Confusing!

The way:

(Jesus)

Not the way:


The truth:

(Jesus)

Not the truth:


The life:

(Jesus)

Not the life:

It All Changes Now

New wallet (Dad always called his a "billfold") . ALWAYS been a tri-fold man. Can't explain that.

As of today, *BI*-fold.

THIS... is wild.


Life never stops moving, you know?

The End of An Era

The course where I most grew up, Treeline Golf Club, is closing down after 53 years, my newly retired (and golfing-addicted) father just reported to me. Apparantly, Houston continues to gobble up the countryside, and grass must yield to the industrial dollar. At least, Treeline must. The owner, who my dad's known for 20+ years, is about to become a multi-millionaire and, as you know, nothing trumps the value of the capital M in America. But I digress.

As this chapter in Houston's history closes, I thought it fitting to pay tribute to the local links via the retelling of a modest story that happened to me, and to my good buddy Chris Havard, so very long ago:

It was 1990, spring. Chris and I were seniors in high school. We lived about 5 miles apart, and went to different high schools, but our parents were both cool. I say cool because, all during our senior years, they were amenable to writing notes for us so that we could rack up the Excused Absences, then go on into the fragile Unexcused Absences territory. We used this days carefully but whimsically. Once we stayed at my house all day and watched the Star Wars trilogy while eating Subway sandwiches and chili-cheese Fritos. Anyhow, this day (call it a Friday) was dedicated to good ol hot, cheap golf. I am not a good golfer. Chris is an excellent golfer. He was the MVP for the Chester W. Nimitz Cougars Golf Team! Anyhow, when I play poorly, I am frustrated but not surprised. Chris is shocked and horrified, and his temper can be... well... out of control. On this day, we were both not good.


After missing a makable putt, Chris brought his putter down with executioner-style wrath upon the green. Twice. As his wife LeRay and I both know, when Chris is going bazooka with the steamy ears, you should just be quiet. I thought, "Gee, Chris, I think that hunk you just took out of the green is probably preferred to be in tact. But, uh... heh heh. Easy does it. Nice, Chris." I think the only swearing I've seen Chris do was at a golf course. Ah, good times.

We rode on. I was glad to get some distance between us and that green. Later in the round, a Marshall came upon us. I am not fond of Marshalls, as most of my golfing experience is in the too-young-to-be-trusted-in-ANY-way era of my life, and I always felt suspect around these men with tall mesh baseball caps and tees tucked behind their ears. And their carts usually had some Official Markings, maybe a flag. It's over the top. Anyhow, he had an uncomfortable and reprimand-laced conversation with us about what happened back on Green 12. Then...


At the cash register, as we paid out for the day (old timey days! Cash!), Chris was informed that he was Banned For Life from Treeline Golf Club. Chris' reponse (remember: 17-year old high schooler, speaking to Working Adult)?

"Who cares about being banned from your crappy club. This place sucks."

Now, on the one hand, I was amazed by his chutpah (and his nuts, too). On the other, I was horrified, as this was my dad's 'regular' course, and I sure didn't want to be banned.

Something tells me that the Lifetime Ban might not be enforced were Chris to stop by today, but it was an impressive sentence back in the day. And there you have it. Adios, Treeline. Give me back my balls!

THIS is who I am.

I have a new album coming out soon, which I'm pleased about, and Sir Robert Hornak has written a bio for me that I think merits parading around in front of my friends. Here it is. I think I made a couple of tiny changes, Bobs, so forgive my arrogance:


Steve Manuel
(1945-2002)

Steven Alphonse Manuel was born backstage at the Théâtre de Babylone in Paris, January 5, 1953, during the world premier of Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting For Godot,” shocking his mother, who had already given birth to him once, eight years before. Beckett, a witness to the birth that night, commissioned his own epitaph on the spot: “I saw a baby born with lunch money in its pocket.” For Manuel, it was the beginning of a relationship with the stage that would last decades, garner millions of fans, and inspire three Elvis movies.

When he turned 16, Manuel’s mother was crushed beneath the foot of a rampaging Indian elephant, and he struck out, alone, in search of his estranged father, who had left the family ten years prior in search of his own father, a rampaging Indian elephant. His adventure took him to all corners of the globe, and little Stevie grew fast and strong in the lamplight of the world’s great societies:

At 19, traveling through Central Africa, Manuel – with his shock of bleach white hair – was mistaken for Nzambi, the supreme god for all the Kongo Kingdom. Later admitting his indulgence in hair product, he was demoted to a “nganga,” or a medicinal consultant in charge of rashes and phlegm.

At 23, Manuel burned his draft card and moved to Flin Flon, Manitoba, where he met and married a local anesthesiologist named Ruby who had induce-slept her way to the top of a prominent medical practice. The partnership unraveled, however, when Ruby admitted to splitting a cab once with U.S. Secretary of Defense Robert S. McNamara. The marriage was annulled and all reference to it blotted out of subsequent Soviet encyclopedias.

At 28, piecing his life back together, Manuel returned to his musical roots, and started a traveling harp-lute band. “It’s 1973,” he would often say. “And the world is ready for me and my harp-lute.” But it would be another sixteen years of dingy bars and honky-tonks from Lisbon to Istanbul before Manuel would finally be able to say, “At last I can say, nobody likes the harp-lute, and nobody likes me, Steve Manuel, who plays it.”

Little did he know that success lay just around the corner. While rounding it at a market in Prague, Stashwan (as he then was calling himself) slipped on a honeydew and immediately remembered the lyrics to an original song he heard in a fever dream as a child. He jotted the lyrics down on a banana rind and faxed it to his friend Elton John, who informed him that the song had already been recorded as “Saturday Night’s Alright (For Fighting)”, although with completely different lyrics and melody.

Devastated, alone, and still father-less, Manuel did the only thing he knew how to do: he courted investors, rented a stage on Broadway, and launched a musical based on his own life and experiences titled “Waiting For Godot.” It was a smash success, heralded by critics for its “rigorous use of the unities,” its “implacable interpretation of human life” and its “generously early intermission.” It was immediately embraced by audiences of toddlers and transients everywhere. Steven Manuel had become a household word, festooned with accolades and beclothed with rich coats of many colors (and also rich matching pants and boots of many colors). Yet Manuel would not admit success until 1998, when his name was used as a puzzle on Wheel Of Fortune under the clue “androgynous mysteries.”

Sadly, Manuel met with misfortune in May of 2002, when the airship he was attempting to fishtail suddenly burst into flames. He lingered in a partial coma for three weeks, emerging from his mental haze in short episodes long enough to swear vengeance on Schneider, before finally succumbing on June 17, 2002. He was 114. He is survived by his dog, Steven Manuel.

Today's Public Safety Tip

I often feel that God wants me to be a living public service:


*Wear a safety helmet and don't take chances on motorcycles.

*Avoid falling asleep at the wheel of your automobile.

*Don't purchase investment properties over a thousand miles away from your residence.

*Wade with extreme caution into the waters of organized religion.

*etc.

Today's tip comes courtesy of the Pilot Inn, the wine bibbing station at the end of my road. Because of this quality establishment (which offers patrons white plastic deck chairs in lieu of actual seats), I have the opportunity of hearing yelling and/or fighting revellers up to and including 3am on Thursday-Saturday night. We also get to clear up alcoholic containers, cigarette wrappers, and fast food refuse from our yards in the daylight hours. It's a fine place with a neon Lite Beer/Bengals sign in the front. It's the kind of place moljer would probably absolutely love. Jacob Dylan once told that he'd like to watch his house burn (in his band's one enduring hit, "One Headlight", which was just before they smashed the whole thing by bringing us "Three Marlenas". The one neat thing about "Headlight" is that there are no cymbals anywhere on that song. I've always thought that was kind of cool.), and boy I'd like to see the Pilot Inn burn, as well.

In any case, the Fourth of July always brings out the celebrants, as well as their trail of fireworks casings, and this year was no exception. Wednesday morning Didi and I woke to find that both of our cars had been broken into (the third occurrence in four years for us both), and all available monies had been taken--for me, that included my wallet. Today's public safety tips are:

*Go ahead and leave your car unlocked (less damage that way); just clean it out of valuables each evening.

*Keep a list of the entire contents of your wallet somewhere (I think I had a completed Sub Club card in there!). But keep it somewhere other than your wallet (Jiff).

Senor Cleeenton

Somebody correct me if I misspeak here: about 10 years ago, or a little less, the name Bill Clinton was mud-caked and muck-raked. He was seen as a flim-flam man; a huckster and a snake oil charmer. He left office a degraded, but never ashamed, man, untrusted by a disillusioned nation. His relationship with his ambitious wife was seen as a marriage in name only, more like a business partnership by reticent equals who need each other to keep the company afloat. She was seen as manipulative, clever, and plastic. He was seen as vacuous and amoral. Their bond had housed drug use, many infidelities, possible murder, and let's say significantly questionable use of the most powerful office on the planet.

After the fact, Bill has been a marketing machine. He published his memoirs and put a homey smile on his innumerable public appearances; he's become an outspoken (and influential) advocate of AIDS and welfare crises in Africa; he teamed up with George H. W. Bush (seen as a benign but benevolent man, probably an image Bill would aspire to) in creating a charitible foundation for the millions of storm victims in the Indian Ocean and on the Gulf Coast. He opened his personal office in Harlem. He won two Grammys for spoken word albums. He opened the largest Presidential Library in the nation, where the adoring U2 gang sang for him. He's been active in UN conferences, opposed soft drinks in schools, and was awarded the J. William Fulbright Prize for International Understanding.

So... something changed somewhere in there. It certainly did for me. When I see that Clinton is now involved in something, I pretty much think "oh, that's good. He'll probably bring some heart into whatever's going on." I'm GLAD he's become buddies with Bill Gates; I think that money is probably being better spent because of Bill's contacts and experience. I heard him talk persuasively to the panel at the G8 summit, and he said lots of things that I'd want said to that group. In short, I've become quite sympathetic to the guy. I mean, if we'd been through the crapola he's been through (and forget the money and fame, neither of which is comforting when you share a bed with a woman who hates you, to name just one scenario that's certainly played out in his life), holy smokes, we'd either be a little more tolerant of others, or we'd become cynical and embittered. Anyhow. No, I don't want him as the Commander in Chief, nor as the guy holding the purse strings of this nation, but he seems to be doing great with the position he's been given: Listened-To Former President With Friends in High Places.

You might disagree with that paragraph, but that's me. Now, what I see is what everyone else on the planet sees: Hillary is coming. She has also learned a thing or two in the last decade, and does a whooooole lot less public conniving. She seems calmer, less menopausal, and more in control of herself. She's certainly more in control in some ways, since her husband's days of holding political office are over, and her future is the only one the family has left to fight for. Everyone speculates that the lady wants to be president just like Bill.

I can't believe I wrote all that. I really just wanted to ask this one question: IF the Republicans continue to mangle our country in the way they marry the military with business concerns, AND IF Bill has more grace and patience and wisdom than he once had, and IF Hillary is more calm, cool, and collected than ever...

Would Hillary For President really be the worst thing in the world? Now before you say "OH HELL YES!", let me just ask... really? Would it really be as bad as, say, Jeb running the show?

Those three sentences were the whole post, right there. This is epilogue. I just want to state that I don't pretend to be politically aware, savvy, or really very concerned--I place no hope in such things. I just found that question race across my mind today and was surprised. I'm a pretty run of the mill American on this stuff: I like to think of myself as discriminating in my judgment, but I'm pretty roundly uninformed and don't care to do the work that would make me so. I catch a sound bite a month. I am vulnerable to the image-makers' craft. And today I ask that question. Rockstar, feel free to rebut. I just ask the question. And no, this post has nothing to do with the Che post.

Get your blab on!

Try to click that button on the right and leave me a voice mail through the computerized network system! I would love to see how this sucker will work! The information superhighway promises much, and delivers (sometimes). Let's give this thing a go. Come on, peeps. chinGO!

Same Guy.

I know it's LESS funny when you have to explain, but that's Liam Gallagher of Oasis.

Pro Video Bandits Destroy! Details Below.

Your 2005-2006 Pro Video Bandits have taken home the Audience Choice Award for their 48-hour Film Project entry, Heartfelt. The first-time entrants were surprised to have won the popularity contest, since their film's "funny parts" elicited so few actual laughs from the crowd. Still, producer Bill Poff was pleased, if not satisfied: "What I want is to win the city. I want to go to nationals." Those type things will be disclosed in two weeks.

Non-winners, at least up to now, are those darned Dallas Mavericks. I am so put out with this non-winning team that I have declared that, for me, the 2005-2006 NBA season is over. I cannot grade the season; I give it an I for Incomplete. I have no plans to watch other games. It is neither here nor there. And I can say, and I hate saying this, but I can say that if the Mavs do pull it out and win the next two games, I will not crow nor tout them as The Champs. They have forfeit that right. That is too bad, but it is my stance.

There were winners, and there were losers. The fifth day.

Who is this guy?

Ernesto "Che" Guevara, the Argentenian revolutionary leader, was driven, at least in part, by compassion and conviction. If you want to see an inspiring (and romanticized) account of his life, see The Motorcycle Diaries. By the way, the word "che" is the familiar diminutive for "you" in Argentina, as in "hey, you!" It's a one-word call of urgency and engagement, and it was his name. Pretty cool.

Zechariah 7:9 This is what the LORD Almighty says: 'Administer true justice; show mercy and compassion to one another

He was a charismatic leader, known for his exploits. He spoke in Cuba several times, beginning in 1964, and people came to see him because his exploits were passed around and he was generally regarded as a folk hero. Castro did much to hype his legend and exploit it for his purposes, which Che was okay with, at least sometimes.

Matthew 8:1 When he came down from the mountainside, large crowds followed him.

People wanted to be around him, but the demands for coming alongside him were huge:

“[Che] believed a successful revolution must begin in the countryside… not in the cities. Any number, no matter how small, could begin it, keeping a low profile while they accumulated recruits, then increasing their daring and their numbers as the movement gained notoriety through its exploits… the leader… would have total command…if it persisted, even a small group of dedicated revolutionaries could overcome great opposition.” -Henry Butterfield Ryan, The Fall of Che Guevara

Luke 14:25 Large crowds were traveling with Jesus, and turning to them he said: 26"If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children, his brothers and sisters—yes, even his own life—he cannot be my disciple.27And anyone who does not carry his cross and follow me cannot be my disciple...33In the same way, any of you who does not give up everything he has cannot be my disciple

Che wanted people in small groups. He wanted them to Go To The Crags. That's where change took place: once people went to the crags, they were never the same again. It was there that they counted the cost, and Che knew that the dynamic in the crags would shape people into the revolutionaries they'd become.

Che didn't believe that he was the revolution; he believed that the revolution was in the hearts of the people--he only wanted to fan the flame that (he believed) was already there in people's hearts. That being the case, he traveled to other countries to help facilitate strategies for uprising. He did this not only in Cuba, but in Guatemala, Congo Kinchasa, and Bolivia.

What did Che have to gain by swooping around the world to help others along then get out of the picture? It goes back to the fact that he was driven by compassion and conviction, not by ego. He didn't care that his name was made great; he cared about people living in (what he saw as) freedom. His dream was to cover the globe with socialism, setting people free from tyranny and oppression.

Matthew 28:18 ...Jesus came to them and said, "All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. 19Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in[a] the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, 20and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age."

“[Guevara] brings to mind early reformers of the Christian church, with his extensive learning, his disregard of worldly rewards, his devotion to an ideal, his despair over the imperfect commitment of colleagues, and his certainty that he would someday become a martyr for the faith...” --Ryan

"His dedication to his revolutionary beliefs was deeply religious. Che had a missionary's faith in the innate goodness of man, in the ability of workers to dedicate themselves to ideals and to overcome selfishness and prejudices. It was the other side of the coin of his passionate indignation against injustice and exploitation of the humble. He saw the solution in an exalted form of Marxism that would bring freedom and brotherhood. Such men are born to be martyrs." --Herbert L. Matthews, Revolution In Cuba

I'll Not Take This Injustice Without Complaining!

Now I will take an ace/moljer approach: I will rant.

I have whined some about this in the past, but I must report more snobbery on the part of motorcycle owners and shop management. These people act as if a bike over 10 years old is tantamount to litter, to street trash floating by.

I recently crashed my bike, which is an embarrassing experience. It was my first time to do so, but luckily I was prepared by not wearing a helmet, but compensating by wearing only shorts and a t-shirt. I rolled around a little bit in front of several cars and the UPS truck that caused my panic and eventual loss of control, but sustained only a scraped up knee and left forearm/elbow. Small price to pay for about 7 years of riding pleasure. Anyhow, my bike looked worse than I did: on its side, draining all manner of fluids, and not making any hopeful noises when I tried to start it back up. I took it to a shop.

There, the snobbishness was plied with expertise. Basically, these jerks didn't want to work on a 22-year-old bike which, if you ask me, they should be PROUD of. "Our girl's still running strong after all these years! What an advertisement for our brand! How can we help you, sir?" etc. This is what they say to me in my mind, when I go to get my bike worked on.

Instead, I was talked to about how they wouldn't be able to get any body parts for this bike if I'd asked them to do any body work (which I didn't). I was told it ran okay, so why would I want to have them take a look at it (it eventually ran after sitting upright a couple of days and the breather dried out)? When I asked them that, as long as they had it, would they just give it a tune up and maybe change the plugs?, I was treated as if I was impinging on their valuable time and my bike didn't deserve that. I was so annoyed I just asked for the bike back. There's a shop on the other side of town (a much more depressed area, with less snobbery) where they'll treat me like a customer who's willing to pay for a service. I actually even had this exchange with the 'service manager' (ha! misplaced title there, bucko):

ServManaJerk: Couldn't get a new tank or anything for this bike if you needed them. It'd basically be junked at that point.

Customer: I don't need you to do that. If I DID need a new tank, I could get one lickety split on ebay. It's not hard.

ServManaJerk: Yeah, but on those old parts, half the time it's all rusted out on the inside, and the tank cap might not be assembled properly. You're basically out of luck, there.

Customer, in his head: Look I GET that you don't want me to own this bike, asshead. I GET that you'd rather I owned a 2006 Shadow so that you could get me all new chrome parts and every time I walked in it'd cost me $300. I GET THAT. BUT THIS IS MY BIKE. WILL YOU PLEASE WORK ON IT, TURDO?! Also, can I borrow $10? (I would just throw that in there to totally cheese him off, because it's inappropriate, socially, to ask for a personal favor amidst a business interaction, and that would WIG HIM OUT!)

And THAT's the kind of ignominy that Rosie the Motorbike has to undergo, all the time. Prejudice exists, my friends, and it doesn't look like it's going away any time soon. Say "I appreciate you" today to an old-model form of transportation. I'm sure ace will nominate his Toyota if you need an object for your affection.

Smilin'

I'm taking it easy. I'm kicking up and not bothered. Mavs fans around the globe are eating their shoelaces today, but not me. As I said at the beginning of the playoffs, I am a Well-Trained Mavs Observer. SHOULD WIN means nothing to me. BETTER TEAM is irrelevant. I am a modern man, massaged by the years. I have learned to have no emotion, like my leader Dirk, and just say "it's a game. Maybe the team will be better next time." This makes for good sleeping. When you learn well (I didn't say the learning was easy! I said the lessons are thorough), you begin to stop taking the bait. Mavs get extremely nervous in crunch time, and that's all there is to it. And Dirk is like the oven cleaner: Easy Off. He's not like Jordan, who'd become INSENCED when he shot poorly, as if to say "exCUSE me!? How DARE me not shoot the way I'm capable of shooting! I will not cram this ball down somebody's throat!" He's Dirk. He's easygoing. It makes for a more balanced person. And that's good.

Now then. Consider:

SAME GUY



by the way, how great is it that the entire public relations and design teams of the Yakima Mavericks signed off on that logo, leaving the apostrophe in tact? Magic, I tell you. Magic.

Sleep is for suckers

This past weekend, I had the pleasure of working on a project for this thing:

This means that my team received a genre (buddy movie), necessary character (Rev. Paul Schwarz), necessary prop (egg), and necessary line ("That's the dumbest thing I ever heard!") at 7pm on Friday. I and two others (and Jiff's cell phone) wrote a script, due at 7am, at which point my director and producer scouted locations and started doing whatever they do. Then the actors (of which I was one) got together at noon and we shot that mother until like 3 am, then editing, sound, color correction, etc. started happening. We turned in our little love child at 6pm Sunday night, still wet with our kisses.

It's a modern parable, really: two loveably strange men perform a puppet show at a VBS and a brawl ensues. Who can't learn a thing or two from this tragicomedy? Nobody, I tell ye. Nobody.

If the technology exists at some point, I will send you to youtube to see it. I'm going to the screening tonight, where I hope we'll collect massive awards and huge cash packages.


Viva la cinema!

This is the musical world we live in.

Today, in submission to the wishes of my iPod, I listened to Jack Johnson during my 1-mile commute to work. As I was considering his no-frills stylings, I was reminded of my opinion-how refreshing. About 10-years ago, I surveyed the pop/rock landscape and thought that we, as listeners, exhausted. Michael Jackson and others were so grossly overproducing their records that the radio often seemed more like a clattered cacophony of gizmos and clicks than a medium where songs were exchanged. There were also big, angry rock bands out there like Pearl Jam (what is up, CZ), Soundgarden, Alice In Chains, Metallica, Nirvana, Rage Against the Machine, Smashing Pumpkins, as well as loud, meaningless rock bands like Guns N Roses, Bon Jovi, and Red Hot Chili Peppers. Throw all those guys into the stew (and more--these are off the top of my head), and things are brash, frenzied, and sonically tiring.

Anyhow: what I said many times over, in those days, was "I bet things will change. I think this particular track is at its end. I bet we somehow return to the folksy days of the 70s, where James Taylor and his guitar and a sparce backing band are good enough to get the point across and bring a return of HEART to the landscape. I bet SONGWRITERS will be the new currency, where high-touch, high-vulnerability will somehow be edgy."

I remember Jewel happening, and thinking "I hope this is the beginning (of something better)." It was. Practically all of the emo artists (including the droning Mr. Bland, er, Blunt, Sufjan, Belle and Sebastian etc.), as well as our friend Jack are doing it low-tone style. Foo Fighters released an acoustic album this year! What?! Even Coldplay is less about noise than they are about emotion and connection, which is, as you know, a joy to me.

On the one hand, I am obviously pleased with these developments. It makes my predictions look sagacious, and there's more music out there that invites a dialogue, a conversation, an evaluation. I like that.

On the other hand, where's the fun, kickin' rock band gone? I don't think U2 would still be the presence they are if there were 20 year olds still cranking out great rock music. Not sideline stuff (Killers, Franz Ferdinand, Artic Monkeys), but radio-ready, fun rock music. There isn't even a rock band as big as Creed out there right now--not that I liked them at all, but I just like a crunch band BEING there.

But if that's the price of songwriters, I'll take it. John Mayer wouldn't have made it in the 80s or early 90s, but he is now certifiably cool, and I'm glad. I guess we can all hold our breaths to see if we can have a Police rebirth somewhere. Until then, I kinda enjoy the Curious George soundtrack. It might be simple, but it's trying to mean SOMETHING.

We gotta tear the machine down before we can build it back up again.

Open Question

2 Corinthians 4:4 refers to Satan as "the god of this age". Luke 4:6, Revelation 13:2-7, and Matthew 18 talk about the authority he has to do what he does, by God. Job 1-2 talk about this same thing.

Romans 13:1 Everyone must submit himself to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established.

What am I to do with this, since rebelling against that ruler and his authorities (again, Eph 6:12- "our struggle is... against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil...") is something I'm supposed to do? How can I know which authority is from God and which is part of the devil's system? The book A Tale of Three Kings (wonderful! wonderful! Everybody read this book!) says "you can't know, so submit to them all", but surely I'm not to submit to the enemy's intentions in my life and in the lives of those I'm to fight for.

Any help on this, anybody?

From the Archives

I just thought everybody should see this wonderful photo. May these two have many more exciting playoff series, and may Scrappy lose them all.

I would also like to take this opportunity to say RIP to Charles Barkley's 2006 Playoffs on TNT.

And one last (melancholy) Mavs point for the day: when they were hoisting up that Western Conference Champs trophy, and I was harkening back to 1996, the last time I was rooting for a winner, Didi said very matter-of-factly, having been through the corporate grinder herself: it's going to be a very sad day for Mark Cuban when his team wins the finals. Then what?

I quickly reminded her that, just like the corporate world, the carrot will keep moving. Then he'll need two, a dynasty, etc. etc. Still, I liked her jarring me back to reality that these are two corporations battling each other. Kinda takes the fun out of it, though.

I Cannot Help But Show This Wonder

In light of recent postings, this cannot be debated:


There it is, a wedding day tribute to an Aggie tradition that killed a couple dozen people about 10 years ago. Nothing says "I do" like a confectionary memorial to a fiery death trap, complete with an outhouse on top. Say you'll be mine my dear?

Stealthy Germans that made my weekend fun

and

but not

Mavs Thoughts

* Where was the Eva Longoria Cam in Friday night's win? Maybe she's stopped following the Mavs? I sure hope not.

* In the last 4 minutes of tight games, there are certain teams that just seem to get fiestier, more aggressive, and just like to clamp down. These teams win a lot. I think of the Shaq Lakers, the Pistons, and yes, the Spurs. These Mavs of mine, they are not like that. Where other teams increase in intensity, Mavs just start hoping more. They begin to say "oh. I sure hope we don't lose this game. I sure hope we might possibly make a shot or two, etc." I used to know another team like this--my old Rockets. They begin to get that butt-pucker, take weird shots, don't push the offense, etc. It's a lot like the Prevent D the Oilers have favored. My pal Chris Havard would always say, "yes, the Prevent D works: it prevents us from winning." I always liked that line.

* Same guy, different position:

Same mormony ineffectiveness, same striking whiteness, same sex appeal.

About School Spirit... Again

When I was 17 years old and starting Higher Education, I was pretty jazzed about the whole thing. I really loved the idea of being part of this academic community, where there was a commonness amidst incredible variety. I liked rubbing shoulders with would-be engineers, politicos, and poets, all in a day's span; I liked hearing lectures on subjects that I'd never think about again; I liked there being a gigantic organization that was forever churning out concerts, intramural sports, community service projects, etc. all for my participation and enjoyment. It was good.

Now, having said that, I also understood that what I (and, to a larger degree, my parents) had done was to buy into a CORPORATION. They were a service company that offered educational environments. We could USE the word 'family', we could propagandize some sort of birthright or brotherhood, etc., but our commonality was really on a par with everybody using the same brand of toothpaste. At my particular school, there was a very involved and complex system of expectations and inferences that presumably obligated people to act a certain way (raise your hands over your head at ballgames at specific times, based on what your year is), talk a certain way (always say HOWDY when you pass people on the sidewalks), and even buy into specific moralities (the hallowed "Aggie Code" which means that we never, say it with me Ags, "Lie, Cheat, or Steal"). Looking back, it was bizarre. I think I've chronicled here, before, about the appeal to the Spirit of Aggieland at bonfires and what not and it felt awfully religious and scary. But I now see that this is how institutions work, and communal buy-in is simply a way to 1) control people, and 2) propagate yourself. So we can say that telling your family members about your wonderful experience is just a way for them, too, to get the best out of their collegiate experience, or we can see that this is corporate marketing in a folksy dressing.


Either way, I came away from my university experience having had a wonderful time, loving all that it entailed, but being remorseful that I dropped $300 (or whatever it was) on my Senior Ring, which now resides in a box in our spare bedroom. I will occasionally wear a t-shirt with my old school on it, out of nostalgia or something, but I can't say that I have School Spirit in the strictest sense. I feel no ownership in that particular corporation. And I certainly didn't have a wedding cake that resembled this in any way:

And now for something totally different...

You may think this is "lame" or "pointless" or "megalomaniacal" or "Oprahlicious", but a WHOLE NEW BLOG has been created by yours truly. Think of it! Another page of MMMEEEEEE. Let me tell you all about it:

I do a little teaching thing here in Cincinnati, where I get a few friends together then tell them some stuff I'm seeing God saying in the scriptures and in the world around me. I make them listen to me for hours at a time. THEN, they sometimes insinuate that I haven't COMPLETELY and EXHAUSTIVELY covered a subject (can you believe this?) by wanting to ask QUESTIONS about what I've said. Unfortunately, I manage to be so seldom available for phone calls or conversations that I inadvertantly evade their inquiries. It's too bad, how it is. In any case, it's more efficient (and probably more beneficial to others) to create AN ENTIRELY NEW WEB PAGE ON THE INTERNET so that people can ask questions and throw them around to other people and we can all have input and think aloud, etc. [Yeah, basically, it's just another friggin blog. So throw a parade, already.]


Anyhow, I wanted you peeps to be aware of it. It's asksteven.blogspot.com. I think you'll really enjoy typing in those letters (or copying/pasting them), then pressing return. And, watch out! This page's design features DOTS. Yowza!

So this is what it's like to be Ronnie.

(Oh, I think I need to release some gas. But right here at my desk? Is that appropriate? Okay, I'm kidding. [Bwoop.] Wait a second. That feeling of uncertainty tells me that this could be more than what it as first seemed. I'd better not push... oh crap. I feel wetness around my sphincter... don't tell me. Oh no!)

Man runs out of office. Zoom in on man's rear, which features a growing dark spot of wetness.



So now I'm sitting here, at work on a Monday, literally stewing in my own juices. And I'm not even mad about anything! I am excited, though, to have visited this place: