NBA Action: it’s Incredibly Frustrating!

Here are the stories, from the top, that grace today’s USATODAY sports section:

Brian Roberts’ bat blazing in Baltimore
Schilling, Benitez, Iringhausen all headed to DL
Steroids hearing kicks off
M’s Strong suspended
BCS due for tune-up
Packers’ Green arrested
New Spoliers, tires, still equate to tired finishes in NASCAR
Paris hard to forget as Player of the Year

After these leading articles, there are some ads, then guess what they get to? The fact that we’re halfway into the first round of the NBA Playoffs. The Playoffs, people.

This is the latest in a long line of omissions and insults for a basketball fan such as myself. Forget the fact that I live in Cincinnati, Ohio, whose podunk local news programs fail to report ANY news that happens outside the 60 miles radius of Cincinnati’s “tri-state” area. Forget the fact that local sports is limited to which Bengal got a DUI last week, what the weather was like at the last Reds’ loss, and high school scores of EVERY stripe. I never pay attention to those media outlets. But consider the national media, like ESPN.com or USATODAY.com. These people are constantly sticking NBA news in the corner like a stepchild. What is the baseball season in, maybe its second week? On USA Today’s site, there are static links on the left hand side of the page for each sport. I assumed (foolishly) that when the baseball and football seasons were over, and basketball was the only game in town, the basketball link would be moved to the top of the page. Wrong. I also assumed that maybe since this is the NBA playoffs (the Playoffs, people!), that basketball might get better coverage. Wrong.

Am I so out of touch? Do people not care about basketball news? Is there a reason that Courtney Paris, a high school GIRL, got a headline above any of the playoff matchups?

Suffice it to say, I don’t need any other proof that this world is under the control of the Prince of the Air, and that Satan calls the shots at USATODAY.

Boy oh boy. I got a new computer by the Religious Organization at whose teats I suckle. It's a baaaaad PowerBook G4 with a 1.67 GHz processor, 1GB SDRAM, and 80GB hard drive. Did I say that it's baaaaad? It's got a 15" screen that's ultra-resolution-y, a keyboard that lights up when it SENSES that it's dark (!?), and a SuperDrive, which means that I can not only watch DVDs on this puppy; I can burn them, as well. I also have iLife, which is a bundle of programs for handling and editing photos and music, and for making movies and DVDs. So, with my anniversary coming up next week, I made Dora three videos, then organized them all onto a DVD, and burned that mutha. When I show it to her in the super romantic B&B I'm taking her to next Thursday night, I will most assuredly Score. See how great computers are?

Anybody remember that Bible diet I went on? The one where I eat only what God made for food, so avoid crap like corn syrup and bleached white flour and refined sugar? Well, let me tell you something: I ain't missed any meals. I been eating like a machine, tons of food. Peb, our weekend guest, can testify to the volumes of foodstuffs that have found their way to my insides. But here's a surprising fact I just learned this morning:

By eating food which will actually HELP my body run (-novel!-), I have unwittingly lost 12 pounds this month! Check that out! For visual aide, here's a photo of me holding up the old denim miniskirt that I USED to wear!

This weekend, it snowed in Cincinnati.

Last weekend, it was 80+, and I put in our spring flowers, and got a burned back doing it. I also put my sweaters and etc. into storage.

So now I'm covering our new flowers so that they don't die from the cold, while my back is peeling under about 4 layers of t-shirts.

This is strange.

In my heart, I know that pop-locking is the most wonderful dancing God gave us to enjoy.

Who will win this standoff of the goobs?

This is for Tim, who likes knowing RDL stories.

RDL stories are incredibly easy to come by for me. I can spit out many. These began for me in pre-school (yes!), where my teacher said I was talkative, inattentive, and distracting to the other students (for the record, my Kindergaten teacher, who was COOL, said "oh yeah, Steven IS bored and distracted. He knows all the stuff we're teaching." Then she moved me into the first grade). It was--imagine this--a Christian school.

That was the beginning. One of the most recent was when I was worshipping in Kazakhstan in front of pretty cool Baptist missionaries. I was talking to them about God's love for them, saying that He loves them like a husband loves a wife. I said that husbands should love their wives so well that wives really trust them and feel valued by them all the time--so much so that they'd get into bed with them at any time. As if that wasn't edgy enough, I then said:

"God wants to get you into bed."


I was given the RDL by a few Baptists (coupled, I hasten to add, by delight/rest/release/comfort/excitement by most of the others), and later given a Little Talk about how I might be careful about my words in these kinds of situations.

I am so apt that I can garner RDLs even in worship! Keep reading Stories From the Master, and you too might someday be able to disappoint people in any context! Stay tuned!

Did I ever tell you about the time I kicked the sweet teenaged girl in the face and made her cry? I didn't think so.

Actually, I've made several girls cry in my day. The top of the heap is probably the time I was a team captain on my church camp team (as the seniors always were), and took winning the Grand Shabang (or whatever it was called) very seriously. Jif never attended the greatness of church camp, and boy did he miss out. (Chris Havard and I won the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval for 4 years running. I'm just saying.) Anyhow, on a softball field during the semi-finals, with the game late and tight, an infield grounder passed about 3 inches by a junior co-ed who I immediately screamed at from the pitcher's mound. "ARE YOU EVEN TRYING, KRISTIN!??!"

She cried.

Then there was the more heralded time when I was in Corpus (Porpoise?) with those darn Douglass boys, having some rootin' tootin' fun. Actually, I have no idea why we were all there, but I think we were there for Mark's inauguration or coronation or ordination or something. The gist of it is that elderly Baptists gather round a young buck Baptist who just 'taint quite learnt the ropes of thuh myunstree' yet. They lean on his still-hardening body, and wish to God he doesn't suffer under the burden of churchdom the way they have. I mean, I hope that's what they wish.

So we're all there, including various friends and relatives. That's the point here. One of these relatives has a Suburban (who am I kidding? All Texan relatives have a suburban. 'Suburban' is Sioux for "it'll be good for vacations"). All the youngsters (and this means everybody under 35) all loaded up into the Suburban one night (because the card table in the corner didn't seat 15), quite tightly, to go out carousin' (read: buy cereal and ice cream at the nearest grocery). Dusty and I luged in the back area usually reserved for golf clubs and strollers. I remember we had to deal with a couple of fishing rods back there.

That's the setup: a ton of 16-30 year olds smashed in a Suburban, full of mirth and mayhem. Shane was at the wheel, and Mark's teenaged, female cousins were also up front. I think one of them had just announced her engagement. you have to understand that these are the kind of Texas debutantes who giggle and demure and wear chambray in the summer.

Anyhow, back in the nether regions of the Suburban, Dusty and I thought of something to do, something that would add to the community feel of the Suburban Experience and would add levity and humor to the situation. The plan was that I was going to crawl around the perimeter of the Suburban, over shoulders and around heads. Yes, this would make me vulnerable, it would be difficult, and I might be injured in the process, but I was willing to do this for my brethren (and Mark's). When I started my journey, some people were nonplused, but many were enchanted with glee at our creative idea being played out right before their eyes. It was simple and fun, until I reached the front seat. This is when I had to come over the shoulders, and into the laps, of these Teen Cousins. I did what I usually do in these situations, which is to act apologetic, but as if I've been told by my parents that I HAVE to do this, so please bear with me. Inside I thought it was hilarious.

When I reached Shane, and the steering wheel, I knew that things were about to get tricky. I had to put my weight on his arms, which were occupied with driving the 1/2 ton vehicle we were all hurtling in at 70mph down the highway. But I had to go for it. You don't half-ass these kind of stunts. In my crawling over Shane, I basically forced him to slow down to about 15 mph (he was awfully sporting about the whole thing, by the way. Everyone riding in the Suburban was less so. They thought, foolishly, that this stunt had gone far enough), and at one point kicked the shifter into neutral. This had an aggrivating effect on the rest of the riders but, as I said, they were already turning toward Perturbment. It was during this same kicking period, with my lower torso (!) somewhere around Shane's face, when I kicked one of the debutantes squarely in the face.

I kicked that sweet, teenaged, Christian cousin in the face.

There were gasps and sighs, and it was generally believed, in that Suburban on that day, that I was a Total Jerk. I apologized about seven times. What made this terrible is that I wanted to go hide, but my hiding place was at the back of the Suburban. So yes, I had to crawl back, over about 4 more shoulders, back to my spot in Dusty's loving arms.

There was more crying later, accompanied with more apologies, and more Disappointed Looks from adults. Basically, a day in the life. This should be the name of my blog: disappointed looks from adults.

Mayan.

Urine.

Mark wants me to post about this story. I really don't remember it very well. I will make up what I can't remember and Mark can feel free to correct me as he remembers it. One thing I know about myself is that I have some good stories in my history, but I can never remember them at all. I have Shane Miller for that.

Well kids, I was once off in a faraway place outside Richmond, Virginia, at the Baptist Missionary Learning Center. This is a pretty fun campus where you get trained in how to be a missionary. It's really a great idea, and I don't know of many mission agencies that have this kind of thing--especially for free (to the missionaries themselves). Anyhow, you'll be completely unsurprised to hear that the Baptists who run the place can be a little... um... uptight. You might also be surprised to hear that I, when around many religious 'authorities' can be a little... um... contrarian. Ornery. Cantackerous. With that in mind, some problems came of the 2 weeks of confinement I had there. To wit:

- I fell asleep in some boring lecture about intercultural communication. I had taken this class in college, and was quite familiar with the basic principles. Unfortunately, I didn't fall asleep in the back of the class, slumped over my desk or anything so inconspicuous. Actually, there were probably around 10 people in this particular class, and I'd gone right to the front of the class, in front of all the desks, and laid down right at the teacher's feet. THEN I fell asleep. I think the teacher (Sharon Hawk, in case you're interested) called me out in front of the class, when I shrewdly played it off smart-assedly.

- I questioned several things we were told in several lectures, some more public forums than others. This led to Sharon Hawk pulling me aside for a 'little talk' (I have sat through many, MANY 'little talks' in my short lifetime. I have also written many MANY sentences as punishment. I have also received many MANY spankings, detentions, etc. But we're not here to talk about my deviancy.) (Oh, wait. Yes we are. I'll continue.), and asked me "Do you really want to be here?" I told her sure, I loved being there. I was inspired by the other 'candidates' (yes, that's what they call somebody who'd committed to going to the mission field but hasn't yet gone), and was genuinely interested in most of what I was hearing about. Then she said something about being cooperative or some such. I deferred and apologized or something, and I can only assume I walked out of the class with Mark's bug-eyed, exhaling shoulder droop he does.

- One of the 'zany' things they're known to do out on the MLC compound is to have everyone deal with a terrorist situation. This is not a totally bad idea, considering people are heading out to Serbia, Afghanistan, etc. and it's good to be aware of potentialities. I, on the other hand, would be travelling to Merry Olde England, so I don't know that the lessons were exactly, um... universal. Anyhow, we got pushed around and locked into sleeping quarters that weren't ours, so as I was playing along, I decided to do what I'd naturally do in this situation: fight back. [Please no lectures about how this is a bad idea in an actual terrorist situation.] I tried to go through the attic, force the door, etc., to no avail. So I kicked the screen out of the window and jumped out into the lawn, then went to free some fellow comrades, including the people in my own house. I knew the terrorists couldn't keep that close a watch on every sleeping house on the property, so I was willing to take my chances. Sure enough, I freed some people, but it kinda defeated the point of the exercise, so I just remember getting the Religious Disappointed Look (a look I know EXTREMELY well). Anyhow, turned out something on the window broke, and a maintenence (3 Ns!) guy had to come work on it.

All I can say is hey--you try to take the Kid hostage, you're going to have to deal with the consequences.

opinion: New Li'l Brudder not as funny as Old Li'l Brudder. Sequels always disappoint, except in the case of Prince of Persia 2: SANDS OF TIME.

Galatians 5:1 it is for freedom that you have been set free. Stand firm, then, and no longer be bound by the yoke of slavery.

The goal of freedom is nothing more than freedom. The glory of freedom is the glory of freedom.

Freedom is open-ended. It is not intended to produce anything. It is not a tool or a method or a menas. It is not open to evaluation or judgment. I twants application but not interpretation. Freedom is like a good set of lungs.

Freedom can be had. It is too often conceded, too often volunteered to the guillotines of personal politics or reputation or feeling understood or being thought of as wise.

Freedom is knowing who is telling you what to do.

I have the freedom to rebel, to sin, to reject, and to tear down. If I am any less rejoiced in and accepted in those moments when I'm counter-productive, I am not free.

Freedom is bad politics.

The only reason we have the word "freedom" is because that concept/state is threatened. When it was all there was, it didn't consciously exist. When it was challenged, though, the ideal sprang up as central. (If this is true, will we use the concept of God in heaven, or will He be so present that He is part of our unnamed assumption?) So the fact that we use this word is an indicator that we are in a struggle to get back somewhere; we want to lay hold of a formless promise we feel to have heard about but can scant remember. Freedom is the country from which we were captured into slavery, and indeed we will return there. We will endure anything but to return there; it is our ancestral home.

So no--I don't have to struggle under your guilt. No, I won't bear up under the burden of membership. I will retain the freedom granted me, and that means my being open to your hating me. When your hating me is something I have to avoid, I'm not free.

He has opened up chambers in my heart that I didn't know where there. And I will never go back, pretending I haven't tasted the good stuff. I find no protection in boundaries. Freedom is not direction.

The longing toward freedom is a sign that I was made.

Look: there's a lot about catholicism that I don't know, and frankly don't want to know. At some point it feels all so Masonic Lodge to me. I don't know what "illuminati" means, but what that word evokes in my little hazelnut brain is applicable to the weird secrecy, giant and multi-branches chains of command, and extra-Biblical belifs/traditions/practices of the catholic monolith. Okay? I'll throw all that out on the table before we go any farther (speaking of farther, how disturbing is it to call a human being "Holy Father"? I mean, can you imagine the arrogance? Can you imagine the boldness to institute something that's directly forbidden in the scriptures? It's unthinkable).

So, here's what I'm getting at... I don't know how these kinds of decisions are made (and neither do the pundits. Again, secrecy is the watchword in all things catholic), but I do know this: that new pope they got, he's not exactly... uh... good-looking.


I wish I could work some food into this post, but I can't think of how to do that.

My relative ignorance concerning childcare affords me the great luxury of having strong opinions not based on experience.

Now then: we were at some friends' house t'other nocht, and their huge, malcontent of a 2-year-old was running the show. If he was unhappy about anything, all would be dropped to deal with him. If he refused the carrots, hot dog (!? Not Actual Food), or apple pie (!?!) on his tray, he was asked (?!) what he wanted. If he wanted to strip bare, no problem. If he wanted to have the giant screen teevee feature the Wiggles (from what I gather, this is a group of 4 extremely secure-in-their-masculinity Australian men who sing songs and act goofy while wearing primary colors), with himself situation 5 feet from it, that wish was granted as well.

Too bad about the kids and all. I was the child of people raised poor in small town America, and I was taught early and often that my mom and dad were the centerpiece of the family, and I was auxilary to the whole thing. Not that my feelings weren't valued, but my opinions as a 4 year old about what we would eat, for instance, certainly did not carry any weight. Because I was a CHILD and I had PARENTS. God gives children parents because children are incapable of making adult decisions for themselves. They cannot decide when to go to sleep, what to eat, etc. This all seems very obvious when discussed, but people are out there who let their children run the show. All children in those circumstances are unhappy. Yes, all.

I write this not only to give voice to my gripings (although, hey, that's fun too), but because there's a DESPERATELY IMPORTANT lesson in there for us. We are children. 85 year-old men are children when they approach God. We only see our perspective, which is based largely on our desires. Instead of trusting in what we see, we put hope in the One Who Sees (and is) Reality. I do not know what I truly need. I do not know what will make me grow. I do not know where my blind spots are! I do not know where I am insensitive and callous, where the flesh still holds me captive, and where I'm still trapped in a worldly mindset.

Luckily (whew!) I have a loving Father. He doesn't always do what I want, but He always does Right.

For those of you who don't know (and few of you don't), my wife is a High-Powered Packaged Food Executive. That means that she works for a huge company that makes about 1/8 of everything you stick in your head. She sells juices, but that's not what this post is about.

For those of you who don't know (and there will be a higher percentage, here), all the H-P PFEs at my wife's company receive a (FREE!) shipment every 6 months of up to 3 cases of every new product made by this company (FREE!). My wife's company finds its niche in the souping industry, so that means that yesterday we found 2 palettes of food sitting by our basement door (and it was FREE!).

For those of you who don't know (and this'll be all of you), I just tried out the Select Gold Label creamy portobello mushroom soup, as well as the blended red pepper and black bean soup. It's an entirely new line, and isn't in cans. It's in little cartons, like that strange milk British people drink. You, the consumer/commoner, will be able to buy these products in late August, but until then I'm here to tell you that they're really good. I have no idea why it's more prestigious for soup to come in a box than in a can, but I know these are supposed to be high end soups. None of that stuff is the reason for this post, either.

For those of you who don't know (and I can't speculate), I'm reading a fascinating book right now, which is the reason for this post. The book is called What the Bible Says About Healthy Living. It sounds like some lame "Slim Down With Jesus"-style effort, but it's really good. It's written by a doctor who goes into great detail to explain why the dietary laws are really good for us, and are really for physical protection. It's not law-based (which I expected), it's just explanatory. This guy boils things down to 3 principles for good eating:

1) Eat only things God made for food (God didn't make no oreos, velveeta, or CoCola)
2) Eat food as near its original form as possible
3) Avoid all addictions.

So I'm following this for April, and may go on from there. I'm liking it so far. These new soups fit the bill, what with their organic/natural content. I'm pleased, and I'm full of good soup, as of right now. THAT's what this post is about, ya'll.

This is a purely informational, help-you-through-life style posting.

If you have, say, 6 hungry Bible studiers coming to your house and you want to feed them something that will 1) cost you no cooking time or anxiety, 2) be somewhere between pizza and a grilled chicken plate, prestige-wise, 3) be incredibly delicious, 4) be somewhere between tacos and pizza, dough-wise, you should definitely look into the Party Platters at "the nation's favorite Mexican food"--


Here's why: if they give you a giant aluminum foil pan of enchiladas (say... 15), another giant pan full of flautas/taquitos (like there's a difference. I mean, come on.), another giant pan of beans, another giant pan of rice, a mess of tortillas, salsa, guacamole, queso, lettuce, tomatoes, and sour cream, they will only expect $25 in return. They will even throw in plastic platters for the sake of presentation, and plastic plates and pieces of plastic made to look like real knives and forks and stuff! Come on, can you see how incredible this is? You couldn't feed *3* people on $25, and you sure as heck wouldn't get all that!

To be honest, I don't know why they do this deal. I know they're still making money, but it's SO MUCH MORE cost efficient than eating in their big warehouse-themed Mexican establishments (with the zany random decor! here's a giant neon tequila ad! There's two stuffed roosters in cockfighting stances!) This is a no-brainer, friends, and it's just sitting there waiting for you to take it. So take it. From me.

Here's this other thing I ran into: a burro in a fix.
Do you think he looks relaxed?

WHY does the fruit HAVE to be on the bottom!? WHY?!?

Yoplait has figured it out, you know. Non-fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt exists. It's out there. Let's not act like it can't be done, because it CAN. They've got these contraptions called BLENDERS now, and you can buy them real big so that you could use them at a yogurt-making factory, before you plop it into little plastic cups. As it is, I have to use my pathetic spoon to 1) break up the giant glop of congealed yogurt (yuck) into sauce-with-chunks, 2) go delving into the depths of my cup to find the actual fruit goo, 3) bring that fruit goo into play so as to flavor and sweeten the otherwise tasteless and gross yogurt, and 4) continue to mix until the consistency is even. Bear in mind that this is being done in a cup where I have no headroom, so the possibility of spilling yogurt is ever-present.

We live in an age of lazy, lazy yogurt makers, who make the consumers bear the brunt of THEIR responsibilities. They're so shiftless and shirking! It's all so lamentable. The fruit doesn't have to be on the bottom. It just doesn't.

People. What are we doing.

Receive who you are. Do you know what God says about you? He says "YOU are my special, chosen child. I'm crazy about you. I think you're the stuff. I have specially gifted you, and you represent me and the Kingdom in a way that nobody else can. You are unique and important and MAN! Did I ever do a good job when I made you!

So, uh... what do *you* think about you?"

If you say anything other than the above, you will be opposing God. You will be saying that He is deceived, and that you have a better view of reality than Him. You will be saying that all your guilt, condemnation, performance, disappointment, and naysaying is lord, and that He is subject to that. When you see things like Ephesians 1:4, which says that you're holy and blameless, what do you say? I would encourage you to say "yes. I have thought otherwise, and agreed to various voices that affirmed what I thought in the past, but You are always right, God. You see and know everything. You know the way things Really Are. I agree with You, and I receive me and rejoice over the beauty of me, just like you do."

That line of thinking, you won't be surprised to hear me say, will be flatly rejected by the religious community, without ceremony. We have been taught that self-hatred is pious, and that calling ourselves ne'er-do-wells and scalliwags is somehow humble and right. I oppose this sentiment with everything in me. This is NOT what your Father says about you.

Receive who you are. You ARE approved. You ARE worth loving. You ARE delightful and gifted. You DO matter. There IS something about you that is incorruptible, invincible, and eternal. Your Father says so.

There are not a lot of things that bolster me with civic pride, but I'll tell you what one of them is. It's a strange one, I know, and it might be something that should lead me to pray more than feel encouraged, but in any case, here it is:

I LOVE IT WHEN AMBULANCES COME DOWN THE STREET.


Why? Well, I think it's SO cool when traffic splits. I love people finding a way to nose into the curb. I love everyone stopping, even when the lights are green, and just waiting until the ambulance goes by.

I feel like I'm on a team. I feel like we're all in this together. I feel like everyone recognizes that THIS, at least, is more important than me catching this light or getting in front of that Jetta or being the next in line at the coffee shop. Everyone says, with one voice, "now THAT's important. THAT is more important than me. I demure. THAT person has some real, urgent needs that supercede my own."

I want to get out of my car, walk around to all the cars around me, and give all the drivers high fives.

PS- here's an old timey, Ghostbusters-style ambulance photo I found.

HERE'S HOW YOU POST A PHOTO.

I tried to type this in the comments under the pope, but it was somehow magically erased. I find that disturbing. Is this not supposed to get out!?

Type < i m g s r c =" (I had to stick those spaces in there so it would show up. Don't use those. it's just img src)

Then paste the link to your desired photo (I think my first photo was the twin real estate midgets).

Then close it up with a ">. You'll notice that a pair of quotes do exist around the link itself.

Enjoy this. No really. Go out there and just have a great time.

This is my father, Jackie Manuel. His high-flying, acrobatic Tar Heels advanced to the 2005 NCAA Men's Basketball Championship this past weekend. His team is very exciting to watch, even when he doesn't score one point and fouls out. Nevertheless, I am very proud of Daddy, and will be 'crunk' to see the game tonight.