1. These are people I would phone immediately if I was diagnosed with lung cancer.

2. These are people whose death from lung cancer would make me profoundly sad.

3. These are people I would generally hope could recover from lung cancer.

4. Obviously, I'm not counting the New York Post New York Post or or The National Enquirer The National Enquirer or anything else that defines itself as a tabloid, as those publications have no relationship to journalism. or anything else that defines itself as a tabloid, as those publications have no relationship to journalism.

5. Then again, maybe these people are just way Zen.

Today I got a phone call from Minnesota, and the person asked me how this book was going. I said it was going fine. Then he asked if I had any hopes for its success.

"Well, here is my hope," I said. "I hope the book is published and distributed at least six weeks before a rogue terrorist manages to build and unleash a one-kiloton nuclear warhead in the vicinity of Times Square, since I am told that the blast would instantly incinerate at least twenty thousand people, including me and everyone in my office. It is my understanding that-even if I wasn't killed by the initial blast-it's almost certain that I would be dead within twenty-four hours of the explosion, probably via intense radiation poisoning but possibly from third-degree burns and blindness, both of which would make evacuation from the urban chaos virtually impossible. And to a lesser extent, I hope that this book is available on amazon.com before the discharge of a cobalt-60 "dirty bomb" that would turn Manhattan into a cauldron of walking death that-if I'm really, really lucky-will only give me a hyperaccelerated case of skin cancer. And of course I'd love to see this book in paperback before somebody detonates a uranium-rich suitcase bomb, stolen from Belarus or Ukraine."

"That's interesting," the caller said in response. "I suppose this technically makes you an optimist."

17 I, Rock Chump 2:11 I used to think there was nothing worse than being trapped in a conversation with someone who knows absolutely nothing about anything. However, an acquaintance taught me this wasn't true. "There's one thing worse than talking to a person who knows about nothing," he said, "and that's talking to someone who knows about nothing except except music." music."

You know the kind of person to which my friend refers. You've met him at underattended rock concerts and in empty downtown taverns, and he inevitably adores the Moody Blues. But try to imagine if one of those people was so adroit at being singularly obsessive that he actually got paid for it. Imagine if the weirdo who seems to live in your nearest locally owned record store suddenly had a 152 IQ and a degree from Tufts. And now imagine a hundred of those people coming together for four rainy days in Seattle, all of them totally f.u.c.king stoked for the opportunity to compare The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society with Danish physicist Niels Bohr's field theory on radioactive decay. with Danish physicist Niels Bohr's field theory on radioactive decay.

Prepare to rock and/or roll.

What I have just described was a glimpse of life inside the palatial walls of the Experience Music Project, home for the first annual Pop Music Studies Conference (a summit boldly t.i.tled "Crafting Sounds, Creating Meaning: Making Popular Music in the U.S.") Held in April 2002, the conference brought together a wide array of respected academics and snarky rock critics who were asked to "think about pop music in the abstract." What this really meant is that one hundred people who like Sigur Ros way too much came together to read self-penned ma.n.u.scripts that were either too goofy to be cla.s.sified as scholarship or too pedantic to be seen as commercially viable.

I was one of these people.

Now, let me be completely clear about something: I had a wonderful time at EMP. I'm precisely the kind of supergeek who enjoys forty-minute conversations about side three of Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music Metal Machine Music alb.u.m. The pencil-necked eggheads at "Crafting Sounds, Creating Meaning" are-sadly-my people. If I was Jewish, EMP would have been my Israel. Yet even I cannot deny that this conference was probably the alb.u.m. The pencil-necked eggheads at "Crafting Sounds, Creating Meaning" are-sadly-my people. If I was Jewish, EMP would have been my Israel. Yet even I cannot deny that this conference was probably the least least rock 'n' roll experience I've ever had. rock 'n' roll experience I've ever had.

Thursday, April 11, 5:20 P.M. P.M.: I have just arrived outside the EMP building, a monstrosity of postmodern architecture nestled in the shadow of the s.p.a.ce Needle. Frankly, EMP looks ridiculous from the outside (it's bulbous, multicolored, and possibly made out of aluminum). However, the inside is gorgeous. I can't believe how clean these bathrooms are, particularly the porcelain urinals. This being a "rock conference," I wonder if we will later snort cocaine off these fixtures. I have just arrived outside the EMP building, a monstrosity of postmodern architecture nestled in the shadow of the s.p.a.ce Needle. Frankly, EMP looks ridiculous from the outside (it's bulbous, multicolored, and possibly made out of aluminum). However, the inside is gorgeous. I can't believe how clean these bathrooms are, particularly the porcelain urinals. This being a "rock conference," I wonder if we will later snort cocaine off these fixtures.

It takes me about ten minutes to realize this is not going to happen; most of the people at this conference barely even drink. We're all mingling upstairs in the EMP bar (I think it's referred to as the "Liquid Lounge"), and I'm introduced to Douglas Wolk, a writer for the Village Voice Village Voice and and SPIN SPIN and the ba.s.s player for a meta communicative band called The Media. I can immediately tell that Wolk is interesting, but we're both struggling with casual conversation, so I offer to buy him a drink. He wants an orange juice. This is fine (I have nothing and the ba.s.s player for a meta communicative band called The Media. I can immediately tell that Wolk is interesting, but we're both struggling with casual conversation, so I offer to buy him a drink. He wants an orange juice. This is fine (I have nothing against against orange juice, per se), but it quickly dawns on me that this sensibility will pretty much be the norm for the weekend. At least in the conventional, stereotypical, Nikki Sixxian definition of the term orange juice, per se), but it quickly dawns on me that this sensibility will pretty much be the norm for the weekend. At least in the conventional, stereotypical, Nikki Sixxian definition of the term debauchery, debauchery, EMP is a "no rocking" zone. EMP is a "no rocking" zone.

I wander about the mixer, trying to mix. A few people are discussing how the Avalanches are over hyped, an odd argument to make about a band that 98 percent of America has never even heard of. There is lots of handshaking, and everyone seems to be saying "I love your work" or "I love your book" to whomever they happen to be standing alongside. Some people are upset that EMP has only provided free cookies for the mixer (there had been a rumor about chicken wings), but the cookies are crisp. A graduate student from Bowling Green University and I talk about the Wu-Tang Clan's obsession with kung-fu movies; when I tell this guy he looks like the lead singer of Nickelback, he threatens to punch me.

There aren't many women at this conference. I see one tall female with pigtails who looks mildly attractive, so I saunter up and try to make conversation. It turns out she's a twenty-four-year old freelance writer from San Francisco, and she's not even actively involved with the conference; she just wanted to hang out with rock journalists (!) and meet Simon Reynolds, the British author of a drug-friendly rave book called Generation Ecstasy Generation Ecstasy. I try to talk shop with this woman, but her shop appears to exist in Narnia; she tells me her ultimate goal is to publish a fictional biography about Alex Chilton built on the premise that Chilton was actually sired by a s.e.xual tryst between a woman and an alligator. "The research is totally kicking my a.s.s right now," she tells me. "Basically, I need to learn more about alligators. And about the Delta blues."

Tonight, Solomon Burke is speaking in a room the EMP staff refers to as their "sky church," but I elect to go to some dive bar four blocks away from the museum. I meet an amazing blond girl from a local Seattle alternative paper, and we do not drink orange juice; we end up having somewhere between eight and four thousand c.o.c.ktails, and we play Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Tuesday's Gone" on the jukebox in order to slow dance without leaving the comfort of our booth. I go to bed around 3:30 A A.M., confident that I have rocked more than enough for my juice-drinking brethren.

Friday, April 12, 9:40 A.M. A.M.: I just woke up. The conference apparently started at 8:30 I just woke up. The conference apparently started at 8:30 A.M A.M. What kind of self-respecting rocker gets up for anything anything at 8:30? Doesn't anyone here own at 8:30? Doesn't anyone here own Appet.i.te for Destruction Appet.i.te for Destruction? Do these people not realize that even if you wake up around seven, you're not supposed get out of bed until nine? I wander down to the lobby of the Courtyard Marriott at 10:05, a.s.suming there will be several other panelists feeling exactly like me, which is to say "below average." But there's only one guy, and he's reading the newspaper. It appears that everyone else made it to the 8:30 A A.M. welcoming remarks. There's an upside to being juice drinkers, I guess.

The first three-person panel I sit through is t.i.tled "Self-Image." The initial presenter is New York Times New York Times writer Kelefa Sanneh, and his paper is sort of funny. Of course, what's even funnier is watching the audience when he plays snippets of N.W.A. to ill.u.s.trate his points; suddenly, the room is filled with old white people bobbing their heads along with Ice Cube, desperately trying to show everyone just how much they love hip-hop. That's one of the unspoken prerequisites at this conference: You must overtly love whatever music seems the most detached from your own personal experience. Apparently, this proves you're a genius. As a consequence, all the white people talk about how much they love rap, all the young females insist they love misogynistic c.o.c.k rock, and all the aging academics praise Pink and the Backstreet Boys. Other sentiments that are essential to publicly express at a rock conference are as follows: All unpopular music should be more popular; all popular music should be less popular (unless it's aggressively vapid, which thereby makes it transcendent); authenticity is essential; authenticity is ridiculous; music is the sound-scape through which we experience reality; there will never be another writer Kelefa Sanneh, and his paper is sort of funny. Of course, what's even funnier is watching the audience when he plays snippets of N.W.A. to ill.u.s.trate his points; suddenly, the room is filled with old white people bobbing their heads along with Ice Cube, desperately trying to show everyone just how much they love hip-hop. That's one of the unspoken prerequisites at this conference: You must overtly love whatever music seems the most detached from your own personal experience. Apparently, this proves you're a genius. As a consequence, all the white people talk about how much they love rap, all the young females insist they love misogynistic c.o.c.k rock, and all the aging academics praise Pink and the Backstreet Boys. Other sentiments that are essential to publicly express at a rock conference are as follows: All unpopular music should be more popular; all popular music should be less popular (unless it's aggressively vapid, which thereby makes it transcendent); authenticity is essential; authenticity is ridiculous; music is the sound-scape through which we experience reality; there will never be another Trout Mask Replica. Trout Mask Replica. It's also essential to have a "mentor," or at least to claim that you do. Former It's also essential to have a "mentor," or at least to claim that you do. Former SPIN SPIN writer and current EMP program manager Eric Weisbard tells me he's an "unapologetic Robert Christgau protege." I meet at least two people who openly describe themselves as Chuck Eddy rip-off artists. A writer from Austin tells me his mentor during college was Rob Sheffield. All the academics give props to older academics no one else has ever heard of. And most peculiarly, an unnamed woman with a tragic hairdo asks me if I'm from "the Greil Marcus school of criticism or the Lester Bangs school of thought." I say the latter, but only because I like cough syrup. writer and current EMP program manager Eric Weisbard tells me he's an "unapologetic Robert Christgau protege." I meet at least two people who openly describe themselves as Chuck Eddy rip-off artists. A writer from Austin tells me his mentor during college was Rob Sheffield. All the academics give props to older academics no one else has ever heard of. And most peculiarly, an unnamed woman with a tragic hairdo asks me if I'm from "the Greil Marcus school of criticism or the Lester Bangs school of thought." I say the latter, but only because I like cough syrup.

DePaul sociologist Deena Weinstein follows Sanneh, and she compares the social contract within a working rock band to the fictionalized existence of the jackalope. I must concede that this is a clear example of "thinking about music in the abstract." Later that morning, I attend a presentation t.i.tled "Duran Duran: Video Band?" It turns out the answer to that particular query is, "yes." This strikes me as significantly less abstract.

Jon Pareles of the New York Times New York Times is the "star" of an afternoon symposium mysteriously dubbed "Dos and Don'ts," and he makes references to the Heisenberg Principle and the formation of Zaire. Pareles follows an affable presentation from University of Iowa's Thomas Swiss (he discusses Jewel's poetry) and precedes a boring British academic who drones on about reggae before advocating the death of capitalism ( "I am a socialist," he said during the Q & A portion of the symposium, "and I think we need to change society"). I'm not exactly sure what any of this has to do with pop music, but I do learn that Jewel moved 432,000 hardcover copies of is the "star" of an afternoon symposium mysteriously dubbed "Dos and Don'ts," and he makes references to the Heisenberg Principle and the formation of Zaire. Pareles follows an affable presentation from University of Iowa's Thomas Swiss (he discusses Jewel's poetry) and precedes a boring British academic who drones on about reggae before advocating the death of capitalism ( "I am a socialist," he said during the Q & A portion of the symposium, "and I think we need to change society"). I'm not exactly sure what any of this has to do with pop music, but I do learn that Jewel moved 432,000 hardcover copies of A Night Without Armor, A Night Without Armor, thereby making her the best-selling American poet of the past fifty years. At least thereby making her the best-selling American poet of the past fifty years. At least she's she's not a socialist. not a socialist.

I eat lunch at Turntable, the Experience Music Project restaurant. Now-if someone wanted to be critical of EMP as an inadvertently "antirock" ent.i.ty-this meal would have been a perfect metaphor, as it was the epitome of ruining something visceral. I ordered "old fashioned" chicken and dumplings, but I ended up getting the horrific modern incarnation of what some book-smart Seattle hippie imagines the Deep South should taste like. I almost felt like I was being punished punished for ordering something simple. And I suspect that's how anti-intellectuals feel about things like the EMP Pop Conference. They would prefer consuming the philosophical equivalent of McDonald's, which would be asking a fifteen-year-old kid why Hoobastank kicks a.s.s. And it turns out I could have literally done both of these things; EMP is two blocks from a McDonald's, and Hoobastank was playing with Incubus that very night at Key Arena. for ordering something simple. And I suspect that's how anti-intellectuals feel about things like the EMP Pop Conference. They would prefer consuming the philosophical equivalent of McDonald's, which would be asking a fifteen-year-old kid why Hoobastank kicks a.s.s. And it turns out I could have literally done both of these things; EMP is two blocks from a McDonald's, and Hoobastank was playing with Incubus that very night at Key Arena.

However, I ultimately do neither. I just eat my dreadful dumplings and wait around to hear Robert "The Dean of Rock Critics" Christgau discuss whether or not American pop music is still exceptional, although the only part of his speech I remember is when he says, "I don't see any new Nirvanas lurking around, and I don't plan to." I guess he doesn't like Hoobastank, either.

Sat.u.r.day, April 12, 11:00 A.M. A.M.: Right now I'm listening to Sarah Dougher, and she seems deeply offended by something (and possibly by everything). Dougher is a musician and a teacher at Evergreen State College in Olympia, and she's taking issue with the fact that her symposium, t.i.tled "Personal Stories," is the only panel at the conference composed exclusively of women. It appears she also has problems with the way her panel is named: "I make music in a s.e.xist world that views the male experience as Right now I'm listening to Sarah Dougher, and she seems deeply offended by something (and possibly by everything). Dougher is a musician and a teacher at Evergreen State College in Olympia, and she's taking issue with the fact that her symposium, t.i.tled "Personal Stories," is the only panel at the conference composed exclusively of women. It appears she also has problems with the way her panel is named: "I make music in a s.e.xist world that views the male experience as general general and the female experience as and the female experience as personal, personal," she says. To me, the latter designation actually seems preferable to the former, but what do I know? Dougher later mentions that academia and music are "two of the most s.e.xist professions that exist," further solidifying my suspicion that people attend Evergreen in order to avoid attending life.

This sense of utter unreality is a problem with several of the academic papers at this event; they're often written from completely detached perspectives. Yesterday, some dude from Middle Tennessee State gave a speech about how the threat of terrorism is not worth the chilling effect the recently legislated "Patriot Act" could have on political artists like Sting. This might be true...although I'm guessing it's considerably easier to downplay the threat of terrorism when you work at Middle Tennessee State. I don't see a lot of jets crashing into downtown Murfreesboro.

Still, it would be disingenuous if I didn't mention how innovative (and how clever) some of these presentations truly were. Craig Seymour of the Atlanta Journal-Const.i.tution Atlanta Journal-Const.i.tution talked about "boy band slash fiction," outlining how certain fans of 'NSYNC like to imagine Justin Timber lake getting fisted by Lance Ba.s.s. Glenn Dixon surmised that much of the Contemporary Christian genre is driven by artists who literally want to f.u.c.k Jesus Christ. And the aforementioned Wolk's juice-fueled explanation of how CDs are inappropriately remastered for pop radio was fascinating and insightful. These are all examples of people who truly talked about "boy band slash fiction," outlining how certain fans of 'NSYNC like to imagine Justin Timber lake getting fisted by Lance Ba.s.s. Glenn Dixon surmised that much of the Contemporary Christian genre is driven by artists who literally want to f.u.c.k Jesus Christ. And the aforementioned Wolk's juice-fueled explanation of how CDs are inappropriately remastered for pop radio was fascinating and insightful. These are all examples of people who truly did did think about music in new, unconventional ways. think about music in new, unconventional ways.

But here's the depressing rub: You know who's not not thinking about music in new, innovative ways? Musicians. At least not the musicians who came to this conference. thinking about music in new, innovative ways? Musicians. At least not the musicians who came to this conference.

You see, Sat.u.r.day night was supposed to be the big collision of sound and fury; this was when local "rock stars" were going to take part in a high-profile EMP symposium, simulcast on public radio. The four partic.i.p.ants were Mark Arm of Mudhoney, Carrie Brownstein of Sleater-Kinney, Sam Coomes of Quasi, and all-around indie rock impresario Calvin Johnson.

And they all had nothing to say.

For two hours, I watched four people stare at the audience, all trying to prove they were cool enough not to care about the attention. None of them had any prepared statements (well, Brownstein claimed claimed she did, but then she elected not to read it). None of them wanted to answer any of the moderator's inquiries, and they made fun of half the audience members who dared to ask them questions. Coomes spent all 120 minutes trying to act confused; Arm preferred to play surly; Brownstein opted for a nervously bookish vibe; Johnson just tried to seem weird. At one point, Calvin bemoaned the fact that-since the end of the World War II era-Americans won't even sing "Happy Birthday" at parties, apparently because our willingness to sing in public has become "atrophied." Clearly, Calvin Johnson has never been to an Olive Garden. she did, but then she elected not to read it). None of them wanted to answer any of the moderator's inquiries, and they made fun of half the audience members who dared to ask them questions. Coomes spent all 120 minutes trying to act confused; Arm preferred to play surly; Brownstein opted for a nervously bookish vibe; Johnson just tried to seem weird. At one point, Calvin bemoaned the fact that-since the end of the World War II era-Americans won't even sing "Happy Birthday" at parties, apparently because our willingness to sing in public has become "atrophied." Clearly, Calvin Johnson has never been to an Olive Garden.

"I try not to a.n.a.lyze the process of listening to music," Brownstein begrudgingly said. "The less I think about my art, the better," reiterated Arm. If you take these artists at their word, there is no intellectual element whatsoever to rock music; all you do is walk out on stage and emote. According to them, there's never anything to think (or write) about; in fact, attempts to do so sully the entire creative process.

Luckily, hardly any of the visiting critics or academics attended the musicians' panel, as it happened to be scheduled during suppertime. And honestly, I'm glad they didn't go. Who needs to hear that your life's work is irrelevant? I prefer to imagine all of America's rock geeks breaking bread together, talking about Silk-worm songs and Clinic b-sides and forgotten Guided by Voices shows and-maybe for the first time in their lives-feeling completely and utterly normal. I'm sure their orange juice never tasted so sweet.

Whenever I can't sleep, I like to lie in the darkness and pretend I've been a.s.sa.s.sinated. I've found this is the best way to get comfortable. I imagine I'm in the coffin at my funeral, and people from my past are walking by my corpse and making comments about my demise. It's quite rea.s.suring: At least at my imaginary funerals, it's amazing how many of my female friends were secretly in love with me.

Some people think this habit makes me a freak, but I disagree. I'm always shocked when friends tell me they don't like to think about death; I think about dying constantly, and I think everybody else should, too.

I recall once sitting around a bonfire and asking all the folks staring into the flames what they fantasize about more: dying or having s.e.x. I thought I knew what was going to happen: I thought everybody would immediately answer "s.e.x," but-as we talked about the question in detail and slowly lowered our shields of enforced normalcy-the honest people would admit that they actually thought about dying a lot more than they thought about f.u.c.king. Much to my surprise, everyone insisted that they fantasize about s.e.x constantly and never never dream about being killed, which seems insane to me. Relatively speaking, having s.e.x is so easy. People do it all the time. It's so pedestrian; fantasies about making love are rarely necessary and usually contrived. However, dying is always original. It's always a onetime limited engagement, and (depending on your theology) it's either the defining moment of existence or the final corporeal sensation in the universe's most remarkable coincidence. How can anyone not be consumed by that? I'm constantly thinking about how bullets would burn into my lungs, or if my eyes would remain open if my skull shattered a windshield, or if cancer cells itch, or how it will sound if and when I drown. I cannot shake the notion of my head being swatted off by a grizzly bear, or of my rib cage being pulverized by a madman with a ballpeen hammer, or of being buried alive. There has never been a day in my life when I didn't day-dream about having both my collarbones crushed into powder. And these are not things I necessarily dream about being killed, which seems insane to me. Relatively speaking, having s.e.x is so easy. People do it all the time. It's so pedestrian; fantasies about making love are rarely necessary and usually contrived. However, dying is always original. It's always a onetime limited engagement, and (depending on your theology) it's either the defining moment of existence or the final corporeal sensation in the universe's most remarkable coincidence. How can anyone not be consumed by that? I'm constantly thinking about how bullets would burn into my lungs, or if my eyes would remain open if my skull shattered a windshield, or if cancer cells itch, or how it will sound if and when I drown. I cannot shake the notion of my head being swatted off by a grizzly bear, or of my rib cage being pulverized by a madman with a ballpeen hammer, or of being buried alive. There has never been a day in my life when I didn't day-dream about having both my collarbones crushed into powder. And these are not things I necessarily want want to happen; these are just things that warrant consideration (certainly more consideration than how I'd most prefer to o.r.g.a.s.m). to happen; these are just things that warrant consideration (certainly more consideration than how I'd most prefer to o.r.g.a.s.m).

In all likelihood, you don't think about dying enough.

18 How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found 2:20 I'm having a crisis of confidence, and I blame Jesus.

Actually, my crisis is not so much about Jesus as it is about the impending rapture, which I don't necessarily believe will happen. But I don't believe the rapture won't won't happen, either; I really don't see any evidence for (or against) either scenario. It all seems unlikely, but still plausible. Interestingly enough, I don't think there is a word for my particular worldview: "Nihilism" means you don't believe in anything, but I can't find a word that describes partial belief in happen, either; I really don't see any evidence for (or against) either scenario. It all seems unlikely, but still plausible. Interestingly enough, I don't think there is a word for my particular worldview: "Nihilism" means you don't believe in anything, but I can't find a word that describes partial belief in everything everything. "Paganism" is probably the closest candidate, but that seems too Druidesque for the style of philosophy I'm referring to. Some would claim that this is kind of like "agnosticism," but true agnostics always seem too willing to side with the negative; they claim there are no answers, so they live as if those answers don't exist. They're really just nihilists without panache.

Not me, though. I'm p.r.o.ne to believe that just about any religious ideology is potentially accurate, regardless of how ridiculous it might seem (or be). Which is really making it hard for me to comment on Left Behind Left Behind.

According to the blurb on its jacket, the Left Behind Left Behind book series has more than 40 million copies in print, which would normally prompt me to a.s.sume that most of America is vaguely familiar with what these books are about. However, that is not the case. By and large, stuff like book series has more than 40 million copies in print, which would normally prompt me to a.s.sume that most of America is vaguely familiar with what these books are about. However, that is not the case. By and large, stuff like Left Behind Left Behind exists only with that bizarre subculture of "good people," most of whom I've never met and never will. These are the kind of people who are fanatically good-the kind of people who'll tell you that goodness isn't even that much of an accomplishment. exists only with that bizarre subculture of "good people," most of whom I've never met and never will. These are the kind of people who are fanatically good-the kind of people who'll tell you that goodness isn't even that much of an accomplishment.

Left Behind is the first of eleven books about the end of the world. It was conceptualized by Dr. Tim LaHaye, a self-described "prophecy scholar," and written by Jerry B. Jenkins, a dude who has written over a hundred other books (mostly biographies about moral celebrities like Billy Graham and Walter Payton). The novel's premise is that the day of reckoning finally arrives and millions of people just disappear into thin air, leaving behind all their clothes and eyegla.s.ses and Nikes and dental work. All the humans who don't evaporate are forced to come to grips with why this event happened (and specifically why G.o.d did not select them). The answer is that they did not "accept Christ as their personal savior," and now they have seven years to embrace G.o.d and battle the rising Antichrist, a charismatic Romanian named Nicolae Carpathia, who is described by the author as resembling "a young Robert Redford." is the first of eleven books about the end of the world. It was conceptualized by Dr. Tim LaHaye, a self-described "prophecy scholar," and written by Jerry B. Jenkins, a dude who has written over a hundred other books (mostly biographies about moral celebrities like Billy Graham and Walter Payton). The novel's premise is that the day of reckoning finally arrives and millions of people just disappear into thin air, leaving behind all their clothes and eyegla.s.ses and Nikes and dental work. All the humans who don't evaporate are forced to come to grips with why this event happened (and specifically why G.o.d did not select them). The answer is that they did not "accept Christ as their personal savior," and now they have seven years to embrace G.o.d and battle the rising Antichrist, a charismatic Romanian named Nicolae Carpathia, who is described by the author as resembling "a young Robert Redford."

Everything that happens in Left Behind Left Behind is built around interpretations of Paul's letters and the Book of Revelation, unquestionably the most f.u.c.ked-up part of the Bible (except maybe for the Book of Job). It's the epitome of a cautionary tale; every twist of its plot mechanics scream at the reader to realize that the clock is ticking, but it's not too late-there is still time to accept Jesus and exist forever in the kingdom of heaven. And what's especially fascinating about this book is that it's a best-selling piece of entertainment, even though it doesn't offer intellectual flexibility; it's pop art, but it has an amazingly strict perspective on what is right and what is wrong. In is built around interpretations of Paul's letters and the Book of Revelation, unquestionably the most f.u.c.ked-up part of the Bible (except maybe for the Book of Job). It's the epitome of a cautionary tale; every twist of its plot mechanics scream at the reader to realize that the clock is ticking, but it's not too late-there is still time to accept Jesus and exist forever in the kingdom of heaven. And what's especially fascinating about this book is that it's a best-selling piece of entertainment, even though it doesn't offer intellectual flexibility; it's pop art, but it has an amazingly strict perspective on what is right and what is wrong. In Left Behind, Left Behind, the only people who are accepted by G.o.d are those who would be cla.s.sified as fundamentalist wacko Jesus freaks with no intellectual credibility in modern society. Many of the the only people who are accepted by G.o.d are those who would be cla.s.sified as fundamentalist wacko Jesus freaks with no intellectual credibility in modern society. Many of the Left Behind Left Behind characters who aren't taken to heaven-in fact, almost all of them-seem like solid citizens (or-at worst-"normal" Americans). And that creates a weird sensation for the characters who aren't taken to heaven-in fact, almost all of them-seem like solid citizens (or-at worst-"normal" Americans). And that creates a weird sensation for the Left Behind Left Behind reader, because the post-Rapture earth initially seems like a better place to live. Everybody boring would be gone. One could a.s.sume that all the infidels who weren't teleported into G.o.d's kingdom must be pretty cool: All the guys would be drinkers and all the women would be easy, and you could make jokes about homeless people and teen suicide and crack babies without offending anyone. Quite frankly, my response to the opening pages of reader, because the post-Rapture earth initially seems like a better place to live. Everybody boring would be gone. One could a.s.sume that all the infidels who weren't teleported into G.o.d's kingdom must be pretty cool: All the guys would be drinkers and all the women would be easy, and you could make jokes about homeless people and teen suicide and crack babies without offending anyone. Quite frankly, my response to the opening pages of Left Behind Left Behind was "Sounds good to me." was "Sounds good to me."

Things in Left Behind Left Behind get disconcerting pretty rapidly, however, and part of what I found disconcerting was that its main character is a reporter named Buck Williams, which was also the name of a retired NBA power forward regularly described as the league's hardest worker. As a result, I kept imagining this bearded six-foot-nine black guy as the vortex of the story, which really wouldn't have been that much of a stretch, especially since the real Buck Williams was involved with the "Jammin' Against the Darkness" basketball ministry. If the Rapture came down tonight, I'm guessing Buck would be boxing out J.C. by breakfast. get disconcerting pretty rapidly, however, and part of what I found disconcerting was that its main character is a reporter named Buck Williams, which was also the name of a retired NBA power forward regularly described as the league's hardest worker. As a result, I kept imagining this bearded six-foot-nine black guy as the vortex of the story, which really wouldn't have been that much of a stretch, especially since the real Buck Williams was involved with the "Jammin' Against the Darkness" basketball ministry. If the Rapture came down tonight, I'm guessing Buck would be boxing out J.C. by breakfast.

A mind-numbing percentage of pro athletes are obsessed with G.o.d. According to an episode of Bryant Gumbel's Real Sports Real Sports on HBO, some studies suggest that as many as 40 percent of NFL players consider themselves "born again." This trend continues to baffle me, especially since it seems like an equal number of pro football players spend the entire off-season snorting c.o.ke off the thighs of Cuban prost.i.tutes and murdering their ex-girlfriends. on HBO, some studies suggest that as many as 40 percent of NFL players consider themselves "born again." This trend continues to baffle me, especially since it seems like an equal number of pro football players spend the entire off-season snorting c.o.ke off the thighs of Cuban prost.i.tutes and murdering their ex-girlfriends.

That notwithstanding, you can't ignore the relationship between pro sports and end-of-days theology, and its acceleration as an all-or-nothing way of life. In the 1970s, the template for a religious athlete was a player like Roger Staubach of the Dallas Cowboys, someone who was seen as religious simply because everybody knew he was Catholic. The contemporary roster for G.o.d's Squad is far more compet.i.tive; if you're the kind of fellow who'd be "left behind," you don't qualify. These are guys like Kurt Warner of the St. Louis Rams, a person who would consider being called a zealot complimentary.

Warner is an especially interesting case, because his decision to become "born again" appears to have helped his career as a football player. Here was a guy who couldn't make an NFL roster, was working in a grocery store, and was married to a dying woman. And then-inexplicably-his life completely turns around and he becomes the best quarterback in the NFL (and his wife lives!). Warner gives all the credit for this turnaround to his "almighty savior Jesus Christ," and that explanation seems no less plausible than any other explanation. In fact, I find that I sort of want to believe him. In the fourth quarter of Super Bowl x.x.xVI, Warner made a break for the end zone against the New England Patriots; at the time, the Rams were down 173, and it was fourth and goal. Warner was. .h.i.t at the one-yard line and fumbled, and a Patriot returned the ball ninety-nine yards for what seemed to be a game-clinching touchdown. However, this play was erased-quite possibly wiped clean by the hand of G.o.d. For no valid reason, Patriots linebacker Willie McGinest blatantly tackled Ram running back Marshall Faulk on the weak side of the play, forcing the referee to call defensive holding. I remember thinking to myself, "Holy s.h.i.t. That made no sense whatsoever. I guess G.o.d really does care about football." St. Louis retained possession and Warner scored two plays later, eventually tying the game with a touchdown pa.s.s to Ricky Proel with under two minutes remaining.

I'm not sure why G.o.d would care about a football game, but he certainly seemed interested in this one. It looked like Warner's faith was tangibly affecting the outcome, which is a wonderful notion. However, New England ultimately won Super Bowl x.x.xVI on the final play-a forty-eight-yard field goal, kicked by a guy who grew up in South Dakota and is related to Evel Knievel. You can't question G.o.d, though: The following Monday, I happened to catch a few minutes of The 700 Club, The 700 Club, and a Patriot wide receiver was talking about how G.o.d is awesome. With compet.i.tive spirituality, it's always a push. and a Patriot wide receiver was talking about how G.o.d is awesome. With compet.i.tive spirituality, it's always a push.

Part of the never-ending weirdness surrounding Left Behind Left Behind was the 2000 movie version that starred Kirk Cameron, still best known as Mike Seaver from the ABC sitcom was the 2000 movie version that starred Kirk Cameron, still best known as Mike Seaver from the ABC sitcom Growing Pains Growing Pains. Cameron portrays the aforementioned Buck Williams, a famous broadcast journalist (this is a slight alteration from the book, where Williams is a famous magazine writer). If one views the literary version of Left Behind Left Behind to be mechanical and didactic, the film version would have to be cla.s.sified as boring and pedantic. But-once again-there's something oddly compelling about watching this narrative unfold, and it's mostly because of Kirk's mind-bending presence. to be mechanical and didactic, the film version would have to be cla.s.sified as boring and pedantic. But-once again-there's something oddly compelling about watching this narrative unfold, and it's mostly because of Kirk's mind-bending presence.

It's always peculiar when someone famous becomes ultra-religious (Prince being the most obvious example), but it's especially strange when he or she actively tries to advocate advocate their religiosity. Cameron says he became a "believer" when he was seventeen or eighteen, but n.o.body really cared until he got involved with their religiosity. Cameron says he became a "believer" when he was seventeen or eighteen, but n.o.body really cared until he got involved with Left Behind Left Behind and suddenly became the biggest Christian movie star in America (which-truth be told-is kind of like being the most successful heroin dealer on the campus of Brigham Young University). His wife is also in and suddenly became the biggest Christian movie star in America (which-truth be told-is kind of like being the most successful heroin dealer on the campus of Brigham Young University). His wife is also in Left Behind, Left Behind, and she portrays a (relatively) immoral flight attendant named Hattie Durham. and she portrays a (relatively) immoral flight attendant named Hattie Durham.

When interviewed about Left Behind Left Behind when it was first released, Cameron usually played things pretty close to the vest and always stressed that he wanted the film to deliver a point of view about the Bible, but also to work as a commercially compet.i.tive secular thriller. However, I did find this mildly controversial exchange from an interview Cameron did with some guy named Robin Parrish on a Christian music site operated by about.com: when it was first released, Cameron usually played things pretty close to the vest and always stressed that he wanted the film to deliver a point of view about the Bible, but also to work as a commercially compet.i.tive secular thriller. However, I did find this mildly controversial exchange from an interview Cameron did with some guy named Robin Parrish on a Christian music site operated by about.com: How accurate do you think Left Behind Left Behind is? I mean obviously, there won't be a real-life Buck or Hattie or whoever. But the events that transpire in the story, how accurate do you think they are? is? I mean obviously, there won't be a real-life Buck or Hattie or whoever. But the events that transpire in the story, how accurate do you think they are? The movie or the book? The movie or the book?Both.I think one of the most appealing aspects of the Left Behind Left Behind story is that these are events that could be happening today or tomorrow. It's very realistic. The events that happen in the story parallel, I think very realistically, the events depicted in the Bible. And whether you're a pre-Trib Rapture believer, or a mid-Trib, or a post-Trib... story is that these are events that could be happening today or tomorrow. It's very realistic. The events that happen in the story parallel, I think very realistically, the events depicted in the Bible. And whether you're a pre-Trib Rapture believer, or a mid-Trib, or a post-Trib...Yeah, is there anything that people who don't believe in a pre-Tribulation Rapture can take away from this movie?I'd encourage those people to take a look at the Left Behind film project Web site, which has answers to those kinds of questions. You know...I'm not a pre-Trib or post-Trib expert at defending this kind of stuff, but personally I think the movie is very accurate and in line with the Bible. There are some things in prophecy that we're just going to have to wait and see how they happen, that we're not going to really know until they do. The Bible says that Jesus is coming soon though, so I think more important than the pre-Trib or post-Trib debate is all of us being ready before either one happens.

Now, I have no real understanding of what a "pre-Tribulation Rapture" is supposed to signify symbolically; it refers to a Rapture that happens before the technical apocalypse, but I'm not exactly sure how that would be better or worse than a "mid-Tribulation" or "post-Tribulation" Rapture. Honestly, I don't think it's important. However, this point is is important: Kirk Cameron thinks the idea of 100 million Christians suddenly disappearing is "very realistic." And I don't mention this to mock him; I mention this because it's the kind of realization that significantly changes the experience of watching this movie. In the film, Buck Williams goes from being a normal, successful person to someone who ardently wants the world to realize that there is no future for the unholy and that we must prepare for the political incarnation of Satan; apparently, the exact same thing happened to Cameron important: Kirk Cameron thinks the idea of 100 million Christians suddenly disappearing is "very realistic." And I don't mention this to mock him; I mention this because it's the kind of realization that significantly changes the experience of watching this movie. In the film, Buck Williams goes from being a normal, successful person to someone who ardently wants the world to realize that there is no future for the unholy and that we must prepare for the political incarnation of Satan; apparently, the exact same thing happened to Cameron in real life in real life. In his mind, he has made a docudrama about a historical event that merely hasn't happened yet. This is not a former teen actor forced to star in an amateurish production because he needs the money; this is a former teen actor who consciously pursued an amateurish production with the hope of saving mankind. Relatively speaking, all those years he spent with Alan Thicke and Tracey Gold must seem like total s.h.i.t.

There is something undeniably attractive about becoming a born-again Christian. I hear atheists say that all the time, although they inevitably make that suggestion in the most insulting way possible: Nothing offends me more than those who claim they wish they could become blindly religious because it would "make everything so simple." People who make that argument are trying to convince the world that they're somehow doomed by their own intelligence, and that they'd love to be as stupid as all the thoughtless automatons they condescendingly despise. That is not what I find appealing about the Born-Again Lifestyle. Personally, I think becoming a born-again Christian would be really cool, at least for a while. It would sort of be like joining the Crips or the Mossad or Fugazi.

Every rational person will tell you that all the world's problems ultimately derive from disputes that are perceived by the warring parties as "Us vs. Them." That seems sensible, but I don't know if it's necessarily true; all my problems come from the opposite scenario. I was far more interesting-and probably smarter, in a way-when I refused to recognize the existence of the color gray in my black-and-white universe. When I was twenty-one, I was adamantly anti-abortion and antideath penalty; these were very clear ideas to me. However, things have since happened in my life, and now I have no feelings about either issue. And I'm sincere about that; I really have no opinion about abortion or the death penalty. Somehow, they don't even seem important. But that's what happens whenever you start to understand that most things cannot be emotively understood: You're able to make better conversation over snifters of brandy, but you become an unfeeling idiot. You go from believing believing in objective reality to in objective reality to suspecting suspecting an objective reality exists; eventually, you start trying to make objectivity mesh with situational ethics, since every situation now seems unique. And then someone tells you that situational ethics is actually an oxymoron, since the idea of ethics is that these are things you do an objective reality exists; eventually, you start trying to make objectivity mesh with situational ethics, since every situation now seems unique. And then someone tells you that situational ethics is actually an oxymoron, since the idea of ethics is that these are things you do all the time, all the time, regardless of the situation. And pretty soon you find yourself in a circ.u.mstance where someone asks you if you believe that life begins at conception, and you find yourself changing the subject to NASCAR racing. regardless of the situation. And pretty soon you find yourself in a circ.u.mstance where someone asks you if you believe that life begins at conception, and you find yourself changing the subject to NASCAR racing.

This is not a problem for the born again. There are no other subjects, really; nothing else-besides being born again-is even marginally important. Every moment of your life is a search-and-rescue mission: Everyone you meet needs to be converted and anyone you don't convert is going to h.e.l.l, and you will be partially at fault for their scorched corpse. Life would become unspeakably important, and every conversation you'd have for the rest of your life (or until the Rapture-whichever comes first) would really, really, really really matter. If you ask me, that's pretty glamorous. And matter. If you ask me, that's pretty glamorous. And Left Behind Left Behind pushes that paradigm relentlessly. Another one of its primary characters-airline pilot Rayford Steele-becomes born again after he loses his wife and twelve-year-old son. However, his skeptical college-aged daughter Chloe doesn't make G.o.d's cut, so much of the text revolves around his attempts to convert Chloe to "The Way." And the main psychological hurdle Steele must overcome is the fact that he's not an obtrusive jacka.s.s, which pushes that paradigm relentlessly. Another one of its primary characters-airline pilot Rayford Steele-becomes born again after he loses his wife and twelve-year-old son. However, his skeptical college-aged daughter Chloe doesn't make G.o.d's cut, so much of the text revolves around his attempts to convert Chloe to "The Way." And the main psychological hurdle Steele must overcome is the fact that he's not an obtrusive jacka.s.s, which Left Behind Left Behind says we all need to become. " says we all need to become. "Here I am, worried about offending people," Rayford thinks to himself at the beginning of chapter 19. "I'm liable to 'not offend' my own daughter right into h.e.l.l." The stakes are too high to concern oneself with manners.

This is ultimately what I like about the Born-Again Lifestyle: Even though I see fundamentalist Christians as wild-eyed maniacs, I respect their verve. They are probably the only people openly fighting against America's insipid Oprah Culture-the pervasive belief system that insists everyone's perspective is valid and that no one can be judged. As far as I can tell, most people I know are like me; most of the people I know are bad people (or they're good people, but they consciously choose to do bad things). We deserve deserve to be judged. to be judged.

I realize that liberals and libertarians and Michael Stipe are always quick to quote the Bible when you say something like that, and they'll tell you, "Judge not, lest ye be judged." And that's a solid retort for just about anything, really. But the thing with born agains is that they want want to be judged. They can't f.u.c.king wait. That's why they're cool. to be judged. They can't f.u.c.king wait. That's why they're cool.

As I just mentioned, Rayford Steele loses his young son in Left Behind Left Behind's Rapture. As it turns out, every young child in this book vanishes, including infants in the process of being born. This is to indicate that they are "innocents" and have done no wrong. And oddly, this was the aspect of Left Behind Left Behind I found most distasteful. I found most distasteful.

First of all, it kind of contradicts the book's premise, since we are constantly told that the ONLY way to get into heaven is to accept Christ, which no four-year-old (much less a four-month-old) could possibly comprehend. Granted, this is mostly a technicality, and I'm sure it's intentional (for most exclusivist born-again groups, the technicalities are everything; the technicalities are what save you). But my larger issue is philosophical: Why do we a.s.sume all children are inherently innocent? Innocent of what? I mean, any grammar school teacher will tell you that "kids can be cruel" on the playground; the average third-grader will gleefully walk up to a six-year-old with hydrocephalus and ask, "What's wrong with you, Big Head?" And that third-grader knows what he's doing is evil. He knows it's hurtful. Little boys torture cats and cute little girls humiliate fat little girls, and they know it's wrong. They do it because because it's wrong. Sometimes I think children are the worst people alive. And even if they're not-even if some smiling toddler is as pure as Evian-it's only a matter of time. He'll eventually become the fifty-year-old car salesman who we'll all a.s.sume is morally bankrupt until he proves otherwise. it's wrong. Sometimes I think children are the worst people alive. And even if they're not-even if some smiling toddler is as pure as Evian-it's only a matter of time. He'll eventually become the fifty-year-old car salesman who we'll all a.s.sume is morally bankrupt until he proves otherwise.

As far as I can tell, the nicest thing you can say about children is that they haven't done anything terrible yet yet.

So let's get to the core question in Left Behind Left Behind: If the Rapture happened tonight, who gets called up to the Big Show? Judging from the text, the answer is "No one I know, and probably no one who would read this essay." Left Behind Left Behind is pretty clear about this, and the authors go to great lengths to ill.u.s.trate how many of the people pa.s.sed over by G.o.d are fair, moral, and-for the most part-more heroic than prototypical humans. This is a direct reflection of the primary audience for hardcore Christian literature; one a.s.sumes those readers would typically possess those same characteristics and simply need a little literary push to become "higher" Christians. is pretty clear about this, and the authors go to great lengths to ill.u.s.trate how many of the people pa.s.sed over by G.o.d are fair, moral, and-for the most part-more heroic than prototypical humans. This is a direct reflection of the primary audience for hardcore Christian literature; one a.s.sumes those readers would typically possess those same characteristics and simply need a little literary push to become "higher" Christians.

The best example in Left Behind Left Behind is Rayford Steele, the person with whom we're evidently supposed to "relate." Buck Williams is the star and the catalyst (especially in the film version), but his main purpose is to move the plot along and provide the conflict. It's through Rayford that we are supposed to understand the novel's theme and experience. The theme is that you're good, but being good is not enough; the experience is that you cannot be saved until you allow yourself to surrender to faith, even though that's not really how it works for Rayford. is Rayford Steele, the person with whom we're evidently supposed to "relate." Buck Williams is the star and the catalyst (especially in the film version), but his main purpose is to move the plot along and provide the conflict. It's through Rayford that we are supposed to understand the novel's theme and experience. The theme is that you're good, but being good is not enough; the experience is that you cannot be saved until you allow yourself to surrender to faith, even though that's not really how it works for Rayford.

On the very first page of Left Behind, Left Behind, we learn that Rayford has a bad marriage, and it's because his wife had developed an "obsession" with religion. We also learn that-twelve years prior-Rayford drunkenly kissed another woman at the company Christmas party and has never really forgiven himself. However, that guilt does not stop him from secretly l.u.s.ting after the aforementioned Hattie Durham, even though he never actually touches her (interestingly enough, Rayford and Hattie do have a physical relationship in the film version of we learn that Rayford has a bad marriage, and it's because his wife had developed an "obsession" with religion. We also learn that-twelve years prior-Rayford drunkenly kissed another woman at the company Christmas party and has never really forgiven himself. However, that guilt does not stop him from secretly l.u.s.ting after the aforementioned Hattie Durham, even though he never actually touches her (interestingly enough, Rayford and Hattie do have a physical relationship in the film version of Left Behind, Left Behind, presumably because director Victor Sarin didn't think moviegoers would buy the whole Jimmy Carter "I've l.u.s.ted in my heart" sentiment). presumably because director Victor Sarin didn't think moviegoers would buy the whole Jimmy Carter "I've l.u.s.ted in my heart" sentiment).

Suffice it to say that Rayford would generally be described as a very decent person in the secular universe, which is how most Left Behind Left Behind readers would likely view themselves. However, he can't see the espoused "larger truth," which is that there is only a future for those who take the Kierkegaardian leap and believe everything the Bible states (and as literally as possible). readers would likely view themselves. However, he can't see the espoused "larger truth," which is that there is only a future for those who take the Kierkegaardian leap and believe everything the Bible states (and as literally as possible).

Rayford can't do this until his life is destroyed, so his conversion isn't all that remarkable (it actually seems like the most reasonable decision, considering the circ.u.mstances). In many ways, this is the book's most glaring flaw: It demands blind faith from the reader, but it ill.u.s.trates faith as a response to terror. And since Left Behind Left Behind isn't a metaphor-it presents itself as a fictionalized account of what isn't a metaphor-it presents itself as a fictionalized account of what will will happen, according to the Book of Revelation-the justification for embracing Jesus mostly seems like a scare tactic. It's not a sophisticated reason for believing in G.o.d. happen, according to the Book of Revelation-the justification for embracing Jesus mostly seems like a scare tactic. It's not a sophisticated reason for believing in G.o.d.

Of course, that's also the point: There is no sophisticated reason for believing in anything supernatural, so it really comes down to believing you're right. This is another example of how born agains are cool-you'd think they'd be humble, but they've got to be amazingly c.o.c.ksure. And once you've crossed over, you don't even have to try to be nice; according to the born-again exemplar, your goodness will be a natural extension of your salvation. Caring about orphans and helping the homeless will come as naturally as having s.e.x with coworkers and stealing office supplies. If you consciously do good works out of obligation, you'll never get into heaven; however, if you make G.o.d your proverbial copilot, doing good works will just become an unconscious part of your life.

I guess that's probably the moment where I just stop accepting all this born-again bulls.h.i.t, no matter how hard I try to remain open-minded. Though I obviously have no proof of this, the one aspect of life that seems clear to me is that good people do whatever they believe is the right thing to do. Being virtuous is hard, not easy. The idea of doing good things simply because you're good seems like a zero-sum game; I'm not even sure if those actions would still qualify as "good," since they'd merely be a function of normal behavior. Regardless of what kind of G.o.d you believe in-a loving G.o.d, a vengeful G.o.d, a capricious G.o.d, a snooty beret-wearing French G.o.d, whatever-one has to a.s.sume that you can't be penalized for doing the things you believe to be truly righteous and just. Certainly, this creates some pretty glaring problems: Hitler may have thought he was serving G.o.d. Stalin may have thought he was serving G.o.d (or something vaguely similar). I'm certain Osama bin Laden was positive positive he was serving G.o.d. It's not hard to fathom that all of those maniacs were certain that what they were doing was right. Meanwhile, I he was serving G.o.d. It's not hard to fathom that all of those maniacs were certain that what they were doing was right. Meanwhile, I constantly constantly do things that I do things that I know know are wrong; they're not on the same scale as incinerating Jews or blowing up skysc.r.a.pers, but my motivations might be worse. I have looked directly into the eyes of a woman I loved and told her lies for no reason, except that those lies would allow me to continue having s.e.x with another woman I cared about less. This act did not kill 20 million Russian peasants, but it might be more "diabolical" in a literal sense. If I died and found out I was going to h.e.l.l and Stalin was in heaven, I would note the irony, but I really couldn't complain. I don't make the f.u.c.king rules. are wrong; they're not on the same scale as incinerating Jews or blowing up skysc.r.a.pers, but my motivations might be worse. I have looked directly into the eyes of a woman I loved and told her lies for no reason, except that those lies would allow me to continue having s.e.x with another woman I cared about less. This act did not kill 20 million Russian peasants, but it might be more "diabolical" in a literal sense. If I died and found out I was going to h.e.l.l and Stalin was in heaven, I would note the irony, but I really couldn't complain. I don't make the f.u.c.king rules.

Just to cover all my doomed bases, I watched a few other apocalyptic movies after Left Behind Left Behind: I rented The Omega Code The Omega Code and revisited and revisited The Rapture The Rapture. The latter film-a 1991 movie starring Mimi Rogers-was a polarizing attempt to make the end of the world into a conventionally entertaining film, and I still think it's among the decade's more interesting movies (at least for its first seventy-five minutes). The Rapture The Rapture opens with Rogers as a bored s.e.x addict, and it ends with her dragging her child into the desert to wait for G.o.d's wrath. Part of the reason so many critics like this film is because writer/director Michael Tolkin "goes all the way" and resists the temptation to end the film with an unclear conclusion. That's commendable, but I wonder what the response would have been if Rogers didn't question G.o.d at the very end; her character essentially wants to know why G.o.d plays with people like p.a.w.ns and created a totally f.u.c.ked world when making a utopia would have been just as easy (and though I realize these are not exactly the most profound of existential questions, it's hard to deny that they're not the most important ones, either). opens with Rogers as a bored s.e.x addict, and it ends with her dragging her child into the desert to wait for G.o.d's wrath. Part of the reason so many critics like this film is because writer/director Michael Tolkin "goes all the way" and resists the temptation to end the film with an unclear conclusion. That's commendable, but I wonder what the response would have been if Rogers didn't question G.o.d at the very end; her character essentially wants to know why G.o.d plays with people like p.a.w.ns and created a totally f.u.c.ked world when making a utopia would have been just as easy (and though I realize these are not exactly the most profound of existential questions, it's hard to deny that they're not the most important ones, either).

Within the scope of mainstream filmmaking-it was released on the same day as the Joe Pesci vehicle The Super The Super-The Rapture clearly seems like a religious movie. But it's really not, because it doesn't have a religious point of view. When push comes to shove, Tolkin's script adopts a staunchly humanistic take: The Mimi Rogers character asks G.o.d why his universe doesn't make sense. Like most people, she thinks life should be a democracy and that G.o.d should behave like an altruistic politician who acts in our best interests. You hear this all the time; critics of organized religion constantly say things like, "There is no way a just G.o.d would send a man like Gandhi to h.e.l.l simply because he's not a Christian." Well, why not? I'm certainly pulling for Gandhi's eternal salvation, but there's no reason to believe there's a logic to the afterlife selection process. It clearly seems like a religious movie. But it's really not, because it doesn't have a religious point of view. When push comes to shove, Tolkin's script adopts a staunchly humanistic take: The Mimi Rogers character asks G.o.d why his universe doesn't make sense. Like most people