Anybody ever think much about that damned Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil?

Anybody ever think that most of religion is geared around trying to find out what's "good" and what's "evil", and that keeping his kiddos from ever thinking that way at all was a big deal to the Father?

Anybody ever consider that our only standard for whether something is Good or Evil should be whether or not it has the stamp of the Father on it, as opposed to whether it hurts, or makes people mad, or confuses everybody?

Anybody ever think that maybe too much information is possibly a BAD thing, and that if knowledge is power, and power corrupts, that we should tread lightly and cautiously in the information world?

Anybody ever consider how technology, which drives so much of modern society, is about limitless knowledge and memory?

And has anybody ever considered what my friend Dave suggests, that the below computer corporation's logo is one of the dirtiest, most heinous symbols we regard, on a par with any pentogram?

Here's what I would like: I would like for some engineer (I nominate Bao Hoang) to produce some kind of formula for beauty, where traits like long-ness or squat-ness of head is accounted for, the relationship between all the facial features, size and shape of features when compared with a 'standard', etc. etc. Now, once we have this thing worked out (and I think this might already exist, somewhere. I somehow remember reading SOMETHING like this), everybody could be assigned a number. If we're graded on a scale of 100, where 100 is Speed Racer or something, then maybe Steve Buscemi is a 34, and Totila is like a 97. You get my drift. So--we all have scores. You with me?

Here's what I would like: I want to poll like 100,000 couples (this experiment will be costly. But stay with me!), and determine what is a standard deviation between marriage partners' numbers. I predict we would find that it's highly irregular for numbers which are too far apart to be married for any length of time. Yes, couples like this happen (hello, Quentin and Uma), but they don't last. So, now we have a big report telling us how the two numbers need to be related. Still with me?

Here's what I would like: I want to create a service where we talk to people who're dating and give them scientific recommendations for breaking up or staying together, purely based on statistics and their Personal Beauty Scores.

us- Well, we have some good news for you. You should definitely break up.
boy- What?! Why?
us- well, your Personal Beauty scores deviate by more than the standard 15 points. As a matter of fact, you've more than doubled the recommended deviation. You're 32 points apart.
girl- So what? We don't care about your dumb statistics. We just came in here out of curiosity. This doesn't apply to us.
us- Actually, miss, it does. It applies to everyone. If you care to know, we specifically recommend that YOU do the breaking up with Derek. Statistically speaking, there's a 94% chance that he'll break up with you in the next 7 months. You're 17. You don't want to waste any more time on this potential coupling than you have to. And we're here to tell you: you don't have to.
boy- How is this good news, you quack?
us- Quaint, Derek. We like to believe that good news happens when truth comes to light. This is the truth. I understand that this will be an awkward day for you both, but again, we strongly recommend that it ends here. Now.
girl- You want us to break up here? Right now?
boy- Who do you think you are?
us- We think that we're How WIll I Know?, and we think we're not wrong. Statistically speaking, of course. We could never be wrong.

This guy rides the SNOW!

DSCN1148
Originally uploaded by smanuel.

This is the Hoang you'll read about below. This Hoang decided, with me, to work on his snowboarding skills. We spent most of the day in this exact position. Turns out, though, that I was the one with the camera.

Snowboarding is awkward. We do NOT qualify for the over-hyped XGames.

There's a Hoang in my lift!

DSCN1140
Originally uploaded by smanuel.

This man visited me this weekend. He came from south of the Red River, and visited me north of the Ohio. We drove to nearby Indiana, where we skiied on manmade snow. It was way greater than you think it was. See how happy the little guy is

Allow me to review. At the church lock-ins (good grief, who created those awful, sleep-deprived marathons of pain?), as well as Saturday morning gatherings of every kind (say, groomsmen getting together early on the wedding day), as well as "continental breakfasts" across the globe, people are under a false impression. Those who run and plan these things seem to believe that humans of every stripe just LOVE bread + refined sugar for breakfast. To wit:



The examples, my friends, proliferate. But I have to say, dangit, that SUGAR + BREAD /= BREAKFAST!! Peeps, what Stevie needs for breakfast, before anything else, is some protein. Make it dairy, make it meaty, whatever. But I need some protein. It's that long-term energy that carries me through the day! Secondly, I need some fruit. I need natural (read: quickly digestable and applicable) sugars, and some fiber. PROTEIN + FIBER = BREAKFAST

It's not that I don't enjoy a delicious icing-filled donut from time to time, but in my world, a donut is something you enjoy after bowling, or as a fun dessert in a cabin in the mountains, after a day of Hoang-watching on the slopes. I'm just talking about the first meal of the day, when I'm not in the mood for sticky sugariness. Hear me, friends. This is my country, and this, this is my breakfast.

I am 32 years old. I have no idea what this is supposed to Mean, in a Big Picture sort of way. But I can tell you this: other people treat me differently than when I was 22.

I now have gray hair lightly salting my pate (and of this, I'm proud and pleased. The Bible speaks highly of gray hair). One of my friends, Ronald, was recently asked to teach a class at a business college. Another of my friends, Jeff, was just asked to lead his own Christ-following congregation in a New Spirituality-loving state, for crying out loud. I have peers who're running their own businesses (children's clothing store, commercial real estate, mortgage lending, recording studio, magazine, etc. etc.), and others who're big shots in corporations. These people are suddenly The Ruling Class, and they're my friends. This is very strange for me to observe about myself. I have friends who're millionaires (seriously! just call-em-up-and-chat kind of friends!), and friends who make movies or music albums or write books. It's kind of exciting, and kind of daunting as well, to be part of a group of influencers. If my generation is responsible for the generation we live in, it's almost time to stop griping and start changing the world. Whoa.


Last week, the Crossroads BRAND church machine, which employs me, asked me to be on its Management Team, which is basically, as I understand it, their Executive Board. They make decisions like when to add another service and should this guy get thrown out and what is God doing and are the people digging the coffee? This invitation, to be frank, stymies me. What business do *I* have helping to run a religious organization? I've spent most of my adult years lambasting the religious establishment, trying to guard my family and loved ones from it, and now I'm invited in. Will they make me only carry a Bible that has their corporate-style logo embroidered on the front? Will I have to be on their "Safe at Jesus!" softball league? Can I only listen to Organization Sanctioned 100% Sin-Proof Christian Music? Egad and good gracious, kill me now.

It's kind of strange when they basically say to you, "Hey you, with all the complaints and opinions--we want to hear what you have to say." It's like taking the buffoons who write letters to the newspaper and making them part of the editorial committee. Having spent the great majority of my life in some sort of religious organization (mission agencies, student organizations, para-church land, and churches ranging from house-centered to mega- to messianic), it feels INCREDIBLY BIZARRE to have been received and listened to as much as I have been here. I feel like Gollum looking plantively at Frodo when he's asked to leave the secret pool. "Are you sure? What's behind this? Are you going to kill me?" If I have a prophetic voice, as some suggest, then I'd be the first to say BY GOLLY IT'S UNUSUAL FOR PEOPLE TO RECEIVE PROPHETS. But by golly, I seem to be received here, at least at the moment. Unless you've lived my story (as guys like Ross and Neil and Craig have, in some way), or walked with somebody like me for a while, you have no idea how foreign it feels. But I can also say that this is an organization where honest communication and authentic community (=just living your life with other people beside you) are highly valued, a premium is put on truth, even if it's uncomfortable and confusing and humiliating, and where the leadership WANTS to receive people for who they are in Jesus. That is also so incredibly unusual that I keep walking around with bug eyes and a Cheshire grin, like Peter Lorry when he's just been given the go-ahead to lop someone's head off. I didn't say it wasn't fun. I said it was weird.

So, what--are we becoming the establishment? And what does that say about our responsibility? And our authority? And the way God is looking at us these days?

Having seen the advertisements on the teevee, with all their promises of happiness and the little extra bit of luxury my life is missing (which I unquestionably deserve), I gave in to the end-cap promotion at my local grocer and bought Kellogg's BRAND Vanilla Creme (not Cream, mind you. Creme gives it a feel of prestige, of other-ness, of EuroSuave) flavored Frosted Mini-Wheats.

Let me say this, bye the bye: we are one Mini-Wheat eating family. We buy the greatness of Target's Archer Farms brand of this product (Hello! $1.88! Archer Farms! Thank you!), as well as the in-the-bag, saving-money-on-the-packaging-as-well-as-the-ad-money getto style (This strange little sector of my cereal isle has always been somewhat of a curiosity to me. There's a bin over here on the side, kind of out of the way, which houses many of the exact same products as over there in the flashy boxes, but these over here are sad sacks indeed, overlooked and flaccid. They really are--they're flaccid. They have no backbone, and they're not out strutting around telling you how tasty they are. My heavens, they're just slumped over like a pile of old clothes. But I love them! I feel like I've found a treasure buried in a field, like the least are really the greatest, as well as the most economical. Those crazy bags of cereal--I love them so). So yeah- we like mini-wheats.

Quick review of the product: the smell is pretty good, and that smell exists even after the application of milk, which is nice. The taste is not very different from regular mini-wheats, but it's good. Like I said, we're fans. As a matter of fact, I had a bowl of regular mini-wheats after my new Vanilla Creme mini-wheats, and it was kind of a disappointment. Vanilla Creme=Good!

Now to the point of this post. On the back of the box, where I hope for some bits of trivia, a cartoon of some sort, or at least some dumb maze or something, guess what I find. (I'm assuming you're guessing right now.) I found an ADVERTISEMENT FOR VANILLA CREME MINI WHEATS!! What the FAT is this!??!? Haven't I just bought the product!? Aren't I sitting here eating the product I purchased?! Why must I be subjected to this advertising torture yet again?!?

It's like Thad saying that, after drinking is Coca-Cola BRAND sugar liquid, he finds under the cap a sign marked "DRINK COKE PLAY AGAIN." Friends, is this any way to live?

I know that the day is coming in which food will be engineered in such a way that, after it is consumed, WE become billboards for the products. We will produce a rash on our cheeks, for instance, that declare "Parkay! Not butter!" Or maybe they'll do crossover ads for other products in their company. Maybe you'll eat Pringles BRAND pressed potato-flavored snack bark and you'll produce a bruise on your forearm that reads "Bounty! The Quicker Picker-Upper!"


I don't like the sound of this. Not one bit. But I can tell you this: I'll be buying Vanilla Creme Mini-Wheats again.

I thought this was a thought-provoking piece from a Dallas radio personality named Gordon Keith.


Reflections on the like of Hunter S. Thompson.


So he blows his head off and I don’t think it is heroic. I don’t think it is romantic, glamorous, or defiant. I don’t think it is praiseworthy, toastworthy, noteworthy, or manly.


You won’t catch me pouring whisky on a grave. Now or ever. It is just sad that such men corrupted my youth and destroyed my adulthood with their permanent adolescence.


Those who make Hemingway, Thompson, Cobain, Morrison, Hendrix, Cassady, Kerouac, Thomas, Hart Crane, Kennedy Toole, or any other sad sack a romantic figure for doing what bums do everyday are pathetic fools. They praise the incarnations of their adolescent angst and tell the rest of us who wouldn’t let ours kill us that we are squares.


I want to live a full and adventurous life for its own sake, not for the sake of giving the advent of my existence the middle finger. I don’t want my life to be shock value, I want it to be a life. Time to tire of being pissed off I was born.


Self-destruction is not the romantic inspiring dance with the Reaper these men promised me it was in my youth, back when wasted talent was as intoxicating as mescal, and every bar was a new novel. Drinking and whoring. It’s false living and it’s a grade of bullshit that sells. And every young man with a literary or rock-n-roll bent burns with that tired Gospel until it is no longer cute, then they turn into old singed men. It happens just like that. One day you are a rock-n-roll bon vivant, the next a drunkard that shit his pants. These goods have always been marketed and sold to the young and I’ll bet all my first editions they always will. I bought it by the caseload and drank their form of death one shot glass at a time with conspiring friends. These men were great at marketing it and some of them sadly believed it until it killed them, or realized their lie and that’s what killed them.


And I was right there, buying it and doing a cheap job of living it. Do not go gentle into that good night. Ok. Then, what shall I go gentle into milord? Nuthin? Ok. Thanks for the help.


I’ve spent too much of my life drinking, smoking, and last-call philosophizing. It’s a frustrating roundabout that creates as much pain as it masks.


As you can tell, this isn’t about Hunter as much as it is about me, and I am truly afraid I will spend the rest of my life trying to kill the 22 year old Gordon Keith.


I don’t know Hunter’s mindset the last few years of his life and I am a shithead for assuming. Yet here I am vomiting up all these words because something so meaningless has meant so much to me. I am not mad at him for his suicide. Nevermind the Catholics. Maybe we all have the right to end the suspense to our own liking. We all kill ourselves at different paces. I am just the old codger who fears what it does to the impressionable who feel like vicarious living is the only true kind. What a sad mistake it is, and how I hate that it robbed me of good years.


“Did you hear what Hunter Thompson did? He said fuck it, if life won’t give me what I want, I’ll wrestle back the wheel of this renegade Buick.” When in reality it was a lonely old scared man who did what lonely old scared men do everywhere. It is ironic to me that poets, authors and sages, who spend the better part of their lives working on the problem of mortality are the ones who fail at it the most come nut-cutting time. You can’t beat that old whore, and it seems to surprise those who “know” it the most.


The ones who want the most life are the ones most disappointed. I don’t know the answer, I just smell a problem.


We praise those who can put words on that which we cannot. So I guess I come to praise Hunter Thompson and bury him.

Bobby loves Danny

Bobby & Camera Day 1
Originally uploaded by smanuel.

Many of you might not know this, but both Jiff and Bobby live and work (and good for them, showing some initiative!) out there in Los Angeles, home of broken dreams and broken and re-sculpted noses. Bobby does (and Jiff did) work in the world of filmed and recorded entertainment, where people make up stories, act out the stories, edit and musicfy them, then sell them to us. This industry (again, if you don't know), makes a lot of money and, because it does, produces people who "live large". These people can be identified by people who don't know them at all, and you, for instance, may have an impression of Tom Cruise as a happy, fulfilled success of a man, while on the inside he's a misogynistic egomaniac. I'm not saying he is, though he very well could be. Anyhow. The beauty of knowing J&B is that you sometimes get silly stories about people we can identify but don't know, and sometimes the Mash writes itself. From Bobby, who's handling the front door of an entertainment-pooping boutique:


I'm at the front desk. Hovering outside the front
door, be-capped, be-jacketed, be-cell phoned, Mr.
Danny Glover. Big man, the expression of a lost
child. I buzz him in. He has the phone to his ear,
but doesn't seem to realize it. He cuts the jig of a
homeless man who has FOUND a cell phone. He never...
quite... actually... makes it... to the desk. Just
floats in the middle space.

He has that sweet, gruff, library voice the whole
time. The conversation as it occurred:

Bobby: Yes, sir.
Danny Glover: (glancing around) Hi, I made it.
B: Yes, sir. Welcome. Who are you here to see?

The phone comes down.

DG: Oh... is this?... I'm here to see Chris.
B: Hmmm. Chris (carefully) who?
DG: This is... I'm... For Chris. (re: address) 9350?
B: Yes sir, Suite 100.
DG: Right, 9350.
B: Suite 100.
DG: Chris, uh, Ebert.
B: (gripping phone list) Chris Ebert? There's no
Chris Ebert that works here, unfortunately.

A very long pause, our eyes are locked.

B: **look at that old black buck**
DG: **i look stupid again**
B: **wanna talk some jive?**
DG: **i once consumed a boy about your size**
B: **i'll talk some jive like you never heard**
DG: **i want to crush ALL white people**

B: What project are you here to discuss?
DG: Projhhh?
B: I could send you to the right office that way.

And he wanders off, thumb poking open phone. Matthew
happens to walk up.

B: I don't know where to send Danny Glover. And he's
standing right there.
Matthew: (grins only)
B: (to DG) This is Intermedia.
DG: Right, I'm Danny Glover.
B: Yes, sir.

He gets no one on his phone, turns back to me. He
shifts his weight onto his other leg, then back again.

DG: Chris Ebert?
B: He's not in this building.
DG: 110?
B: Suite 110? This is suite 100.
DG: Is this Ascendant?
Matthew: Oh, they're next door.
B: This is Intermedia.
DG: (leaving) Oh... next... thank you... next door.

And he disappeared beyond the window.

Matthew: (just chuckles)
B: Well, he was good in Tenenbaums.

I'm celebrating all our past presidents (except LBJ) by sitting around the house writing today. And also, I'm giving you all a link to an incredible music video featuring the head of Abraham Lincoln, the Great Emancipator. After you see this video, you will start calling him the Great Groove Activator. Here's to all former heads of state!

I will always be interested in what I call Generational Theory. I like to observe, from a social as well as spiritual standpoint, the differences between generations. I observe, for instance, that my grandparents' generation was about survival and establishment; my parents' generation has been much more into production and success. My generation seems to be more into personal development or relationships. I'm just saying.

Now, while these are interesting (and debatable) observations, there are SOME things that are NOT up for debate at all. They cut our generations clean into, like a lawnmower blade through stale dog doo. And here's one of them. Allow me to capitalize, to simulate a raising of the voice. OUR PARENTS LOVED WALLPAPER. WE DO NOT. Nobody reading this would choose to have a room like the one pictured below.
This was a very basic part of my growing up, the fact that wallpaper would get changed on most walls in the house every 5-10 years. I remember going to several wallpaper stores with my mother. And I can also say that, when I consider my life and that of my friends who also pay the bank monthly for the opportunity to claim that we 'own' a home, I DON'T KNOW OF ANYBODY IN MY GENERATION WHO HAS EVER HUNG WALLPAPER IN THEIR HOME.

I find this to be curious. I love the concept of zeitgeist, and I declare, there's SOMETHING in the air that makes such changes happen. What? What made all the cars get ovaly 10 years ago, and all awkward and non-drag-resistant now? What made neon colors so great 15 years ago and so taboo now (except in certain country and western dancehall-going sectors of society, which will not be discussed here)? What exactly happened that made the generation after mine (the Yers) want big, bushy, un-maintanainced hair? And WHY DO WE LOATHE WALLPAPER WHEN OUR PARENTS LOVED IT?!?

All I want to say is this: I walked past a ponytailed construction worker last week. He seemed about like you'd expect, except that, as we passed, he said, "Afternoon..." in a very dignified manner. I believe he might have even reached up to tip his hard hat, which was exciting and completely surprising. What a polite and genteel scholar this man came off as! I wanted to introduce myself immediately. He could easily have been a refined English gentleman--the kind that's been immortalized in this fanciful teapot that you can buy at some wheels-off antique site:
I knew a man in England who was as olde school as it gets. This man wore very dapper-looking hip coats, thought of corduroy as being the most casual garment allowable and, when pleased with something, would refer to it as "champion!" or "sterling!" I got a real hoot out of this guy. He also called me Squire, which I found very flattering, as if I was in training for something great. I loved that. Can one say that I'm charmed by chivalry and regalia? Yeah sure, I guess. I dunno.

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