I held my poo today, oh boy.

Terrible. Terrible.

I am a sizable man. I am taller than most, heavier than most, and can lift my wife right off the ground. I am told that I eat more than a standard man, and that I have one of those "cast iron" stomachs. I was reared on hot sauce and blue bell. This is a blessings, friends, not a curse. What could be put into the latter category, though, is a certain... well... DENSITY that occurs in my body's solid waste product. This is not always the case, but it is not uncommon, either. Anyhow, since my college days, when I was first subjected to non-big-city plumbing, which was less ROBUST than that to which I'd been accustomed, I found that there could be a certain BLOCKAGE produced by the aforementioned waste in many plumbing apparati, particularly in the older models. Even now, some of you are judging me, as if any of this is my decision. You are wrong to do that, and I would encourage you to stop IMMEDIATELY! *ahem*

Anyhow, today I visited a latrine not unlike those described above. The powerful suction on which I rely was not there, and I could tell within the first few seconds after flushing that this would be an unsuccessful attempt UNLESS DESPERATE MEASURES WERE TAKEN. I could foresee it: no successful flush draining action, just waiting around for the tank to refill, then attempting more flushing until I just walk away deflated (literally!) and defeated. Many of us have experienced this horror at office Christmas parties and other high-pressure gatherings, where being outed as the person who jacked up the toilet is incredibly unpleasant.

So, instead, I grabbed my poo.


I know what you're thinking. You're saying, "You are probably the most courageous man I've ever known. You are a Lewis and Clark brand of man. Please kiss (but don't touch) my child, as a blessing. I wish I could bronze your internal fortitude, but that would require expensive surgery, and I'm not even sure if one can survive after one's internal fortitudes have been bronzed." Well, believe me, it's not as glorious as it sounds. Most people will never know what it's like to touch their own poo because they just aren't brave enough to do it. I'm not sure what I'm trying to say with that sentence, but there it is. You know, some people STUDY poo for a living. Others (scatologists) study fossilized poo. And if you're asking the age-old question "Does fecal matter?" the answer is yes. You can use the bend-up-a-hangar-and-poke-around-in-your-poo-hoping-it'll-somehow-magically-dislodge-and-the-toilet-will-flush method, but I've been doing this long enough to know that that method is like panning for gold. It works in stops and starts. I need something reliable, and the grab-and-squeeze method, while unsavory, ALWAYS works. ALWAYS. The... impediment(s) are... broken up... and the plumbing works once again. And that is that.

Don't you dare judge me. I AM NOT A MONSTER!

For every season, turn.

Like a rite of passage, each spring the dainty little Dallas Mavericks go away into the deep sleep of summer. Having gone through the bloom of March, they wind down and inevitably fade from the public eye into athletic dormancy. Look at Marquis pull that headband over his sleepy eyes! See JT's bulbous head expand to accommodate his entire body for the pupa, or resting, stage of life. Watch Shawn Bradley develop the long, flowing foliage of the hibernation period. Notice how Erick Dampier builds a house with many, many bricks into which he'll make his retreat.

Now that our favorite team has gone away, I have some closing comments for this playoff go 'round.

-Stevie Nash has long been a favorite of our household--I even had my photo taken with him years ago when the little Mavs came to Indianapolis to beat the Pacers in double overtime. Didi named him "Scrappy". Anyhow, it says here that he is no better of a player now than he was 2 years ago. I simply believe he's needed in different ways with this Suns team than he was with the Mavs.

-You gotta love how incredibly demure this boy is. I loved the quote "I'm one of the best shooters on our team, so they really need me to take shots." How refreshingly honest, and without pride or guile!

-I didn't see game 6, but I hear TNT showed his wife, and she looks exactly like him. Humerous!

-There can be no denying that he's cock-eyed.

-Alonzo Mourning has snatched the Most Self-Congratulating Person award out of Terrell Owens' hands, who had previously stolen it from Stephon Marbury, who inherited it from Dikembe Mutombo. Keep showing us your biceps, Alonzo, because there are challengers out there!

-I can't stand the TNT basketball show. Eddie Johnson is obviously insecure, since he's always cutting toward his co-hosts, can't take a joke, and always needs to be seen as in charge. Also, Kenny Johnson (who, AFTER his basketball career, decided to start calling himself "the Jet"--hello?) acts out his insecurity by reminding us roughly every 5 minutes that I USED TO PLAY PROFESSIONAL BASKETBALL TOO!! I PLAYED AGAINST MICHAEL JORDAN AND MAGIC JOHNSON!!! I WAS A PRO ATHELETE JUST LIKE CHUCK, HERE. ISN'T THAT RIGHT CHUCK? HUH CHUCK? Now, having said that...

-I would watch Charles Barkley read the ingredients of Oreo brand cookie snackfoods.

-It's too bad that the uber-bland Spurs could well win the whole shabang again.

-It's also too bad that, despite working to lose weight, the old Shaq no longer exists. It is the Old Shaq from here on out.

-I do love those selfless Pistons. I do.

Down goes Frazier!

I just received a fascinating little post from my friend Tim Stitzel, who works in Los Angeles. Listen... to THIS!

The gal that sits next to me at work knows someone who works at [American Idol]. She told us waaaaay back in February that she was told that "the blonde country girl" was going to win. I had no idea who it was, and when I asked her how it could be that a show that would ask America to pick the winners months from then could already have the winner sewn up, she said that she didn't understand it either...but slowly, as Carrie moved up, we began to realize that there was, indeed, a fix.

Awesome. This is what it's like to have insider information, people. This is what it's like to know Tim Stitzel, the Man Who Knows.

Listen to me now and forever!

Everything corny is nutty again!

Welcome to Vertical Chew, an ALL NEW experience that the whole family can enjoy!


Maybe not, but look! New title! This will prove to be one of the newest titles ever given to my page. I think you're really going to find it new in every way. I know I have.

Jimmy Delasandro of Newport, CN writes "I have irritation and discomfort... do I have hemorrhoids?"

See right there- Vertical Chew is the high energy reading that's packed with whey protein and omega-3 fatty acids! You can't get a chewier beverage on the market today.

God is extravagant in His love. One could say His love is flippant. He's outrageous, he overdoes it. He's zealous. He's careless in the pouring out He does of Himself. We have received grace on top of grace, kindness chasing kindness. Nonstop. Spring is followed by summer, which yields to autumn. Think of all the grasses of the world have never been seen by people, how many forests and waters have never been enjoyed, but God finds pleasure in it all. I mean, have you SEEN a pineapple lately? Or a banana? Or a kangeroo!? Or an angel fish? Zebra? Cattails? Orangutans? Lemurs? Chihuahuas? I tell you, my Father is silly, whimsical, and does things with no purpose other than being fun.

Today He told me for the first time I can remember that He likes my music. My useless, extravagant, impractical music. He also likes my sense of humor. My off-putting, wacky, smarmy, self-referencing, overdramatic sense of humor.

Somebody tell this poor boy why roughly 87% of all cartoons made are not funny. Criminal.

The Curse of the Cruel Coiffure

I am wearing a bad haircut.

For the males out there (and, come on... you know who you are), small mistakes in the haircutting department go a long way. Now, I know what you're thinking: "Oh Stevie you just looooooove haircuts, you vain thing you", but that's really not true at all. You don't know me, sucka. Go back to your sticky life of Pall Malls, the Miami Sun-Herald, and Thursday night gin rummy at the docks. No, I DON'T love haircuts. I love it when I've HAD a haircut, and I love it when it's a good one. But the process--no.

Haircuts are extremely personal to me. Having some stranger (typically a man, for me) run his hands over my scalp for 20 minutes is not the description of a good time. It's so intimate! I feel dirty! Plus, I feel like I should apologize for the fact that they're having to help me be a less disgusting person. The job of a haircutter is so subserviant. Bless them, God of Haircuts. (and, come on... You know Who You are) I said I'm typically sheared by men. Here are my observations about something mystifying:

*low-budge/blue collar/run-o-the mill man haircut
Cost: low
Performed by: men

*middle-o-the-road/franchised national hair cutting chain (!? eye roll)/careless rubber stamp haircut
Cost: lower middle class
Performed by: women

*mom/wife-makes-you-go-to-her-place-for-a-haircut/they also do perms and color jobs/this is a "salon" (eye roll) haircut
Cost: middle upper class (a male gets the feeling he's pureeing his cash)
Performed by: snooty women

*high society/teevee style/rodeo drive/off the charts silly haircut
Cost: small mortgage payment
Performed by: men (statistically homosexual, if in no other way)


You'll note that men own the bookends of this scenario. Somebody challenge me on this. It's true. Okay, sorry. Back to my bad haircut. When all the hair on your head is =<4", as is the case with 97.3% of all guys I know (also today's Hottest Mix of the 80s, 90s, and today), any mistake is a killer. If my guy doesn't give me a good edge over the ears or on the neck, I'm sunk. I mean, how much action do I have going on up there? If you don't blend my sides nicely into the top, it's over, the haircut stinks. Well, I'm wearing hair right now that has at least 2 feature flaws in it. While I'm glad I don't have to look like a butt for 6 months (as can be the case if a female received poor hair effects), I'd rather not look like a butt at all. UNLESS I LOOK LIKE A BADASS, which is a type of butt. I would take that all the time. But that doesn't buoy my argument here. Strike that from the record. *Ahem*

My friend Ace received haircuts, for part of his life, from a man (statistical homosexual) who'd won the World Haircutting Championship. This seems an INCREDIBLY subjective award, come on people [head tilting this way and that, palms presented to the audience]. What was even more impressive was the fact that this Statistical Homosexual tailored haircuts to people's heads and growth pattern. Any extra terristrial with half a zorblot would think this to be normal, expected, and usual; it is, of course, not. Thoughtless haircutters around the globe consider all men to be completely alike, so they cut our hair the same (no matter what you ask for--what a little charade THAT script is. They hear: "how do you want it cut today?" "blah blah blah JUST DO WHATEVER YOU'LL DO ANYWAY NO MATTER HOW I ANSWER THIS QUESTION" "Okay, great. Blocked or tapered in the back?"), just as they throw us all into ill-fitting, poorly-constructed tuxedos and think we look great. But not so with Ace's S.H.!

What a dream it would be to have an intimate experience with THAT statistical homosexual. Gotta fan myself, here. Need to take a seat. Open a window or something.

I saw it. And I have to tell you, I didn't hate it. I was prepared to hate it, had read reviews instructing me in just HOW to hate it, and was hating it somewhat before it even started. Only went because my team at work was going, and I'm One Of The Boys. That's the kind of good times Gus I am. I mean, Hayden Christianson--oh sure, I hate HIM. And the faux Shakespearean script with the stiff and forced dialogue--yes, yes. Hate, hate. And the point where Darth Vader pulls a Luke Skywalker and yells "Nooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"? Well, duh. Of course. Abominable. Giant leaps in reason and motivation, like when Anakin suddenly decides that KILLING his old Jedi buddies is desirable? Bad and hate. But did I hate this film? No, no I did not.

Ben didn't strike me as a cardboard cutout, like a guy trying to imitate Sir Guinness. Yoda wasn't as hammy or cartoony as he's been. Hayden Christianson wasn't as... oh wait. Yeah, that guy sucked. But that emperor guy! He was great!

Favorite, lame, quotable line: "Hold me, Anakin. Hold me like you used to on Naboo." Genius.

Most everything that didn't have talking connected to it in this film was good. Fighting-good! Ships and transportation-good! Creatures and gak and stuff-good! The ability of two humans to go for extended periods of time 3 inches from rivers of lava--well, not as good.

Was this a great movie? Oh good grief no. Was it fun for somebody who loved the old films and thinks the new films were steaming piles of nutty poo? Yes, I have to say yes it was. Is Mr. Lucas as out of touch as ever? Yes. Have you had raisins to eat today? How'd you know? Yes I have!

I don't care if you go see the big Blockbuster Box Office Smash anytime soon, or if you duck out of work on a Thursday morning to watch the special 10 a.m. showing. I don't care, because there's nothing Big Picture or redeeming or meaningful in this film. I'm just telling you I had a good time, and was fascinated that I did. Scoop!

Having God use you is nothing. Stop chasing after that as a goal. Religion likes to tell you that having God use you is the great all-encompassing everything to live. Poppycock. They tell you that so that you'll work for them and help their organization run bigger and better. "Don't have sex, kids, and don't swear. And read that Bible and pray daily, and someday... maybe you, too, can have God use you. God only uses obedient people! He doesn't use your leftovers! Blah blah blah, lie lie lie, crap crap crap..." What a load of tripe.

Getting used by God is no great shakes, and it CERTAINLY doesn't mean that He approves of you! See Pharoah, Nebuchadnezzar, Herod, Pilate, Judas, etc. etc., right down to your local pastor in the red brick churchhouse. God uses donkeys and ravens, leviathan and big fish. Do we seriously believe that Him using US is either here or there? Proverbs says "He holds the hearts of kings and rulers in his hand, and he steers them like a watercourse wherever he pleases. He doesn't need your cooperation to use you! He doesn't require you to be in right relationship with him! He uses people everywhere, all the time, in all states, to engineer Life. He is God. This is one of the things He does.

This "being used of God" business is a decoy by the enemy to get you distracted. God takes no more pleasure in you based on his using you or not. He called Ezekiel, specifically, to a useless ministry, telling him that his parishoners would NEVER listen to his message! Ezekiel's ministry wasn't to people--they never responded--it was to God. Being used of God is NOT the goal. GOD IS THE GOAL.

Good ol crazy-eyed John the Baptist lived his aceitic life out there in the desert for 30 years, then gets put on display for 6 months, then is promptly removed (permanently) from the public eye. Jesus' evaluation? Greatest guy that ever lived.

I was thinking today about the fact that, by the time I was 30, I'd worked in several churches, discipled scores of guys, taught Bible/God on several continents, and had generally been getting after it, ministry-wise, for about 12 years. At this same stage of His life, the Savior of All Mankind With A Bullet had done... zip. Built a few cabinets and armoires, I guess. But how about making disciples, the Great Commission? F- for Jesus on that one. How about sharing the truth about His Own Unique Sinlessness and Saviorhood? Not a peep. Healings? Zero. Demon dealings? None. This guy is useless, ministry-wise. I wouldn't have wanted him on MY serving team! And yet, at report card time, he hears these magic words:


This is my son, whom I love. I am extremely pleased with him.


Now come ON! Have we been sold a bill of goods, or what?!? Isn't it OBVIOUS to us that God's using us is totally irrelevant?! It IS! Points are given for intimacy with the Father, and that is ALL. If he happens to call YOU to sit alone with Him for 30 years, helping nobody, then I suggest you say yes to that incredible calling and be with Him. And if he tells you to help just one person next week, then do that, too, since that thing he invites you into is really just a gateway to deeper intimacy with Him. But don't leave him in the dust because you're chasing some magic religious calling, or are busy feeling guilty about all the ministry you don't do, or are feeling smug about all the ministry you do. Good grief.

Let the religious nonsense fall off us like clothes that no longer fit. This kind of thinking is unsuitable for us, the Last Days Gang. I am not headed heavenward to be with my usefulness; I'm going to go be with my Father. Knowing Him is eternal life, and there is no other goal. Selah.

It's 4:20 in the a.m. and I am sitting naked in my hot tub. With my laptop. Tricky.

Yes, yes--naked, like some weird character in a Will Farrell skit. Like it matters at 4:20 in the a.m. See, for the last week, I have woken up at approximately 3:15 in the a.m., thanks to shuddering back pain. Didi made me go to a physical therapist (my first visit ever to this kind of thing. Made me feel like a pro athlete), and they say that I have 3 vertebrae that have turned slightly, and that I have a back muscle that's responding to that and trying to protect me, God bless it. Unfortunately, when I don't move around much (like, oh... SLEEPING) it siezes up on me and I awake at 3:15 in the a.m. This is the first time I've gone to the swirling waters to soothe my back, and I think it's working. Here's a partial list of things that DON'T work: heating pads, ibuprofen, ice compresses, Conan O'Brien's late late rerun, and pretending that I'm not in pain. The physical therapist also believes that this pain resulted from my working on my bathroom, what with all the torquing I do in that endless endeavor.

This is not the first time the swirling waters of the hot tub have given me solace. I would refer to the Dark Night of the Soul year for me, back in Dallas. The year is 2000, I think, and I live with a Vietnamese child at an apartment complex named after tropical fruit. The days were ugly: I'd broken up with my woman, lost my musical partner and job, and had been left for dead by my peer group. That's a lot to take at once, so I'd go out in the night to the hotTUB and let the bubbles rise like prayers all around me. Back then, the hotTUB was one of very few friends of mine, and its goodness has followed me here, to Queen City, Ohio. Thank God!

Hot tubs are one of few places on planet Earth, along with a golf course and a martini club, where pipe smoking is not only allowable, it's preferable. And, I'm told, it's a good place to drink beer. What is NOT up for debate is the fact that the hotTUB is a great place for undisturbed conversation. The jets work the kinks out of the muscles, and the conversations works the kinks out of the soul. Good times. We have one of those fancy outdoor Bose BRAND speaker setups, where we can pipe our stereo music out onto the back deck, but I rarely use that. When I'm in the dancing waters, I'd much rather have God talk to me through the leaf sounds in the treetops or the flutter of bats' wings overhead (we get that at 4:20 in the a.m. here in Queen City).

So here's to you, hotTUB. May your waters e'er be warm, and your filter ne'er be clogged.

The Mavs have, once again, disappointed me. What a zero. That game 3 was deflation central, in a game they should've been bouncing out of the gym to play. And it wasn't just that they were terrible, terrible on offense (38% from the field, 1-18 from 3-point land, or 05%)--I can handle that. Though it would seem improbable that Dirk would have yet another poor shooting night, joined in his inefficacy by Daniels, Finley, and Stackhouse--I realize that bad nights happen sometimes. They happen to the Mavericks quite a bit in the playoffs, but there are just nights when you don't find your shot.

What I'm NOT able to handle, though, are the following:

1) The fact that the Dallas Mavericks pick evenings, regardless of their importance, in which they do not play defense. Sometimes they like to not guard someone making jump shots on the perimeter--say, Shawn Marion, for example. Then again, sometimes they prefer to watch as Stevie Nash darts by the person who was told to guard him, then either shoots a free-and-clear layup, or waits until the Maverick collective mind says, "Steve Nash is cool. He puts his hair behind his ear... that's cool. These socks feel funny. Wait- Steve Nash is close to the basket--close to OUR basket! We don't WANT Steve Nash to score against us! We want US to score--not him! We should KEEP him from scoring. Squirrels are funny. Wait--somebody GET that guy!" At this point, someone (or maybe 3 people) will move close to Steve Nash, thinking that maybe he will volunteer the ball to them, at which point Steve throws it to the variety of people who're now open. Often, that person will make a basket: sometimes with a Dallas Maverick jumping toward their general vicinity, sometimes not. But sometimes the Mavericks will forego both the not-guarding-someone-shooting-on-the-perimeter as well as the not-guarding-Steve-Nash-driving-inside, and will opt instead to simply vacate the lane, allowing someone--say, Amare Stoudamire--to leisurely pound the basketball down our throats. These are all possibilities in our not playing defense strategy, any of which the Dallas Mavericks will employ (and each of them successfully!) on a given night.


2) Jason Terry will not assert himself on a consistent basis. I really don't know if this is about bad coaching or not, because I've read that Avery is loathe to actually draw up a play, and would rather make "flow" comments to his team. What often happens is that the 'flow' is clogged, and the guys are left to wander around the court making terrible decisions like not passing off on 5-on-2 fastbreaks or letting yourself be trapped and promptly turning the ball over. In these painful, hemmoraging runs, I have an expectation that a point guard with leadership will step in, calm everyone down, and start directing traffic. I have yet to observe this from JT. When the game goes amok, he's nowehere to be found.


3) The Dallas Mavericks, as a unit (with the possible exception of Dirk, and maybe Josh Howard) are incredibly intimidated by strong men. The fact that Amare averages over 30 points a game against the Mavericks is not a testament to his great shooting or his "domination" or agressiveness or any such thing. He plays like Shaquille O'Neal: he pushes people on his way to dunks--lots and lots of dunks. This is a frightening thing for the Dallas Mavericks. If a strong man plays against the Dallas Mavericks, they will not only give him plenty of room for lots and lots of dunks, but will cease from driving inside for fear that they will be blocked by him. Erick Dampier was brought to Dallas specifically for this reason, because everyone in the league knows that this is the way the Mavericks operate. He was supposed to be the Heavy for us. He is not the heavy. He is not the Inside Force. He is the Foul Machine. He is the Pine Rider. He is the Half-Engaged. But his confrontation avoidance makes him perfect for this team.


Those things, I cannot condone, and I cannot abide. Sheesh.

ps- Come, on. Nobody needs a mouth that big.

I'll never forget the time I threw my first touchdown pass to Jesus, the Messiah. He was wearing that famous robe of his, with his giant, disturbing, pulsating heart jumping out of his chest, and he looked at me from 45 yards away and did this, nodding his head slowly:

Wow, that was a great feeling. Later, I told him "nice hands, Jesus." He said to me "you da man." It doesn't sound like much, maybe, but coming from him it meant a lot.

We live in strange times.

I had breakfast this morning with The Rod, and was telling him about my terrific weekend in Dallas. I told him that I hung out with moljer, and he knew immediately who that was, not because we've ever talked about moljer, but because he's read moljer's comments here. I find that fascinating. Can we be in relationship with people we've never talked to or met? Well, maybe in some weird way, yes.

I also told him about how strange it was for me when moljer drove me around Dallas and showed me his favorite places to hang, which I've read about before. It was like I was visiting a shooting location from a favorite movie. I was excited to see these places I'd heard about. I've had the same feeling in L.A. when Jiff would show me his world that I'd heard of, but it was different in that moljer had never TOLD me about these places. This internet world seems like a kind of pseudo-reality, so not-quite-there, so unREAL to me. I mean, where is this webpage LOCATED, anyway? Answer: it's NOWHERE! All our screens are told to output different colored lights whenever we come here, and it makes us feel like we're at a PLACE--but there's not a real place.


Hello, philosophers? I get dizzy about this kind of thing. I should eat more roughage.

Every year the NBA recognizes the person who's commonly believed to be its best coach in a given season. This is a man who probably gives around 80 hours a week to his team, diagnoses and stresses out over and evaluates every opponent, every day. His job can produce millions upon millions of dollars for any franchise and, indeed, for the NBA as an organization. This man has done those things, not just passably well, but with standout, shining excellence. He has created a team out of a group of individuals, often in spite of their own attitudes, which are encouraged by their publicist, agents, entourages, etc. But he makes it work. And this, THIS is the trophy awarded to him:

This looks like something I made in 6th grade art class. Pathetic, really.

There's more to say about taking care of one's body.

My guitarist friend Mick is a 60-year old dude who looks like he's in his late 40s. I hope to look EXACTLY LIKE HIM when I'm that age. Anyway, we started talking about good eating and all (not a big stretch for me, considering my ongoing crush on Rex Russell's plan for eating Bibley foods), and he started talking about this amazing thing he's done for the health of his gall bladder.

I don't know what a gall bladder is, really, and I don't know how gall plays around with urea and/or bile and all that sort of thing. I do know that you can get this body unit taken out of you if everything goes to hell, and you're in a lot of pain and then you have to cope with only part of a body. Personally, I was hoping to die with a complete human body attached to me. So if there's some way to encourage my gall bladder, you just let me know.

Mick tells me that he got some magic elixir online, and that he drank it for 3 days. During that time, the elixir went and found his gall bladder and broke up all the crusteaceans inside it. I'm told that calcium deposits and hardened cholesterol and whatnot can form in there, gakking it all up, giving you a headache in your gall bladder, harboring disease (? I don't know. Maybe?), etc. Not good. On day 3, he drank a couple of cups of olive oil (yum!), then laid on his side for 30 minutes. The massive amounts of olive oil made his gall bladder sphincter spaz out (!? who knew? I feel like I'm hearing some secret information here, like when Tyler Durden tells us all how to make soap out of human fat), and later his stool (a subject I'd rather not discuss- so crass) contained "stones" of the gall bladder variety.

Mick tells me that he was so intrigued by this process that he "inspected" his "produce" (Good Gosh, man! Don't tell me that!) and found *28 STONES* in there. I'm no doctor, but I'm guessing his gall bladder is better off without 28 stones inside it. I'm also guessing that hearing your crap *clink!* when it hits the porcelain is a rather disconcerting thing. If you ARE an actual doctor (Dr. Perry Smith, who has come here in the past), I'm particularly curious as to your reactions.

I tend to agree with Dirk. The little Dallas Mavs looked like a big pooball against the Suns Monday night, and I can't say my expectations tonight are much different. Dirk was blaming Dampier after the loss, which is accurate but not the whole story. The Mavs are overmatched when it comes to the Phoenix squad.

But it was a different thing Saturday night. My old friend (an acquaintance from jr. high/high school youth group days) and new friend (we re-connected in August through Jiff, his old Baylor roomie) Ronnie Fauss, aka Moljer, hooked up me, the missus, and the Breitenfelds with some 10th row seats for Game 7 against the Houston Rockets. We witnessed the greatest shellacking (40 point win) in Game 7 history. Geniusness.


After the game, me and Mr. Moljer went out to his favorite haunt, Lakewood Landing, where we chatted into the wee hours and caught up. This was a good evening, my friends.

Wow. We've been together so long, now. This has been a difficult time for me. I didn't anticipate it being like this; the sweat on my brow belies the strain I've felt lately. But in a way, I'm relieved. I knew this all had to come out eventually. I remember when I first saw you--how different you looked, how different I felt. You were so sweet on my lips. That's all changed now. To be totally frank, I don't want you anywhere near my lips anymore.

We've been a team, I guess, for a while. But now it ends. Good bye, poo poo. Have a nice journey to wherever you're going.

*flush*

This is for Thad. This is Bible Diet Doctor's non-Bible medical take on alcohol. If you don't want to read what a doctor says about alcohol, come again some other day.


...alcoholic wine raises the blood pressure... alcohol is a depressant of the central nervous system. It supresses the immune system. It alters enzymes that normally protect us from cancer. It causes birth defects. It depletes B vitamins as well as substantial amounts of minerals. It impedes glycogen (fitness fuel) storage in the liver. Alcohol impairs coordination and reduces the contraction of muscles.
The list can go on almost indefinitely. It gets boring.
...
The only thing unhealthy about wine is its alcohol content. Alcohol is a two-carbon carbohydrate that is dangerous. Literally thousands of research articles document the ill effects of this compound. Researchers at the University of Chicago found that within an hour after a few drinks, the heart's performance will be depressed. In their experiements, the muscle fiber of the left ventricle did not perform as well as it did before the men drank alcohol.
At Thomas Jefferson University, similar studies show that consumption of alcohol leads to a number of harmful alterations in the the contractile function of the heart's muscle.
In another study, ethyl alcohol decreased flow through the coronary arteries and produced angina and electrocardiographic changes in patients that have stable angina.
If a pregnant woman drinks even a little alcohol during pregnancy, it passes through the mother and into the fetus growing within her, producing birth defects of fetal alcohol syndrome. FAS produces newborn babies that have mental and physical retardation, deformed heads and faces, heart disease, and/or spinal cord and brain malformations.
Some health reports indicate that alcohol may lower cholesterol slightly. Big deal! Contrast that slight benefit with the multiple hazards produced when alcohol "burns" into the heart muscle... alcohol denatures proteins on contact.
Alcohol causes damage to the human brain, joints, muscles and to every organ system in the body. Why not avoid alcohol?...
Alcoholic wine contains sulfites--antifoaming agents, copper sulfate, ferrocyanide compounds and propylene glycol, all of which cause damage to our health. These are just a bunch of chemicals that have been added for various reasons.
Alcohol is without doubt one of the most addictive chemicals on... earth. For some people, alcohol is more addictive than is caffiene, codeine, cocaine or heroin. And because of its effects on the brain and muscular control, alcohol may be the number one destroyer of health in the world. Therefore, I would recommend little or no routine use of alcoholic products.

(see Mexican photo below)

IF you've been on the California Bible diet (read: fruits and nuts) for just over a month, but you decide to take a night off because somebody's taken your advice and has Don Pablo's catered for a huge mexican-themed birthday soiree, and they've capped the buffet with a giant vat of queso made from PVC, er... Velveeta BRAND cheese food, and you're thinking of indulging or, indeed, OVERindulging--GET OVER IT AND MOVE ON, MORON. You're going to end up bloating and in pain.


and

IF you have NO alcohol in your life, but at said soiree, they're serving delicious green-flavored margaritas, and they just taste soooo good that you gotta have another, and you're considering going for a third, even before you've overeaten on above mentioned bleached-flour and lard-based delicacies, DON'T EVEN CONSIDER IT YOU JELLOHEAD. Your head will be spinning like a disco ball before the guacamole melts on your taquito.

Buttprints In The Sand

One night I had a wonderous dream,
One set of footprints there was seen,
The footprints of my precious Lord,
But mine were not along the shore.

But then some stranger prints appeared,
I asked the Lord, "What have we here?"
Those prints are large and round and neat,
"But Lord, they are too big for feet."

"My child," He said in somber tones,
"For miles I carried you alone.
I challenged you to walk in faith,
But you refused and made me wait."

"You disobeyed, you would not grow,
The walk of faith, you would not know,
So I got tired, became fed up
And there I dropped you on your butt."

If you THINK it gets better than this, you're mistaken. I mean come on--the Outlaws are all here!

I sure wish somebody could make a picture of Willie Nelson as Jesus. I sure would like that.

If you're not into the fundamentalist bent that barcodes are the mark of the beast, you can use this generator to make one just for you. As if you're not dehumanized enough every day.
www.barcodeart.com

You know the friendly neighbosr you have (or would like to have) from whom you can go borrow sugar or wax paper or whatever money they keep in that hidey hole at the back of their sock drawer that you know about but they don't know you know about? Well, Didi and I have those neighbors. They're Paul and Sara. If they were 25 years older and black, they would look just like this if they drove by in a convertible.

Are you getting a better picture of Paul and Sara? They're affable, caring, engaging, and wonderfully generous with us. We have a key to their house, so when we need ingredients or what have you, we just break into their house and get it. Then we tell them what we took later.

So here's a shout out to all good neighbors, since yesterday we broke in last night. I watched the second half of the Mavs game referenced below (they have cable; we do not); Didi got a quick nap. Then we scampered out and dusted up after ourselves, and they were none the wiser.

I'll TRY to limit the amount of NBA talk over the next month or so, but I can't say I'm going to do that very well.


--I was thinking about the Kings' lineup of, say, 4 years ago. This was a team with names like Chris Webber, Peja Stojakovic, Brad Miller, Vlade Divac, Bobby Jackson, Doug Christie, and Mike Bibby. And they lost. How could they lose to those heart-breaking Lakers? I mean, the Lakers had guys in their starting lineup like Devean George, which is a name you'll never again see in your sports page. Gee whiz.

--It delights me to see Shaquille O'Neal's success in Miami, contrasted with the Lakers' demise without him. This isn't because I'm a great Shaq fan (I don't think I'll be accused of that anytime soon), but because it so effectively puts egg on Kobe's face. Earlier this year I read Phil Jackson's book about his last season with the Lakers, and I was amazed at the arrogance of Mr. Bryant, both towards his coach and his teammates.

--The Mavs evened the series last night in an exciting game in Houston, thanks in no small part to point guard Jason Terry's career-best 32 points, including his MONSTER 3-pointer late in the game. After the game, Jason was interviewed. He was asked where this big game came from. His response? "My Lord and Savior Jesus Christ never left me..." I thought this was so incredibly strange to hear, as I always do about these kinds of things. Jesus leveraged His cosmic authority so that... you could make some baskets? Oh... how... anticlimactic. Was Jesus aware that Tracy MacGrady scored 36?

Would Jesus throw Jason Terry's trash like he is with these precious children?