Hoo boy, it’s Christmas. This means 1) high-tech gifts from Didi’s family, and 2) some kind of trip for the wife and me. This has combined, this time around, in my listening to my shiny green iPod on a shiny airplane, headed mainly for Spain.

[I pause in my narrative to comment on this, the latest techno-curiosity to fall into our hands. I realize that I’m, at best, getting this iPod thing mid-stream, if not behind the curve, but it’s very new to me, so forgive my ignorance if you don’t share it. I had a number of questions with this contraption going in: 1) Why is it so heavy? 2) Why does it cost $300, when we all know that MP3 players go for $45? 3) Why does everyone act like it’s an innovation? 4) What about this ISN’T a Walkman? Here are my answers: 1) I can’t explain this, but it’s unnecessary heft (why metal, for that matter?) just flat-out makes it seem more luxurious, more permanent, more…(this is embarrassing to admit) prestigious. I have a feeling that some serious focus group research went into the weight issue. And I gotta say- it works for me. 2) Same reason a Mercedes costs twice what a Toyota does. Functionally, it accomplishes exactly the same thing, and does it no better. Aesthetically, it’s simply a different machine: there’s an alarm clock in there; I can see how long each song is, and see their names on-screen (why is THAT so satisfying? Why do I care that this piece of hardware knows the names of my playlists? There’s something extremely bizarre there); I get to name the thing (once again, Mac runs far ahead of the pack on the simple premise that people like controlling their contraptions far beyond the basic function of the thing); it will shuffle the songs for me; I can hold appointments and contacts in there; I can play games with it; and I have multiple ways of accessing my songs (by album, by artist, by playlist, by song). 3) For all those reasons, plus the just-ahead-of-the-curve positioning Apple has carved out for itself, they have made themselves the Mercedes of the burgeoning digital music scene. Having said alllllllll that, Didi is presently in bliss, enjoying Stevie Wonder right now on the aforementioned passé $45 MP3 player. It’s not an innovation; it’s an improvement. As I observe, the plaudits go not to the innovators, but to those who make innovations mainstream. 4) Nothing.]

I have an extremely strained relationship with technology. As a male, there’s something about development and innovation that’s fascinating to me (why is THAT, do you think? That’s another piece for another day), but I also find it all so tiring. I brought along a copy of Wired magazine for my ride across the ocean in a multi-ton flying tube (THAT kind of advancement is truly stunning to me), and the mind boggles at what’s promised, suggested, and even rolled out these days (ocular implants? TV over internet protocol? Ads on cabs specific to the part of town the cab’s in? Facial recognition in cell phones and credit card scanners? Bandages made out of our own skin? Games that evolve as you play them?). I enjoy the perks of technology, but working to stay atop that never-stopping hamster wheel is as pointless and chasing fashions in clothing.

Here’s a standard example of how it works for me: 3 years ago, Didi’s family gave us one of those new-fangled DVD players, where you can see videos on your home teevee screen, but it’s so much clearer! Lasts so much longer! This innovation, exciting as it was in theory, sat dormant in my basement for 9 months before we carted it out to watch The Making of the Matrix, or some such nonsense. That player worked sporadically and undependably, perhaps due to the moisture it acquired in the nether regions of our home. Not six months later, we were given a castoff player from friends. It stored 5 DVDs, had a whiz-bang remote, and they’d upgraded (to what? I don’t know). This is how it goes with us. Technology rolls, and we sort of dawdle along behind it.

My former roomie Bao and I didn’t have a teevee in Dallas, and that no-tech system worked great. We were oblivious to the shows that people and People ranted about and, six months later, it didn’t matter. But we gave ourselves to developing, and I really think we made some headway in those years. I think we were better for having been unplugged. We got our Thoreau on, in a tiny way. I liked it.

But there’s still that old draw in me, and yes I am a little thrilled at my Wired magazine and my iPod. In thinking through this, I’ve produced one of my patented over-dramatic poems. Enjoy. Then, feel free to criticize. It’s not like I go on-line and read blogs every day.


Clicking and clacking and sparking and snapping
Arachnid hobgoblins are filling the streets
Pulsating and teeming and line-undulating
They’re searching for victims; they’re hunting down meats
--------------

My best friend Yamomo will figure them out
He’s programmed himself to decode their campaigns
He says that the best way to know where they’re going
Is insect-like thinking, so, tireless, he trains

He’s built him a suit of black armor-like skins
He’s working with mandibles! Stunning, all that
But one thing he’s doing that’s got my head scratching:
He’s down on all fours, like some gangly wombat

In seeking to track them, he’s mimicked their habits
But how can he hope that he’ll out-spider them?
They’ve got four more legs, man! And they’ve got a hist’ry
Of being themselves- they’ll way outpace him.

---------------

I’m not like Yamomo- I’m not so astute
I work hard enough being honestly me!
I’ve sworn off all uniforms (none of them fit)
In hopes that you’ll, one day, just get what you see

I’m s’posing those creatures will march on, as always
They’ve got that pack-mind thing Crichton talks about
And I guess I could join in in tracking their progress
But my chronicling? It’d be useless, no doubt

I am just so inept at aping the leaders
And they’ll just advance and innovate ways
To confound researchers and stymie kibbutzers
So I’ll just unplug and come out of that haze

-------------
When studying trends, for prey or for profit
It gets hard to know who is most in control
That thing which you give all your heart and your mind to
Will end up, as always, possessing your soul.

Just a heads up, everybody- I was subjected, beyond my control or desire, to listen to the latest Duran Duran album recently. Conclusion: IT'S VERY DARN GOOD. Better song-for-song than the Hit and Miss Miss Miss quality of How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb, which JDav has renamed How to Resemble An Other Band. Just a tip, pop music fans.

As many of us are aware, bored boys do amazingly stupid things, one of which has been the advent of the soul patch. William Shakespeare made it artsy. Dizzy Gillespe made it jazzy. Maynard J. Krebs made it mainstream. Phil Jackson strung it out (actually, Frank Zappa did that, but Phil represented the drugged-upness of the NBA, which is far more mainstream than Frank Zappa). Apolo Ohno made it irrelevant (actually, Fred Durst did that, but I don't like him. Sting made it smug (actually, who are we kidding? It's always been, but this was an excuse to show the Stinger with this ridiculous look). It's the Jazz Dab, the Flavor Saver, the Cookie Duster. And, come on, it's stupid. It's a farcically small amount of hair a man lets grow (while he tends to it, shaping and encouraging it), to make some kind of statement like "I TOTALLY have enough masculinity to grow a beard. And I'll show you! I just... don't want to right now."

Why do I feel the freedom to poke at this goofiness? Because I, for the time being, own one myself.

Now, there are all sorts of things you need to know about my soulpatch (and you will... you will), so let's start with my heritage. I'm a mixed bag of cultures. I might not be a Mick Kraut like Tom the Consigliere, but I'm at least an American Indian/German/Spaniard/Irish/Scottish guy, and that's good enough for me. But here's the thing, the American Indian part makes the growing of facial hair difficult for me (you'd think the Spaniard part would even it out, but this is what my father's always said. He's also Folliclely Disabled). Not only is there not a lot of it, but about half of what's actually there is unseemly light in color, producing an immature/effeminate effect. Because of said problems, I've tried all sorts of things, from the JDav trim-and-go (which is supposed to add heft and density) to the dying of parts of my face (which was to have the same effect as that black paint they used to sell on teevee that you could spray over your bald spot and amaze people with your seemingly full, sexy, thick hair. They'd probably say things like "Hey, Bill- why is the bald spot that's been there for 10 years now covered with black paint?"). But I've sunk to new lows today, as I applied mascara to my soulpatch. Mascara is an embarrasing enough invention as it is- it's made to phonily darken and thicken women's eyelashes, which often aren't dark and thick. But the narrow strictures of modern beauty say that they should be, so women are sentenced to this stupid custom of coloring themselves to match the way people say that SHOULD be naturally colored. Do I kinda like it when Didi wears mascara? Well, yes, but that's not the issue here. Point is- I TOO feel the same pressure from our image-conscious society, and as of today, my facial hair is falsely colored. Oh sure, everyone who greets me stares with wonder at my soulpatch, and I've made a lot more friends today because of it, but deep inside I know it's not real.

Here's another thing: my face has never, ever been even slightly symmetrical. If you connected the dots between
1) the center of my forehead
2) the tip of my nose
3) that weird dimple right under your nose, just before your face turns into your lip
4) the middle of my teeth, and
5) the dimple of my chin,
you'd have a slightly curving line that veers rather dramatically left to right, as you look at me. Many people have been horrified as I've pointed this out to them in conversation, and this startling asymmetry is the reason I have the Amy Grant/Lyle Lovett "sideways mouth" when I sing. You get the idea. The point is, my soulpatch is perfectly placed, directly under the center of my bottom lip, but it's not even perfectly placed under my TOP lip, let alone my nose. Seriously- it's amazing. In any case, what I'm getting at is the fact that the presence of specific facial hair like the soulpatch only underlines something that I'd rather obscure. Couple this with the necessity for mascara, and you should be asking me rather stringently: WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO YOURSELF?

I don't know. It's blog fodder, if nothing else.

Now, let's get on to the real point of today's post. I'm Excited. And there's a very good, culinary reason for this. It's because the McRib IS BACK. I've received a good (and understandable) amount of flack for enjoying this sauce-slathered amalgam of pork lips and hooves, but don't rain on my deliciousness parade! We're marching to the Golden Arches, and we'll not be stopped! Anyhow, I wanted to announce this to both people who look at this page, becuase many of my loved ones are wise enough to avoid McDonalds like a Las Vegas call girl, but when the McRib comes out to play, all bets are off. Bring on the lard.

Oh, my- I've started to drool. And my mascara is running.

And now, a delightful tale from the files of Didi.

She gets on the airplane, having been bumped up to first class, and sits by a large black man. A man walks down the aisle of the plane and speaks to him. "Hey Oscar..."

Later, after a couple other people had done the same, her colleague walked by, punched the black man, and pointed to Dora: "Watch out for this one," he said, "she's trouble."

Didi turned to the man and said, "Do you know Jim?"
"No, I don't."
"Do you work for Campbell's?"
"No."
"Do you know any of those other people who spoke to you?"
"No."
"Well, what do you do?"
"I'm in private business."

She's totally flummoxed.

"Why are these people all speaking to you?"
"I used to play basketball."
"Oh. What's your last name?"
"Robertson."

Didi searches her memory files and comes up with a University of Cincinnati basketball game she attended, when someone told her to "meet me out front, by the Oscar Robertson statue."

"Hey, did you play for U.C.?"
"Yes."
"Did you play anywhere else?"
"Yes, I played for Milwaukee for a while."
"Milwaukee has a basketball team?"
"Yes."

By this time, Dora suspects she might be sitting by someone Sorta Famous, and realizes she wouldn't be bothering this person otherwise. So she goes to sleep, eager to ask me if I've ever heard of this man. When she came home, our conversation went like this:

"Steven, I think I sat by someone famous on the way in."
"Was it an athlete?"
"Yes."
"Basketball?"
"Yes."
"Oscar Robertson?"

I couldn't imagine any other great ball player flying to Cincinnati on a Tuesday afternoon.

So that was Dora's run-in with greatness. Oscar is the only man to have ever averaged a triple-double over the course of a season (30+ points, 12+ rebounds, 11+ assists), was two-time champion in high school, took UC (where he averaged 33.8 points a game) to the Final Four twice and, with Lew Alcindor, won the NBA championship in Milwaukee. He was also the first black player ever for the University of Cincinnati (where he posted games of 56 and 62 points in the same tournament his sophomore year), He was an All-American, College Player of the Year, Olympic Gold Medal Team Captain, NBA Rookie of the Year, season MVP, 12-time All-Star, and The Associated Sports Writers Association voted him as their Player of the Century. He averaged 25.7 points over his career, and is the sixth leading scorer of all time. He sued the NBA, and won, to establish free agency (though he was barred from the league for two years), and in his retirement, built affordable housing in his hometown of Indianapolis. He remains an active civil rights advocate. Didi and I are now in the thick of his autobiography, published last year: The Big O.

I was made to think of Rosie the Riveter today, and came up with this dirty poem for her. I can't help it- *I* didn't put those words in her mouth!



Rosie the Riveter: I'd like to give it 'er!
Yeah, little bit tough, but- oo ee!
She works like a man and her skin is all tan
But beneath all that sweat, she's a She!
She little bit frightens me- more, though, deLIGHTens me
I like the chicks who post up
That Rosie's a cutie who's doing her duty
This heart in my chest may erupt!
Th' 'traction is strong; she strings me along
Takes hold of my heart and runs through it
She throws out a line that runs up my spine...
She calls out to me: We Can Do It!

Today I voted for the candidate that I hope will ultimately kill the fewest people.

I had a birthday yesterday. It was the one where you are well and truly into your 30s, and there's no turning back. No more "just out of my 20s" thoughts; no more waffling on the point of whether I can still justify avoiding adulthood. I am an adult, no debating it. The celebrations of the day were an important turning point for me and the Dee: she said that, in the past, she'd always put together something that she'd have liked: a big gathering of friends, a cute little cake from the fancy bakery she likes, and a fancy dinner out. This year, she asked herself what *I*'d really like: and she nailed it. A picnic in the park eating deli sandwiches, reading the biography of George Mueller to each other, pronouncing Biblical blessings over each other, walking through the park looking at the Japanese garden, spotting a chipmunk, frisbee, and finishing with homemade chocolate chip cookies. Hello! I was also given a circular saw.



The day was made even greater when we went to see Ray at the cinema, and when I announced my birthday to the theater manager, he gave us free movie passes on the spot. Wow- little acts of grace like that sure make the world a fun place. Then, on the way out of the movie, when I was all thoughtful and quiet, I saw an elderly black couple who'd stopped off at the arcade after the movie. The wife was playing the toy grabber Claw game, and her husband had situated himself behind a Tomb of the Dead-type shooting game. My goodness, that was one of the most enjoyable things I've seen in a good long while.

Shouldn't we cultivate the curiosity and wonder necessary to enjoy the thousand whimsical and mirthful things that surround us every day? I submit to you that, if we did, we'd more readily see the tokens of Love scattered along our path from Daddy, and feel His pleasure in us. So un-callous-ify yourselves, people! Be made alive by the Spirit, for the sake of sensitivity and joy! Keep your eyes open.

People are always saying "the early bird catches the worm." I don't know about you, but catching a worm doesn't exactly seem like the greatest goal in the world to me. Anyhow, there's a similar saying that really sums up my symptoms right now. "The curly turds, retches, and burns." I've decided to not just sit around, waiting for winter's flu-like symptoms to come to me in their own sweet time: I've decided to go out and GET them. What can I say? I'm an eager fellow. Anyhow, I've been given various advices for this problem, the most common of which is to take a lot of Ecinacea. I originally confused this with euthenasia, but I guess both things artificially keep people alive. Doesn't it suck that people used to die of influenza all the time? Can we all agree that living, say, in the Middle Ages would've bit the giant cosmic Big One? For one, they probably didn't understand the healing efffects of ecinacea. Neither did they have a basement full of Campbell's (tm) Chicken Soup for their convalescence. They just drew blood from each other and died at age 23. Ripperzoid.

Boy, life sure is funny huh?

I'm very very very happy to announce that Didi and I were invited to an All Hallows Eve par-tay. I like these things, for some reason. Everyone being so silly that coolness is just out the window, and we can all just drink Stewart's and laugh. Anyhow, the problem is what in tarnation you wear at these things. If Didi had her way, we'd follow some superhero motif, and I'd end up looking like this sad, sad man:

Fortunately, this can not possibly happen as long as grass grows from God's soil. My body isn't ready for spandex, nor is the world to view it so adorned. I remember going as PeeWee Herman back in the day. Good times. I always thought that the kids who went as Sta-Puft the Marshmallow Man were really showing off.

It a windmill, daddy.

Yeah, I was also in California recently- helping to dedicate Kirk Douglass Ave. in Palm Springs- and saw the Awesome Windmills of I-10.

DSCN0770.JPG

I wish there was a way to upload MP3 files onto my blog. Anybody know how to do this?

People have been shaving their heads for religious purposes as far back as at least the priests of Osiris back in Egypt, and the fact that I'm referring to Egypt with any historical significance lets you know I'm talking about a long, LONG time ago. But what about the coloring part? You probably don't know this, because you don't have the inclination to go wandering about howstuffworks.com like me, but would-be heroes of ancient Greece would use really hard soaps (what does that mean, you think? STONES?) and bleaches to lighten and redden their hair to the color that was identified with honor and courage. First-century Romans, on the other hand, preferred dark hair, which was made so by a dye concocted from boiled walnuts and leeks. Isn't that fascinating?

Now you know where musicians come from. I guess even way back in the Bronze era, or whatever that was back then, they had goofballs dissatisfied with the way God put them together. So riddle me this: is hair coloring and teeth whitening and skin- tanning okay, but tummy tucks are wrong? Are piercings wrong wholesale, or only on non-ears? Are boob jobs bad, but spending 2 years in the gym okay to achieve similar results? I say none of this because these are unsettled issues for me (I really don't care what anybody's rules are on such issues), but because there seems to be a lot of this rule-making in the air. It curiousifies me.

I myself have a newly futzed-with look. I realize it's deviant. I don't THINK I do this sort of thing for the attention, but obviously I'm not averse to it (just like the neon shirts I wore in 10th grade. It'd be hard to argue I've dressed to be overlooked, historically). Those deviants like myself who're so bent on freedom of expression that they disregard the fact that there IS a social norm, that there ARE mores to be respected- these people cause head-scratching for me (then again, so does my new look! AHA!)

What are we doing here- talking? I'm wasting my time TYPING, for Pete's sake? I've got to get OUT THERE, where people can observe me in all my Difference and Poignancy! Layta, suckaz.

This, from guest Mashman Jeff Davenport:

Snakes rise up in the murky water
Toothless and smelly
Their odor is their venom
Drowning.
Drowning.
Flush.


And this, my autumn observation: with that chin of theirs, the doe eyes, and the fit fit bodies, there can be no mistaking that Ricky Martin and Jessica Simpson are the same person. I have never seen them at the same place.

Today's devotional is called The Science of the Albino, and is prompted by a squirrel I saw on my morning drive:

For all mammals, the most important enzyme in the production of melanin is tyrosinase. The "classic" type of albinism is known as OCA1 -- OculoCutaneous Albinism, type 1. OCA1 involves a mutation in the gene which produces tyrosinase. Mutations in many different regions of the tyrosinase gene can cause OCA1. And I think we all know what that means.

It's the same with you and me: we might have a mutation in our "insultory gene" causing us to lash out at others, or maybe we have a wonky "wantory gene", and we end up being jealous of other folks' stuff and character qualities. Whatever your personal flaws, though, you can sure that there's a genetic reason for it. So don't go looking for healing or repentance or deliverance from demons (satanicus helperius). After all- you were born with that penchant to steal! (A mutation of the "fingerum stickym" gene.)

Today's prayer: God, why did you make me so screwed up? Oh well- as long as I'm not responsible! Have a nice day!

----

Not that I'm in touch with such things, but... we're officially done with that fad where people wear shoes with no laces, right? The Moc Trend has passed... am I right?

sleep has been running away from me. must be my respectable employment or something. anyhow, here's a couple o them poems on the matter. by the way, everyone go out and play Peasant Quest on homestar.


Hear the waves roll in on whitewash?
Smell that sweetly souring milk?
See the fading grid of hopscotch?
Feel the breeze o'er windowsill?

Well, It’s not there for nothing;
T’was no accidental scene
T’was a finely rigged construction
It’s a chilling, dark machine

Meant to send you into dreamland
S’posed to rock your soul right down
Gonna mail you out for business
'fore half-six rolls round

Hear the pop kids playing humdrum?
Smell the perfumed air of wealth?
See that fading dream of merit?
Feel the cooling air of death?

Well, It’s not there for nothing
It’s no accidental state
It’s a finely scripted plotline
To soothe and slake and sate

Help. They’re promising to fill me
With just as much as I can take
And I’m swinging against the lie-down urge
Trying, trying to stay awake
----------------

and now a happier one.

----------------

It slowly slows your thinking
Till thoughts like pinwheels spin
Then eyes long shut start blinking
And time funnels you in
And soft, in sleep, you’re sinking, all
Dividing lines grow thin
When chains just start unlinking
Who can say who you have been?

Reality the second, now
It’s lifetime number two:
You might be half Chihuahua
You might live in Peru
You might sing with the aardvarks
Or play with melted sands
Or write with clouds and daffodils
Or heal men with your hands

It’s not yet been determined
You can go there if you will
Where future’s all unwritten
And the past is dumb and still
It can be a smidgeon frightening
For the dream can set you free:
When eyelids droop from waking
You can’t know yet who you’ll be

Now that we know a female named L is watching, let's move on to... concert reviews.

I saw Annie Lennox (who is Scottish.  I was perplexed at her strange accent all night, thinking her to be English, though she sounded either Jamaican or South African), who opened up for Ze Stinger.  Gordon now looks exactly like Richard Harris in Unforgiven:  he has uncomfortably long, wispy hairs full of pomade and bushy, gray sideburns.  He looks like a Victorian undertaker, in his silky collared shirt with French cuffs.  The nubile, sinewy, cargo pants-and t-shirt-wearing Sting was nowhere to be found.  This dude looked elderly.  And wan.

Having said all that, it was the best Schting show I ever seen.  His production gang has significantly upped the ante with 3 honking 16'x8' LED walls (which feature some very cool-looking stuff, even though it's not exactly original.  One song off the wandering Sacred Love album featured -get this!- belly dancers, which U2 did about 12 years ago) and some sweet MAC 2000 light rigs that zip up and down trusses throughout the show.  The music was also very, very good, as the material is always rich and the players are always prodigies from around the world.  He, of course, is always eager to show us he's "still got it" (how many times has he played that exact same solo for "Fragile"?  And how many times has he had a look on his face like, "boy, I hope I can pull this off!  Can you see how difficult this is?"), eager to hitch his wagon to the ever-burgeoning interest in all things spiritual (the iconography was a non-stop deluge of every possible combination of symbolism suggesting spirituality, the afterlife, clairvoyance, ESP, telepathy, astral projecting, etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.), and eager to ingratiate himself to the younger slice of his audience (his dancy version of Send Your Love Into the Future was incongruous at best, jokey at worst).  Favorite moments for me included a very cute duet with Annie on "We'll Be Together Tonight", and every time he slipped an old Police bassline into a lifeless new song.  But how much longer does Mr. Sumner have to still be a contributor?

In other news, Ricky Williams, the gazillionaire running back for the Miami Dolphins who once posed in drag with Mike Ditka, retired from professional football at age 27.  This is a guy who apparantly does NOT want to be in the spotlight (I suggest checking his birth certificate to ensure that he is, in fact, American), and does NOT want to be in the business of big-league agents and the marketers of the physically elite (his good-hearted agent Leigh Steinberg held out hope that this might not really be the end of Williams' money-making days).  Ricky said, over the phone from Hawaii, "you can't imagine how free I feel."

I, for one, am very excited for this guy, and very pleased about his courage to walk away from everyone else's dreams for him.  He's going to travel the world for a few months (normal yearnings for a 27 year-old), then do whatever he wants to do.  I like that "I will not give my life to a corporation" attitude, and hope that Sting exits HIS field of excellence before he's completely bereft of meaningful creativity.   

     I pushed on the heavy metal door, made gummy by a thousand hands, and strode onto the linoleum of the laboratory.  The smell of sanitizer mixed with that of something more organic, more acrid in the air around me, yet I was hit with something that wasn't familiar, wasn't expected.  From within the recesses of the echoey chamber, I heard the sounds, not of scattershot tinkling or of chemical expulsion, but of... muffled sobs.  I'd experienced pain and exhaustion here before, even feelings of victory and exultation, but never had my time here drawn tears from my eyes (from others', yes).  I tentatively knocked, knowing that the weeper would never expect a visitor, and probably couldn't understand my humanitarian motives (or morbid curiosity). 
     "Yeah?" came the voice. 
     "It's a child!  That voice can't belong to a boy older than 17 or 18," I thought.
     Sure enough, it was a 16-year-old, confronting some ugly truths about himself.  But what was he doing here?  This was no place for a child!  Had he come here as a stowaway or as a rebel, to prove himself or to retreat?  I had to know.
     The hours began to unravel, as I began a long, unrefined, dense and sometimes dirty conversation with young Darren Weinstein.  Eventually, I unpacked my lunch and sat down there, on the cold hard floor, puddled by overuse.  I knew this was more important than germs or stained trousers.  As Darren was growing older, he was finding out who he really was.  It wasn't all pleasant (not much about that time or place really was).  Darren had realized that, whenever he came to the "moment of truth" in a big Project, he retreated, fearful of the unknown.  Time and again, he'd stand on the precipice of true freedom, of real relief, then backed off from the glory of accomplishment.  Simply put, he was seeing himself as a coward, and couldn't fathom how he could become who he was destined to be if he kept holding it in.
     I've been a coward more than once in my own life, I can tell you, and I had some choice words for Darren.  Words won by agony.  Words of experience.
     "You have to see something through, Darren, once you've started.  You don't sit down to do something, then stand up without laying down everything you've got.  Whatever energy needs to be expelled, whatever needs to come from within you to Finish, has to be done.  Until your nostrils fill with the smell of success, you're not through.  Imagine squeezing out a long loaf of chocolate cookie dough.  You don't want to stop short- you want that entire loaf to come oozing out of its casing- the real enjoyment starts there.  Sure, nobody knows whether you'll produce something grand or half-baked, whether it'll be straight as an arrow, or curved like a snake's spine.  It might come out of you all at once, or have many parts to it.  But you're there to DO YOUR BUSINESS, Darren, and I can't let you out of here until you get there.  Your brow may furrow, your teeth may clench, your temples may sweat, but if you have to grunt and strain to make it through, so be it.  Part of growing up is knowing that, when all you have is dirt and water, you make mudpies.  That's what you need to do Darren:  make mudpies!  And once you've made mudpies, you can wipe away all the doubt, wipe away all the confusion, wipe away all that dirtiness that's left behind.  You did your duty."
     I tried to slowly and purposefully set forth my message of courage, like sausage pushing out of a meat grinder, or cheese whiz inching out of its container.  But for Darren, this same message was powerful, like torpedos shot from a submarine's stern.  Even before I left, I could hear different sounds coming from behind that door.  Sounds of fearless determination.  Sounds of internal power and raw grit.  I never saw what Darren ultimately produced, nor do I want to.  I'm satisfied in knowing that, on this day, a boy became a man, and a wisher became a doer.

Have you seen this woman?  You may recognize her (or remember one of her friends) from the tv or news ads for Herbal Essences Shampoo brand hair care products.  What makes her notable is the fact that, whenever she (or her friends) uses HE products in the shower, she (presumably) has orgasms.  Hmm.  In my world, this makes her a Mutant Freak To Touch Only With Gloved Hands But Avoid When Possible, but in the world of All World Products and Selling Things For Money, this makes her Money In The Bank.
 
Well, she's going to have to have all that intoxicating pleasure without me, I'm afraid.  Not only because I'm happily living with a bottle of Pert, but because I'm moving on from AWPSTFM.  Yep, that old highway's a-callin'.  I'm finally going to start that Lik-M-Aid Fun Dip factory in my basement and sell delicious confections door-to-door.  They say it can't work:  "You're too old to start a new career!"  "You don't have any experience in either the manufacturing or sales industries!"  "It's already someone else's product!", etc. etc., but Walt Disney built an empire of wonder and imagination out of nothing.  Snoopy Dogg did it too.  So can I.

Yesterday, I saw not one, but TWO people who were significantly taller than I am. And fellas, I'm 6'4" (I think). When I see these big guys who're 6'9"+, I am IMMEDIATELY filled with sympathy. I about want to cry for them. Because I INSTANTLY know that a) they're either really not very good at basketball AT ALL or they were never in a place to capitalize on that, and b) most of their lives are spent in physical discomfort. These poor pituatary mutants are crowded into automobiles, under desks and dinner tables, and don't get me started about airplanes. God bless these men. AND GOD BLESS OUR TROOPS, who're out there shooting at people, and watching stuff, and sexually harrassing prisoners, and..
have a nice day everybody.

Riddle me this: if Shaquille goes and plays basketball in Miami, Florida (where it's hot), and Kobe stays in Los Angeles (where it's DIRTY), which of these players will I choose in my fantasy league draft, seeing as how I have the first pick? I would like some opinions on this (and if anybody out there can get the Drunkard to come visit this site, I would especially cherish his views).

Well, kids, it's smack-dab in the middle of summer, and what does that mean? That means it's Movie Time. Movie Time happens when large amounts of Americans, motivated to be entertained in air conditioning while physically inert, head to the film house by the millions. And it's here! Now!

--Scoop! It will make him positively squeamish for me to say so, but I've read Jif's new screenplay (co-written with Tim Stitzel, Fantasy League. It's hilarious and fun.

--I got my hands on the current issue of Filmmaker Magazine, which features a generous interview with Shane Carruth. While happy for him, I'm always saddened by the fact that I read for one of the leads for that thing, then Shane told me later that he would've been happy for me to do it, but he didn't think I was all that interested. Sheesh.

--I've heard Spiderman2 is a big turdball.

--Harry Potter and Azkaban IS a big turdball (Didi likes this series. Leave me alone).

--Didi says The Notebook is absolutely wonderful. I'll take her word for it.

--Napolean Dynomite's Cincinnati sneak preview is coming in two days!

--Seinfeld's Comedian is on the DVDs now. Everybody seen this? It's both nice and good.

What are YOUR Movie Time HSOs, Sports Fans?

Well, it's the last day of the sixth month, so I'll give you all a ME update...

Didi and I just returned from a weekend in Houston, where I met with Les Alexander and encouraged the McGrady trade. We also managed to see our friend Rebecca Johnson (Mayfield) get married off, and spent time with Shawna V, Stacie (Probandt) Bowser, my parents, David and Jennifer and Brandon and Ari Jones, Matt Schell, Clubber Langford, Jif, and my old pal Ronda. A good weekend. On Sunday, I head off to the fabulous white sands of scenic highway 30-a, in the panhandle of Florida. More specifically, we'll be in the neighborhood of where they filmed the Truman Show (Watercolor), all perfect and planned-communityesque. We will be with those kind and inclusive Breitenfelds.

I had a fight with my favorite cockroach today. His name is Larry, and he likes cookie crumbs. Well, he used to, I should say. The fight ended with me looking for a new Favorite Cockroach. I hate that I had to put my foot down like that (heel first, swivelling as if my foot was saying no), but he makes me so mad sometimes! He thinks Cameron Diaz is "so so hot", while I try and try to teach him about Torah as a type and shadow (his view of God in the world is so surface!). He can never sit still! When we lie down for naps, he's so fidgety, like a third grader on a field trip. And if you're looking for a friend who ASKS before he TAKES, you'll have to look elsewhere. I guess Larry and I were just too different for the relationship to last.

This bit of chicanery was brought to my attention by wunderkind Mark Parrett, now on leave from his work with the NSA. Good As New, huh? I think this kind of thinking is neither. Sure, there's something spiritually bankrupt about this, but I don't think that even the lost are fooled by this sort of nonsense. The law is written on their hearts, is it not? Don't their own consciences condemn them? I can't imagine some unbeliever earnestly being interested in this New Spin...

...................................
Notice the butt on the left. Doesn't it look comfortable? Doesn't it look swaddled? Doesn't it look like it's nestled in plush cottony softness? Doesn't that guy look like he's sticking out his butt right at the camera? Well, it IS- and HE is! The legs on the right, well, sure- they're not exactly hurting, but they get plenty of airtime. [As a matter of fact, these two images represent the amount of hype each type of pant enjoys. Look how much bigger the jeans are!] Me, I'm here to hype CORDUROY. Yeah, that's right. The cord of kings. It's soft, it's flexible, and it's much cooler than some suggest. Okay, so it's not AS cool as, say, broadcloth or khaki. But is it any hotter than the standard denim? I say no. And it's significantly softer than denim, this is certain. So, the question is posed: should cords only be worn in the winter months? I say no. Many would disagree, but then again, many, MANY people also enjoy NASCAR. David Letterman, for example.

As I scan the landscape of the little world I call home, I cannot but wonder at my over-concern about things that really don't matter. Nowhere is this more strikingly apparant than in the way I respond to the use of the apostrophe (or in the Dominican Republic). I make that concerned frownie face that made Clinton famous whenever I see signs touting "Toy's for Kid's" or "Tomato's for sale". I shake my head like a concerned father when families are referred to in print as "the Smith's" or "the Niratpattanasai's". What can be done about my persnickityness? Anyone?

I do apologize for making my posts so link-dependent as of late- that's just not me, baby. But I would like my friends to read this, if you have the time and curiosity: a level-headed response from a put-out liberal (yes) about the never-ending shenanigans of the pub-hungry Michael Moore. And now I have over-hyphenated.

Sometimes I think that christians are locked inside a brainless mind-funk warp world of weirdness and hooey. I pass by their bookstores (never going in. never. never.) hawking titles like "Jesus' Sea of Galilee Miracle Diet" and "Shrelk Too: the Ogre Inside Us All" and can only make farting noises in my pants. I'm not the first one with this opinion, but neither was Edison the first guy to think up a light bulb (see what I'm saying?). But then, something like this comes along and renews my faith in the christian community.

Titillating. AWFULLY titillating. But let's start calling people by their real names.

This is a picture of a man I met at breakfast this morning, near my home in Oakley, Ohio. His name is Evander Holyfield, which is a pretty long name. He is very strong and has made a good living hurting people on teevee. But he seems nice. On four different occasions, Evander has been able to say, "Nobody in the world can beat me, if we fight."

This is a picture of a man I will meet around dinner time later today, at my church house in Oakley. His name is Michael Card, which is an easier name. He is probably physically weak, judging from his paleness, but is strong in his mind and heart. He makes a living talking about Jesus in songs and in books. He also seems very nice. On nineteen different occasions, radio listeners have said, "Out of the millions of choices, the song you made up, Michael, is our very favorite song right now."

Well, you gotta hand it to the Lakers. They managed to stay with the Pistons for most of the first quarter in game 5's demoralizing rout. (giggle). I watched the Pistons play a grand total of five games this season, and let me say that I was made one huge fan of this team. This pretty well encapsulates what I think of them. (And am I, in a naughty kind of way, tickled pink at the demise of the ballyhooed Lakers in the process? Well, yes. Yes I am.)

Another stance from which I WILL NOT BACK DOWN: Cheat Commandos are sweet as yams!

If anybody was uncertain about my stance, PLEASE know this: I AM AGAINST FALSE RELIGION. DAMN IT ALL TO HELL. hee hee (wink!)

I have never been changed by all the vows I made to God
I am changed by the Promise He made me.
I was often told it was the love that I could give
But the love that I received’s what set me free

I’ve grown a little bit tired of all the pressure to commit
Of all the talk of how to be a better man
If you’re looking for a winner, man, then don’t come look for me
I’ve always failed when I’ve tried the best I can

And the features of a lie are taking shape
And the scars are coming through from all the souls we rape
There’s a filthy underbelly to this beast
Something made our dough rise up that smells a lot like yeast

But I am walking out from underneath
The land that I inherited fin’ly underneath my feet
Hallelujah, walking out from underneath
Like a newborn calf upon the meadow- walking out from underneath

All my days, men have sought to make me serve them
To enlist me for their vision, just to fill me with their shame
All this slavery just rent me from my Father
And the joy of simple sonship and the honor of our name

And I’m not trying to be godly anymore
I just want to be God’s boy
And when I stopped my working hard to get my Father’s love
To my great surprise, I found His joy


The content of this song actually happened to me about 3 years ago, but I'm still understanding the ramifications of the religious spirit that wound itself like a choking weed up into my soul. I'm also reading the book at jakecolsen.com, which is about all this stuff, and that's brought a bunch of these thoughts back up to the surface for me. Also, seeing the multi-million dollar publishing and conferencing juggernaut of Willow Creek for the first time up close last week didn't exactly "take me back to the roots of my faith", either. Funny how life on planet Earth is so strange for a believer, and that largely because of Christianity.

Sorry to post 3 times in a day, but this is just too important to pass up: Apparantly, Paris Hilton is going to be in a movie.
"We're in the middle of nowhere, like 45 minutes away from, like, civilization-- and it's, like, all real. It's, like, really cold and last night we were shooting at this sugar mill and it really smelled bad. And I didn't wear shoes, like, I don't know... We're in the middle of nowhere and there's bugs everywhere. Everything's real. I'm actually running through a forest with bare feet -- it hurts. I've done my own stunts, like falling. I hurt my knee -- it was bleeding. But it looks good, so it's worth it. I definitely think people are going to be, like, looking at me more than they would if I wasn't, like, so . . . I can't explain it. But I do a good job and I'm really looking forward to people seeing I'm good. . ."
I think this will be, like, really really great. Seeing Paris fall, for instance, will be... oh, I don't know...

Some friendly encouragements for you guys:

1) forgiveness is your first ministry. If you're unforgiving to anybody, you cannot be reconciled to God (II Cor 5:16-20). So be a ravenous, militant forgiver.

2) If you love your unforgiveness, or you're just too lazy to forgive, your Father (who will be angry at this kind of behavior) will turn you over to the tormentors (Matt 18:33-35). Tormenting spirits are not your friends, and they're really good at what they do. They can torment your mind, your will, your emotions, and your body (look around your life for examples of people tormented because of unforgiveness). PLEASE, my dear friends, DO NOT PLAY BALL WITH THESE GUYS. FORGIVE!! FORGIVE!! FORGIVE!!

3) Forgiving is not about rights, principles, or fairness. If it were, God would never talk to you. So let go of all that stuff and just forgive. In so doing, you will release your debtors' debt to you, as well as your debt to God. That's a weird thing to say, but that's how the Matthew 18 passage and Matthew 6:12 (LORD's prayer), and Luke 6:37 says it. Uh... it's a big deal.

4) And it is because forgiving is such a basic component of God's character. You cannot possibly be an unforgiving person and be like Jesus. Impossible. This is the man who looked down at His malicious tormentors and executioners and said "forgive them, Father! They just don't know what they're doing."

5) When you forgive, you'll grow in understanding about how much you've been forgiven. God's heart is so very kind toward His children. He rushes to forgive, always. So forgive and let Him do what He wants to do (namely, be in intimate relationship with you)!

Har Har! Good on ye Ags! The Pistons are looking strong, Griffey's leading the Reds, and the Williams sisters didn't win the last major. It's a good sporting day for me.
Boy do I hate it when, after getting my hand down into that just-small-enough-to-drive-you-nuts Pringles (TM) can and getting a few precious nuggets of sustenance,I drop a few, which don't land properly on the deck of snacks, thus throwing everything off. Then I cannot drive my hand down the side of the can (because now there IS no side!), and must resort to the unpredictability of POURING the Pringles (TM) from their brightly-colored holster. Pouring, of course, is a practice which guarantees NOTHING with regards to the re-stacking of the chips. Boy I tell ya, it's enough to make me forget about the Pistons. For a few minutes, anyway.

So, Didi's really into cheese. She writes poems about cheese. She muses about cheese on quiet Sunday drives. Her ideal meal is cheese sauce over broccoli, only without the broccoli. You dig. Well I try to get involved, you know, for support- like a loving father who sits down with his adolescent to listen to the music of a younger generation. Anyway, we are forever stocking string cheese and, my friends, sometimes I just bite it off like beef jerky (or a twinkie. or a corn dog. or a pickle), never taking the time to carefully denude the strings of protein-packed dairy goodness. DOES THIS MAKE ME A MONSTER!??!

ps- Here's a funny photo of me from jeers and jeers ago that I took for my mom on Mother's Day. The lady working the photo "studio" at KMart said I looked great that day, and I thought, "Well, she's a professional..." I had JUST woken up.

Is it just me, or are cartoons the most wonderful medium ever devised? I don't want to overstate my case, so I'll just put it this way: CARTOONS HAVE SINGLE-HANDEDLY AMPED UP THE HAPPINESS QUOTIENT ON PLANET EARTH BY TENFOLD. AT LEAST. Whether you're taking your seven-year-old to see Shrek 2 (imagine that 2 with cute ogre ears), or are a college student enjoying Homestar or the Powerpuff Girls (or, in some cases, Spongebob), or you're one of those creepy men who enjoy the latest Star Wars graphic novel, or you just love it when Speed Racer or the G Force is referenced anywhere, anytime, or you're just a regular guy who enjoys eating your Commando O's in front of those wonderful old Bugs Bunny bits (or the GENIUS "house of the future"-style shorts), you know that cartoons are at least PART of what James was thinking of when he wrote "every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of Heavenly Lights." What other medium allows such unfettered imagination, such total control of color, perspective, motion, setting, etc.? I, for one, will always be a proponent. So today, take some time and thank the Creator for Spaceman Spiff.

YES! For YEARS I've wanted to design my own t-shirts. And now, via the magic of the Information SuperDuperHighway, I can. Please feel free to view my first creation. Many, many, many more are sure to follow.

I am going to be in a black movie. Yes, "Finders Keepers", the soon-to-be hit from Chilltime Productions will feature yours truly as a mechanic. See, Dora and I are very Culturally Inclusive, and black people love us. Also, I read for this part about 15 months ago, and apparantly my reading was passable. Financing is now available, I guess, so shooting will start on July 17 (no, none of this is a joke). I will now show you a word for word excerpt from my scene:

DOMINICK: Hey!

MACHANIC [sic]: Yeah, buddy?

DOMINICK: I put money in the machine and nothing happened.

MACHANIC: What do you mean, "nothing happened?"

DOMINICK: What do you mean, what do I mean? I never got a fucking pop outta the son-of-a-bitch.

MACHANIC: (calmly) I'm sorry sir. But that's not our machine.

DOMINICK: What? Not your machine? It's on your fucking property! It's your machine!

MACHANIC: Sorry sir. The guy from the soda company comes about 4:00 each day to refill it. Maybe he can help you.

DOMINICK: Yeah! That's a good idea. How bout I just wait for the guy and shoot him and his fucking machine! Fucking jerk off...

So what do you think guys? Guys?

I'm sure that you've all heard me do as much name-dropping as possible with regards to my old roomie Shane Carruth, who went out and won Sundance this year. Anyhow, his film Primer (which features a jaundiced SManuel in duel roles as "guy standing by pool #3" and "restaurant patron #5"- can anybody say "versatility"?) is getting theatrical release in September, and will be in these festivals this summer. If you can make it to any of them to support our li'l Shanie, gee that'd be great!

Whoa! Go watch this trailer! Yowza! While I'm at it with the links, read this commencement speech from Jon Stewart. This ranks up there with dandy speeches by other academic heavy hitters like Will Ferrell (check out the photo), Al Franken (who, come on, is funny), Conan O'Brien, and Bill Watterson. You know, I lived in eastern Virginia during the summer of '93. Beautiful country, that. Anyhow, W&M was one of those left-wing liberal arts colleges I'd visit (like UC Berkeley, or Baylor), slowly murmuring to myself, "This is for... creative people with ideas. I want to be a... creative person with ideas. But I go to... an ag/engineering school..."

I make up a lot of stuff. I fail to post it because of insecurity. Fie on that! Here's some stuff. I'm going to do this regularly.

They said “if you sail out where there's no map
There are the Pillars of Hercules, then you’re lost.”
The end was the capture of all mankind
And an unending fear was the cost.

But you’ll be fine out there, if you’ll go
What you’ve always wondered at, you will know
There is life out there, on the other end
You’ll be fine out there, if you’ll go

Our passion is the making sure all questions go
We gotta grab at our money, keep that mean little job
But if I could just invite you to the Unexplored
You could cash in your life and trust in God

The few, the few who live in peace
We think of as madmen, like John Baptiste
They lived in death; forfeit control
They lost the world and gained their soul

You’ll be fine out there, if you’ll go
What you’ve always wondered at, my friend, you can know
There is life out there, on the other end
You’ll be fine out there, if you’ll go

The Spirit spoke (I was in Mexico)
Said to sell my mule for all the pobres
I took shaking steps out of my bridle-hold
Into new open fields, grazing on grace

I just spoke with Jif via the talking connector phone. He is presently eating some foodstuffs at Money Poncho, "the worst-named Mexican food restaurant in California!" He swears that the food is terrible, and that he is being made to eat there. Digas una ora por Jef. (I expect you to give us a large description when you get back and read this, Jef.)

My penmanship is rapidly degenerating. Oh sure, back in my pre-computer days (So carefree! So analog!), I could jot notes with the best of them: I could scribble a memo, or scratch out a line, or even ink a chit. But just yesterday I was forced to write, with nothing more than my Unaided Hand, an actual letter to be read by an actual human eyeball. My hand moved uncertainly, like a blind man over a porcupine, and produced a jittery, muted squiggle that could only be interpreted by prophets. My alphabet has always been embarrasingly skewed, with my n's resembling v's and my r's looking like backwards s's, etc. But never before have I felt about my writing like my father says he felt about his tennis game at age 45: "All of a sudden, I woke up one day and I was a step slower. Something in me had changed and I had to deal with it."
I can only say with humility at my own mortality that my best days of handwriting seem to be behind me. I suppose I should expect this sort of thing at my age, but that doesn't lessen the shock when my faculties begin to fail. And so, to whomever might read this, I will only say that it's been a good run, and I hope we'll all meet on the other side of the Jordan. (What does that mean, anyway?)

I agree with Mark Douglass (as usual): everyone should run out and read Blue Like Jazz, by Don Miller. It has always been my understanding that the name "Don", like "Doug" or "Herb", is not a "cool" name (though it's also favored by Waterdeep's wheels-off frontman, from what I understand). Hank, on the other hand- that's cool. Celeste- not cool. Ashley- cool. I once knew a guy named Ashley (a little strange). And I know a girl named Fruraha.

Wait. I should've made this its own post long ago. JDav turned me on to this greatness maybe a year ago. I insist that everyone who would be called a follower of Awkward, Out-of-Place, Line-Drawing Jesus spend some serious time examining their heart while looking at these images. Then cash in with your observations

Even though our addresses are a combined 2,612.6 miles apart, I had a sit down-style meal of real Texas barbeque (by the same puveyors of cooked meats favored by the right Rev. Franklin Graham and President Bush-- the "read my lips" one) with Didi, Craig and Stacy Weaver (he, fresh from a tour playing drums for Traffic!) and JDav (he, fresh from a whirlwind tour of planet earth, evangelizing and feeding the poor!). Sure it was great to be with old friends, sharing our observations and insights from our various vantages along God's Highway. And sure, it was nice to feel like a family around checkered tablecloths and sweet tea. But did I mention the jalapeno-cheese link sausage!? Holy smokes!

I am a sometime musician, so I feel a certain responsibility towards irresponsibility (no, it's not a paradox. I'm conscientious, that's all), being flaky in relationships, and being emotionally fickle (actually, I turn that trick without effort). I fulfill the first item in that list by Sometimes Not Going to Sleep When I Ought, and Staring Blankly at Colored Lights. This is a good reminder to me and my wife that 1) I'm my own man!, and 2) I'm still so immature that I think freedom = watching Letterman! When I stay up way too late (even after Mr. Kilborn is done ogling the young), and I'm scanning our four channels for attention-seizing fare, I sometimes see one (or, I should say, two) of the strangest things that exist:

Twin Midget Real Estate Pitchmen.

If you've ever seen this phenomenon, you've probably done what I've done, which is to watch for at LEAST a few minutes, just trying to wrap your mind around this macabre display. These twin midgets smile smugly (and let's be honest: midget smiles are HUGE and inproportionate, thus comical), knowing that their Foolproof Method is a surefire winner, while we see People Who're Outside of Society Looking In (and that title is not a putdown. Not only would I include myself in that group, but it's the name of my new album!) talking about how renovating trailer parks has made them tens of thousands of dollars. So my HSO is this: the Twin Midget Real Estate Pitchmen are morbidly fascinating, and I have every reason to believe that, since plunking down $140, I, too, will become a zillionaire by employing their proven strategies.

I think "Caracas" is one of the funnest words going.

There's just too much good material to mine with regards to bathroom politics. So sue me. I should write a flip book, like that crazily popular Life's Little Instruction Book.

1) I sometimes double flush on purpose, because many, many people wait for those moments of audio camouflage to work their hardest at the task at hand. I sympathize with the brother, as I have stated below. So I give him what he wants: Audio Camouflage (also the name of my new album).

2) I don't like it when people make wise about the noises that come from my body in the bathroom. These people could be as close to me as an old friend or a wife, or as removed from me as my boss or colleague, a waiter at a restaurant, any of the patrons of that restaurant, or the hostess at the complete other end of the restaurant. Regardless of the source of these criticisms, my response is the same. I quote the apostle Paul: You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge the other, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgment do the same things. Boy that Bible really says it well. And even if those same noises DON'T come from those people, and maybe I just have an unusually upset stomach or my body produces really LOUD noises, it's still the Bible. Am I right here?

How silly of me to not have mentioned this sooner. You should go out and see Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I know that Mr. Kauffman doesn't want to become a "brand", but there's no escaping it when you're this original and creative. I probably see a movie a year that I try to MAKE people see, and this falls into that category. C'mon, don't be so stubborn! Go see it!

Matthew 8:20 says "foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head."

A hole is a fitting place for a fox to be. It's a correct match for who he is. He belongs there. Same with a bird and a nest. Makes sense. Again, it's fitting that a bird would find repose in a nest. So the question arises, "What would be a fitting location for the head of Christ?" When the question is asked in that way, you might think of this verse:

Colossians 1:18: "And he is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning and the firstborn from among the dead, so that in everything he might have the supremacy." See also Ephesians 5:23, Colossians 2:19.

Consider that the line about the holes and nests was Jesus' reponse to a teacher of the law who declared he'd follow Jesus wherever he went. I'd imagine that Jesus was trying to inform this fellow about the fact that His lifestyle was hard, minimalistic, and uncertain. But isn't it more than possible that Jesus was also telling this guy that the church had left no room for him to rule? Couldn't he also have been warning this man that following Jesus would make him an outcast from the system that gave him so much identity?

And lastly, isn't it true that in the church today, there is precious little place for Jesus to lay His headship? And are we willing to feel "headless" in order to make room for him? THE place that's fitting for Jesus' head to rest is upon the ready, receiving shoulders of His body. May we do as John the Baptizer commanded, preparing the way for the coming of the LORD!

I cannot improve upon the simplicity of this story: Bao Hoang works in the ultra-clean, IKEAfied world of Nokia cell phone engineerdom. And he has a colleague who moonlights as something of a card player. Feel free to go to the links below to see how Raja Kattamuri spends his free time, when he's not tied down by the Nordic Lords. This confims my hunch that all engineers are geniuses in their own little ways, very few of which are at all applicable in the humanoid universe.

http://www.pokerpages.com/tournament/result9061.htm
http://www.pokerpages.com/tournament/result7806.htm

Hey, guy in the stall in the office building bathroom: I appreciate your working so hard to be discrete, but we all know the score- you've got work to do. It's no different that the work we urinalites will be engaged in sooner or later. This restroom isn't a place for daintiness or etiquette or unnecessary decorum. Do what you came to do, buddy. No hard feelings.

If anybody can find a way to condemn, accuse, or not pity Courtney Love, then maybe you should have a little talk with God. If I may speak: the enemy's goal is not to make you lie, or look at porn, or talk back to your boss. The enemy wants to steal, kill, and destroy (John 10:10, see also I Peter 5:8). He wants to steal your life, destroy your family and relationships, and ultimately wants you dead. Is it just me, or is this what it sounds like is happening to Courtney? I love people who are so honest that they cut through all the polite, political garbage, as Courtney seems to do. My ears are sometimes offended when people are like this (and my comfort certainly is), but oh!- the refreshment of earnestness! To hear her say "I need to be fucking saved." makes me want to cry and exult at once. She's dead on, never mind the profanity. Her anxiety, hopelessness, and fear are all indicators that she's been had. Man, my heart aches for her. Pray for Courtney, won't ya?

Jaff and Didi and I ran into Ozzy Osbourne last year in Westwood. He was a ravaged crook of a man, shuffling and mumbling and looking completely taken. He said something to me about the Evil Eye he wears around his neck, to ward off some of the evil spirits with which he consorted in his Black Sabbath days. But, as Jesus said, "if Satan is divided against himself, how can his kingdom stand?" In other words, you can choose one evil spirit over another, but they're all in league. Ozzy has no hope outside of the saving power of Jesus. Period.

And while I'm waxing on about celebrities (and as part of my job here at AWP&STFM is finding ads in popular magazines- no, really), I keep seeing junk about Madonna and Demi and their ilk and their Kabbalah fetish, or their Buddha fetish. I don't know much about this Kabbalah god, nor about the Buddha god, but they masquerade as angels of light. The celebrities all say they're becoming much better people (yipee!), are much more balanced, giving, etc.- and there you go. I can only assume that, in the authority structure of the kingdom of darkness, Kabbalah, Buddhism, and Humanism work on the same floor.

I'm just saying, fellas, that there's a very present reality of a multiplicity of spiritual powers around us, all the time. Yes, all the time. May our eyes be opened to see things as they really are. Do you think your church is a sanctuary where spirits of pride, greed, lust, religion, self-righteousness, idolatry, etc. aren't allowed? On what grounds? The fact that the mortgage is held by a charitable organization? Does the enemy know that rule? Do we assume that our co-workers aren't plagued by fear, accusation, drunkenness, anxiety, depression, or guilt? Why would we think this? We don't like them for the very reason that they're held captive by these things! I interact with my co-worker's pride, then walk away hating him for it. But we have to remember that we're not to be warring with people. Our enemy is unseen (and are "the rulers, authorities, and powers of this dark world and are the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms"), and our enemy works in a very carefully orchestrated, military arrangement that is specifically designed to hold the entire world hostage, and take us out.

Yeah, yeah, yeah- I'm being all dramatic and maudlin. Maybe you didn't read the Courtney Love article.

You ever seen these guys who have some amazing physical disability but are seemingly getting along just fine in spite of it? These people are all acrobatic wonders, to me, like the little black kid I saw with Chris Havard on late night teevee who, because of his odd bodily proportions, could flip about as easy as I can snap my fingers. Take the incredible (and somewhat macabre) woman, Joni, who painted (paints?) with her feet. I was pretty disturbed as a tot by seeing Joni talking about Jesus while hiking up her feet and painting like Christi Moore, that My Left Foot guy portrayed by Daniel Day-("O")-Lewis (who also shone in the stirring In the Name of the Father, with cool featured music by Bono avec Gavin Friday, both made-up names).

I just saw a guy who had maybe 3 inches of flesh past his elbow; this is exactly what my elementary school pal, Brandon Yvonovich, had. These people are so agile and apt at physical tasks that it sometimes seems they're showing off, or eternally auditioning for something. Like they really want you to know that...

"Hey, you. See this? I'm coping. I can deal. I worked it out. See, I got it!"
"Yeah, I can see that! Look at the amazing tricks you're doing with that nub!"
"I have earned my methods with pain. You have no idea."
"Okay. But geez, that bag looks heavy. Are you sure you should lift that with just the nub? Doesn't it hurt?"
"It all hurts, moron."

Maybe I'm paranoid. I obviously can't tell them when to stop (I mean, painting?? That seems incredibly ambitious to me), but I'm always impressed. I worked with kids at Camp Barnabas who were blind and deaf and had been through strokes and were autistic and were just human marvels. I mean, I sometimes have trouble walking down stairs, and I consider myself an athlete from time to time...

I tend to think of Atlanta as a giant, sweltering, asphalt-covered city with a bad history of race relations, where every other street is called Peach-Something and Olympic bombers are welcomed with open arms. But boy am I wrong!

Atlanta is a giant, sweltering, asphalt-covered city where Olympic bombers are only TOLERATED. Also, if you go far enough north, they have this big lake with a resort stuck in it. If you go to "the ATL", like me and Didi did this past weekend, you can:

-Catch some sun by the pool at Pineisle.
-Enjoy the inner-city efficiency (and odors!) of MARTA.
-Go to school in the bowling arts courtesy of our very own Hav. He bowls, he wins.
-Gorge on the eastern US' own Bruster's Ice Cream.
-Chase it with a burrito and white queso from Moe's which, according to its website, is soon to take over the country. It's not Freebirds, but then again, neither is the bland-but-successful Chipotle. Do I hate the McDonald's-owned Chipotle for horning in on a market that should be monopolized by Freebirds? Yes. Do I hate Moe's? No. What about the Hoang-endorsed Baja Fresh? Shoulder shrug.

First this:

line a small casserole with fresh asparagus, coat with olive oil, season with salt and fresh cracked pepper. Bake in 500-degree oven, uncovered, for 8 minutes. Turn asparagus stalks, and bake for another 8 minutes. Yum.

Then this:

I have been saying this to my engineering/scientist friends (for these are the people who create the world in which we live) for some time, and I will repeat it again here: if they can combine chemicals to make Fritos (tm) taste like chili with cheese, they can come up with something to make my urine smell fruity. Step one: single out the chemical in asparagus that finds its way to my bladder within an hour of consumption. This is amazing and should be further researched.

By the way, I have a friend at Procter & Gamble who tirelessly works on developing tampons. He says that there are actual people in research and development, creating better anti-perspirants (salute, Jef Dav) called Armpit Sniffers. Here's to engineers!

Just for grins (and because Hello! If you haven't fooled around with this stuff already Wake Up! It's going to be 2005 before you know it, and you should have SOME experience on the intranets before your nephew has to explain it to you), I'm going to throw in some fun name-related time-wasters. I enjoy this sort of thing. Want to know what your Hobbit Name is? There's also an Elven option there. How about Smurf? Militant African Fundamentalist? Or, if you're new to this country, you can get an American name (this will be helpful if your last name is Hornak). There's also pirate names, Chinese names (yeah!), or pokemon names. Knock yourself out. My hobbit name is Mungo Hamwich of Buckleberry Fern.

By the way, I commit to everyone that I won't have purely link-based posts ever again. Wait. No I don't.

Here's something that Bao Phuc Hoang might want to consider in the near future: a banana guard. He's been very protective of his produce for as long as I've known him. But this brings up a point that's always confounded me: why will we allow people to call us by our first name, or first and last name, but never by our middle and last name, or first and middle name, etc.? The permutations are sixfold, of course, by why do we only use two of them (three if you're in the army or 6th grade football)? I, for one, will not be swayed by the trends. I choose to stand for Eqality for Middle Names. My EMN handle is Steve Allen, and you may freely refer to me by that moniker. Also, Emperor of All That Lives.

My head has already started its annual Downward Tilt brought on by the wacky world of NBA playoffs. Houston blew its big chance at actually having something over the Lakers (an opportunity that won't be presented again) and Dallas found a way to shoot miserably, not guard Peja or Webber (something that maybe they should consider), and feature the brainless Antoine Walker at center. Antoine Walker is 6'9".

ps- I have just learned how to include links. This is goode.

Just the good ol' boys, never meanin' no harm.
Beats all you never saw! Been in trouble with the law
Since the day they was born

Staightnin' the curves, Flatnin' the hills
Someday the mountain might get 'em
But the law never will

Makin' their way the only way they know how
That's just a little bit more than the law will allow.

Just them good lo' boys- wouldn't change if they could
Fightin' the system
Like a true modern day Robin Hood

Observations:
1) No, there WERE times that they intentionally meant for harm to come to some of their enemies- men like Boss Hogg (a name that was often used as an epithet, I regret to mention), Roscoe P. Coltrain, and Cletus Hogg. Partially due to these incidences, I began to believe as a youngster that, if my purpose (or "justice" as I saw it) was served, hurting other people was okay, even approved. I can tell you, I wish I'd never believed that lie.
2) I have seen volcanoes and the Eiffel tower and the melting of hard hearts. Incorrigible rednecks, however "cool" they may be, do NOT beat all I've seen. Time to rethink that one.
3) Spare us the hyperbole, Waylon! How could they have been in trouble with the law on the days of their births? Must they be condemned to outlaw status before they can talk? We should never rush to judgement on anyone like that.
4) Flattening the hills? Are we talking about Paul Bunyan here? I think we've all seen that the Duke boys were real men, no different that you or I. They're not mythical characters, and I think something is taken away from what they were when we talk like this. We should all be warned from idolizing them in this way.
5) I saw the fabulous Disney film "Robin Hood", which featured a dashing red fox as the hero, and a stirring soundtrack by Roger Miller. Robin Hood was articulate, cunning, and scrupulous to the end. Bo and Luke Duke, sir, are no Robin Hood. Yes, they helped people, and yes, sometimes it seemed that Right was on the side other than that of the government-appointed officials. But again, comparing them to Robin Hood goes too far. Why can't we just appreciate people for who they are, instead of making them out to be heroes or villians?

Just some thoughts, fellas. I find that, as I grow, it's necessary to challenge some early presumptions of mine that were based more on fable than in truth. I appreciate any input of yours on this subject.

The shady Maple trees in my area produce those whimsical, delicate seeds that drop in circles, like little helicopter propellers, in the later months of winter. In much the same way, there are people out there who, when they're waiting for something to load on their computer, or are looking for a particular file, move their mouse in such a way as to produce circles on their screen. They do this instictively and patiently, whiling away the time, like buzzards circling their dying prey. These people are perhaps of a different ilk than am I: when I have nothing to do, I sit there and study the cuts on my hands. Perhaps they are more creative and whimsical, like the aforementioned seedlets. Could this also be said of those who fill their language with colorful 'extras' (so..., yeah..., well..., aah...)? Perhaps. Myself, I guess I'm too task-oriented for this sort of thing. I may wait for 5 minutes, trying to generate a working sentence (and okay, yes I do this. Often.), but I can't manage the walking/chewing gum tandem that is the thinking/doodling these people pull off with such aplomb. How do they do it?

Let this blow your brains today, in this post-Easter season. It's from Colossians 2-

13When you were dead in your sins and in the uncircumcision of your sinful nature, God made you alive with Christ. He forgave us all our sins, 14having canceled the written code, with its regulations, that was against us and that stood opposed to us; he took it away, nailing it to the cross. 15And having disarmed the powers and authorities, he made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross.
16Therefore do not let anyone judge you by what you eat or drink, or with regard to a religious festival, a New Moon celebration or a Sabbath day. 17These are a shadow of the things that were to come; the reality, however, is found in Christ.

Git down, git down!

Most of us are already involved in this cultural phenominon, so I might as well fess up here: Dora and I are hosting an "Apprentice Party" on Thursday night. Can not something strange be said of a culture where even relationships are becoming outlined by entertainment? Probably yes. In any case, we will soon be gathered around our teevee (with our prayer group!), nuts and colas in hand, yelling at the producers for letting Omarosa live, and whining that Kwame is too insipid to make any sort of leader (and bickering with any dissentors in our midst). Then, when Bill is crowned with many crowns, Omarosa is revealed as being a plant, and we are forced to wait until the Teevee Powers That Be give us something new to center our lives around, we will pray for them all.

You guys don't seem too interested in Sport (as we say in England), but I have to throw this out: What about that Phil Mickelson finally winning a Big One? Something awfully satisfying about that, for some reason. I was rooting for the guy. http://www.foxsports.com/content/view?contentId=2301190

Lately I have come ROARING into the 90's. Not only have I commandeered my wife's old Palm Pilot (in full, black and gray, 1 1/2 color glory!), but I have gotten in on the fitness craze that brought us terms like "aerobics", "thighmaster", and "ephedra". Yes, we recently joined the Grunt Union, local 132, where you pay people for the opportunity to hurt yourself on convoluted steel machines. The GU has one futuristic room dedicated to Endless Movie Watching (no surprise there. Many sections of our society, including child care, are dedicated to this pursuit, I note), in which one can sweat while stupefying oneself before culture-shapers like Colin Farrell and Patricia Arquette. "I can run a 10K while watching How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days??!?" Of course, I was IN.

And inside the murky cinematic womb, where my senses were overpowered and confused ("Help me make sense of it!", my body seemed to say. "Body funk + flashing lights + heavy breathing + screaming music... are we at a Jay-Z concert... AGAIN??"), I saw parts of Denzel's underwhelming "Out of Time". While trying not to fall (because I could not, of course, see my feet, nor the treadmill on which I was supposed to be running), I saw a scene including the always-disappointing, never-funny SNL alum, Nora Dunn. And I ask this question to the world (or, more specifically, Jeffrey Davenport): "how do horrible actors (say, Charlie Sheen) KEEP getting roles in films and television?" Or, more to the point, "Why am I watching Nora Dunn movies?"

Is it just skilled agents, who can sell their "talent" [sic] to casting directors? Are producers' lives being threatened if they don't cast Mandy Moore in the next teen flick? SOMEBODY HELP ME UNDERSTAND THIS, because if I have to go into cardiac arrest while being subjected to Hollywood's latest dreck, I'd like to at least have some grasp of why the films have to stink worse than I do.

I'm just asking.

For all you kind people who live in more civilized lands... check out this strangely-written article about what's coming to Cincinnati and our surrounding areas...

http://www.usatoday.com/life/2004-04-11-cicadas_x.htm

Wasn't that NCAA final a ZERO!? Isn't it always!?

Let's get political here. While I was up on the 5th floor yesterday, purchasing a protein-enhanced smoothie (yes, the drones here at All World Products and Selling Things For Money enjoy an on-site smoothie bar, post office, bank, restaurant(s), and DVD rentals. Yes, of course I'm serious), I overheard the African-American women behind the counter talking. They were talking about "us" (the employees who buy from them):

"...oh no, they HATE you talking bad about Bush. They LOVE Bush."
"I tell you, that Bush is the DEVIL."
"Yeah he is! Might as well have horns and a 666 on his head."
"But you right- they don't want you downing Bush..."

And I got to thinking about the fact that we've come to a place where minority groups AUTOMATICALLY align themselves with the soft-sell Democrats. And that's kind of strange to me. I think of welfare programs that are happy to support non-working child producers (because, as a friend of mine told me recently - and his background gives him the right to say this - "Sex is the one remaining recreation and power for the poor". Interesting thought, no?), and how that's ultimately a disservice, as it robs them of producing for themselves. And I think of groups like the NAACP, and how there hasn't been a more overtly racist cause championed by the government since abolition. And I'm bewildered. And I'm reminded that perception is reality.

Then I have a smoothie. Mm! Blueberries!

http://sports.espn.go.com/nba/news/story?id=1771421

eeeewwwwwww. Weren't we just complaining about Calvin yesterday? Reptile shoes? Was that the best decision?

Well, I did something strange. At the prodding and emotional pressure of my family (who gave me an application packet for Christmas), I applied to Survivor. Yes, that makes me officially Dumb. But I did it, filled out the huge application as well as making a 3-minute videotape. And I got called, and was given an interview in Louisville, KY (about 1 1/2 hours away), and that was about 3 weeks ago. They called the next week, telling me that I would NOT be making it to the next round, which is 2 weeks in L.A. I was hoping to make it to that round, 1) because I would do really neat things to my house and Home Music Studio if I had a million dollars, and 2) because I'd be able to visit Jef for free!

Actually, I was disappointed, because I just don't think I was funny enough. And I held back, amigos! I held back. I was just thrown by the interview situation (two interviewers, one cameraman behind a Huge Camera Rig- it was at a CBS affiliate station- professional lighting on me, and a lapel microphone). How could I be my clever self under such strange circumstances? But alas, I wasn't chosen. All the better for the American viewing public, I say.

After gorging on NCAA basketball yesterday (and feeling like I just ate an entire television- does anybody else experience this phenominon? When I overeat, for instance, I feel like I just need to lay down or take a walk or SOMETHING to overcome the physical discomfort I've caused myself [why do we do this, people? WHY?!?]. But when I watch too much of the teevee, I just feel exhausted, as if the life has been sucked out of me and given to the TimeWarner gods [we actually don't have cable, but you get my drift]. I just feel like a recently-salted slug), I've come away with yet another example of a (somewhat) common problem in modern televised sports. And I'll attack that presently:

I believe it was two olympiads (olympiad? olympiapod? olympiai?) ago that, during a basketball game (in which I can only assume our 30-year-old professionals were smacking around the world's star-struck 19-year olds), we were presented with the Camera-On-A-Rope, by which device the tv camera went whizzing down the length of the court, following the ball. I cannot predict what you all thought of this development (though a casual polling has led me to believe my views are pretty representative), but I found it ANNOYING and DISTRACTING. I was so conscious of the curiosity of the roving camera ("Whee! I'm on a ride at AstroWorld! I'm on a basketball rocket! I'm a Roundball Angel! I'm snorting PCP!") that I was thrown from my gametime studies. Can I get an amen?

Then there are the never-ending permutations of the football-angles (typically unveiled at the SuperGame (tm). Last year it was the Matrix-ized pause-and-swing-around-the-action effect (okay, yes, it's cool they can do that. Did it make the action more watchable or understandable? No.), and this year it was the You're-Right-Behind-The-Quarterback Effect, so much so that it produced the You're-Uncomfortable-Putting-Your-Hands-Under-Center Effect. (Did I happen to like this innovation? Well, yes I did. I like seeing the field the way the QB would, and kind of seeing what he sees his options to be. But this doesn't help my rant, so please overlook this one.) And it NEVER FAILS that in some Big Game some tv producer is constantly trying to INNOVATE with some tricky camera angle. This baffles me and drives me INSANE. What of that MORONIC Camera-In-The-Floor move from last year by which we can see up Shaquille's shorts? Hello!!?!??!?!?? THAT DOESN'T HELP ME!! It seems it never ends.

Latest violation? During yesterday's exciting Duke/XU game, there were about 8 minutes to go and it was feeling Very Important, and the camera would NOT just SHOW US THE FREAKING COURT. I contend that there will never be an improvement to the "I'm sitting at halfcourt and I can see the team's offensive setup and the entire defensive reaction" view. It just can't be improved upon. I can see the court. I can see what's happening. Maybe that's not Sexy, but it's effective. It's great. But that's not the view we were getting. We were getting shots from the sidelines ("look at the size of those boys' butts, honey! Are they really that big?"), shots from behind the players ("Wow, this is just as disorienting as actually playing basketball, where I can see one guy's back and not much else!")- and I thought the shot up Mike Krzyzewski's nose was simply gratuitous. Sure, that's what fans want, but does that make it the right choice? I liken this to the infamously silly "Overhead Cam", by which we're able to see Dikembe Mutumbo goaltending, and not much else. I mean, come on. A shot of the RIM?

My friends, we simply don't need wittier camera angles. We can see the game just fine as it is. It seems to me that all that techo-goob manpower should go to a much more necessary facet of tv sports production: the promo graphics!

Boy do I like nuts. I like any kind of nut (though Brazil nuts can be hard to extract from their greedy shells), and in any form. I like nuts on cakes and in brownies, I like chocolate covered peanuts, I like pistachios and almonds (almonds! goodness!) and cashiews (so delicious!) and hazelnuts and macadamia nuts (so luxurious!). I like Nutella. I like shredded coconut in ANYTHING. I like crunchy peanut butter (it's nuttier!), Reese's (every incarnation), and ALL trail mix-type creations. BRING ON THE NUT.

Part of my delight toward nuts comes from the fact that they're a splendid source of protein and unsaturated fats. I'm just saying- they are! And I've been told a couple of good tips which I'm going to pass along to you amigos right now:

1) never snack on carbohydrates alone. Gotta have crackers? Make it CHEESE and crackers. Want chips and salsa? Then also make a sour cream dip or grab a handful of nuts. Basically, this tip has me shoving handfuls of nuts in my mouth. WHICH IS OKAY FOR ME!

2) At about 3 pm, when you have post-lunch hunger pains, eat some nuts. There's not much there besides fat and protein, and it'll help your metabolism to keep running (=burn fat) until dinner time. Nuts are also so FILLING! I like to chew up peanuts reeeeel good in my mouth, so's to produce homemade peanut butter. This makes me feel Amish, somehow. Also, it averts the embarrassment of nutty turds. If you have nutty turds, you're not chewing enough. I'm sorry- you're not!

I have lots more HSOs about nutrition, as many of you know, but I thought I would take this opportunity to sing the praises of the nut today. Reactions? Thoughts? Disagreements? I bet everybody has a great story to tell about some wonderful experience you've had with a nut. C'mon!

I'm as interested in the kookookrazy cultural phenominon that is The Passion as the next guy (well, I guess more than the next guy. You should see the next guy, here at the workplace). I'm maybe even more interested in what its success says about the incredible times in which we live, and the fact that we live in a time where people are HUNGRY and SEARCHING for spirituality of any kind. I have a few HSOs (hot sports opinions) about this film, but here's my newest one:

IS IT TIME TO STOP HYPING IT LIKE IT'S A GRASS ROOTS, REACH-THE-HEATHEN GOSPEL EFFORT? I mean, come ON. It's now the most successful rated-R move *OF ALL TIME*, and the #1 independently-produced film *OF ALL TIME*. It's like #13 on the list of highest grossing films EVER.

So it's doing pretty well.

I think most people are aware of the film now, and we can stop acting like "hey, we really need pastors to get out there and make everybody buy all the weekend tickets to their cineplex 37 for the sake of people hearing about Jesus! Otherwise, this film's just going to dwindle into obscurity forever!" Now, please get me on this: I don't think it's wrong to underline the value of having every man on earth see this film- I personally think that'd probably be a good thing. I also don't resent them marketing this like a normal film- take out ad space! Buy billboards! Buy tv time! Great! But this underdog posture just doesn't... quite.. ring.. true anymore, wouldn't you say?

=On Good Friday, a full-page in USA Today will proclaim "Thank you, Mel Gibson, for making the Passion" or something like that.
=In addition to the (very successful) soundtrack, a new CD is coming out called "Songs Inspired By the Passion", including such notables as Kris Kristofferson and Nick Cave. WHY is that being made, do you think? It wasn't originally going to exist.

Again, I'm NOT against this movie. I'm certainly NOT. I'm against the money-mongers being illigetimate in their endless quest for cash. In this week's Advertising Age (the trade paper where I'm getting my facts- it lands on my desk weekly, for reasons not known to me), an article opens "The Passion of the Christ has stunned even the believers. Now the challenge is how to keep Jesus a superstar." My gag reflex kicks in at that point. I've also heard from friends that whoever got in on the Passion's email list has just received a new batch PLEADING people to go out and see it as soon as possible, so that it'll still be in full release for Easter weekend. I mean, come ON.

By the way, I wonder if sales have spiked for the worship albums associated with Giglio's "Passion". I bet so.

Here's something I've been meaning to say to somebody for a while, but can't ever find somebody to say it to. (You'll always listen, won't you Hamster Mash? You're always there to hear me when I cry, and you'll never reject me. Except that one time I brought home leftover pizza and YOU said you didn't like that kind and why didn't I think of YOU and why does it taste a little like pickles? But that was the night... I had to hurt you... to make you understand... And now I KNOW that you'll ALWAYS listen, won't you Hamster Mash?) Oh yeah- here's the thing: I've seen a new Gillette ad that makes me Sick and Sad. It's some Makin' It guy using this razor and then he goes on and on about how his life has changed due to his purchasing and applying this product. I saw it again last night and memorized the last few lines (I wish I had the whole text to better illustrate how overblown, overstated, and overwrought it is). They are:

"When every move is smooth;
Every word is cool-
I want to feel that way ALL THE TIME!"

Then we're left to assume, of course, that this Fit, Clean-Shaven Hunk has sex with the bevy of nymphs who've traipsed through the ad with him. Am I being priggish by suggesting offense in this thing? I really don't think so. Product-as-Savior is just dirty from top to bottom, but you rarely find such an odius example.

Having said all that, I must confess that after scraping my chin with their razor last night, I PARTIED LIKE IT WAS 1999, then got lucky.