Infinitive Splitter

I’ve been to two family weddings in the last two months: one was an evangelical service, and the other seemed to be generic, all-purpose Christianity. This biblical instruction was delivered by the religious authority at the first one (from Ephesians 5):

[22] Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord.
[23] For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the saviour of the body.
[24] Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing.
[25] Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it;
[26] That he might sanctify and cleanse it with the washing of water by the word,
[27] That he might present it to himself a glorious church, not having spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing; but that it should be holy and without blemish.
[28] So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies. He that loveth his wife loveth himself.
[29] For no man ever yet hated his own flesh; but nourisheth and cherisheth it, even as the Lord the church:
[30] For we are members of his body, of his flesh, and of his bones.
[31] For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and shall be joined unto his wife, and they two shall be one flesh.
[32] This is a great mystery: but I speak concerning Christ and the church.
[33] Nevertheless let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself; and the wife see that she reverence her husband.

… and this was in the second (from Colossians 3):

[17] And whatsoever ye do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God and the Father by him.
[18] Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as it is fit in the Lord.
[19] Husbands, love your wives, and be not bitter against them.

The preacher at the second wedding tried to explain that, actually, God wants both the husband and the wife to submit to each other, but it was a pretty weak sale. The instructions to the husband and wife are very clear, and very clearly different.

I gather (from my sample of two weddings) that the “submit to your husband” stuff is a common instruction to brides, which might be more shocking to me if there were more evidence that people put any thought into anything their wedding guests will hear.

For how many more decades will newlyweds allow “The Electric Slide” to play at their receptions? What self-respecting bride- or groom-to-be could fail to specifically forbid the Macarena? Is there a “must play ‘YMCA’” clause in the DJ Union contract?

The final episode of “The Sopranos” aired 15 hours ago. If you haven’t seen it, don’t read this.

I agree with Scott Lemieux:

The concluding sequence was brilliant, and I’m baffled by people who would prefer a neat, tidy, Friends-like ending. One can read the ending as assuming that the guy won’t come out of the bathroom with just his dick in his hand, with the fade to black reflecting the recalled warning that you don’t see it coming. Or the bell ringing that concluded the show could suggest that the killer (or the FBI) just walked in. Or to represent the fact that Tony, despite Philly’s killing, will be looking up at every bell for the rest of his life. Would just choosing one of these endings be more satisfying? Of course not. The ambiguity is more appropriate.

My neighbor had texted me 15 minutes before the end to say her cable had gone out, so my antennae were tuned that way when the screen cut to black (it was not a fade, as Scott says; that would have stripped the moment of its urgency).

After it became clear that the blackout was, in fact, the intended conclusion, the “looking up at every bell for the rest of his life” read was my immediate interpretation. It’s exactly the sort of non-resolution resolution that will characterize every remaining moment of Tony Soprano’s life, whether it lasts another five seconds or another 40 years.

Killing Tony at the restaurant would have pulled the rug out from under the tension that defined the show; sparing him definitively would have had only illusory permanence.

Act I

[Tuesday, Ian and Will sit in a first-base-side mezzanine box at RFK Memorial Stadium. On the field, Pittsburgh Pirates shortstop Jack Wilson approaches the plate.]

Will:
HOME RUN JACK!

Ian:
What’s that?

Will:
It’s from Hook.

Ian:
Oh, excellent.

Will:
HOME RUN JACK! [Looks at the scoreboard.] Ah, two home runs this year. He’s due.

Ian:
Nah, he’s not really amped to hit a solo home run right now.

Will:
Sure he is.

[Wilson hits a home run.]

Act II

[Wednesday, Ian and Will are in the same box. With two runners on base, Pirates first baseman Adam LaRoche comes to the plate.]

Ian:
Look, he’s calling his shot.

Will:
No he isn’t.

Ian:
Yeah, look, he’s calling it. Center field!

Will:
It’s just a pause in his warm-up swing. Look: swing, pause. See?

Ian:
He’s calling it.

[LaRoche homers to center.]

The end.

The New York Times on Saturday published a column called “More Advice Graduates Don’t Want to Hear,” a very suitable headline which, of course, prompted my parents to forward it to me.

It begins:

Last year at this time, as college graduates walked out into the world, I wrote a column giving advice on how they could save money.

In droves, parents sent the column to their children. And some of those children wrote to me to vent. What I suggested was impractical, many said. How would you like to try to live on $40,000 a year in Washington or San Francisco, several asked.

(I would love to try that!)

What I was proposing was not radical. It was mostly the simple things my mother had drummed into me. It was advice like diverting 10 percent of your income to savings before anything else and ignoring raises and putting them into savings, too. Learn to cook, I said, and never borrow money to pay for a depreciating asset.

This last rule is likely to leave most of the column’s audience on the wrong side of things, since it would seem to rule out automobiles and bachelor’s degrees.

I’m back like Girls Are Pretty!

I have moved from an old house on a four-lane boulevard in Arlington, Virginia, to an old apartment on a five-lane urban artery in Washington, DC. At the house, my four roommates and I paid all metered utilities at the rate of about $100 per person per month; the two of us who moved to the apartment will pay only for cooking gas (maybe $15 total).

Nighttime in DC is already quite unsuitably warm for sleeping, and our four-room apartment (plus kitchen and bathroom) came with three window-mounted air conditioners, each of which has a thermostat that goes down to 60 degrees.

The opportunist/economist/comfort-seeker in me thinks this situation is the tops. Sweaters indoors in June! Heavy blankets at night in July! Beers left out to cool on counter-tops in August! No consequences!

The environmentalist in me knows that this is why the earth is melting.