iPodding ourselves to death

Over this yule tide season, I’ve hung out with an 11 year old boy who has been diagnosed with ADHD. This poor boy is, as you might know if you ever hang around a kid with similar afflictions, always addled, malcontent, and--how else can I put this?—simply never at peace. He interrupts every conversation, demands being the center of attention at all times and, to my dismay, his parents play right along, never exercising any authority or disciplining this little guy in love and strength. As his father was telling me about his life, he said, “Junior needs time off, and really enjoys his down days. He struggles with over-stimulation, so spending an hour watching a movie or playing a video game can really be a time of rest, of focus, and of quiet for him…” I about barfed right there. Excuse me, Parent of the Year, but aren’t video games and chain DVD viewing the epitome of over-stimulation?

Contrast this with my niece, who’s something like 10 years old and with whom I spend 3 days at a ranch/camphouse in exotic Glen Rose, Texas. This girl acted as if being in a run-down house with plenty of space for riding a bike, wading across a stream, or sitting around a campfire was about as big a time as anybody could want. She was at rest, calm, and a joy to be with.

Now, granted, these are different children in different settings, but as I contrasted the two children, I was reminded of some simple things about Junior’s parents:

*Out of convenience to themselves (also called laziness), they have sedated their kid with entertainment and, in the process, effectively ruined him.
*Constant pleasure makes all of us crabby, myopic, self-centered, thoughtless, and materialistic.
*Loving someone insists that we sometimes choose them being unhappy instead of shutting them up with situations that are unhealthy.

I could go on, but I will spare you more griping. I don’t have a screaming 2-year-old in my backseat right now, but I already know that having the lit’lun squawk a little while driving across town is okay to me. I don’t necessarily want to clog him up with a video pacifier just because it makes my life easier. As for me, I want to always be fighting this flesh of mine, which always tends toward the world of EWeekly, constant 24 reruns, iPod dependency, and the twisted sulk of the over-stimulated and under-satisfied.

Snookered like a hamster.

That's a new phrase I just coined.

Mr. Hamster just told me how much he loved this stuff called Anchor Brewing Company's Christmas Ale. Mr. Hamster said that he tasted toffee, chocolate, and even coffee in this concoction. Wow! There's a drinking beverage liquid product that tastes like chocolate and toffee and even coffee? Boy I sure am in there! So I ran out last night and bought a whole bunch of these (6). I then drank one.

Anchor Brewing Company's Christmas Ale does not taste like toffee, or chocolate, or even coffee.

It tastes like beer.

Gross out.

I have donated the other (5) bottles to the beer drinking public, here where I work. I got, as they say, Snookered Like a Hamster.

I am reminded of the fact that I only enjoy alcohol and coffee when there are so many added sugars and flavors that they taste like something else.

Backwards R Burrito

A while back, musrat informed me that Freebirds was looking for regular people (like me!) who like their stuff and want to say so. I gladly submitted myself as a Freebirds Fanatic. I told stories of my enthusiasm for their food products, and mentioned in there about Jiff and I driving up to Long Beach and enjoying a monster then seeing Michael Jordan and Charles Barkley. I also made up a little Freebirds Song, with the following lyrics:

You cannot eat my burrito
I don't what else you might have heard
I take the chicken and cilantro
I like it only at Freebirds.

My efforts got me a call back from their marketing department, and I was asked to call a 1-800 number and tell my stories once again, so they could hear my radio voice (I talk real deep, and I occasionally throw in a static-y hiss. I'm like that sound effects black guy from the comical Police Academy films).


I have not heard back from the Freebirds Marketing Machine, but I'm sure it's only becasue they're deciding who ELSE they'll use in this campaign...

My first pair of cargo pants ever.

Bought them this week.

My pants are cooler than this photo. My pants feature *8*! pockets, including one right on the front of my thigh that's cell phone sized! Wow--that really works out great, becuase I have a cell phone.

My pants also feature zippers that come partway up the side of the leg, I guess if I get real hot one day I can zip them up (which would actually be unzipping them, which is strange) and avail the side of my lower leg to the refreshing breezes that sometimes blow about 7 inches off the ground.

The Demise of Kulja Po

My midget, Kulja Po,
Is gone, God rest his so'
So I will tell his tale
And why he's now in hale.

Ol Po did all my cleanin
And cookin (more his leanin)
I found him most agile
On floors or scrubbing tile

He'd often just lay down
Sudded up, and roll around
Then bam! Before you know
The place gleamed! Clean as snow!

My floor will soon be soiled
Cause Po's now being boiled
In the awful fires of hale
And this, friend, is his tale:

He left me late one night
To join a midget gang: to fight.
With battleaxe and mace
And little war paints on his face

This dwarfen band for blood,
Like a shrunken human flood,
Rolls around the east
Mauling man and beast

At least, that they contend
(It's a claim they can't defend--
I think they mostly meet
To drink and smoke and eat)

Regardless, Po joined in
To battle, kill, and sin
His tiny nose a sneer
When he stomped on out of here

[Sidenote: did he steal
My one box of Malt O Meal?
And would this aid him at all(s)?
That little imp's got ball(s)!]

Not much news from the gang
The midget army'd rather hang
But I learned just last week
They got a gig--or,so to speak.

They'd found a lion to destroy
In a great, foolhardy ploy
To prove that midgets, just like that,
Can take down any jungle cat


"Kulja Po! What must you prove?
Just insecure, or 'lost your groove'?
You'll never be big as a man
Don't have to fight just cause you can"

That's what I said to Kulja Po
When I dropped in at Stop N Go
I went in for Parrot Ice
And there, buying red fuzzy dice

Was homeboy or, better yet
My homebabe, or Person Pet
Who had awayed and made his name
At the warring, killing game

"Up yours, stretch! You'll never know
The pain of size, like Kulja Po!
I left you and don't repent
I'll just kill things! Won't relent!

By the way, your jumper's naff
I look at you have have to laugh!
Sweater Shavers aren't too dear
As it is, your outfit's queer!"

He stormed off in a huff
Waddled out with all his stuff
In his final spiteful grab
He had stuck me with his tab.

Now I've heard Po's destiny
Read it: online BBC.
His demise is full of gore
(Which made me want to read it more.)

The militia's wee attack
Became the lion's late-night snack
He mauled and ate them, stem and stern
So what is there for us to learn?

*If you're wee, smile and be nice
*Take care buying Parrot Ice
*Some sweaters are prone to pilling
*Lions trump midgets in killing

T'was his life, and now you know
The Demise of Kulja Po
Who now resides in hale
And now you, friend, know his tale

This is the guy I worship.

God does not take away life; instead, he devises ways so that a banished person may not remain estranged from him. This is what II Samuel 14:14 says. I tell you, God is better than any of us think He is.

Where are your nuts?

Snickers BRAND chocolate bars touts its nutty makeup with the tagline, “Packed with peanuts, SNICKERS satisfies.” Recent history has disqualified me from testing this claim, due to my general apathy towards the confections. But recently, chance put a Snickers bar in my mouth, much like the black gentleman in Hands On a Hardbody. And I have the following to say:

Snickers BRAND chocolate bar is not, in fact, “packed with peanuts.” In each bite there were, at most, 3 peanuts. Now, I chose this particular brand over my other sugary options precisely because I wanted some nutty goodness with my RDA of choco-jittermaker. What a disappointment.

Kiss it, Snickers ™. Next time I’ll make mine a Payday.

Kong POW

There are so many things I would like to say here. So many topics, so many opinions. But I don't have time to do that, unfortunately. I use my time on things like:



You can't believe how incredible this is. Not a perfect film (compositing gaffes galore, the first 45 minutes is overblown setup nonsense), but HOLY SMOKES you will see things you've never seen before. Riveting and impressive as a third arm. If they'd asked me for more money on the way out of the theater, I'd have happily paid up. Kong POW!

Frittatas and Muffins

In George Barna’s new earth-shattering book, “Revolution” (which I’ll review here soon if there’s any love in my heart for my fellow man), Geo suggests that revolutionaries who’ve jettisoned the old-world concept of organizational church life are finding new ways to connect with one another in deep ways. One of my favorite ways to do this is at BREAKFAST. I love doing this with totila, or Stickney, or peb, or ace, or the rod, or heck—whoever you are, out there… I WILL BREAKFAST WITH YOU!!


I was there this morning (one of three such gatherings for me this week) with bells on, feeling cold (22 degrees) and festive, ready for some hot eggs and salsa. It occurred to me that, at least in this location, breakfast-going is a mostly MALE ritual. That alone is enough to make me want to open a joint of my own. Anyplace that fosters males in relationship is rare and wonderful and worth throwing lots of time and money at. I realize that many of these breakfast get-togethers were business-based: men are willing to do anything (even talk to one another) if it means they might make a wad of cash because of it. Regardless of the motivation, I was happy to see that there were, at one point, 34 men in the place, along with just 4 women. Wow. I just think that’s cool.

So raise up a breakfast taquito with me (I hope it’s laced with TURKEY bacon, friends) and salute Breakfast Out with Brothers. There’s nothing like it.

How did I have time to consider all these things this morning, by the way? I got stood up. No matter. The breakfast movement rolls on!

Beauty for Ashes

In Isaiah 61, a promise is made that God will comfort “those who mourn in Zion.” Confusing. Why would anybody mourn in Zion? How could you be in God’s presence, in God’s family, in God’s favor, and yet mourn? I was thinking about that, and about how right after that, Isaiah says, “He will give beauty for ashes.” Weird.

What’s being communicated with ‘ashes’? Where does ash come from? Well, it comes from something that’s been consumed, or exhausted, or USED. That’s what I’m hearing today: ashes are the product of perfect, burned-out, USE. And God is promising us in Isaiah 61 that He’ll do away with that—permanently. That his ministry is partly to take this away from us, and to replace it with beauty.

Now, me and ace and musrat and wunderkind and moljer and jiff (and you?) all grew up hearing that the greatest possible good is that “God might use you.” A hallowed prayer around my circles was “God, just use me”. We were warned not to sin in every sort of way, because if we did, “God won’t use that.” So we all busted our religious butts under the guise of being useful to God. I now know that trying to make oneself useful to God is like trying to pick oneself off the ground. I am completely powerless at that endeavor and, moreover, God doesn’t require that anyone make himself into anything. God can use anybody, at any time, to do anything. Anything. This ‘useful to God’ business is a moot game. Not interested in that anymore. But we as a Bride are still very much concerned with this, as an achievement, by and large. What a feather it would be in our cap to hold the title of Most Useful!

Or so we think. That chase will lead you nowhere. You cannot make God move, and you cannot conquer yourself, and you cannot effort your way into perfection. That 'being used by God' stuff was a thinly veiled come-on to my flesh. It is the law. It is burning us out and producing disillusionment, hopelessness, sorrow, self-hatred, and fear. Ashes. And it makes people, even people in Zion, into mourners. We’re not praising, we’re heavy-hearted. That’s also Isaiah 61.

I’ve learned recently about the word “good” in the Bible. Jesus talks about “good works” and you don’t know what he’s talking about, really, until that loopy lady pours out her Hooker Cologne No. 5 on his feet, then swabs it with her skanky head of hair. There was NOTHING useful in what she did. The disciples were right: she could’ve given it away to the poor, building homes for them or at least filling their hungry bellies. That perfume went for like 80 grand! I’ve never given that much money away, and neither have you. She took something that WAS useful (my goal for so long!), and made it useless. That’s why Judas and all his pals shook their heads… “What a WASTE!” It would be like if you had a perfectly good functioning servant and told him, “You don’t have to be my servant anymore. I just want you to be my friend. You don’t have to be useful to me anymore.” What? Who on earth would say that?

Let’s say this more strongly: I don’t know a single God-seeking guy who would say “my marriage has made my life simpler, more efficient, and more manageable.” Quite the opposite. Before I was married, I lived in a 2-bedroom, $350-a-month apartment. I had one bowl, one pot, no insurance, and had no yard or mortgage or furniture or financial advisor or in-laws or long Mexican hairs all over everything I own. My marriage isn’t utilitarian. You know what’s useful? A hooker. No questions, no debates, no uncontrollable love or relationship or “working things out” or all that messiness. You just get what you came for, and you’re out. Clean, simple and efficient. Useful.

Ashes.

Well, Jesus looks at this dirty, beer-breathed whore that poured out her Clio! on his feet, and he says this: “She has done a GOOD WORK.” Wait. Hold on. Nobody got saved here. Nobody got healed. Nobody prophesied. Where are the tongues, the social change, the Bible teaching, the disciples being made, blah blah blah? What’s so kind of frustrating about this is that I was created to do good works, like this, in Christ (Ephesians 2:10). But I’m not so sure I even understand how this qualifies as a good work. Jesus’ guys had the same take. They thought Jesus was good for something (political reform, revolt, overthrow), when he wasn’t good in order to DO anything. He was just good. In himself. He isn’t someone to be mimicked or followed as much as he is someone to be worshipped. He isn’t really useful, like a hooker. Really, he’s beautiful, like a spouse. Beautiful means, “inherently good and desirable.” That’s Jesus. He isn’t working out that great for our persecuted brothers around the world, yet they daily risk their lives for him. Why? I think they’ve discovered that he’s better than useful—He’s BEAUTIFUL.

And that’s the other way to translate what Jesus said about that hooker. He said, “she has done a beautiful (useless, inherently good) thing, and as long as the gospel is preached in the cosmos, this act will be remembered.” Astounding.

The scriptures say that God makes ALL THINGS BEAUTIFUL in their time.
He is not making all things useful in their time. He is making all things beautiful. (Ecc 3:11)
God is not bringing many servants into the production line; he is bringing many sons to glory. (Hebrews 2:10)
Jesus no longer wants to call us servants; he calls us friends. (John 15:15)
We are not God’s whore; we are God’s bride. (Isaiah 54:5)

And we are as beautiful (and moreso) to him as my marriage is to me. It is complex, it is inefficient, it is mysterious, and it is beautiful.

Yes, God WILL comfort anybody who mourns in Zion, and is beat down, and worn out, and tired of trying so hard, and burned up. He will give us beauty for ashes.

A simple task for a helper.

I’m an elderly woman who needs some help with a household task. I hope this email letter is read by someone responsible who will come to my aid. I have a house safe with some important documents inside (certain account numbers, unsigned deeds, etc.), and I can’t get the lock to work. If anyone ever came into my home with ill will, I’d never be able to defend myself, or the safe. Please come soon. I have terrible arthritis and poor sight—please call out your name when I come to the door.

Sincerely,

A Needy Friend.

ps- I cannot use the clapper.

All your base...

...are belong to us.

Of mice and guy

There has been a mouse that's lived in my house:
Worse than a pup, better'n a louse
I love a good book, I sure love my spouse, but I
Don't love the mouse that's lived in my house

Now, having said that, I haven't much cared
Where Mousy has roamed, or whether he's dared
To eat all our fudge, with mouse-babes he bared
I haven't much wont; I haven't much cared

But Wifey hates Mousy and Mousy's young child
"The fam'ly may grow! They may all run wild!"
Yeah sure: he'll o'errun us: we'll all be beguiled
But Wifey hates Mousy and Mousy's young child

So I have been charged with killing the beast
I set out a trap with a cheddary feast
I waited two weeks, he's patient at least
But I have been charged with killing the beast

Today was the day: I found Mousy dead.
That spring-powered trap near lopped off his head
Now Mousy be's still but not sleeping in bed
Today WAS the day: I found Mousy dead.

It freak-ed me out, the sight of his bod
My heart does a jerk; all parts of me nod
I don't want to touch Mousy's carcass--oh God!
Just freak-ed me out, the sight of his bod

And yet just last night, I told a guy off
Like Tarzan in full, with vine and loincloth
I bolstered my guts, like Luke out on Hoth
Yeah, t'was just last night, I told that guy off

So what 'zacly maketh a man be a Man?
Is it rebuking 'bad guys', just cause he can?
Or hand'ling dead mouses? I've no clue; I've no plan
Yeah: what 'zacly maketh a man be a Man?

Now go hear it.

(API) Pagosa Springs, CO--THe Bastard King, Steven Manuel's latest attempt at being "Biblical" and "relevant" at the same time, is now available for hearage and downloadage via www.beautifulcity.org/steven. The availability of this "song" (is that word large enough to hold this musical journey through rejection, redemption, and exaltant glory?) has sent shock waves through the Vertical Chew faithful. "Bastard what?" said ace, looking accused but interested. "Is that what they're calling him now?" said newly-ringed musrat, looking up from a chart titled "Fecal Color-Coding For Everyone's Health". Wunderkind waxed philosophic about the new single: "I'm not sure what that is, but I bet it'll be just fine."

As Lionel Richie said, Let the music PLAY ON!

Most music is disposable. We'll listen to Usher's "Yeah" for, what, 3 weeks?, then never want to hear it again. Sure, we'll hear it in 2014 on a car commercial and we'll go "oh yeah. Huh.", but that's it. I have to sit with an album for a while, giving it 10+ full listens over several months to really comment on whether it's lasting or not. Granted, I won't give many albums that long. Okay, forget that earlier statement. What I'm trying to say is that the quality of a recording emerges long-term.

Having said that, allow me to declare what I strongly felt this morning: This Coldplay Album Will Stand The Test. I am so pleased that this album exists, and will go on about its qualities for a moment:

--It doesn't follow any trends, sound-wise. Guitar and organ and bass and drum (and, okay moljer, there is a song or two with a synth pad thrown in, but those have been with us since 1972, so that doesn't really move us into the 'trendy' category). This forces you to listen to the SONG, instead of the sounds. (As a music-maker, I have never been able to keep myself this limited. I am always so goosed by the latest coolness that my stuff ends up sounded goofy and blip boopy.)

--It says things you can actually sit and think about. As opposed to, say, "Don't Funk With My Heart." Ahem.

--The parts played on it are simple and memorable (see the two-note guitar fill line on the verses of "Square One"). I've heard this band criticized for being too simple musically, that when it's time for a guitar lead, nobody goes Vai on us. I have no problem with that at all. Most of us can sing, note for note, the instumental leads in Beatles songs. They're simple and melodic. When I hear stuff like this, it makes me think "these guys were after writing what they would call a great song. They're not trying to impress anybody. (Again, I feel this is something I wrestle against as a music-maker, which is probably why I notice it. Again, I have a tendency to vote for whiz-bang over solid goodness.)

So give it up, peeps. This is just a great album. I could talk great albums for a long time, but this interests me because it's the first lasting piece I've heard since, probably, David Mead's Indiana. Can I get a witness?

For all the Coverers

We are all coverers, to some degree, of who we really are, yet we are all desperate longers that someone might truly know us, and love us in spite of that knowledge. We use what power we have (and are jealous over) to scream "I don't want power! I'm better than that!" We do religious acts and deeds that will be called good, even when we don't want to, in order to not be more closely inspected. We attempt to communicate "These are the kinds of things I really WANT to do, everybody! Check out the goodness!"

What was the VERY FIRST THING that Adam and Eve did (separately?) when they discovered their brokenness? They immediately went out and found covering for themselves. Imagine how stupid and silly they were to walk around in front of each other like that, as if the other would forget what they really looked like? As if Adam could say, "Oh sure, Eve. I always wear this. No, no--it's just more civilized, I feel. I mean, yeah. We wear fig leaves!" Eve is thinking "No we don't you poser! We look stupid! We've never worn these!" Of course, Eve wouldn't necessarily want to challenge Adam on his phony posturing, since she wanted some security that she wouldn't be outed from HER place of hiding.

It is God's intention that each of us come "out into a spacious place" (Psalm 18:19), and we best do that, not by confessing "just between me and God" but by confessing one to another. We come out of hiding. We bring our brokenness to the table. We really act as if we live in a community of priests who have the spiritual muscle to pronounce God's words of healing to us.

Now, all that's kinda elementary stuff. Here's the high school-level point, for me. At that point when people are willing to confess their perversion to us, to tell us about their self-degredation because they don't know how valuable and perfect they are to God, or to reveal their inflated view of their own goodness, because they're oblivious to the eternal nature of sin and the fact that it comes in and out of them like breath, THIS is the salient moment. For most, this is the moment when we're tempted to look away. This is the moment when we're disgusted at one another, when we're disappointed with one another, when we're JUST SO DONE WITH HIM/HER. Our patience and fleshy 'love' are exhausted, and we're left with a big pile of our OWN brokenness. That is to say, their sin provokes us to our own sin, and we learn that we, too, are broken, not quite eternally loving, and ourselves in need of healing. At the point that I lose patience with you, or feel exhausted of love over you, or lose peace because of you, or am no longer kind, or lose self-control, **I** need healing. I need confession.

But that point where we get turned off or frustrated or 'done' is the same point where God says, to us and all offenders, "Yes. This is the point I was waiting for. The facade is broken. You can't posture your way out of that one. The truth is that you're incomplete. You've not been made perfect in love. You've not yet been conformed into the image of my Son. Can you see it? It's very plain." I was struck today with the different reactions to people's open sinfulness: we cringe, Jesus smiles. He's not offended, he's not surprised, and he's not going anywhere.

A friend loves at all times.

I resolved today that, the next time I am shown someone's abject perversion, their simple degenerate humanness, their own effect of being born under a curse, I will certainly not shrink back from the moment. I will get excited about the fact that I'm standing in a place of healing, and I'm to be God's priest in that moment. Exciting.

I also resolve to voluntarily put myself in those positions where *I'm* the guy confessing, bringing my sin to priests of God, and humbly coming under their ministry and counsel. This is sometimes the harder knot to tie, but life is there. James said "confess your sins to each other if you want to be healed." So, down with covering. God says "I hate a man covering himself." You may as well see me for who I am. It will shatter the false image I often present: that I always have God's interests at heart, that I always desire the low place or repentance, that I am always aware of everything, and choose accordingly. Yes, that will be shattered, but I do want to be truly known, and in that, to more fully know God.

Genesis 3:10
He answered, "I heard you in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked; so I hid."

Psalm 32:5
Then I acknowledged my sin to you and did not cover up my iniquity. I said, "I will confess my transgressions to the LORD "— and you forgave the guilt of my sin. Selah

Isaiah 59:6 They can't cover themselves with what they make

Ezekiel 13:14
I will tear down the wall you have covered with whitewash and will level it to the ground so that its foundation will be laid bare.

Malachi 2:16
"I hate a man's covering himself with violence as well as with his garment," says the LORD Almighty

Luke 8:16
"No one lights a lamp and hides it in a jar or puts it under a bed. Instead, he puts it on a stand, so that those who come in can see the light.

1 Corinthians 11:7
A man ought not to cover his head, since he is the image and glory of God

1 Peter 2:16
Live as free men, but do not use your freedom as a cover-up for evil; live as servants of God

Hey E'erbody! It's my new Christmas song I made up!

He seems at home living in darkened places
He’s not the kind to dress for show
He sees the heart in disenfranchised faces
He should know, The Bastard King

Brother says he’s got a kingdom coming
Where the poor and meek will rule
Mockers say, “Since when has God gone slumming?
What a fool, 'The Bastard King'"

-All hail the king
-All hail that wretched thing
-He carries glory like we’ve never seen
-Let the praises ring
-For the Bastard King

Who would follow this Immortal Stranger?
A band of sinners, clots of thieves
Desp’rate beggars with a taste for danger
Bound for uncertainty: The Bastard King

He’ll be hated till there’s no more hating
He is outcast every day
But all the lowly will be celebrating
Hear them say, "Lo, The Bastard King"

-All hail the king
-All hail that wretched thing
-Sing the songs the proud would never sing
-Let the praises ring
-For the Bastard King

On peppers chili, and heated

Something quietly momentous happened in my kitchen yesterday, aside from potent flatulance. I pulled a nearly-finished bottle of Tabasco Sauce (tm) from our fridge door's condiment holster, and announced to Didi, "This is going in the trash. I no longer use Tabasco Sauce (tm). I now use Frank's Red Hot Sauce (tm) for all my spiceifying needs."

I was raised in south central Texas, where Tabasco is in a child's mouth sometimes before a teat is. I never questioned the fact that, if I needed more bang in a soup or a stew, a gumbo or a roux, I would instictively turn to my Tabasco. When I was at a fancy restaurant, and they offered me the teeny tiny Tabasco, I emptied it, thoughtlessly. It was an assumption, not a decision.

Then I moved to Ohio, where people are more ignorant of all things spicy. I do not hate them for this. But, because of their naivite, they are open to all persuasions of spiceifiers, if and when that need strikes them. Because of these processes working together, I've been exposed to Frank's, and other 'hot sauces', in a way that I certainly wouldn't have been back in my old home state. I have concluded that there's more actual delicious hot TASTE with Frank's, as opposed to a highly vinegary, simply-hot-with-no-real-taste-accompanying-that-heat type experience with Tabasco.


So hey Tabasco Sauce (tm), you might sell neckties and oven mitts and cookbooks, but you'll no longer be peddling your fluids in MY cocina. And "If the sauce has lost its savor," as Jesus once said, possibly, "then it's no longer good for collard greens nor pinto beans. It will be thrown out, into the 90-gallon rolling garbage can, to be taken away by the good men of Cincinnati, to a faraway place that I've never seen and never really want to visit."

Now young Skywalker, you will die!

Ooh that evil emperor really got my goat, using Anakin as his pawn then trying to kill Luke! Rrg!

The Ol' Chug and Glug

Yesterday, my Didi and I went out to see a big NFL football game, the kind Mel Allen used to do voice-overs for, and about which the big-shouldered broadcasters talk with such apparant authority. Yeah. Well, anyhow, we went to the "Game of the Decade", in which we were supposed to learn whether the Bengals are a) an astoundingly good team that's slipped the surly bonds of mediocrity and is en route to the Super Big Game (tm considerations)!, or b) poopers with a slack schedule.

Well, as you might guess, b) happened, and we now know that we're among the best of the lame teams. So what. That's not why I write you good people. I write because I understood, after seeing big-league sports First Hand and Up Close and In Person and Without Televised Help and Stop Spitting on me, jerK! Anyhow, I understood that people by the ultra thousands don't attend these games because they're all aficionados of the finer points of the game of football. No. Like so, so many other things, people go to these games so they can spend quality time with their best friends: beer. Think of it: how many concerts have we attended where the goal of those around us is merely the thoughtless consumption of as much beer as possible? Maybe ace can give me some clarity here, but this applies not only to public musical venues and sporting events of every stripe, but also to fairs, bowling alleys, drive-in movies, statue unveilings, legal presentments from state attorneys' offices, etc. etc. etc. My heavens WHAT IS WITH THE BEER, PEOPLE? Really.


I understand that some people claim to enjoy its taste. Great. Enjoy away. But that's not what I'm talking about. Socially speaking, what else is like this? I really used to loooove Dr. Pepper. But I didn't talk about Dr. Pepper all the time, wear shirts and caps proclaiming how much I loved Dr. Pepper, make fraternity t-shirts referencing Dr. Pepper, buy posters and neon signs for my dorm that touted Dr. Pepper, and constantly invite people to enjoy this deliciousness with me. There is no equal to beer in these respects. I just want to understand. If you just want to get blasted, save your $70 on Bengals tickets, or the big musicFest, and just down your brews outside the 7-11 where you got them. Either way, you end up toasted and happy. Why all the external fuss and hype? And (I'll just casually throw this in) why ruin the pleasant enjoyment of non-boors around you, whatever they may be drinking?

**I feel the need to insert here that I am not against alcohol consumption, per se. I'll have a water, you'll have a beer. We're good. It's the glorification of beer that's so confusing, unlike anything else. And it's the kind of way it's referred to as an enhancement of something else, when the observer can see that the drinking of the beer, itself, is really center stage. I'm just saying.

This brings up a related question of mine, regarding the nature of 'partying'. I always thought I had a pretty good time in my life: I've done a lot of laughing, had a lot of fun. If partying is really fun, I'll tell ya, I want IN. But I've been places where people were just milling around drinking a lot of BEER, then the next day what was described about the night before was that a lot of PARTYING!! went on. Now, somewhere between execution and description, I missed the partying, or at least the appealing part of it.


Surely there are some people out there who can help me, here. Maybe this all sounds very prudish and self-righteous, and if so, I'll take it. I have been those things before. But here's the fact: Beer. I don't get it.

For me, it's a good day in sports

**Our Cincinnati Bengals, well, they're quite good these days.

**My erstwhile Disastros are going to the World Series, full of confidence.

**Vlade Divac has just announced his retirement. His complaining and bad acting will be reserved now for the local grocer or his own kitchen.

**Andre Agassi is still a force in the tennis world.

**I recently read in Slate magazine that the jock strap is definitely on its way out.

**The Yankees were humiliated this year.

**Being that the season is just starting, the Mavericks are full of hope and optimism. "This could be our year!" they say. This won't be disproved for months and months yet.

**I don't think the Texas football Aggies are very good, though I don't really know, and that doesn't bother me a whit.

**Jerry Glanville is still not doing network football coverage anymore.


I would be fine if we ended all sports today. Things sit pretty well for me at this juncture.

How dare they exercise their authority!

This, from this morning's USA TODAY:

The NBA has announced that a dress code will go into effect at the start of the season. Players will be required to wear business-casual attire when involved in team or league business. They can't wear visible chains, pendants or medallions over their clothes.

[Stephen] Jackson, who is black, said the NBA's new rule about jewelry targets young black males because... the league is afraid of becoming "too hip-hop." In protest, he wore four chains to the Pacers' exhibition game against San Antonio on Tuesday night.

...Philadelphia's Allen Iverson also was critical of the new rule, which the NBA made teams aware of in a memo Monday.
"I feel like if they want us to dress a certain way, they should pay for our clothes," he said. "It's just tough, man, knowing that all of a sudden you have to have a dress code out of nowhere..."

Recently, I have been doing some study, along with my pals Rooster and the Rod, on the subject of authority. These fellows give me a good handle on how this works in America, the land of freely talkative and bravely rebellious.

Hey, um... Allen? You receive an annual base salary from the National Basketball Association to the tune of $12.4 MILLION. This comes out to $6,200 an hour. THEY DO PAY FOR YOUR CLOTHES.

The Eyes of Truth Are Always Watching

When I'm perched atop one of those electronic seeing-eye robot toilets that flush on their own, and that toilet will for some reason (I leaned forward too much? My shirt fluttered before its aperture? The barometric pressure in the room changed?) flush prematurely, preventing me from... er... VIEWING my... er... PRODUCE, I feel rather cheated (not in a sick and perverted Jungian, I'm-so-proud-of-what-I-made-and-won't-mama-love-me-now-kind-of-way, though, I don't know--maybe--my eyes are not haughty; more of in a oh-this-is-my-chance-to-do-a-little-research-and-see-how-I'm-functioning-up-on-the-insides kind of a way. I'm not like my friends Rod and Tinff, who have 3+ bowel movements PER DAY!!! No, it is not so for me. The instances happen MAYBE every other day, which is fine by me, but I have only so much opportunity to see what's going on inside of stevie. And the seeing eye robs me!).

You Can't Have Any New Old Friends

Last night was a night when I thought of two old friends. First off, I had the rare joy of seeing people I know and like on the teevee. It was that zany Extreme Makeover gang with more of their big-hearted hijinx, who'd done up and gone to Camp Barnabas, a place that I know well and love a lot. It's a camp for kids with disabilities of every stripe. I wiped many retarded butts, as we like to say, and showered many bodies there. Restrained many would-be violent kids. Sweat about a gallon a day. Good times. Hard times, humbling times. Good times.

When I think of that place, as I did last night, I think of a few people, none more than my old friend Jesse Robertson. Jesse and I met in Scotland, where he started telling me about this camp he worked at and how much he loved it. I asked if this camp had a theme song, and he said it did. After I made him sing some of it to me, I told him that I'd writ that very tune years ago. What a serendipitous moment for us both. Really. He responded that I caused many, many retarded kids to run around with glee by making up that silly ditty, and that they sing it every night at Camp Barnabas. That made me glad.

Something that's nice about Jesse is that he really BELIEVES in his St. Louis Cardinals. This is ironic, because my (erstwhile) Houston Astros have just ended the Cardinals' season and put themselves, for the first time, in the World Series.


This reminds me of Chris Havard, my best friend since the 1st grade. I believe we met in Mrs. Raines' Sunday School class. Anyhow, my formative years were all with Chris (when I say formative, I really mean "up through college", because really, I hope I'm still being formed, but you understand how such things are used in the vernacular. It can be exhausting, though, when language is so un-literal), and we spent many many evenings of junior high and high school shooting baskets and listening to Astros games. These were all disappointing seasons, ultimately, and none so much as 1986, when Nolan and Mike Scott took us to the brink of beating the eventual champs, the NYMets. At the time of that particular series, with so much hope in our young hearts, Chris and I worked on Wednesday nights at our Christian organization's meal kitchen. We worked, as I recall, from 3-8 p.m., mostly washing dishes, for the free meal and $10. We always came out of there slippery with grease on our soles (as is anyone who works in a retail kitchen), and faces oily due to excessive steam. By God those were good days. But these days are even better, at least as far as the 'stros are concerned.

You're my only hope

5 Minutes With Frederick Buechner

The gods are dying. The gods of this world are sick unto death. If someone does not believe this, the next time he happens to wake up in the great silence of the night or of the day, just listen. And after a while, at the heart of the silence, he will hear the sound that gives it away: the soft, crazy thud of the feet of the gods as they stagger across the earth; the huge white hands fluttering like moths; the little moans of bewilderment and anguish. And we all shudder at the sound because to witness the death of the gods is a fearsome thing.

Which gods? The gods that we worship. The gods that our enemies worship. Their sacred names? There is Science, for one: he who was to redeem the world from poverty and disease, on whose mighty shoulders mankind was to be borne onward and upward toward the high stars. There is Communism, that holy one so terrible in his predilection for blood sacrifice but so magnificence in his promise of the messianic age: from according to his ability, to each according to his need. Or Democracy, that gentler god with his gospel of freedom for all peoples, including those people who after centuries of exploitation and neglect at the hands of the older democracies can be set free now only to flounder in danger of falling pray to new exploiters. And we must not leave out from this role of the dying what often passes for the god of the church: the god who sanctifies our foreign policy and our business methods, our political views and our racial prejudices. The god who, bless him, asks so little and promises so much: peace of mind, the end of our inferiority complexes. Go to church and feel better. The family that prays together stays together. Not everybody can afford a psychiatrist or two weeks of solid rest in the country, but anybody can afford this god. He comes cheap.

These are the gods in whom the world has put its ultimate trust. Some of them are our particular gods, and there are plenty of others, each can name from himself. And where are they now? They are dying, dying and their twilight thickens into night. Where is the security that they promised? Where is the peace? The terrible truth is that the gods of this world are no more worthy of our ultimate trust than are the men who created them. Conditional trust, not ultimate trust.

--from The Magnificent Defeat



Unfermented grape juice is a bland and pleasant drink, especially on a warm afternoon mixed half-and-half with ginger ale. It is a ghastly symbol of the life blood of Jesus Christ, especially when served in individual antiseptic, thimble-sized glasses.

Wine is booze, which means it is dangerous and drunk-making. It makes the timid brave and the reserved amorous. It loosens the tongue and breaks the ice especially when served in a loving cup. It kills germs. As symbols go, it is a rather splendid one.

--from Wishful Thinking

Chew Turns a Critical Eye on Ailments

Everyone’s always going on about their Strep Throat:
“Say, I’ve got Strep Throat!”
“Oh, sure, I’ve had Strep Throat! Who hasn’t?!”
“Boy oh boy, I’ll never forget my first Strep Throat.”
The examples proliferate.

Frankly, I’d had enough. Tired of being the one kid sitting in the corner full of stinky britches, while the other kids are enjoying Pudding Packs™ out on the playground, I decided to go get my OWN Strep Throat. I think I deserve it.


Strep Throat is an okay illness… not a great one. I rate it as follows:

Exotic/Shock value name: **
Exotic/Shock value symptoms: 1/2 (+)
Sympathy factor (inside the home): ***
Sympathy factor (outside the home): *
Ease of diagnosis by doctor or know-it-all: *****
Desirability for retelling later: 1/2
Ability to get you time off work: * (read: half day)
Ability to sleep well in spite of it: 0
Ability to eat well in spite of it: *
Treatment/cure-ability: ****
Average score for this illness: 1.8 Stars

(+) When I described my symptoms to Peb over the phone, he suggested it might possibly be the famous “mono”, which is SUCH a favorite with the high school and college crowd, and I knew this would be an instant hit. The ambiguous symptoms allowed me to say, “It might be mono!” a couple of times, so the half star was awarded.

Compare this paltry score to a truly successful illness, like Ebola virus:

Exotic/Shock value name: *****
Exotic/Shock value symptoms: *****
Sympathy factor (inside the home): *****
Sympathy factor (outside the home): *****
Ease of diagnosis by doctor or know-it-all: **
Desirability for retelling later: *****
Ability to get you time off work: *****
Ability to sleep well in spite of it: **
Ability to eat well in spite of it: **
Treatment/cure-ability: 0
Average score for this illness: 3.6 Stars

And you can see where we fall short.

So, now you know friends. In sum, Strep Throat sounds pretty good, but the actual symptoms aren't worth the trouble, and the aftertaste is terrible. See you next week, when we'll be reviewing endometriosis!

Progress, with a P!

I work in an office building. The people who work in this building largely work in... offices. Right now, there's a huge amount of construction being done here, so there are a lot of people around and about that work in... construction.

There is a bathroom at the bottom the stairs outside my office. This is usually my sactuary of quiet, of serenity, and of respite from the nonstop world of workaday life (I know, this is a total sham. My life couldn't be more cush. But follow me, here). Lately, for reasons UNKNOWN, the urinals are ALWAYS full of dark yellow, rank urine. Connect that to the above paragraph IF YOU WANT TO. I'm not going to do that myself. Anyhow, this is a great frustrator for me, so I have dealt with it in the following way:




When I went to post this sign, there was (shocker!) dark yellow, rank urine waiting in the urinal to greet me. Since posting it (no kidding) IT'S BEEN CLEAN, LIFE-GIVING WATERS ALL THE WAY. Credit my sign? That's not for me to say. But the change is, well, refreshing.

See folks, we CAN make a difference, in our own small ways. Never stop dreaming!

HalleLOOya!

This is in response to my good friend ace, who remodeled an entire apartment, stem to stern. I think he did it in about 3 weeks. I, on the other hand, remodeled a bathroom, and it took me from February to, I think, July. This was a LONG time to not have a john except on the first floor, and to have to go into the dank, fetid basement of ours for a shower, many of which left me feeling ickier than before.

Anyhow, Mr. Ace, these are for you:

This is the ceiling of the Great Bathroom, complete with new exhaust fan (innovative!), spa-esque tile work (natural!), and wavy lighting (sure to be out of vogue in five years!).


These are the shelf nooks I created in our shower. I am delighted with this addition to our cleansing world, but the molds for these babies cost $50 a pop, which is ridiculous. Yet, I sprung. Shower storage space matters.


What this is, is apparent to everyone. You can see, though, that I had a detail tile fall out on me. That part of the Great Bathroom is deemed "under construction--pardon our dust!"


This is the Tub of The Damned. If anybody ever walks up to you and says "hey! I'm about to install a tub, will you come help me? It'll be fun and easy: sure, it's a huge, awkward appliance that has to be set in just so in every way, and the connecting pipes have to be at exactly the right slant and angle, and you won't know if there's a leak until you install EVERYTHING then have to dismantle everything to fix the problem, but IT'LL BE EASY!", act like you're shaking his hand, but FLIP HIM on his back, then STRANGLE HIM.


This is our Ultra-Hot toilet (one piece!), and our sweet floor tile, which disguises Mexican Woman Hair From Massive Blow-Dryer Use expertly.


This is the glory of built-in cabinetry!!



Below you will find photos of the dump before I got my hands on it...