Fountain of Youth

Today I wish I had a photograph of a man who was drinking out of a public fountain (not a drinking fountain; one of those beautiful useless pieces of art you find in the city squares and in parks), while urinating into that same fountain. I would call that photograph The Circle of Life. I understand that may be a little base, and slightly crass, but I'm not here to tell you what I SHOULD wish for.

I guess I've been 'Tagged' by ace

But that doesn't make me gay. If you care to hear this stuff, so be it. Or just skip down to the good stuff (read: photo of Patti LaBelle).

FOUR JOBS I'VE HAD:
1. Roustabout for National Car Rental (jiff and I once worked at the D/FW airport, eviscerating their defunct property. It was weird. I thought we'd spend the summer driving around fancy new cars. No.)
2. Dish washer in the church kitchen, working for a woman named Othie Hildebrand (true name!) with Harvard. We made $10 a night, for 3-4 hours' work. Were were 15; we didn't care.
3. Mortgage broker. This will last as one of the most comical vocations I ever assumed. My business card (!) said Senior Mortgage Analyst, which killed me.
4. A/R assistant, Warner Reprise Records, Nashville, TN. This means "artist and reportoire", for those of you who aren't 'down' with the record label lingo. This job was at once thrilling (meeting mastering mastermind Hank Williams! Going into Sony Studios for professional recording sessions! Getting pre-released albums!), and woefully disillusioning (hearing the sad sack radio promotions guy pumping up a lame single to some station somewhere; meeting artists and writers I'd hoped to someday meet, and being sad for their melancholy and hum-drumedness; being surrounded by people who wished they were in different jobs [read: on stage reaping applause and endless dollars]).
5. Religious education teacher in a Yorkshire, England high school. Image my secret delight at being asked to present religious views from around the world, then "help the students think critically about them all". Um, yes. I would indeed like to do that...

FOUR MOVIES I WATCH ON REPEAT:
(I'm assuming ace was kidding us all with his inclusion of Mr.&Mrs. Smith.)
1. Quiz Show
2. Bottle Rocket
3. Ghostbusters
4. A Perfect World

FOUR TV SHOWS I LOVE:
1. Arrested Development
2. Family Ties (or, as I like to call it, the Stephen Keaton show)
3. NBA playoffs
4. Quantum Leap

FOUR VACATION SPOTS I'D LOVE TO FREQUENT:
1. this is not an interesting question

FOUR WEBSITES I VISIT DAILY (read: when I have an hour to kill. read: weekly):
1. hamster
2. ace
3. ronald
4. 3 cow triangle

FOUR FOODS I LUST FOR:
1. mooleneum crunch
2. creamed spinach
3. royal rivera pears
4. guacamoles that feature high onion ratios

FOUR THINGS I CANNOT ACOMMODATE:
1. headspace for numbers: budgets, tax info, retirement funds, phone numbers, et al
2. a movie collection
3. somebody keeping me from rambling
4. forwards/chain letters/'tags'

Faster than lightening.

Friendly tip

Let's say you're an American malcontent (and who of us doesn't fit that bill, am I right? I have yet to get a 52" screen and my TeVo doesn't have as much memory as I need! Hello!) and you have decided that the vainglorious teachings of Mr. Allah are the ones you like the best. And let's say that, out of your enthusiasm for Mr. Allah ruling the world, you decide that you can best show you care by moving to a country where the government espouses Mr. Allah, too, and change your clothing to match and learn a new language (and learn to use a different currency! And how to look for just-ripe sheep brains in the local grocer!) If this is you (and I'm guessing it is), I have a couple of tips for you:


*Don't do it. You will probably be killed or violated or, at the very least, abducted in some way. You don't understand that world over there, no matter how much you've read or how much NPR you've heard. They are going to beat your ass.

*Instead, start a far-right mooslem movement right here in the good 'ol USA! You can have teas, and fund raising car washes, and Mr. Allah studies in your home. You can wear the authentic garb, and you can certainly buy sheep brains in an ethnic grocer somewhere downtown. Pretend to self-emmolate without having to go through with it! Write threatening letters to foreign leaders and mail them to yourself! All this is safe and quite doable here in the USA, where you won't be clamped down upon or even monitored, unless you use weird/angry Mr. Allah language over the telephone lines.

*Don't use weird/angry Mr. Allah language over the telephone lines.

*If you have a good sense of self, and don't really need to "show" anybody how great and true your beliefs are (and this will exclude most of you, I know, but I still have to say it...), then you should definitely try this: believe differently, but don't go around waving your beliefs in front of town hall or under the noses of para-military organizations. Things will just go better for you if you keep these things to yourself... and think of how subversive that will be! Everyone will assume you're a mall-going postmodern post-Christian who doesn't believe in much of anything except your inalienable rights, but YOU REALLY WILL. You'll have beliefs coming out the wazoo! Makes you feel pretty smart, huh? Yeah.

*If you refuse to hear the above tips, and you just HAVE to get over to Allahsgreatistan and be in Muhammad Jr.'s country of origin or whatever, then listen to me: I STRONGLY SUGGEST YOU GO OVER THERE WITH A SIZABLE DOSE OF INFORMATION ABOUT THE U.S. GOVERNMENT, OR NATIONAL SECURITY, OR SOME SUCH. If you don't do this, you will eventually be the target of some far-right mooslem (I know, I know), they will call you a "western dog", and you will be slowly forced through a food processor. You HAVE to make yourself necessary, if you want to go over there, I'm telling you. And DON'T TELL THEM ALL THE INFORMATION right up front. Dangle it, man. String it out. Use it to buy yourself time--the time with which you'll get to know their customs, sheep brains, currency, etc. We've been over this part.

*Happy Ramadan! Say hi to Akeem Olajuwon for me!

Don't Truss It

Remember when Patti LaBelle would amaze and horrify with her wickedly obscene hair which was ironed into all manner of convolutions?

And remember the terrible and frightening Studio line of hair care products, and the feaux-New Wave presentations those goos would conjure?

Well, the terror isn't over. It never could be. I recently saw a woman with the most unnatural red and white striped hair which was plastered into a fixed sheen, as if it'd been glazed next to native American pottery. Her head was a sort of museum installation. And I thought back to the hairdo that was marginally popular only a few years ago, and which still can be seen in some parts of rural Texas: the Headback Explosion. There are many things which I Cannot Believe, and certainly in that category is the thought that a woman would want her head to look as if it'd been shot out of a mortar cannon packed with dippety do. I think a Dixie Chick helped to popularize this look. The unsightly spikes jutting flamboyantly from the back of a head don't look disco, they sure don't look pettable, and they just don't look like she knows what's going on. They say, "I'm going solo today." And that's too bad.

So here's to you, Crazy Hair, both past AND present. (Why not?)

Kaboom!

I revel in Boomhauer, both as a friend to Hank and as a cartoon. He’s good with the ladies, has a commendable work ethic, was a high school football phenom, and gets it said with a mumble and a carefully chosen turn of phrase. Boomhauer—salut!

The human dynamo!

Women are phenomenal. They are the Taiwanese sweatshops of society: they do all the ignominious work that is required by normal human life (yes, they do) yet, because there’s a salaried front man, we have the insane desire to thank Tiger Woods for this shirt really wicking moisture right away! Gee thanks, Tiger Woods!



Imagine having your body inhabited by an additional person (as if you’re a physical schizophrenic; an amenable host to a cognizant parasite) for about a year, then receiving no recompense for that weirdness. Wouldn’t you feel on some level as valued as a used cocoon? Imagine women dressing scandalously or flirting excessively, then secretly hating themselves for playing to the male inclinations they most distrust and despise. Imagine lactating mothers, for crying out loud, inadvertently staining their own shirts at inopportune times. My God, is this any way to live? My sister has told me about these degradations. She is proud to be so necessary and provisional; she is grateful (maybe) to be of service (okay, “in a partnership” if you prefer) toward her husband and family in the care of the hatchlings; but she tires of being a receptacle. And surely she loathes these pestilent men who lust after her at a glance for no other reason than the fact that she is swollen. Imagine the traffic and congestion and emotional constipation produced by all these competing forces. They must feel to be adrift on stormy waters.

Well, God bless the complexity and peace of the Woman. And God bless my sister, while I’m on the subject: she’s just become pregnant with Child Five.

Nip it in the nub

I am in the process of cleaning all the usefulness out of a notebook’s worth of scribbles, so this is in there. I feel I posted this already one time, but I’m not sure, and I’m not about to go back and look. So here it is (again?):


You ever seen these guys who have some amazing physical disability but are seemingly getting along just fine? These people are all acrobatic wonders, to me, like that incredible and macabre woman, Joni, who painted (yet, even now, paints?) with her feet.

I just saw a guy who had maybe 3 inches of flesh past his elbow; this is exactly the situation experienced by my elementary school buddy, Brandon Yavonovic. Sometimes it’s like these people are showing off, or at least eternally auditioning, and want you to know that,
“Hey, I’m coping. I’ve worked it out. I’m getting along.”
“I can certainly see that! Look at all the tricks you’re doing with that nub!”
“I’ve earned my methods with pain.”
“Okay. But geez that bag looks heavy. Are you sure you should lift that with the nub? Doesn’t it hurt?”
“It all hurts, moron.”

I obviously can’t tell them when to stop (I mean, PAINTING!?), but I’m pretty impressed. I sometimes have trouble walking down stairs, and I have, in my lifetime, considered myself an athlete.

Tovaric!

Didi and I have gotten into the 24 BRAND action show, okay? That's just how it is. We're charmed by the well-meaning Jack Bower and his uncanny knack at getting in (and out!) of squeezes. The makers of this show, however, have seen fit to add a NAME to their program (please remember, I'm 3 years behind the culture: we're watching season 1). That name is Dennis Hopper. Good grief.

Please, anybody out there: with Hoosiers on one side (and Giant), please tell me anything PASSABLE this man has ever put on film. Please. I am always bemused when I consider people who've made careers out of being terrible at what they do (Keanu?), and Dennis fits the bill with terrible perfection. I believe the show's producers thought they needed some turtley old grump, but figured they couldn't afford Sean Connery, Anthony Hopkins would terrorize all the women on the set, and Robert Duvall would only do it if it had a strong "Christian" throughline. So we wind up with flipping Shooter. Holy smack, he's just terrible.

It is so on.

Just to make sure: I'm not part of this, am I? Everyone please promise me you'll keep me out of this.

iPodding ourselves to death

Over this yule tide season, I’ve hung out with an 11 year old boy who has been diagnosed with ADHD. This poor boy is, as you might know if you ever hang around a kid with similar afflictions, always addled, malcontent, and--how else can I put this?—simply never at peace. He interrupts every conversation, demands being the center of attention at all times and, to my dismay, his parents play right along, never exercising any authority or disciplining this little guy in love and strength. As his father was telling me about his life, he said, “Junior needs time off, and really enjoys his down days. He struggles with over-stimulation, so spending an hour watching a movie or playing a video game can really be a time of rest, of focus, and of quiet for him…” I about barfed right there. Excuse me, Parent of the Year, but aren’t video games and chain DVD viewing the epitome of over-stimulation?

Contrast this with my niece, who’s something like 10 years old and with whom I spend 3 days at a ranch/camphouse in exotic Glen Rose, Texas. This girl acted as if being in a run-down house with plenty of space for riding a bike, wading across a stream, or sitting around a campfire was about as big a time as anybody could want. She was at rest, calm, and a joy to be with.

Now, granted, these are different children in different settings, but as I contrasted the two children, I was reminded of some simple things about Junior’s parents:

*Out of convenience to themselves (also called laziness), they have sedated their kid with entertainment and, in the process, effectively ruined him.
*Constant pleasure makes all of us crabby, myopic, self-centered, thoughtless, and materialistic.
*Loving someone insists that we sometimes choose them being unhappy instead of shutting them up with situations that are unhealthy.

I could go on, but I will spare you more griping. I don’t have a screaming 2-year-old in my backseat right now, but I already know that having the lit’lun squawk a little while driving across town is okay to me. I don’t necessarily want to clog him up with a video pacifier just because it makes my life easier. As for me, I want to always be fighting this flesh of mine, which always tends toward the world of EWeekly, constant 24 reruns, iPod dependency, and the twisted sulk of the over-stimulated and under-satisfied.

Snookered like a hamster.

That's a new phrase I just coined.

Mr. Hamster just told me how much he loved this stuff called Anchor Brewing Company's Christmas Ale. Mr. Hamster said that he tasted toffee, chocolate, and even coffee in this concoction. Wow! There's a drinking beverage liquid product that tastes like chocolate and toffee and even coffee? Boy I sure am in there! So I ran out last night and bought a whole bunch of these (6). I then drank one.

Anchor Brewing Company's Christmas Ale does not taste like toffee, or chocolate, or even coffee.

It tastes like beer.

Gross out.

I have donated the other (5) bottles to the beer drinking public, here where I work. I got, as they say, Snookered Like a Hamster.

I am reminded of the fact that I only enjoy alcohol and coffee when there are so many added sugars and flavors that they taste like something else.

Backwards R Burrito

A while back, musrat informed me that Freebirds was looking for regular people (like me!) who like their stuff and want to say so. I gladly submitted myself as a Freebirds Fanatic. I told stories of my enthusiasm for their food products, and mentioned in there about Jiff and I driving up to Long Beach and enjoying a monster then seeing Michael Jordan and Charles Barkley. I also made up a little Freebirds Song, with the following lyrics:

You cannot eat my burrito
I don't what else you might have heard
I take the chicken and cilantro
I like it only at Freebirds.

My efforts got me a call back from their marketing department, and I was asked to call a 1-800 number and tell my stories once again, so they could hear my radio voice (I talk real deep, and I occasionally throw in a static-y hiss. I'm like that sound effects black guy from the comical Police Academy films).


I have not heard back from the Freebirds Marketing Machine, but I'm sure it's only becasue they're deciding who ELSE they'll use in this campaign...

My first pair of cargo pants ever.

Bought them this week.

My pants are cooler than this photo. My pants feature *8*! pockets, including one right on the front of my thigh that's cell phone sized! Wow--that really works out great, becuase I have a cell phone.

My pants also feature zippers that come partway up the side of the leg, I guess if I get real hot one day I can zip them up (which would actually be unzipping them, which is strange) and avail the side of my lower leg to the refreshing breezes that sometimes blow about 7 inches off the ground.

The Demise of Kulja Po

My midget, Kulja Po,
Is gone, God rest his so'
So I will tell his tale
And why he's now in hale.

Ol Po did all my cleanin
And cookin (more his leanin)
I found him most agile
On floors or scrubbing tile

He'd often just lay down
Sudded up, and roll around
Then bam! Before you know
The place gleamed! Clean as snow!

My floor will soon be soiled
Cause Po's now being boiled
In the awful fires of hale
And this, friend, is his tale:

He left me late one night
To join a midget gang: to fight.
With battleaxe and mace
And little war paints on his face

This dwarfen band for blood,
Like a shrunken human flood,
Rolls around the east
Mauling man and beast

At least, that they contend
(It's a claim they can't defend--
I think they mostly meet
To drink and smoke and eat)

Regardless, Po joined in
To battle, kill, and sin
His tiny nose a sneer
When he stomped on out of here

[Sidenote: did he steal
My one box of Malt O Meal?
And would this aid him at all(s)?
That little imp's got ball(s)!]

Not much news from the gang
The midget army'd rather hang
But I learned just last week
They got a gig--or,so to speak.

They'd found a lion to destroy
In a great, foolhardy ploy
To prove that midgets, just like that,
Can take down any jungle cat


"Kulja Po! What must you prove?
Just insecure, or 'lost your groove'?
You'll never be big as a man
Don't have to fight just cause you can"

That's what I said to Kulja Po
When I dropped in at Stop N Go
I went in for Parrot Ice
And there, buying red fuzzy dice

Was homeboy or, better yet
My homebabe, or Person Pet
Who had awayed and made his name
At the warring, killing game

"Up yours, stretch! You'll never know
The pain of size, like Kulja Po!
I left you and don't repent
I'll just kill things! Won't relent!

By the way, your jumper's naff
I look at you have have to laugh!
Sweater Shavers aren't too dear
As it is, your outfit's queer!"

He stormed off in a huff
Waddled out with all his stuff
In his final spiteful grab
He had stuck me with his tab.

Now I've heard Po's destiny
Read it: online BBC.
His demise is full of gore
(Which made me want to read it more.)

The militia's wee attack
Became the lion's late-night snack
He mauled and ate them, stem and stern
So what is there for us to learn?

*If you're wee, smile and be nice
*Take care buying Parrot Ice
*Some sweaters are prone to pilling
*Lions trump midgets in killing

T'was his life, and now you know
The Demise of Kulja Po
Who now resides in hale
And now you, friend, know his tale

This is the guy I worship.

God does not take away life; instead, he devises ways so that a banished person may not remain estranged from him. This is what II Samuel 14:14 says. I tell you, God is better than any of us think He is.

Where are your nuts?

Snickers BRAND chocolate bars touts its nutty makeup with the tagline, “Packed with peanuts, SNICKERS satisfies.” Recent history has disqualified me from testing this claim, due to my general apathy towards the confections. But recently, chance put a Snickers bar in my mouth, much like the black gentleman in Hands On a Hardbody. And I have the following to say:

Snickers BRAND chocolate bar is not, in fact, “packed with peanuts.” In each bite there were, at most, 3 peanuts. Now, I chose this particular brand over my other sugary options precisely because I wanted some nutty goodness with my RDA of choco-jittermaker. What a disappointment.

Kiss it, Snickers ™. Next time I’ll make mine a Payday.

Kong POW

There are so many things I would like to say here. So many topics, so many opinions. But I don't have time to do that, unfortunately. I use my time on things like:



You can't believe how incredible this is. Not a perfect film (compositing gaffes galore, the first 45 minutes is overblown setup nonsense), but HOLY SMOKES you will see things you've never seen before. Riveting and impressive as a third arm. If they'd asked me for more money on the way out of the theater, I'd have happily paid up. Kong POW!

Frittatas and Muffins

In George Barna’s new earth-shattering book, “Revolution” (which I’ll review here soon if there’s any love in my heart for my fellow man), Geo suggests that revolutionaries who’ve jettisoned the old-world concept of organizational church life are finding new ways to connect with one another in deep ways. One of my favorite ways to do this is at BREAKFAST. I love doing this with totila, or Stickney, or peb, or ace, or the rod, or heck—whoever you are, out there… I WILL BREAKFAST WITH YOU!!


I was there this morning (one of three such gatherings for me this week) with bells on, feeling cold (22 degrees) and festive, ready for some hot eggs and salsa. It occurred to me that, at least in this location, breakfast-going is a mostly MALE ritual. That alone is enough to make me want to open a joint of my own. Anyplace that fosters males in relationship is rare and wonderful and worth throwing lots of time and money at. I realize that many of these breakfast get-togethers were business-based: men are willing to do anything (even talk to one another) if it means they might make a wad of cash because of it. Regardless of the motivation, I was happy to see that there were, at one point, 34 men in the place, along with just 4 women. Wow. I just think that’s cool.

So raise up a breakfast taquito with me (I hope it’s laced with TURKEY bacon, friends) and salute Breakfast Out with Brothers. There’s nothing like it.

How did I have time to consider all these things this morning, by the way? I got stood up. No matter. The breakfast movement rolls on!

Beauty for Ashes

In Isaiah 61, a promise is made that God will comfort “those who mourn in Zion.” Confusing. Why would anybody mourn in Zion? How could you be in God’s presence, in God’s family, in God’s favor, and yet mourn? I was thinking about that, and about how right after that, Isaiah says, “He will give beauty for ashes.” Weird.

What’s being communicated with ‘ashes’? Where does ash come from? Well, it comes from something that’s been consumed, or exhausted, or USED. That’s what I’m hearing today: ashes are the product of perfect, burned-out, USE. And God is promising us in Isaiah 61 that He’ll do away with that—permanently. That his ministry is partly to take this away from us, and to replace it with beauty.

Now, me and ace and musrat and wunderkind and moljer and jiff (and you?) all grew up hearing that the greatest possible good is that “God might use you.” A hallowed prayer around my circles was “God, just use me”. We were warned not to sin in every sort of way, because if we did, “God won’t use that.” So we all busted our religious butts under the guise of being useful to God. I now know that trying to make oneself useful to God is like trying to pick oneself off the ground. I am completely powerless at that endeavor and, moreover, God doesn’t require that anyone make himself into anything. God can use anybody, at any time, to do anything. Anything. This ‘useful to God’ business is a moot game. Not interested in that anymore. But we as a Bride are still very much concerned with this, as an achievement, by and large. What a feather it would be in our cap to hold the title of Most Useful!

Or so we think. That chase will lead you nowhere. You cannot make God move, and you cannot conquer yourself, and you cannot effort your way into perfection. That 'being used by God' stuff was a thinly veiled come-on to my flesh. It is the law. It is burning us out and producing disillusionment, hopelessness, sorrow, self-hatred, and fear. Ashes. And it makes people, even people in Zion, into mourners. We’re not praising, we’re heavy-hearted. That’s also Isaiah 61.

I’ve learned recently about the word “good” in the Bible. Jesus talks about “good works” and you don’t know what he’s talking about, really, until that loopy lady pours out her Hooker Cologne No. 5 on his feet, then swabs it with her skanky head of hair. There was NOTHING useful in what she did. The disciples were right: she could’ve given it away to the poor, building homes for them or at least filling their hungry bellies. That perfume went for like 80 grand! I’ve never given that much money away, and neither have you. She took something that WAS useful (my goal for so long!), and made it useless. That’s why Judas and all his pals shook their heads… “What a WASTE!” It would be like if you had a perfectly good functioning servant and told him, “You don’t have to be my servant anymore. I just want you to be my friend. You don’t have to be useful to me anymore.” What? Who on earth would say that?

Let’s say this more strongly: I don’t know a single God-seeking guy who would say “my marriage has made my life simpler, more efficient, and more manageable.” Quite the opposite. Before I was married, I lived in a 2-bedroom, $350-a-month apartment. I had one bowl, one pot, no insurance, and had no yard or mortgage or furniture or financial advisor or in-laws or long Mexican hairs all over everything I own. My marriage isn’t utilitarian. You know what’s useful? A hooker. No questions, no debates, no uncontrollable love or relationship or “working things out” or all that messiness. You just get what you came for, and you’re out. Clean, simple and efficient. Useful.

Ashes.

Well, Jesus looks at this dirty, beer-breathed whore that poured out her Clio! on his feet, and he says this: “She has done a GOOD WORK.” Wait. Hold on. Nobody got saved here. Nobody got healed. Nobody prophesied. Where are the tongues, the social change, the Bible teaching, the disciples being made, blah blah blah? What’s so kind of frustrating about this is that I was created to do good works, like this, in Christ (Ephesians 2:10). But I’m not so sure I even understand how this qualifies as a good work. Jesus’ guys had the same take. They thought Jesus was good for something (political reform, revolt, overthrow), when he wasn’t good in order to DO anything. He was just good. In himself. He isn’t someone to be mimicked or followed as much as he is someone to be worshipped. He isn’t really useful, like a hooker. Really, he’s beautiful, like a spouse. Beautiful means, “inherently good and desirable.” That’s Jesus. He isn’t working out that great for our persecuted brothers around the world, yet they daily risk their lives for him. Why? I think they’ve discovered that he’s better than useful—He’s BEAUTIFUL.

And that’s the other way to translate what Jesus said about that hooker. He said, “she has done a beautiful (useless, inherently good) thing, and as long as the gospel is preached in the cosmos, this act will be remembered.” Astounding.

The scriptures say that God makes ALL THINGS BEAUTIFUL in their time.
He is not making all things useful in their time. He is making all things beautiful. (Ecc 3:11)
God is not bringing many servants into the production line; he is bringing many sons to glory. (Hebrews 2:10)
Jesus no longer wants to call us servants; he calls us friends. (John 15:15)
We are not God’s whore; we are God’s bride. (Isaiah 54:5)

And we are as beautiful (and moreso) to him as my marriage is to me. It is complex, it is inefficient, it is mysterious, and it is beautiful.

Yes, God WILL comfort anybody who mourns in Zion, and is beat down, and worn out, and tired of trying so hard, and burned up. He will give us beauty for ashes.