to what the film is about—whether it’s religion, cults, post World War II society or the relationship between master and confused follower, I have no idea. It hits on all of these themes, but doesn’t single out one for any particular length of time. It bounces around a plethora of ideas ripe for commentary and exposition but apparently isn’t interested in commentary or exposition of any kind. The Master is ephemeral, drawing our attention to certain aspects of the film only to pass over them as quickly as it introduced them. The only trajectory the narrative seems to follow is that of clouds or vapor. I don’t think this is a bad thing, though a few people may deem this to be the case, rather it is a film purposefully vague and opaque, but beautiful nonetheless. Anderson is obviously a filmmaker not interested in following traditional Hollywood formulas and in this years The Master he seems to be producing a movie that is entirely postmodern in nature—it is film for arts sake without any simple meanings attached.

The film begins with Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix) a World War II Vet who exits the war as a boozer with some sort of nervous disorder and perhaps slightly unhealthy obsession with sex. He bounces around from job to job, getting in fights and making a particularly potent alcoholic drinks from ingredients like paint thinner. We are never sure what drives Freddie to drink so much or whether he does have actual mental problems (though we find out that his dad died from drinking and his mom is in the insane asylum) thus it becomes hard to classify what Freddie actually is. Is he simply a wandering and confused man with some World War II PTSD? Or does he have some significant mental problems warranting the diagnosis of insanity? Or some combination of both? Anderson never answers this question and seems ambivalent to do so.

One night Freddie Quell meets Lancaster Dodd (Phillip Seymour Hoffman) onboard Dodd’s ship after drunkenly hopping on board. He comes to find out Dodd is a writer, physicist, theoretical philosopher, but above all as Dodd says, “A man.” Dodd is the leader of a group called the Cause, which is part scientology, part new age self-help psychology. Dodd takes Quell under his wing and much of the film focuses on the relationship between the two. At first it appears that Quell needs Dodd as a sort of spiritual mentor and leader to help straighten out his life, but it becomes equally apparent that Dodd needs people like Quell to give meaning to his cause. Quell is an erratic drunk while Dodd plays opposite the pendulum as a confident spiritual director. The other confusing thing is that we are never quite sure whether Dodd himself believes the spiritual gibberish he is spewing or whether Quell believes it. At first it appears so, but after Quell leaves the group and we experience Dodd having an outburst at one of his followers for wanting to learn more, we are not quite sure who believes anything.

Though the film alludes to scientology and cultish behavior, Anderson seems indifferent to either debunking or proving any sort of religious or cultish behavior. There are some wonderful moments that show how cults function—the charismatic leadership of Dodd, Quells desire to belong to the group, and the certain amount of manipulation and guilt tripping for not giving enough to the group—but as soon as we think this is a film about a cult, it becomes a film not about cults at all.

Interesting note: There is a lot of nudity and I’m not sure what that’s about either.

Another interesting thing: there is no concrete setting. The time is Post World War II, but the members of the cause bounce around from city to city never staying in one place. There are mentions of New York and London, but it is another way in which Anderson seems to take out the ground beneath our feet. For as dark and morally muddled as There Will Be Blood was, there was a concrete setting and a concrete conflict between the two main characters that grounded us into the film. The Master ends as elusive as it begins.

The directing, writing, camera work, and acting top any other film of the year, yet the film is undoubtedly the most inaccessible of the year. Either Anderson’s film is supposed to be vague and indecipherable, or he one of those people who knows what it means and likes to laugh as we all try and write reviews about it.

So, don’t see the film as a fun date night, rather you are going to have to approach it like some novel by Albert Camus.