THESE bad boys (can I say that? I'm neither from the inner city nor a cultural christian...) go on sale about this time next year. CAN I PLEASE HAVE ONE DADDY?? PLEASE??????

My friend Scott was telling me a story about his kid, a 2-year-old girl named Lydia. The family was out sledding, and Lydia wasn't interested; she was giving her attention to a stick. So Scott picked up the stick, broke off the extranaeous branches, and handed it to Lydia, who immediately started drawing lines in the snow. At this simple thing, she was full of glee, and kept insisting that her father look at her having such fun. Stunned by this, Scott concludes that we should be people who can "get to happy with minimal effort."


Luke 18:17- I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.

*chirp*
*chirp*

*chirp*

Now I will say this. I just made a visit to Kansas City, Missouri, which is one of my favorite states. There, I spent time with my friend Richard, who has no working television and raises chickens so that he can eat their eggs freshly. Richard loves, loves, loves making bread, so he found a job doing just that. He lives extrememly simply, from my standpoint. I also spent time with my close friend Mark, who spends hours every day reading, and writing, pausing for honest work on his property when he has to. Mark took me for a walk, straight out of his front door, ending up on some relatively untarnished land with a pond. We walked in the rain, which was right and good. His son was strapped to his back, sound asleep.

This was a good time in my life to visit these friends. I'm at a point where God is calling me back to a setup we had a while back: unclutteredness. Earlier today, my friend Dave read me this verse out of his Bible, which I enjoyed. Having people read me verses out of their Bibles is one of my favorite hobbies, and I'm getting good at it. Here's how it went: "No one seving as a soldier gets involved in civilian affairs; he wants to please his commanding officer." Now, this brought back some memories, because years ago I was very into a dead guy named Jim Eliot, and he was really crazy about this verse. Jim was all about cutting through all the stuff of life in Laodecia (as he constantly called normal America). He said "'Culture', philosophy, disputes, drama in its weaker forms, concerts and opera, politics---anything that can occupy the intellect seems to turn aside the hearts of many here... from a humble life in the steps of the Master, though we sing about this most delicately! NO, EDUCATION IS DANGEROUS, AND, PERSONALLY, I AM BEGINNING TO QUESTION ITS VALUE IN A CHRISTIAN'S LIFE. I DO NOT DISPARAGE WISDOM---THAT COMES FROM GOD, NOT Ph.D's." In a journal he wrote, "I have been musing lately on the extremely dangerous cumulative effects of earthly things. One may have good reason, for example, to want a wife, and he may have one legitimately. But with a wife comes Peter the Pumpkin-Eaters proverbial dilemma---he must find a place to keep her. And most wives will not stay on such terms as Peter proposed. So a wife demands a house; a house in turn requires curtains, rugs, washing machines, et cetera. A house with these things must soon become a home, and children are the intended outcome. The needs multiply as they are met---a car demands a garage; a garage, land; land, a garden; a garden, tools; and tools need sharpening. Woe, woe, woe to the man who would live a disentangled life in my century. II. Timothy 2:4 is impossible in the United States, if one insists on a wife. I learn from this that the wisest life is the simplest one, lived in the fulfillment of only the basic requirements of life---shelter, food, covering, and a bed. And even these can become productive of other needs if one does not heed. Be on guard, my soul, of complicating your environment so that you have neither time nor room for growth!" I think we can all see from these two quotes alone that this guy was out of his mind. He acted as if something else was Really Important. All these words of Jim's could absolutely have come out of my mouth about 8 years ago. I think there's something in there that's self-righteous and proud, but there are other things in there that are hard to shake off so easily.

I can't help but think of another guy, when I get going in this direction. It's that Thoreau feller. He didn't know Jesus, but he walked down a road I often feel my Master leading me down. He is, of course, the "Simplicity! Simplicity! Simplicity!" guy, but he wrote a number of really good other things, too. "My Aunt Maria asked me to read the life of Dr. Chalmers, which, however, I did not promise to do. Yesterday, Sunday, she was heard through the partition shouting to my Aunt Jane, who is deaf, "Think of it! He stood half an hour today to hear the frogs croak, and he wouldn't read the life of Chalmers." This Thoreau character wasn't after Jesus, but he was after one thing, and he was awfully pointed about that pursuit. I like that. More Thoreau: "In the streets and in society I am almost invariably cheap and dissipated, my life is unspeakably mean. No amount of gold or respectability would in the least redeem it,-- dining with the Governor or a member of Congress!! But alone in the distant woods or fields, in unpretending sprout-lands or pastures tracked by rabbits, even in a bleak and, to most, cheerless day, like this, when a villager would be thinking of his inn, I come to myself, I once more feel myself grandly related... I thus dispose of the superfluous and see things as they are, grand and beautiful... I wish to get the Concord, the Massachusetts, the America, out of my head and be sane a part of every day." Now see, there's some good stuff there. I'm not so crazy about the alone stuff David touts so mightily, but I sure like that last line. I really want to get the Cincinnati, Campbells Soup and Crossroads, America and Texas, musician or athlete stuff out of my head and heart, and just walk with God every moment, finding all my place and identity in Him.

God is teaching me that I don't have any room left for other allegiances, if I belong wholly to Him. Let me tell a story: I brought my computer home one day and was reading some things in it in my living room, when my computer told me "you're hooked up on a wireless network right now." Surprised, I have come to find out that the ubiquitous internet has now captured my home, presumably by my neighbors' network. In about 2 weeks' time, I had formed a habit of going to USA Today's website to do the crossword puzzle, and even looked forward to that after working hours. Now, isn't that insidious? A little thievery there, a little removal or narrowing there. Mark challenged me this past week when he made a comment about Fantasy Basketball, of which I'm an active and enthusiastic participant. He said, "If I spent an hour in the entire year on that, it would be completely wasted time." All of my little lovers from my days of rest and complacency are under question right now. Why is our living room furniture all directed at that blasted television, which has never done anything but sallowed and softened our love for our LORD? Why do I need to drive a $10,000 automobile, when a $4,000 will be just as dry, go just as fast, and transport me just as successfully? Why must I give so much time to having fun, "relaxing" (from what? My job of writing music!?), and self-indulgence? Why so so so many sets of clothes? And hear me: I don't think any of those things are "bad" (because Bad is whatever is outside of God, and He's big enough to incorporate my $10K car); I just see that they're little threats. So the LORD is telling me to streamline, in these days. Must I always be looking for some kind of promotion? Must I want more? Must my life be Important? What if that's not what God wants, and I'm opposing Him with my ambition?

Zechariah 4:10- who despises the day of small things?


Well whew. Maybe you can see why I posted what I did immediately below this. Because I know what I'm writing can feel dogmatic and constricting, and if-you're-not-doing-this-you-can't-possibly-have-God-ish. And I'm not into those things. But this is what I'm hearing.

I hasten to add that this is stuff I'm thinking about and processing; the concrete has not set in me on this stuff. I have been here before, in my more legalistic days, and I hear this call again, out of invitation. If you hear something dangerous in my words, or just disagree, I'm really okay with that.

First let me say this: it's very easy for me to hear God speak to me, hear freedom and invitation and life in His Word, and then run out, tell you what He said, and imprison you by those same words. That is to say, what He speaks as freedom to one child might be death and undue restriction on another child. That's why, of course, we all want to hear Him speak to us personally. (This is what Jesus' sheep were meant to do, of course. Not to win souls or even love people, and not to study well or speak in tongues. Jesus' sheep hear His voice. That's their job description.) God has words of life to speak to you that have nothing to do with me. I want to know what He's saying to you, of course, because I want my understanding of Him to be as wide and complete as possible--but the foisting on you of His words to me isn't helpful.

Religion, the bad kind, is very good at filling in the blanks for us all when we don't know what God is saying. Have you noticed this? You don't really hear preachers encouraging you to stay in that place of uncertainly until the LORD reveals Himself. They say that you shouldn't just sit there; you should be doing something.
"You're unsure what He's saying to you? Well, He's telling you to serve, right? To get outside yourself?"
"Well, yes, He seems to have said that in the scriptures, and He seems to say that to me..."
"Here's what you do: go here, say this, put your money here, etc. etc. etc."
Lots of times, those instructions lead to their organization being benefitted. That's another topic, but it sure makes the whole line of counsel suspicious. How can a girl trust a boy when all his cousel leads to his own bedroom?

We become, in effect, spiritual investment bankers for each other. Just give me your assets, and I won't make you think or evaluate or understand. I'll tell you what to do, and you see for yourself that my instructions yield desirable returns. And hey, I confess: I have often thought that if people would let me run their lives, I would help them do a much better job than they do on their own. And I've been serious about that, and not megalomaniacal, either (and in the flesh, I would still maintain this. But so what? Better fleshly lives?). It wasn't about control; it was really about helping people. Yet it was religious (the dirty kind).

But here's the thing: what's the goal? If you tell me how to live, and I end up with a happy marriage and well-behaved children and a stable financial situation, did we win? If those things are the goal, then yeah I guess we did. But if hearing and having God is the goal, then you blew it for me by telling me what to do, instead of pushing me back into the ring and making me deal with Him personally. And I blew it by listening to your (well-meaning, possibly helpful) advice. If getting God is the goal, then none of the other things matter. At all. They do not matter at all.

See, there isn't a Right way to live. There couldn't be. If there were a Right way to live, we'd be back under the law. So someone could move to India, take up where Mother Teresa left off, have the perfect 40-30-30 diet, always wash their socks and wear deodorant, and without God around, they'd be living Wrong. And somebody else could live in the fabulous hills of Bel-Air, CA, have servants and drive a Bentley and, with God around, be A-OK. This is hard for me to get my head around, since I've spent many years trying to figure out what the Perfect Life would look like, so I could emulate it. I think of the India person as Right and the Bel Air person as Wrong. But the fact is, again, that Right Living doesn't exist in a way that can be outwardly observed. The Kingdom of God is within you (Luke 17:21), and that's where God is. If I can see the fruits of His presence, can observe the effects of the wind, then that's enough. I don't need to understand or agree with any of the other stuff.

So go feel free to listen and know and talk to God. People who lead you into more conversation with Him are your friends. People who would fill in the blanks for you are not.

People who consciously look at their automobile buying dollars, shop around a bit, do some research, and end up buying a Pontiac Aztec should be issued a handicapped (tm) parking pass with their new ultra-strange vehicle. I feel similarly about the Scion. And yet I'm crazy about that Element! Go figger.

John 1:12- Yet to all who received him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God.

Friends, the only thing you could ever possibly do, with relation to the GOD Who Speaks Planets, is to receive things from Him. He is not a man, that He could be served by men, as if He could ever need something (Acts 17:25), and it's impossible for you to make something that He could inhabit (Is 66:1). Kinda puts a big freakin Mac truck (tm) sized hole in our great delusions about "doing something for God", don't it? Kinda makes all that religious talk that we've all heard about pleasing Him with our work a little hollow, am I right? Can I get an amen?

Hey, I'm no fool. I grew up in the Present Religious System, where you get strokes for performance, so I sought to serve Jesus better than anybody (this is how you know you're Doing Well, by the way: you look over your shoulder). Then Jesus says, "You know, you can call yourself a servant if you want, but I don't want to call you that. Servants are used to do jobs, and they don't really know what their master's heart is all about. I'd much rather call you friends. Friends really aren't all that useful, as far as getting stuff done. They're just for enjoyment and relationship. I'd like to call you a friend." But like I said, I was no fool. You don't get strokes where I come from for being a "friend of Jesus". You get strokes for performing. So I told Jesus no thanks and went on with things. Ultimately, I got the shit kicked out of me by the evil spirits I'd be agreeing to (because, baby, you can only perform so well for so long, and one day the odds comes calling), and Jesus very patiently and lovingly came and rescued me. After this happened a number of times, I decided that I would actually really LIKE to be a fool. And the old crowd doesn't exactly ask me around anymore.

John 1:11- He came to that which was His own, but His own did not receive Him. Is that not one of the spookiest verses you've ever heard? Why wouldn't His own receive Him? I'd bet you they were busy doing things, "God-things", and saw no usefulness in receiving Him. Religion is utilitarian; the Father is lavish, wasteful, and overboard. Think of the picture of marriage, by which we're to learn about His ways: of what use is sex to a husband? Satisfaction, that's what! Yeah, but what else? Well, maybe progeny, but you don't get the progeny without the satisfaction stuff! We think the progeny is the goal, and that the satisfaction stuff is a waste of time. There's a lot of counterfeit fruit out there to prove it.

Think of the picture of a tree. David said in Psalm 1 that a man who delights in the LORD and His law (=LOVE!) is like a tree planted by streams of living water. What does that picture tell us? Well, how much effort does a tree exert? Ever seen a tree strive, or work harder, or promise to try next time? Trees absorb food and water, and by virtue of what they are, they produce fruit. Always. Year in and year out. So what's the key to their success? Receiving. Jesus says "you know, if you do nothing but rest in me, just rest in me, you'll be like a tree. You will bear much fruit--can't avoid it. But apart from resting in me, you can produce nothing of lasting value. Heat but not light. Clouds without rain."

Again, think of sheep. Sheep go a step further. Not only are sheep specially made to simply eat, rest, and produce wool, but they will actually produce LESS if they're harassed or nervous. Their being at peace and careless is the job of a good shepherd, because if they experience stress, they'll become withered and won't eat. THIS IS US. Believe and receive. When we think "I'll serve you, and you give me some food and keep me safe", we're not coming to Him as sheep to a shepherd, we're coming to Him as slaves to a master. That's a great perversion of what the LORD has made available to you. And let me tell you this: servants will never know the Master's heart. Friends will.

God wants sons (Romans 8, Hebrews 2, et al). People who receive Him and believe get to be sons. Not the workers; not the "faithful"; not the sin-avoiders; not the actively-sharing-their-faith; not the never-miss-a-quiet-timers. Receivers.

Following fashion is, as I've said, a chasing after the wind. Going to Banana Republic every month to see what the provacateurs are parading is silly: their entire job is to keep things changing so that everyone continually needs to buy new stuff to be current. That's insanity if I've ever heard it.

Yet my wife, she sometimes chases after the wind. Okay maybe not that, but she sees the effects of the wind. And makes observations (and purchases) based on that knowledge. She has bought me a new pair of jeans, my good men, and I'm a little confounded by them. When I was a boy [the year is 1986: Coca Cola rugby shirts were a must for high schoolers, the Ralph Lauren "polo" brand was associating itself with the posh and privileged, and Bon Jovi was Giving Love A Bad Name], the hip jean designers made their wares different and necessary by acid washing them and, in some extreme cases, made them black. Fashion has "progressed", I guess, because now the hip jeans are not only oh-so-prefaded-in-just-the-right-spots as well as being strategically 'stressed' at the hems and pockets, but they're also colored in such a way that you half believe they were ground in mud before being hung to sell in the store. There's an unmistakable dirty look to my new pre-worn-looking jeans. I can only assume that in 20 years, the clothes I'm buying my children will already have been given away to Goodwill.

I like the healthy drinks. I will always choose a fruity drink over those bad bad sodas that the kids all drink these days. I enjoy caring for my body; it's part of my heritage as a shepherd (really!). Anyhow, I got turned on to the Odwalla line about a year ago, when I was running ridiculous distances and such. It's all full of fruit and flowers and corn and stuff, and it's supposed to be really good for you. So I would occasionally save up my allowance and plunk down the $3 that one of those 14 oz. bottles cost. I'd walk away feeling healthy and scammed (I could go on and on about my strained relationship with Whole Foods Markets just because of their instictive belief that healthy food costs a lot more than crap food). Well that's all changed now...

BECAUSE I'M HERE TO HYPE HYPE HYPE THE WONDERFUL PRODUCTS GIVEN TO US BY BOLTHOUSE FARMS!!!

You may be saying "That's a terrible name for a company that sells nutritious drinks. Bolthouse Farms sounds like a lumberyard." Granted, but that's beside the point. BF (www.bolthouse.com) makes a V8 competitor, various juices, the green drink to compete with Odwalla's Superfood, and this killer thing I just drank called Perfectly Protein- Vanilla Chai Tea with Soy Protein. If you're like me, you can't imagine paying good money for tea, but this stuff doesn't taste or look like tea. It looks like milk, and it tastes like some kind of almond vanilla concoction that God revealed to someone in a dream. It's inCREDible. Allow me to go on: imagine a beverage with 19 grams of soy protein, Vitamin C, B6 and B12, iron, zinc, magnesium, 18 amino acids, and 37 grams of isoflavonoids per serving--can you see how incredible this would be for your body as well as your taste buds? Now imagine paying $1.50 for it at your local cut-rate Mijer foodseller. Yessssss.

I should go on about the milky thing. I have always enjoyed the creamy/milky beverage, no matter the flavor. Why, when I'd go visit my Uncle Jerald's homestead in Bedias Texas, we'd often be treated to strawberry or chocolate milk, and they were all ambrosia to me. I like malts of all kinds, and will even stoop to drinking Ovaltine when my milk jones kicks in. I'm not proud. Heck, I'll even drink drinks that are supposed to REMIND us of milk, but have no milk content, like Yoo-Hoo and Chocolate Soldier. I have often purchased those questionable Starbucks frappucino drinks just because they're milky smooth, though I'm not a fan of coffee. Are you getting the picture? SoBe makes a wonderful Tropical-themed Pina Colada drink that I'm all over. Again, I think it has no actual milk in it, but oh the sweetness! Oh the fruitiness! Oh the milkiness! This could be why I enjoy nougat as well, though I'm sure that nougat will probably kill us all. I've gone on too long.

Perfectly Protein, by Bolthouse Farms, is everything I could hope for in an ingestible liquid. It's sweet, nutritious, and has that milky quality that never goes unappreciated.


ps- wouldn't it be great if nutrition drinks also told you what ISN'T healthy about their drinks? They act like they're just perfect, like they've never done ANYTHING wrong. We all know they're just hiding their flaws, like you do when you're dating somebody. Will somebody be honest with me? THAT's the person I want to marry, anyway!

Attention: everyone who thinks/reads, please look away. I am about to talk about sports.

Wally Szerbiak reminds me that some of the best looking ballplayers have the most inscrutible names.

HSO: If you put me and Shaquille O'Neal in the same sized body, and we played a game of one-on-one, I would win.

HSO2: Smaller basketball players have had to work harder to be successful; they've had to develop skills more diligently. The percentage of skilled basketball players decreases as the players become taller. The Kevin Garnetts, Dirk Nowitzkis, and Akeem Olajuwons are the anomalies. Big players have less skill.

ugh! Holy foes, superfriends--I caught the teevee on again. On it was Smarmfest Local Weather Guy. One thing that's patronizing and annoying is when they tell me what I want the weather to be like.

"We'll have snow flurries tonight, but don't worry: things are looking up tomorrow, as temperatures will climb back into the mid- to upper-forties."

"Lots of rain on the way this weekend--it's going to be an ugly one."

Come on! Is it at least CONCEIVABLE that someone could actually enjoy something other than bland, milquetoast weather? Why assume that I always want it dumbed down to middle-of-the-road? I mean, honestly.

JEERS, NOT CHEERS! THIS IS MY BEEF!

Remember Sweet Daddy, from Good Times? He was the friendly, well-meaning pimp with a tooth, er, heart of gold. Anyhow, there was a hilarious turn of events in Norman Lear's magnum opus in which we find Sweet Daddy laid up in a wheel chair, headed to the hospital. He had fuzzy dice on his IV hanger! Sweet Daddy, when asked about his ensuing visit to the medical world, confessed with aplomb (characteristically referring to himself in third person) that "Sweet Daddy's afraid of needles!" This was not one of the more dramatic moments on Good Times (like when Florida smashes the punch bowl and yells, "DAMN DAMN DAMN!" when she lets herself feel the depth of pain from James Evans, Sr.'s untimely death while working on the Alaskan pipeline), yet it revealed a vulnerable side of teevee's face of the prostitution industry, at least at that time.


If you think I could talk about Good Times all day, you're right. But I'm not going to do that. Instead, I'm going to parallel Sweet Daddy Williams' experience with my own. Yesterday, accompanied by my old and good friend Shane "Sweet Daddy" Miller, I went to a dirty, dismal Urgent Care office and receive innoculation for both typhoid and tetanus. I think I remember reading about people dying in terrible pain from typoid, but I don't remember anything about tetanus. Yet it's such a popular innoculation! Whatever. I was a little dubious about the whole "you take a slender piece of metal loaded with a potent chemical liquid that could potentially kill me yet about which I couldn't be more ignorant, then puncture my fragile skin with said metal, filling me full of poison" thing, since I hadn't had one of those experiences in maybe 15 years. Oh sure, I was soothed by the promotional posters that littered the dirt-tinged walls ("Travelling to the Carribbean is pure ecstacy. Lime disease isn't."), and I was delighted to find the Highlights magazine in the rack of old Woman's Day and People rags. [Allow me to digress. To me, the Highlights magazine is one of the commonalities of life in America that tells me I'm safe, I'm surrounded by people who care, and I'm NOT a Goofus, crassly hanging up on people when I dial a wrong number. I'm a Gallant, for crying out loud, and I will APOLOGIZE for cripes' sake when I accidentally call someone I don't know! Highlights not only supplies me with all the hilarious riddles that make the sun shine bright (Q: What time is it when 7 tigers are chasing you? A: Seven after one!), but it keeps my finding-what's-wrong-with-this-picture skills razor sharp. Highlights is tame, predictable, and perfect for the youngsters, as well as, I hasten to add, the youngsters-at-heart.] But none of that prepared me for the pain of those shots. Friends, it hurt. And I paid $113 for that pain. I even went a little sweaty and woozy for about 3 minutes after the jab, which was a little unsettling. But I made it. My body has absorbed the 1ml of poison/medication they stuck in me. And I wonder: can the scientific brains that have given us Guacamole-flavored Doritos (tm) Snack Chips NOT produce medication in pill form that will replace shots? How hard could that be? We already have pills, people--we're getting all sorts of chemicals through the pill and the caplet. I'm just saying, the technology is there.

But like I say, I recovered. The word on the street is that I bled like the Dallas Maverick defense when they pulled the steel from my poor arm, though I never dared to look, and yet I stumbled out into the icy Ohio winter, better off? for it. So like the Sweet Daddy of yore, yes, I was a mite squeamish about receiving the Medical Spear into my person. But UNlike Sweet Daddy, and this is what I want you to remember from my story, I am not a pimp, trafficking in the immoral and illegal business of prostitution.

sing to O How I Love Jesus

There is some food I love to cheer;
I loved it since my birth!
It sounds a little strange to hear
But doesn't add to my girth!

Ah-spar-a-ga-ee-zus!
Ah-spar-a-ga-ee-zus!
Ah-spar-a-ga-ee-zus!
It changes the smell of pee!

Today in Almaty, Kazakhstan, it is -3 degrees Farenheit, with a light snow. Almaty is a full 11 hours ahead of my world time understanding here in Whoville, Ohio. Almaty is quite near Kyrgyzstan (that would KILL if proper names were allowed in Scrabble, America's favorite Crossword puzzle game), which is, I think we can all agree, a Made Up name. It's also quite close to China, as you can see on the map above, if you're into maps. Almaty means Father Apple, so now your understanding has been significantly broadened. See?

I once had some missionary friends who served in Mongolia, which looks awfully close to Kazakhstan on a global map, so it's probably within 10,000 miles or so. Anyhow, in Mongolia my friends had to get used to drinking yak fat (yes), since Molgols give this to people who visit them, in a show of kindness and total disregard for triglyceride and cholestrol levels. They told me once that they put foods outside on their balcony if they needed to be frozen, and that, if one were experiencing a runny nose, one need only go out for a walk to solve the problem. I don't know what frozen snot feels like, but I can't imagine it tasting much worse than some of the horrific combinations they cook up at those Hawaiian Snow joints in front of strip malls in the summer. I mean, how is there a Tiger Tail flavor? That's not a flavor!

I will be visiting Almaty next month, as I've been invited there for a mission conference. I expect my time in that country, where the average person makes $1,150 a year, to be enlightening and affecting. You can talk to God about my time there coming up, or as I like to say, PRAY IT FORWARD. That's a little comedy I've thrown in for you today, which is pretty hilarious. Okay, enough ridiculous joking. Here's the thing: I have just filled out a visa application that looks like the cover of Ghost in the Machine. Should I tell them about my plans to convert their questionable industrial systems into a giant Steven Statue Making Machine, right on the visa application? I daren't.

I will tell you this: getting out of one's own culture, if even for a few hours, is sooooo good for the soul. It kinda has the same effect as fasting. It reminds a body that you're not the center of the universe, your needs are not the most dire, and that you've been given much, much more than your fair share. I really like the change of pace that causes me to learn things just so I can find an unhumiliating place to take a leak, or have to ask favors of people via hand gestures just to know which bus I need. I think it's good for me. This also reminds me of the encouraging fact that my spirit sometimes DOES win over my flesh. Sometimes I work to put it in its element, instead of working so hard to make my body happy. That's not at all an unfamiliar concept for believers around the globe, but for us, it's a significant lesson. So here's to being free, as the song says, and here's to killing off that flesh, as one of my heros would say, by any means necessary.

http://www.kazakinfo.com/Default.aspx?tabid=48

People who can't fit in a bed with a footboard- unite! Rise up against the fascist regime of bedmakers and their mute followers, the bedbuyers!

I never said I'm too good to sleep on the floor. I never said that. Truth be told, I prefer sleeping near the ground, though not necessarily ON it. I'm not too good to sleep on the floor; I'm too SOFT. I wasn't always this way, but I was married a habit-forming while ago, and I have already observed somewhere that women like things comfortable and accommodating. I really want to sleep with my wife, so I sleep in the same bed she uses, which is comfortable, accommodating, etc. In this way, I'm becoming less of a commando-style rough-and-ready male, and am, to be blunt, more feminine than ever. I don't doubt at all that this is the Will Of God. But here's to being easy to please, just the same. I'm not too good to sleep on the floor.

And another thing. Hey everybody who just HAS to answer your blasted phone every time it plays its over-the-top-clever song at you: ease up. Relax. Take a sedative. It's true for the phone in your tote bag, and it's true for the phone in your home- you can afford to let it rest once in a while. I release you from the fear that it's always going to be SOMETHING IMPORTANT. You know what?- it's not. Answer the phone when you have time, or when YES! you really DO want to talk to that person, or when you're just curious or whatever. But we have to stop the phone fear. I'm taking a stand today. Will you join me? I have symbolically cut the umbilical cord from me to my phone by taking the spark plug cables in my car and rending them with heavy wire cutters. I declare my freedom. Join me in taking a stand against phone fear. Let them ring! Let them ring from the hills in San Francisco to the hush puppy factories in Tallahassee. Let them ring on every recharge stand and place-in-your-office-where-you-put-your-phone. Let them ring!

Maybe it's too easy to just put up stuff I'm making up, but I doubt it. After all, this isn't here to be hard for me. It's here to tell some of my friends what I'm thinking. Here's something I was thinking this past week:

Down with religion, down with lies
Down with the fools who say they are wise
Down with hate for a fellow man
But up with love

Down with institution and the promises they make
Down the the prostitution of our passion for their sake
Down with theives claiming care
But up with love

Down with my addiction, all this living for myself
Down with all your money if you think it's gonna help
Down with all your morals, man
But up with love

Down with self-corruption and the guilt that it brings
Down with the sweet seduction of sleep and apathy
Down with innoculation
But up with love

Down with accusation, how it got me again
Down with the preacher saying life is a sin
Down with manipulation
But up with love

Give me love to rule my world- love knows best
Give me love to rule my world- hang the rest.

ODE TO SNOW

In praise of snow, who steals in, light
She touts neither her will nor might
But, steady as a heart, she comes
And clothes the ochres, rusts, and plums.
Yes, not by overpow'ring force:
Steadfast and delicate, her course
Till everything is buried low
Beneath perfection: sky white snow

I know a girl who, too, can blot
Erasing, slowly, every spot
And filling scars and cov'ring dirt
And meding fractures, healing hurt
Her vict'ry's not in one great blast
For sin demures, but love will last
Now blanketed by beauty so
I must confess my praise of snow

Talking on a cell phone while driving an automobile is one the Perfect Things.

Another is sitting in an outdoor hot tub while it's raining or, even better, snowing.

Perfect Things, people. Perfect Things.

Every dog who is in the act of laying a turd (or "growing a second tail") looks SO HUMBLE. It's disgusting, but so lovable at the same time.

You know what I think? I think boys and girls are different. Here's why:

My wife let me see her naked yesterday.

No, no. I jest. There's more to this post than incredible comedy. To wit:

I went to a fancy wedding this past weekend. I sang at it, which is such a win, people. This means that you get to enjoy seeing a wedding take shape, get a couple of really nice meals out of the deal, sing your sad little song or two, then you're out, clean. It's great. Anyhow, as I was dining on a meal that surely cost over $50 at the rehearsal dinner, I was thinking a very male thing in my very male noggin. Don't get me wrong, I was enjoying that delicious steak and pee-turning asparagus, but I was thinking "I don't think I'd be a lot less satisfied with a delicious Freebird BRAND backwards R burrito. And they cost, last time I checked, about six bucks. There's not a confident heterosexual male among us that wouldn't go along with that statement: yes, a nice $50 meal is a treat (IF there's plenty of food served), but I'm pretty sure that I'd be just as satisfied with one of those really tasty Mexican Pizzas that Taco Bell produces for $3.50. Okay, yes, I might have to buy a second to fill out the tummy space, but I have the financial margin to make that happen. And, at the end of my Taco Bell/Backwards R meal, I'm $40 better off. Give me a two meat plate at Spring Creek BBQ, and I could not conceivably be happier with some fancy dan french food. Impossible.

Yet, my friends, it is not so with the women folk. They couldn't care less if they were brought Wendy's Chicken Nuggets (which, I'll be honest with you, are delicious when coupled with their weird clear hot chili sauce), if those selfsame nuggets were served on linen doilies with classical guitar music playing the background, if they got to dress up to eat them. They would happily spend $40 of your hard-earned dollars to make that happen. Women are unconcerned with the food itself (which is ludicrous, I think we can all agree), they just want to feel splurged upon. Now, this is a little kooky, but my brothers, I can unveil for you a Wonderful Secret. Because the above is scientific fact, I give you the Gospel of Courtship: If A Brother Goes To A Great Deal Of Trouble For A Very Small Thing, It Will Often Be Seen As A Very Great Thing. Please write this down on a bar coaster or body part near you now. This is invaluable advice for us all, married or not. For example, I once cleared out my apartment living room, used a scarf as a table runner (I'll explain what that is one on one for any unmarried readers), grabbed a small lamp and stuck it in the middle of the table, and fancily made the table up with paper napkins and unmatched bowls. At the end of a date, me and Didi came back to my place, where I unveiled the intimate table (which revealed FORETHOUGHT and EFFORT, two monumental aspects in the courting strategy). I then served $2.99 worth of wonderful Toffee Bar Crunch ice cream from Cincinnati's own United Dairy Farmers. It's a strange name, but it's really very good ice cream.

I was rewarded with muchas smooches that night, gentlemen, because I understood the above maxim that you now have written on your wrists. Yes, women will have you waste a lot of money over the course of your lifetime on overpriced food. But, if you understand why they waste your money, you can have the good, plentiful, and economical food as WELL as their admiration. I'm telling you- it's worked for me, and it can work for you too.

In a news story that I just CAN'T leave be, boxing promoter and wordsmith Don King has now sued ESPN for the princely sum of 2.5 BILLION dollars. Billion, people. Billion.

Now, you may be shocked at this number. You may think "but Don King WAS convicted of murdering people. If that's reported, how's it slander? Also, is the possible defamation of a murderer's name worth the GNP of several small nations?"

Oh, wah wah wah. Stop that sniveling over there. I'M with Don King. As he succinctly puts it: "I seek justice". That's obviously all he's after, and who can't support that?

I have a friend named Ronnie who's thoughts are about a thousand times more entertaining than mine (see moljunior.typepad.com only if you're serious about being a happy person). Ronnie actually ENJOYS people like the moronic, self-serving Randy Moss, while they chafe my chaps all day. Ronnie is surely pleased about this train wreck of a man as well.

http://msn.foxsports.com/story/3317086

Did you know that fasting is mentioned 20 times in your Bible, while tithing is only mentioned 13? I wonder which has received more airplay at your church.

My Didi and I are going to be teaching a little class tomorrow night to almost/newly marrieds, and we wanted to use a movie clip for illustrative/humor purposes. This is because we are clever and current. In any case, I went to the video store to aquire said film footage. I had a nifty Free Video Coupon, which I brandished with pride, since we don't frequent the rental strore and feel cheated anytime we give them cash (why? The public library, the greatest American public resource, will lend you its massive storehouse GRATIS. The only catch is that it's not as exhaustive as the neighborhood video store...).

So, confident and sane, I walk in, find my film, and go to the register to yield my coupon for remission. This video chain, which rules about 90% of the rental business as well as, I believe, a major college football bowl game, proved to me that it is a little, well, French (read: awkward and frustrating to deal with). The Adolescent Cashier Chick told me that I wasn't in the System. For those of you who live on Mars or, alternately, Idaho, this is a moment that strikes fear in all would-be patrons. When you're not in a System, it means that your identity has no corresponding UPC symbol; you are a non-entity. As you know, when one doesn't traffic with the Beast, one cannot work and move freely in the End Times World. Adolescent Cashier Chick (ACC) asked me if I'd traffic with the Beast in the last 6 months, and I had to tell her no, I had been a Deviant. With no small amount of disgust, she told me that if I wasn't in the System, I would have to re-apply for entry into the Beast/System.

Undaunted, because I NEED THAT FILM TO BE WITTY AND CURRENT, I said that yes, I would re-apply for entry. Discerning further deviance, she immediately asked me if I possessed a Funds-Verifying, Code-Bearing Strip affixed to a chit that I could supply her. There was one requirement: this "credit card" HAD to be attached to no bank account. I cannot imagine why this is, but wonder if it has something to do with the massive lawsuit slapped on the Video Monolith for unlawfully sending people's account information to collection agencies, before notifying them that they had outstanding debt. Anyhow, I sheeplishly admitted that no, I don't have a Funds-Verifying, Code-Bearing Strip that is Not Attached To A Bank Account. I dislike debt, and don't want to be involved with it. That's a world I don't traffic in, as well. For review:

SYSTEMS JIMMY DOESN'T TRAFFIC IN

1) The Video Monolith

2) Debt Due To Video Rental

Exasperated, ACC announced that, unless I was the phenominally rare person who carried around a utility bill with my name and address on it (um, okay, MASSIVE EYE ROLL), I would be locked out of the System/Beast. I inhaled deeply, collected my belongings, and walked away.

Should I be proud? Should I be happy that I don't bear the mark of the beast? Well, I don't FEEL proud. I feel put out. I feel like I have no access into the system. But, if there's anything valid about all the theories Gene Hackman threw around in Enemy of the State (and I'll confess right here that I'm apt to believe absolutely ANYTHING Gene Hackman says), I might should feel relieved. I'm anonymous and unknown, at least to this one outlet of the System. In any case, I had to enlist a friend to go use my free coupon and get the movie for me. Amazing.


NEXT WEEK: Why Radio Shack requires every piece of personal information (including my marriage date, driver's license number, mother's maiden name, and favorite breakfast cereal) to sell me a battery.

It's official: my snot is now electric yellow.

After smoking with the Spaniards, Licking all the handrails in London's underground, and not bathing with the French, I mysteriously picked up some sort of infection, which I believe is bacteria-based. Well, I've been through shades of green, brown, blood red (yes. I don't know how that happened), and orange, it's now the color of Funyons. But a little yellower. But I wanted to make the Funyons reference, so I did.

Like my fart smell-maker idea, I don't see why some dweeby engineer can't give us something to color our mucous for us. I can never HOPE to get BLUE snot without some aid of outside chemicals. Help me, Chinese people!

The terrible I, Robot was showing on the plane. When it got toward the end and all the action happened where the robots go nuts and start smashing everything including the terrible Will Smith, I picked up some headphones. The plot was revealed in the last 20 minutes of the film (!), where we learn that the robots had concluded that the only way to save the humans was to rule them. Hollywood's response (therefore, the terrible Will Smith's) was "aw HELL naw! Ain't nobody gonna tell me how to be!" My thought is: being ruled by logical robot minds doesn't sound so bad, especially if they stop all our wars and fighting and all. I'm just saying.

Some of you think this is a TERRIBLE idea, almost as bad as Will Smith himself. Yeah, well you people are robophobes. I'm not.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She's totally flummoxed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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



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

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

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

Boy, life sure is funny huh?

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

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

It a windmill, daddy.

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

DSCN0770.JPG

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

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

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

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

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

This, from guest Mashman Jeff Davenport:

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


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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

and now a happier one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are YOUR Movie Time HSOs, Sports Fans?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Some friendly encouragements for you guys:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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