If you think the title is awkward enough (as in, some kind of self-proclaimed title), then get ready for the hot scoop of awkward that I'm about to dish up.
If you didn't quite get the cultural reference, I'm referring to this guy, whose alias, if you weren't already knowledgabizzle, stands for 'Ladies Love Cool James'.
If only I could (or was at least attempting to) make such a claim. No, unfortunately, after the events that just transpired about 20 minutes ago, here's the sad state of things: Ladyboys Love Cute Joe. More on that first part of the title a little later...
Tonight's occasion was made possible by a couple of gender-confused individuals who were leaving the video store at the same time that I was returning a DVD. The transcript is as follows:
Ladyboys: (waving and batting some fake eyelashes - well, at least they were enhanced in some form or fashion) "Hey Sexy..."
Me: (muttering indistinctly and avoiding eye contact) "Hi"
Ladyboys: (walking towards their car, which was also in my general direction) "Merry Christmas..."
Me: (maintaining the initial sense of distance) "Thanks"
Ladyboys: (now at their car) [Waving and batting eyelashes again]
Me: (in my car again about to drive off) [Noticing the waving out of the corner of my eye, I drive away with a the kind of quick wave and sideways glance usually reserved for newspaper salesmen.]
I'd love to say this kind of thing hasn't ever happened before, but it has. Kathryn and I were in Thailand on a mission trip the summer before we got married. We decided to get photos done, because Thai people get wedding pictures done before they get married as opposed to after, and we could get a great deal on some really nice pictures. So we drove an hour and a half across Bangkok to the shopping mall where the photo place was. The place was run by gay Thai guys, who Thai people call "ladyboys" (hence the alias and title for this post). We started getting ready. They spent over an hour on Kathryn's makeup (later, her mom didn't even recognize her in the pictures), and at least twenty minutes on my hair. At some point while they were either fixing my hair or taking the pictures, one of our Thai friends comes and tells us there are some more ladyboys outside the place, watching me through the glass (so maybe it was while we were taking pictures), talking about how cute I was. Brilliant. Of course, Kathryn and our Thai friend enjoy a plentiful handful of snickers at my situation.
Does this make me feel awkward? Yeah, a little bit, but nothing near the level of awkward experienced by a friend of mine when a Brazilian woman offered to have his baby for him (she had to say it through a translator) after a concert in Brazil (he was on tour with a musical group). Great story - maybe I can get him to blog about it.
Looking on the bright side, at least the ladyboys aren't offering to have my baby. Maybe I should ask next time.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Cruelty Free: No Bunnies Were Harmed in the Making of This Lotion
You may or may not be familiar with this logo:
While it's not exactly the same as the one on my lotion, it's close enough to provide me the reassurance that I can enjoy the softness of my hands without the nagging of my conscience that it came at the expense of cute bunnies.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Stuff and In-Between-ness
Stuff
Everybody's got their stuff. I've got mine, you've got yours, we've all got ours. And I'm not just saying 'stuff' because I'm afraid of saying 'sh*t' - everybody's got their 'sh*t' too, but that means something different that what I'm meaning here. People try to hide their 'sh*t' in the closet and not let anyone know they wear it; people like to wear their 'stuff' out in the open and show it off because they're proud of it.
So that's crystal-clear. Our stuff is what engages us, what we enjoy doing, what receives our energies. Like a guy with a couple of cars out in the yard he's always fixing up. Or a girl who's always trendy and fashionable and knowledgeable about clothes. The football fanatic. The amateur gourmet. (Sure, these are a little stereotypical, but you get the idea.)
The thing about stuff is that it's not our life. Life doesn't consist of stuff. Life has to be somewhere else, something else. I find it extremely freeing to think about the things I think cause people to think of me (Joe, the guy who does this, Joe, the guy who's into that) and say, "that's my stuff". It's not my life, it's my stuff. Very freeing.
I have to be reminded of this frequently or I start to believe otherwise. Life quickly becomes suffocating when it starts to consist of stuff. Unfortunately, I think this cuts both ways. Do you feel suffocated when you get around certain people? It's not that you don't like the person, it's that they pull out their stuff and hold it up as though their life consisted of it. It can also be such that they measure your life as if it ought to consist of it as well. This is even more suffocating. Either that, or just saddening. What a sad little person, they can't see beyond their stuff.
Thank God for seasons and growth and for him being sovereign and owning everything. He'll grow me and free me out of these obsessions. Otherwise life would be a perpetual "bleak midwinter", wouldn't it?
In-Between-ness
I'm 28 years old. To some this probably sounds pretty old (probably to most in a college town), and to some pretty young. So while I can play a game of soccer without being sore for the entire week following, I think you can spot some of the gray in my hair from across the room. Weird.
Feels pretty in-between to me. And that's just the physical aspect. I haven't even gotten into the maturity part yet. That's the real kicker. Feeling like I can see pretty clearly how immature I am, yet lacking in resources to do much about it decisively. This is where the connection to the 'stuff' thoughts come in (for those of you who were hoping there was some continuity to this post): shouldn't I be old enough to not keep falling for the lie that my life doesn't consist of stuff? I think Kathryn made a comment the other day that maturity and age don't necessarily accrue at the same rate (I've lost the exact context and also her exact words, and possibly also the gist of what she was saying, but obviously this is what I took away from the conversation). I think that must be true. I've met some pretty immature old people. Oh for grace to not become one. (Or to bear it with good humor...)
I'm guessing other young adults would feel similarly. (Or whatever label or category you'd put to us.) The feeling that you ought to be capable of so much more sanity, stability, responsibility and such, but really you're barely taller than knee-high to a grasshopper when you use the adulthood-measuring-stick.
Everybody's got their stuff. I've got mine, you've got yours, we've all got ours. And I'm not just saying 'stuff' because I'm afraid of saying 'sh*t' - everybody's got their 'sh*t' too, but that means something different that what I'm meaning here. People try to hide their 'sh*t' in the closet and not let anyone know they wear it; people like to wear their 'stuff' out in the open and show it off because they're proud of it.
So that's crystal-clear. Our stuff is what engages us, what we enjoy doing, what receives our energies. Like a guy with a couple of cars out in the yard he's always fixing up. Or a girl who's always trendy and fashionable and knowledgeable about clothes. The football fanatic. The amateur gourmet. (Sure, these are a little stereotypical, but you get the idea.)
The thing about stuff is that it's not our life. Life doesn't consist of stuff. Life has to be somewhere else, something else. I find it extremely freeing to think about the things I think cause people to think of me (Joe, the guy who does this, Joe, the guy who's into that) and say, "that's my stuff". It's not my life, it's my stuff. Very freeing.
I have to be reminded of this frequently or I start to believe otherwise. Life quickly becomes suffocating when it starts to consist of stuff. Unfortunately, I think this cuts both ways. Do you feel suffocated when you get around certain people? It's not that you don't like the person, it's that they pull out their stuff and hold it up as though their life consisted of it. It can also be such that they measure your life as if it ought to consist of it as well. This is even more suffocating. Either that, or just saddening. What a sad little person, they can't see beyond their stuff.
Thank God for seasons and growth and for him being sovereign and owning everything. He'll grow me and free me out of these obsessions. Otherwise life would be a perpetual "bleak midwinter", wouldn't it?
In-Between-ness
I'm 28 years old. To some this probably sounds pretty old (probably to most in a college town), and to some pretty young. So while I can play a game of soccer without being sore for the entire week following, I think you can spot some of the gray in my hair from across the room. Weird.
Feels pretty in-between to me. And that's just the physical aspect. I haven't even gotten into the maturity part yet. That's the real kicker. Feeling like I can see pretty clearly how immature I am, yet lacking in resources to do much about it decisively. This is where the connection to the 'stuff' thoughts come in (for those of you who were hoping there was some continuity to this post): shouldn't I be old enough to not keep falling for the lie that my life doesn't consist of stuff? I think Kathryn made a comment the other day that maturity and age don't necessarily accrue at the same rate (I've lost the exact context and also her exact words, and possibly also the gist of what she was saying, but obviously this is what I took away from the conversation). I think that must be true. I've met some pretty immature old people. Oh for grace to not become one. (Or to bear it with good humor...)
I'm guessing other young adults would feel similarly. (Or whatever label or category you'd put to us.) The feeling that you ought to be capable of so much more sanity, stability, responsibility and such, but really you're barely taller than knee-high to a grasshopper when you use the adulthood-measuring-stick.
I certainly feel it today. It feels like irony: at times when I take more responsibility, the blindness is removed from my eyes to how much more is waiting to be took. As if the purpose of responsibility is to alert me to how much I'd been fooling myself. Again, without good humor, I think I'd be likely here to want to "curse God and die" - but it's much healthier to have a laugh even though the joke's on me.
Oh, and faith. In those moments when all that I'm called to do and be seems way past my ability to time-manage or deal with maturely or accomplish while 'doing it justice', I need to have a way of pushing beyond despair and trusting God for more than I'm able to accomplish.
It seems then that faith bridges the age-gap and makes it okay to be in-between.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Spirit and Mind?
It's always nice to wake up and find something like this in your inbox:
Apparently, this guy is the poster-child (to whatever extent) for the A&M Foundation's new Spirit and Mind fundraising initiative. Oddly enough, seeing this doesn't really say either "spirit" or "mind" to me.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
A true American hero
Along with my church, I just saw my friend Bill off at the airport, on his way to Iraq. He's one of the bravest men I know. And I don't just say that because he's off with the Air Force to serve in a war-torn country suffering a grueling war, but I also say it because I've witnessed in him one of the greatest transformations I've seen the Lord do in a person. I'm not exaggerating.
I'll let him tell his own story. I'm just here to say that the man I met a couple of years ago is night and day different than the friend I know today, the one who lights up the sky with some amazing fireworks displays, who nearly puts me to shame by his eagerness to jump off of 50-foot cliffs, who has shown a deep spirit of generosity to those who are truckless.
It's not easy to live life boldly and fully when so much of your life has been lived in a way that's anything but. (This part is as much autobiographical as it is anything else.) In my mind, courage to change the 'quality' of your life in this way is the kind that's most admirable. More impressive even than the kind that leads you to answer the call into harm's way, though that kind is impressive, too.
Bill, yesterday I encouraged you to be safe. Today I retract that comment. Instead, I encourage you to continue to live as you've been living: boldy, fully and courageously. (Notice that I didn't add recklessly, in honor of the spirit of those encouraging you to be safe.) I'm proud to be your friend, and trust you'll keep to what the Lord has begun and is doing in you. And I trust him to keep you until you're back with us, at which point, just in case someone hasn't already verbalized it, we'll all be expecting the kind of fire in the sky that we've been sorely missing for a year. And I'll bring the beer.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Fourth time's the charm: the joys of being an alumnus
WARNING: the post you are about to read contains thinly-veiled bitterness, justifiable cynicism (probably) and pervasive sarcasm. People with weak stomachs or those preferring lighter-mood-fare are strongly cautioned. Not recommended for the school-spirited or exceedingly loyal. Read at your own risk.
This seems to follow the stubborn-persistence strategy of Abraham pleading for Sodom. (There are some limitations to the connection, but you get the idea.) In fact, I don't know that I've ever had to tell someone 'no' so many times who wanted my money. It was a little exhilarating, really, being all firm and stingy and stuff.
Oh, and they're clever, too. The students are great conversationalists who can think on their feet. They're formulaic, but not predictable. Still, the conversations all tend to loosely move through the following stages:
1) Address Confirmation. This happens first as the initial 'occasion' for the call, and though it serves a useful purpose for alumni and association alike, is ultimately not the 'real reason' for the call. You know what's coming.
2) Caller/Callee Identification. The caller gets me to talk about what I'm doing now while finding points of connection, in an I'm-your-pal-or-if-we-lived-in-the-same-place-I-could-be fashion. It just so happened that this particular person last night had a connection to Texas A&M and had even been there recently with her family. Smooth.
3) Nostalgic Recollection. "You remember the good ol' days at the Caf' and the Yo'? How about those overseas trips, that crazy fun you had? Ahhhh...." The caller, now your best friend, tightens those concentric circles, strengthening the lulling effect, painting a broad-stroked picture with both of you standing arm-in-arm with your classmates at your favorite campus spot, preying on those powerful "those were the days" emotions as he/she moves in for the kill...
4) Heartfelt Supplication. All those fond memories rekindled, the caller pounces. They start high, and ask if you could help make possible for someone else the blessings you've enjoyed, though not in so many words. After all, our school motto was, "Freely you have received, freely give." (Not quite sure how this plays into Pepperdine graduates having the highest rate of indebtedness among all American schools with doctoral programs - which they did a few years ago, at least - but I'm sure it all works out, somehow.) They work their way down the list of commitments you could make, scripted all the way down (they must know they've got some hard cases out there), until they utter their final plea that the agencies that rank the school look at alumni giving rates to determine standings, to which, though it nearly broke my heart, I was courageous enough to not cave.
Do I sound a little cynical? I'm just tired of being played. Maybe it's because of things like the guy who acted like everyone's friend our senior year so he could get the entire senior class to give money in the senior gift. Maybe it's the fact that one of the older men I knew at the church while I was there (he also worked for the university) died earlier this year, and the first time I ever heard about it was when the Alumni Association sent out an email announcing an endowed fund in his name, painting a portrait of his life as if the only valuable thing about it was his allegiance and contribution to the university. Maybe it's that I'm still paying for a degree that has cost me way more than it's gained me. Maybe all of the above.
Ah, the joys of being an alumnus. What were they again?
Friday, October 10, 2008
In defense of emotional basket-cases
I've had this thing lately that runs through my head: what about people who are mental? Crazy? Emotionally unstable? I have this real feeling of injustice towards them because it seems like life goes on without them just because they can't seem to get it together.
Partly this is a confession, as well, at perhaps some anger directed at God for feeling like maybe he's okay with the fact that some people can't handle responsibility (and are thus deprived of coming into their full humanness) and that he's content to let such people fall by the wayside.
In case you haven't figured it out yet, this post is autobiographical to a degree yet-to-be-determined by how long I can hold out before ending up in the quack-shack.
Sometimes it feels melodramatic to me to make such statements about my mental health. At other times it seems as if I'm not quite capable of joking, as some people do to cope, about going crazy, and enjoying the joke.
Do I feel like God needs to somehow prove himself or his record on this to me? As far as my record goes, I think I've pretty consistently been able to unmask my own ironies that disguise themselves as justified ranting and raving at the Almighty. Which is to say, it kind of comes down to an issue of patience with me. God never seems to be in much of a hurry to prove himself to me on the things I think are important.
I don't think that means I can't be a little bitter over our culture's worship of self-confidence and how it drives people just struggling not to lose it to appear as if they can conform to the popular idolatry. Or at least, a little bitter over what I perceive as the church's possible complicity (to whatever degree) in this crime. Really, maybe I'm just bitter because I know I'm not just the president, I'm also a client.
I mean, am I wrong about this (the cultural pressure to become someone that you and everyone else can worship)? I seriously wonder if crazy people in other countries are nearly so famous in their cultures as we are, I mean, the ones here are in ours.
This may be one of those posts that far exceeds my normal levels of, "where in the world is he coming from?" If none of these thoughts make any sense to you without the context, I'd be glad to share more of why I think I'm marginally insane with you some time soon. Seriously. After all, misery loves company, whether or not the feeling is mutual.
Friday, September 26, 2008
In response...
I made a deal with my friend Cory that if he got back on his blogging-horse, that I would post a response to whatever he wrote about. Here are some of his thoughts on the financial bailout. And following are some of mine.
Honestly, though, before I start, I have to say that he could have picked a better topic (better for me, I mean). Economics, along with math, government, and science, is something I last studied in high school. Meaning I'll probably make quite the arse of myself trying to sound educated about all of this. So bear with me. Better yet, you'll enjoy this post all the more if you go ahead and agree with me that education itself is overrated; at least, my $120,000+ undergraduate liberal arts degree certainly was. ;) Well, at least I'm qualified to give my two cents as it concerns bad investments. (Although, I probably should be throwing every pair of pennies I've got towards paying off those student loans...)
One of my biggest hopes in this whole financial crisis is that, having some of our flaws exposed in our national culture, we might be more open to fundamental change in the way we understand our way of life.
Consumerism blinds us to the larger realities of life. Instead of thinking about my neighbors or a kingdom that brings true peace, I'm concerned about my daily ration of premium coffee or whether the flooring I bought for my house is going to crack or warp because I should have paid someone to level the house from the outset.
Capitalism promotes a free market where we're free to jostle and step all over each other (it's called competition and it's great because it lowers the price and increases the quality of that premium coffee) in our rush to be the vendor of choice for all those consumers out there with their heads in their wallets (or the headphones of their iPods, ignoring all the people passing within a few feet of them).
Lest I be a hypocrite in my criticism, I want to be clear that I certainly share the blame in a culture that values people based on their knowledge of and attention to machines and materials over and above that of people (by and large, anyways). I'm caught in the cycle of buying and selling, too. I'm often more likely to be concerned with what a person's job is than what their relationships are like. I've spent a disproportionate amount of time in the past several months obsessing over an orderly (quasi-) assemblage of wood, paint, nails and electrical wires than I have showing consistent concern for the people in my life.
How much of that is going to matter when everything that's now broken encounters the Great Fix? When I get to that point, which of my "investments" will truly pay off? (Isn't it wonderful that we sometimes use financial language to refer to "spending" time and attention and energy and empathy on people? Even the word "spend" there - wow, it's just really hard to say anything in English if you want to truly affirm the "value" of humanity and not "diminish" it. Oh well, I tried.)
I doubt that we'll stop building on shifting sand. But perhaps our days of building skyscrapers on top of skyscrapers there are nearing an end (which is how I envision the whole enterprise of investments stacked upon investments in risky mortgages, which are basically ways of getting things now that we just can't live without, even though we really can't afford it, nudging us to make assumptions against the future about what our lives and financial situations will be like down the road, as if we could predict or guarantee that somehow - hey, I've got a mortgage, too... it's tough). Perhaps. It's hard to tell. Let's not wait around and see before we start seeking a better vision of building whatses (and whoses, especially) that will last.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Recent highs and lows of life (rescued from the draft pile...)
(QUICK EDITOR'S NOTE: I INTENDED TO PUBLISH THIS POST WEEKS AGO, ACTUALLY JUST A DAY SHY OF A FORTNIGHT SHY OF A MONTH AGO, TO BE KIND OF EXACT. THAT'S BECAUSE THERE ARE PICTURES I WAS HOPING TO INCLUDE, BUT WHICH I HAVE NO WAY OF GETTING OFF OF MY PHONE. SO MAYBE LATER I'LL FIND A WAY TO GET THE PICTURES ON HERE. OKAY, I'LL STOP CAPS-SHOUTING AT YOU NOW SO YOU CAN READ THE POST...)
Pre(r)amble
Well, it occurs to me that there are basically two ways to start any blog post, assuming that you're me (other than with the word "Well," which is always a good choice). It's either going to be, "Life has been crazy lately," or "Life has been boring lately" - and everyone knows, of course, that there never is an in-between option. So, without further mucking about in hyperspace...
Life has been crazy lately. I'd like to share with you, in somewhat random order, some snippets from recent Joe-history. When they finally make a movie of my life, this will be the part where you think you can get up and go get a refill on your popcorn without missing too much. But then when you get back and whisper to your movie neighbor, "What did I miss?", there's no possible way they could catch you up to speed without missing something themselves. So you'll just have to read on for now.
160/50
On a recent camping trip I took with some guys (including him and him and another, non-blogging guy) to Inks Lake State Park, we explored a swimming location called Devil's Waterhole. I think I know why it was so named. Like a casino, the place draws you in and gives you that kind of reckless confidence that nudges you towards making internal statements like, "I bet I could do more. Why the hell not?" (Such things are quite likely to be said at locations named for the devil.) Only, here it wasn't about spending money you don't have (or soon won't), but about jumping off of cliffs and rocks and risking the physical health that you soon may not have. It was awesome. In retrospect, of course.
The first challenge was about a 20-foot cliff. I don't know if you have much of a sense of distance when you hear numbers like that, but 20 feet is a long way up. Consider that, in the normal course of your life, you are not often likely to jump off of walls that are taller than your own height, or even perhaps twice that. Well, this was in the neighborhood of three Yao Ming's high. The worst part about it all was how slippery the rocks were climbing up to this height. My non-blogging friend who went has been to other places in Austin for cliff jumping that he says are much safer, and where the bottom is deeper closer to the cliffs. Here you had to be sure to jump out far enough, or else you're hitting part of the rock formation closer to the cliff. Anyways, the place is fairly crowded, and kids probably less than a quarter of my age are jumping off this thing like there is a bed of puffy marshmallows below, so I couldn't make too much of an ordeal out of my first jump. So I jumped. A little while later I did it again, if for no other reason than I found myself trying to talk me out of jumping again. At times like this I just have to "man up" and silence my inner chicken.
Okay, now for the numbers. As you'll notice in the picture (that is, if I can ever get it transferred from my phone - anyone want to loan me a laptop bluetooth adapter?), one rock is significantly higher than the cliff I first jumped from. We estimated this at about 50 feet. Ay ay ay. (sp?) Two of the guys on the trip decided they were going to jump the tall rock, since we'd seen some other people doing it and not dying or exploding or anything. So they go up and jump. Great. Here comes the inner chicken again, clucking something about how I'd already proved enough manhood for one day. Stupid chicken. Yes, eventually I make my way over the rock. I start climbing. Right before I get to the top, there it is - BAM! That's the sound of my pulse kicking into high gear. I stop to check it. It's at about 160 beats/minute. FYI, btw - I rarely get up this high when I'm jogging. I step up to the top of the rock. Did the wind just pick up? I swear it did. I look down at my legs. They're shaking uncontrollably. I realize that the longer I wait, the harder it's going to be to jump, and also the higher the possibility that I will lose my balance and blaze a new trail down towards the water. So I jumped. About a week or two later, I hit the water. As I come up, I punch both arms into the air for the whole "did that guy just win a teenage karate tournament?" effect. And then I swim gurgling and sputtering to a place where I can sit down and bask.
Joe, the (sheet)Rocker
I've also been working with a very different kind of rock at our new house. Sheet rock. I'd make some kind of official pronouncement that now I am officially handy, but in the current place we live, I've also fixed a leaky washer drain, so this is simply a status that I am renewing, not recently acquiring. Honestly, there's really not a lot to say about this, other than that I really don't enjoy screwing it in. Or cutting it. Or hanging it. Or squatting to get the really low-to-the-floor screws. I think that about covers it.
I think it's an ungrounded myth that guys like power tools. I would offer that, more accurately, guys like power in whatever form they can find it. Kind of like women with chocolate. But power tools are really just a way to do more damage, faster. Noisier. And I'm not just talking about the swearing that follows the router's excursion away from the straight line. Neither am I excluding it.
No use crying over spilled coffee; no use throwing a trash can over it, either
While I'm on the topic of angst, it would be interesting to note that recently, on a frustrating morning of dealing with a handful of housing "decisions" (in quotes because they're really little stinkbombs disguised as situations that people have to deal with), I thought I'd pick up some Chick-Fil-A breakfast on my way home to pick something up before heading to the office. I arrived at home after smelling dark coffee and various forms of heated lipids wafting through the car's recirculating system, ready to chow down. As I'm adding the finishing touches to my coffee and preparing to replace the lid, one of my fingers (investigation still pending) knocks over the cup. Spilling every ounce of the coffee. Onto the table, chair, and floor. Did I mention that this morning had already been frustrating? Swearing ensued. (Some of you may be of the opinion that such action is of minimal benefit to anyone. I would disagree. In my opinion, this blog would be much less interesting if the story continued with, "and I thought to myself calmly and rationally, Self, you know, this really isn't such a bad situation at all - take inventory of how blessed you are and you'll see that this is no big deal.") I think I strung some words together that made very little sense being together, semantically speaking. I went and got a towel to mop up the mess, placing it on the floor. Feeling as though the situation was reaching a resolution too quickly, I promptly picked up our kitchen trash can and sighted in the perfect spot on the wall where I should heave it. "Yes, that's just the spot. Too far left and this might not work at all." Thankfully, at this point my hippocampus stepped in and told my amygdala that it would handle things from here.
The moral of the story? Sometimes being calm and rational will save you from having to clean up extra mess. But not being so makes for good story.
Ten things I hate about summer
1. THE HEAT.
I have an uncle who moved his family to Washington state several years ago (maybe some time while I was in college). What I heard was the reasoning at the time was perhaps he did it to help his allergies. I can't say that I don't find that kind of thing extremely appealing. I don't know whether he really moved for that reason (in a recent-esque conversation with a cousin of mine, I asked about why he had moved, and I received a rather dramatic response about how they just wanted to get away from family), but finding a climate more conducive to not sweating and sneezing sounds really good to me (I realize that there would likely be tradeoffs, but who doesn't want to live in a place where there's a drive-thru coffee shop every few hundred feet?).
2. THE ROACHES.
Seeing as the Brazos Valley only recently seems to be getting some rain after more or less months of little to no rain, perhaps only recently have the roaches been driven out of hiding on a larger scale. Bad grief, they've been crazy at our new house. I had actually forgotten how big they could get (our current property owner does a decent job of keeping the pest service coming, it seems). Silly me. Oh, and did you know that at that size, they make noise on hardwood floors and concrete (in the garage)? Sooooo creepy. Give me a 50-foot cliff I can 'man up' on (over an army of roaches) any day. But hey - roaches - don't take me for soft. Those of you I haven't already decimated, your time is coming. And you'd better beg for the spray if I have a broom within reach.
3. SWEATING.
Really, this one is pretty much a corollary of no. 1. But I didn't think it should go without mention. I'm pretty sure that, whatever my particular mix of Scottish and English and Polish (and someone told me there may be some Cherokee in there somewhere, I think), it wasn't intended for a climate like Texas. I'd go into details as to why I make this claim, but I am at least aware of this much, that certain things do not make for good blog storying.
4. THE WAY THAT THE AFOREMENTIONED THINGS MAKE IT DIFFICULT TO KEEP ACCURATE COUNTS OF THINGS, AND THINK CLEARLY IN GENERAL.
So I don't have ten things, but I do have a theory about summer. (Also winter.) Fall and Spring are my favorite times of year, being the seasons that the weather in Texas is most bearable and allows for that feeling that things are either cooling off or thawing out. It's those in-between times when the long hauls of sweating and shivering begin to fade from memory as they are eclipsed by times of refreshing, when you can walk outside and for a short time, breathe cool air and enjoy that kind of feeling that you want to make last as long as you can. I think of Fall and Spring more of transition periods. Obviously, Summer and Winter transition as well, but they feel less so since they lie in between the pendulum swings. Every second gets counted when pressure is applied. But who stares at their watch in those moments when you can simply be at ease? I think it's those moments that are like little peeks at the Kingdom. Brief glimpses of something that may not last very long now, but one day we won't have to settle for inevitable disappointment. One day, disappointment will be absolutely evitable. Come, Lord Jesus.
Reunions galore
Actually, this post is incredibly long already! I can tell by the fact that my own attention span is being stretched into some kind of funky yoga position. So this is a little taste of what I'll hopefully be posting soon. Tune in next time to hear a little about Kathryn's family reunion and my own 10-year high school reunion, both of which happened in the span of two weekends. There'll be laughs, wittiness, tangents, and of course, me taking every possible opportunity to magnify any of the stories which highlight my manliness. I can't wait, and neither can you! Blog atcha soon!
Pre(r)amble
Well, it occurs to me that there are basically two ways to start any blog post, assuming that you're me (other than with the word "Well," which is always a good choice). It's either going to be, "Life has been crazy lately," or "Life has been boring lately" - and everyone knows, of course, that there never is an in-between option. So, without further mucking about in hyperspace...
Life has been crazy lately. I'd like to share with you, in somewhat random order, some snippets from recent Joe-history. When they finally make a movie of my life, this will be the part where you think you can get up and go get a refill on your popcorn without missing too much. But then when you get back and whisper to your movie neighbor, "What did I miss?", there's no possible way they could catch you up to speed without missing something themselves. So you'll just have to read on for now.
160/50
On a recent camping trip I took with some guys (including him and him and another, non-blogging guy) to Inks Lake State Park, we explored a swimming location called Devil's Waterhole. I think I know why it was so named. Like a casino, the place draws you in and gives you that kind of reckless confidence that nudges you towards making internal statements like, "I bet I could do more. Why the hell not?" (Such things are quite likely to be said at locations named for the devil.) Only, here it wasn't about spending money you don't have (or soon won't), but about jumping off of cliffs and rocks and risking the physical health that you soon may not have. It was awesome. In retrospect, of course.
The first challenge was about a 20-foot cliff. I don't know if you have much of a sense of distance when you hear numbers like that, but 20 feet is a long way up. Consider that, in the normal course of your life, you are not often likely to jump off of walls that are taller than your own height, or even perhaps twice that. Well, this was in the neighborhood of three Yao Ming's high. The worst part about it all was how slippery the rocks were climbing up to this height. My non-blogging friend who went has been to other places in Austin for cliff jumping that he says are much safer, and where the bottom is deeper closer to the cliffs. Here you had to be sure to jump out far enough, or else you're hitting part of the rock formation closer to the cliff. Anyways, the place is fairly crowded, and kids probably less than a quarter of my age are jumping off this thing like there is a bed of puffy marshmallows below, so I couldn't make too much of an ordeal out of my first jump. So I jumped. A little while later I did it again, if for no other reason than I found myself trying to talk me out of jumping again. At times like this I just have to "man up" and silence my inner chicken.
Okay, now for the numbers. As you'll notice in the picture (that is, if I can ever get it transferred from my phone - anyone want to loan me a laptop bluetooth adapter?), one rock is significantly higher than the cliff I first jumped from. We estimated this at about 50 feet. Ay ay ay. (sp?) Two of the guys on the trip decided they were going to jump the tall rock, since we'd seen some other people doing it and not dying or exploding or anything. So they go up and jump. Great. Here comes the inner chicken again, clucking something about how I'd already proved enough manhood for one day. Stupid chicken. Yes, eventually I make my way over the rock. I start climbing. Right before I get to the top, there it is - BAM! That's the sound of my pulse kicking into high gear. I stop to check it. It's at about 160 beats/minute. FYI, btw - I rarely get up this high when I'm jogging. I step up to the top of the rock. Did the wind just pick up? I swear it did. I look down at my legs. They're shaking uncontrollably. I realize that the longer I wait, the harder it's going to be to jump, and also the higher the possibility that I will lose my balance and blaze a new trail down towards the water. So I jumped. About a week or two later, I hit the water. As I come up, I punch both arms into the air for the whole "did that guy just win a teenage karate tournament?" effect. And then I swim gurgling and sputtering to a place where I can sit down and bask.
Joe, the (sheet)Rocker
I've also been working with a very different kind of rock at our new house. Sheet rock. I'd make some kind of official pronouncement that now I am officially handy, but in the current place we live, I've also fixed a leaky washer drain, so this is simply a status that I am renewing, not recently acquiring. Honestly, there's really not a lot to say about this, other than that I really don't enjoy screwing it in. Or cutting it. Or hanging it. Or squatting to get the really low-to-the-floor screws. I think that about covers it.
I think it's an ungrounded myth that guys like power tools. I would offer that, more accurately, guys like power in whatever form they can find it. Kind of like women with chocolate. But power tools are really just a way to do more damage, faster. Noisier. And I'm not just talking about the swearing that follows the router's excursion away from the straight line. Neither am I excluding it.
No use crying over spilled coffee; no use throwing a trash can over it, either
While I'm on the topic of angst, it would be interesting to note that recently, on a frustrating morning of dealing with a handful of housing "decisions" (in quotes because they're really little stinkbombs disguised as situations that people have to deal with), I thought I'd pick up some Chick-Fil-A breakfast on my way home to pick something up before heading to the office. I arrived at home after smelling dark coffee and various forms of heated lipids wafting through the car's recirculating system, ready to chow down. As I'm adding the finishing touches to my coffee and preparing to replace the lid, one of my fingers (investigation still pending) knocks over the cup. Spilling every ounce of the coffee. Onto the table, chair, and floor. Did I mention that this morning had already been frustrating? Swearing ensued. (Some of you may be of the opinion that such action is of minimal benefit to anyone. I would disagree. In my opinion, this blog would be much less interesting if the story continued with, "and I thought to myself calmly and rationally, Self, you know, this really isn't such a bad situation at all - take inventory of how blessed you are and you'll see that this is no big deal.") I think I strung some words together that made very little sense being together, semantically speaking. I went and got a towel to mop up the mess, placing it on the floor. Feeling as though the situation was reaching a resolution too quickly, I promptly picked up our kitchen trash can and sighted in the perfect spot on the wall where I should heave it. "Yes, that's just the spot. Too far left and this might not work at all." Thankfully, at this point my hippocampus stepped in and told my amygdala that it would handle things from here.
The moral of the story? Sometimes being calm and rational will save you from having to clean up extra mess. But not being so makes for good story.
Ten things I hate about summer
1. THE HEAT.
I have an uncle who moved his family to Washington state several years ago (maybe some time while I was in college). What I heard was the reasoning at the time was perhaps he did it to help his allergies. I can't say that I don't find that kind of thing extremely appealing. I don't know whether he really moved for that reason (in a recent-esque conversation with a cousin of mine, I asked about why he had moved, and I received a rather dramatic response about how they just wanted to get away from family), but finding a climate more conducive to not sweating and sneezing sounds really good to me (I realize that there would likely be tradeoffs, but who doesn't want to live in a place where there's a drive-thru coffee shop every few hundred feet?).
2. THE ROACHES.
Seeing as the Brazos Valley only recently seems to be getting some rain after more or less months of little to no rain, perhaps only recently have the roaches been driven out of hiding on a larger scale. Bad grief, they've been crazy at our new house. I had actually forgotten how big they could get (our current property owner does a decent job of keeping the pest service coming, it seems). Silly me. Oh, and did you know that at that size, they make noise on hardwood floors and concrete (in the garage)? Sooooo creepy. Give me a 50-foot cliff I can 'man up' on (over an army of roaches) any day. But hey - roaches - don't take me for soft. Those of you I haven't already decimated, your time is coming. And you'd better beg for the spray if I have a broom within reach.
3. SWEATING.
Really, this one is pretty much a corollary of no. 1. But I didn't think it should go without mention. I'm pretty sure that, whatever my particular mix of Scottish and English and Polish (and someone told me there may be some Cherokee in there somewhere, I think), it wasn't intended for a climate like Texas. I'd go into details as to why I make this claim, but I am at least aware of this much, that certain things do not make for good blog storying.
4. THE WAY THAT THE AFOREMENTIONED THINGS MAKE IT DIFFICULT TO KEEP ACCURATE COUNTS OF THINGS, AND THINK CLEARLY IN GENERAL.
So I don't have ten things, but I do have a theory about summer. (Also winter.) Fall and Spring are my favorite times of year, being the seasons that the weather in Texas is most bearable and allows for that feeling that things are either cooling off or thawing out. It's those in-between times when the long hauls of sweating and shivering begin to fade from memory as they are eclipsed by times of refreshing, when you can walk outside and for a short time, breathe cool air and enjoy that kind of feeling that you want to make last as long as you can. I think of Fall and Spring more of transition periods. Obviously, Summer and Winter transition as well, but they feel less so since they lie in between the pendulum swings. Every second gets counted when pressure is applied. But who stares at their watch in those moments when you can simply be at ease? I think it's those moments that are like little peeks at the Kingdom. Brief glimpses of something that may not last very long now, but one day we won't have to settle for inevitable disappointment. One day, disappointment will be absolutely evitable. Come, Lord Jesus.
Reunions galore
Actually, this post is incredibly long already! I can tell by the fact that my own attention span is being stretched into some kind of funky yoga position. So this is a little taste of what I'll hopefully be posting soon. Tune in next time to hear a little about Kathryn's family reunion and my own 10-year high school reunion, both of which happened in the span of two weekends. There'll be laughs, wittiness, tangents, and of course, me taking every possible opportunity to magnify any of the stories which highlight my manliness. I can't wait, and neither can you! Blog atcha soon!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Yellow Card
Yep, got my first ever yellow card Sunday night at the Scrubs' soccer game. Let's just say I barely earned it. What I mean is people (self included) have been way more physical in past games, and the referees have been letting all kinds of contact go uncalled. If the games were called by the book, then I would have earned two or three cardable offenses in our previous game. Hardly disputable, in fact. (And I wouldn't probably rank in the top several most physical players on the field, either.) Even assuming this past game had been called by the book, this was a questionable call. And this referee wasn't calling by the book. (Let's put aside for a moment the practice of "taking it like a man" - I've got something to say.) I got pushed out of bounds, shoulder-to-shoulder. No call. Another one of our guys got pushed out of bounds with the other guy's arms extended (a textbook-perfect push). No call. Both cardable offenses, by the way.
If I sound bitter, maybe I am. I don't think I am - it's been two days and I've had time to cool my jets. But this particular referee had more than just a handful of us seething by the end of the night. I don't know, there's something weird about getting fouls called in soccer. In basketball, it's no big deal to get called for a foul - you can even get up to 5 or 6 before they toss you. Rugby? Hockey? I can't say that I really watch the sports that much, but tell me there's not some major jostling and jarring going around, and it's par for the course. But somehow, soccer is different. It's not just that the play gets stopped, it's that the ref has to reach down his shorts and pull out a colored card and wave it at you, signaling to the world that you just behaved badly and would be receiving a low grade for conduct. Does this bring up any juvenile associations for anyone else? Remember those colored conduct systems they had in Kindergarten? (And maybe up through second grade or something...) In mine, green was good behavior, yellow was testing your limits, red was bad and black meant you were a child of hell. (Surprise anyone that my conduct card was pretty much always on red and black? To any educators out there who may be reading this: YOU ARE GIVING YOUR KIDS COMPLEXES. STOP RUINING THE CHILDREN.) You may not agree with the connection, but I think there's something there. I'm just sayin'.
Now, lest you begin to fear that I will leave this story on a sour note, I have good news that there is a redemptive element to it all! It came in the form of a teammate's comment to me upon hearing that I had indeed received a yellow card. "Joe, you're just going to have to stop being such a badass." (Tongue-in-cheek, of course.) You know what? That seriously made my day. Instead of being called up to the front of the class, only to be scolded and sent to stand in the corner, I get to make my way up to the front of the class and take a bow. With the teacher, by the way, directly behind me.
If I sound bitter, maybe I am. I don't think I am - it's been two days and I've had time to cool my jets. But this particular referee had more than just a handful of us seething by the end of the night. I don't know, there's something weird about getting fouls called in soccer. In basketball, it's no big deal to get called for a foul - you can even get up to 5 or 6 before they toss you. Rugby? Hockey? I can't say that I really watch the sports that much, but tell me there's not some major jostling and jarring going around, and it's par for the course. But somehow, soccer is different. It's not just that the play gets stopped, it's that the ref has to reach down his shorts and pull out a colored card and wave it at you, signaling to the world that you just behaved badly and would be receiving a low grade for conduct. Does this bring up any juvenile associations for anyone else? Remember those colored conduct systems they had in Kindergarten? (And maybe up through second grade or something...) In mine, green was good behavior, yellow was testing your limits, red was bad and black meant you were a child of hell. (Surprise anyone that my conduct card was pretty much always on red and black? To any educators out there who may be reading this: YOU ARE GIVING YOUR KIDS COMPLEXES. STOP RUINING THE CHILDREN.) You may not agree with the connection, but I think there's something there. I'm just sayin'.
Now, lest you begin to fear that I will leave this story on a sour note, I have good news that there is a redemptive element to it all! It came in the form of a teammate's comment to me upon hearing that I had indeed received a yellow card. "Joe, you're just going to have to stop being such a badass." (Tongue-in-cheek, of course.) You know what? That seriously made my day. Instead of being called up to the front of the class, only to be scolded and sent to stand in the corner, I get to make my way up to the front of the class and take a bow. With the teacher, by the way, directly behind me.
Monday, June 16, 2008
I can add my own cinnamon, thank you very much
There are two kinds of people in this world: those who think pumpkin and cinnamon go together like t-shirts and jeans, and those who think cinnamon is the quickest way to ruin any and all things pumpkin. Well, I can tell you that the folks at Melitta are the first type, having tried this today after buying it on sale at our local Albertson's, which is closing. I believe they describe it as having "notes" of nutmeg and cinnamon. Hardly. I think "orchestra hits" of nutmeg and cinnamon would be more precisely descriptive.
To be fair, Melitta's not the only one out there making pumpkin products that are cinnamon-heavy. I've tried pumpkin syrup (intended for coffee) before that had the same problem (actually, that didn't taste like anything really - except a badly mixed concoction of various "ose"es). You know what I think? I think you just can't copy pumpkin. Call me a cynic if you will, but once you get away from using real pumpkin in food, then you are left with no other course but to try and hide the fact that you don't have any real pumpkin flavor going on in there. Not even pumpkin-esque in most cases. So then what? It becomes a cover-up job. They know that people often put nutmeg and cinnamon on their pumpkin (which, admittedly, can be done right - but oftentimes is done oh-so-wrong), and so they compensate for pumpkin-deficiency by playing on your natural taste-associative abilities. People: they're playing mind games with you! Are you going to stand for that? I sure as pumpkin pie ain't.
Here's what I resolve to do, and might I recommend you take a similar course of action:
1. Only buy real pumpkin products.
2. If you must buy once- or more-than-once-removed pumpkin-flavor products, hold them to the highest standards of pumpkin-actual-tastiness.
3. Should said pumpkin products fail to meet these standards, complain loudly and publicly. I think at that point something good is supposed to happen as a result.
If that doesn't work, then I don't know what to tell you. I think at that point we're supposed to mutter something, in an I-know-it-all-too-well and shrugging fashion, about what it "seems like" society is "coming to these days".
To be fair, Melitta's not the only one out there making pumpkin products that are cinnamon-heavy. I've tried pumpkin syrup (intended for coffee) before that had the same problem (actually, that didn't taste like anything really - except a badly mixed concoction of various "ose"es). You know what I think? I think you just can't copy pumpkin. Call me a cynic if you will, but once you get away from using real pumpkin in food, then you are left with no other course but to try and hide the fact that you don't have any real pumpkin flavor going on in there. Not even pumpkin-esque in most cases. So then what? It becomes a cover-up job. They know that people often put nutmeg and cinnamon on their pumpkin (which, admittedly, can be done right - but oftentimes is done oh-so-wrong), and so they compensate for pumpkin-deficiency by playing on your natural taste-associative abilities. People: they're playing mind games with you! Are you going to stand for that? I sure as pumpkin pie ain't.
Here's what I resolve to do, and might I recommend you take a similar course of action:
1. Only buy real pumpkin products.
2. If you must buy once- or more-than-once-removed pumpkin-flavor products, hold them to the highest standards of pumpkin-actual-tastiness.
3. Should said pumpkin products fail to meet these standards, complain loudly and publicly. I think at that point something good is supposed to happen as a result.
If that doesn't work, then I don't know what to tell you. I think at that point we're supposed to mutter something, in an I-know-it-all-too-well and shrugging fashion, about what it "seems like" society is "coming to these days".
Thursday, June 12, 2008
In a Word: Soccer
In four words: frustration, aggression, helplessness and disappointment. Somehow, saying "you can't win 'em all" just doesn't cut it when I nearly clotheslined a guy and volleyball-spiked the soccer ball in the last five minutes because time was winding down and our chances of winning were slipping further and further out of reach. Thankfully, no one said anything of the sort, elsewise they may well have received a beating. Actually, Danny and Jordan were very encouraging: "Joe! You were amazing out there! You stopped like every ball that went up the middle!" I'll call this 'speaking hopefully about reality', as opposed to its alternative, 'speaking accurately about reality'. Honestly, the former suits me better anyways, because I'm much less keen on the whole truth-equals-accuracy myth than I used to be. The eye is the lamp of the body, after all...
Wow, I haven't gotten that worked up in a long time, no joke! Kathryn said that now I can relate to times when her emotions get revved up and how difficult it is to relate gracefully to other people at those times. Seriously - after the game, we wanted Icees, and so we stopped by HEB on the way home because they have a machine. You can guess what's coming. We walk inside the store to find the machine turned off. I literally wanted to take the lids and straws off the counter and throw them on the ground.
After that, Kathryn drove the rest of the way home. ;) While I certainly proved myself worthy yet again of the "Destroyer" title, neither of us had any desire to see what I could accomplish with 1,960 pounds as opposed to 196. About the time we sat down in Burger King to enjoy our Icee - finally - I could feel myself calming down a little bit. Probably the grease from the cheesy tots helped.
I need to go to bed. But first, I have something of a public rebuke. For soccer. Y'all can all listen in.
Soccer, you let me down. You were supposed to be a good outlet for energy and aggression and competitiveness, and instead of making me feel like more of a man, you make me look very nearly like an idiot so many times and make me a loser and not a winner. No, soccer, none of this "everyone's a winner" crap - I stopped buying that line after high school. So stop selling it. Seriously, soccer, you know what? Chicken butt.
Wow, I haven't gotten that worked up in a long time, no joke! Kathryn said that now I can relate to times when her emotions get revved up and how difficult it is to relate gracefully to other people at those times. Seriously - after the game, we wanted Icees, and so we stopped by HEB on the way home because they have a machine. You can guess what's coming. We walk inside the store to find the machine turned off. I literally wanted to take the lids and straws off the counter and throw them on the ground.
After that, Kathryn drove the rest of the way home. ;) While I certainly proved myself worthy yet again of the "Destroyer" title, neither of us had any desire to see what I could accomplish with 1,960 pounds as opposed to 196. About the time we sat down in Burger King to enjoy our Icee - finally - I could feel myself calming down a little bit. Probably the grease from the cheesy tots helped.
I need to go to bed. But first, I have something of a public rebuke. For soccer. Y'all can all listen in.
Soccer, you let me down. You were supposed to be a good outlet for energy and aggression and competitiveness, and instead of making me feel like more of a man, you make me look very nearly like an idiot so many times and make me a loser and not a winner. No, soccer, none of this "everyone's a winner" crap - I stopped buying that line after high school. So stop selling it. Seriously, soccer, you know what? Chicken butt.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Things I'm Struck By Today
Call these personal realizations, "oh, okay" moments, or just plain better sense finally breaking through to me, but I've got a few things on my mind of the should-it-really-have-been-that-hard-for-me-to-learn variety.
Tom Petty Said It Best
"The waiting is the hardest part." Lately I've identified areas of my life in which I'm "waiting on God" for what's next: housing, family, etc. Somewhere along the way, something in me interpreted that to mean, "I'm waiting on God and doing nothing in the meantime." Somehow, I need to get from there to a place where I'm living as if I'm lacking nothing. Because I have everything I need. When you think about what it means that the shield of faith extinguishes the flaming darts of the evil one, maybe it means you use it to keep all those hundreds (thousands?) of advertising messages - that bombard you constantly each day - from sinking in and convincing you, "Ooh, I need that." (Hasn't someone done the math on this? I wonder how many of these get hurled at us on an average day.) So I suppose, if I could piggyback off Mr. Petty, I'd say something like, "Waiting on God doesn't mean sitting around." (Which, admittedly, doesn't make for near as cool of a song line, but I've never exactly owned the market on cool.)
Nuance Doesn't Convey
I was watching some talk show or news cast or something of the sort the other day where they were talking about Barack Obama. Sorry if I botch the details, but what I remember was that they said he was at some kind of press conference, talking about trying to raise the general tone of campaigning above attacks and back-and-forth bickering, and at the end of his speech, the audience was basically silent. He had been very careful to state his position tactfully, or at least that's the picture that was painted of the event. Finally, someone broke the silence with, "Did you change your hair?"
God Bless America.
Whether or not the event really went down exactly like that, it's a picture with fresh relevance for me. So a couple of weeks ago in my performance review I had mentioned that I'd be willing at some point to take on some new projects, as time allows, while emphasizing that I wasn't in any hurry to do so, but that now was a good time for this, seeing as the summer isn't a busy time for our project at all. Now, I know for a fact my boss caught all the nuance bundled up in my little spiel. So I don't blame her for the fact that the next week, one of our administrators came up to me, asked me to come to her office to talk about some new projects, prefacing the entire conversation with, "So I hear you're bored."
The feeling is not unlike buying an expensive piece of chocolate to send via international mail to a relative living halfway around the world, only to have it shipped wrong and get sidetracked all over the globe, finally arriving at your relative's smushed and eaten by worms that it picked up somewhere en route. Oh, and then the relative calls you and gives you an earful about how you should have insured it. Something like that, at least.
Anyways, said admin tells me of a project I can help another coworker with. Said coworker comes to me later that week to talk to me about said project, and, no lie, this is what she says, "So I hear you're bored."
To those of you women who read my blog, I must say that while I respect your intuition and your ability to far outpace us males in terms of the general accuracy of the conclusions you jump to, I must also remind you, as the great Dumbledore once said, "With great power comes great responsibility." Ladies, please use your intuition and assuming wisely and with caution. Please, for once, take the lead of us men when it comes to wielding dangerous weapons: we don't mess around with things that can blow up in our faces, as you'll observe when we're handling guns (all the men I know are extremely cautious, even when around other men who are equally cautious). For those of you ladies who have already attained to a measure of wisdom in this, there are plenty of others around who could gain from your example! God bless you.
God Bless America.
Tom Petty Said It Best
"The waiting is the hardest part." Lately I've identified areas of my life in which I'm "waiting on God" for what's next: housing, family, etc. Somewhere along the way, something in me interpreted that to mean, "I'm waiting on God and doing nothing in the meantime." Somehow, I need to get from there to a place where I'm living as if I'm lacking nothing. Because I have everything I need. When you think about what it means that the shield of faith extinguishes the flaming darts of the evil one, maybe it means you use it to keep all those hundreds (thousands?) of advertising messages - that bombard you constantly each day - from sinking in and convincing you, "Ooh, I need that." (Hasn't someone done the math on this? I wonder how many of these get hurled at us on an average day.) So I suppose, if I could piggyback off Mr. Petty, I'd say something like, "Waiting on God doesn't mean sitting around." (Which, admittedly, doesn't make for near as cool of a song line, but I've never exactly owned the market on cool.)
Nuance Doesn't Convey
I was watching some talk show or news cast or something of the sort the other day where they were talking about Barack Obama. Sorry if I botch the details, but what I remember was that they said he was at some kind of press conference, talking about trying to raise the general tone of campaigning above attacks and back-and-forth bickering, and at the end of his speech, the audience was basically silent. He had been very careful to state his position tactfully, or at least that's the picture that was painted of the event. Finally, someone broke the silence with, "Did you change your hair?"
God Bless America.
Whether or not the event really went down exactly like that, it's a picture with fresh relevance for me. So a couple of weeks ago in my performance review I had mentioned that I'd be willing at some point to take on some new projects, as time allows, while emphasizing that I wasn't in any hurry to do so, but that now was a good time for this, seeing as the summer isn't a busy time for our project at all. Now, I know for a fact my boss caught all the nuance bundled up in my little spiel. So I don't blame her for the fact that the next week, one of our administrators came up to me, asked me to come to her office to talk about some new projects, prefacing the entire conversation with, "So I hear you're bored."
The feeling is not unlike buying an expensive piece of chocolate to send via international mail to a relative living halfway around the world, only to have it shipped wrong and get sidetracked all over the globe, finally arriving at your relative's smushed and eaten by worms that it picked up somewhere en route. Oh, and then the relative calls you and gives you an earful about how you should have insured it. Something like that, at least.
Anyways, said admin tells me of a project I can help another coworker with. Said coworker comes to me later that week to talk to me about said project, and, no lie, this is what she says, "So I hear you're bored."
To those of you women who read my blog, I must say that while I respect your intuition and your ability to far outpace us males in terms of the general accuracy of the conclusions you jump to, I must also remind you, as the great Dumbledore once said, "With great power comes great responsibility." Ladies, please use your intuition and assuming wisely and with caution. Please, for once, take the lead of us men when it comes to wielding dangerous weapons: we don't mess around with things that can blow up in our faces, as you'll observe when we're handling guns (all the men I know are extremely cautious, even when around other men who are equally cautious). For those of you ladies who have already attained to a measure of wisdom in this, there are plenty of others around who could gain from your example! God bless you.
God Bless America.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Various happenings
Howdy from Aggieland! It's a fine day and I hope it finds you... if it hasn't already. I thought I'd post a few recent life happenings, tidbit-style, to catch you up to speed on my brain waves - surf's up!
Summer Breeze, Makes Me Feel Sweaty
Yuck - Texas summers. That's what all of you with sensitive noses are saying now that those of us with sensitive sweat glands are feeling the heat. I am sorry. Generally I'm a very clean person, but thinking I can effectively manage smelling good in this kind of climate is just like thinking that one can effectively manage anything they set their mind to: it's just plain hubris.
So, I've decided to play soccer again. What better way to make the most of the least logical time of year to be outdoors and active in this great state? We had our first game this Sunday. We tied. Actually, I'm kind of happy about that, seeing as it's the first time I remember not losing an opening game while playing with the Scrubs (though memory could be, admittedly, failing me here). I am a little disappointed with my own performance, though. While I did manage to earn the self-titled "Destroyer" nickname (I'm hoping it will catch on) by smashing the face or body of opposing players with the ball quite forcefully multiple times (I wasn't trying to hurt anyone, they just got in the way), as well as one time knocking a guy down just by standing in his way (this time I got in the way, but hey - he ran into me - and yes, this did make me feel manly), I was otherwise a little pathetic, to be perfectly honest. (Or as Kathryn so frankly put it, I seemed to be getting outrun a lot out there. To be quite accurate, I would think it better to say I was "run" as opposed to "outrun", seeing as frequently the other team was running, whereas I was walking.) In heat like this, I'm afraid that if I over-exert, I may keel over and evaporate or something. But I am over 20 pounds lighter this year than last - whoop! - so that's helping quite a bit.
It's A New Month: You Know What That Means!
Actually, you may not know what that means. What it means is both Kathryn and I get paychecks! Which means a new month for our "budget". (I say that, not sarcastically, but matter-of-factly, given that I'm still warming to the concept that a budget is primarily intended to be functional, as opposed to aesthetic. Tomato, tomato. See? Who can tell the difference anyways?) Which means a new chance to not overspend. Which means renewed hopes of getting to the 15th of the month with some eating-out money left. Seriously, though, it's going to happen this month. At this point, I'm not joking around any more - I know it's hard to tell in print, but it's true. Seriously, ask me at the end of the month, and once you have heard about how we've stuck to budget this month, I'll let you buy me lunch.
Performance Review - Delusions Of Better-Than-Averageness
I had my annual performance review at work last week. It actually went really well, and I would actually go so far as to say it was something of a "glowing" review, without verging on celebrity frenzy. I say that because you're ranked on a scale of "Does Not Meet Expectations" to "Meets Expectations" to "Exceeds Expectations" to finally "Outstanding" - at which point, if I'm not mistaken, you start getting calls from people asking you to run departments and governments and things like that. I pulled off an "Exceeds Expectations" overall, which I think puts me somewhere between a firm handshake/pat on the back and a little eyebrow-raising on the part of the office bigwigs.
What's interesting to me about these measures of how worthwhile of a human being I am (other than our culture's audacity and propensity to so readily quantify people's worth) is the point of shift from culture making great efforts to motivate and assure people, not just of their potential but also of their innate stardom, to the point at which everyone is more seemingly on level playing field, except for the true stars who float above the crowds with their feet and buttocks hitting the rest of our faces. You may recall this transition in your life as the time when you went from being pretty much an 'A' student by default to pretty much a 'C' student by default. And while we've all got variations on this theme, there's definitely a point when the coddling stops and you realize that the world is saying to you, "You're not really exceptional unless you're truly exceptional." The way this seems to be communicated is, "You're not exceptional." In this context, the way someone truly does become exceptional is to elbow their way up and proclaim from the top of the heap, "I'm all that. Love me, hate me - I'm the schnitt." Sure, some celebrities and elitists do this with a touch of class, but such a touch doesn't appear to be required to be admired.
I don't really have any particular point in saying all of that, and I don't claim any originality in recognizing it, either (if I did then you might claw over me in your scramble for a better view of the blogosphere... although, I know most of my blog readership, and you are all much better people than that; and for those of you I don't know, I'm quite certain that reading my blog is already helping you to become a much better person anyway). But despite all its quirks and the bureaucratic nature of this whole review process, I'm not unaware of the significance of the process of being measured up according to this cultural metric. I just hope for a greater measure of the kind of spirit whose value is evident in the kind of redemptive tendencies I exhibit, and a shortened leash for the one inciting me to throw elbows, cross tongues and divide loyalties.
Wrap To The Rap
Well, folks, that's all for now. I'll come atcha again as life gives me a fresh batch of wordiness to cook up on here. Until such time, keep it cool, keep it real, keep it real cool, and try not to lose whatever it is you're keeping.
Summer Breeze, Makes Me Feel Sweaty
Yuck - Texas summers. That's what all of you with sensitive noses are saying now that those of us with sensitive sweat glands are feeling the heat. I am sorry. Generally I'm a very clean person, but thinking I can effectively manage smelling good in this kind of climate is just like thinking that one can effectively manage anything they set their mind to: it's just plain hubris.
So, I've decided to play soccer again. What better way to make the most of the least logical time of year to be outdoors and active in this great state? We had our first game this Sunday. We tied. Actually, I'm kind of happy about that, seeing as it's the first time I remember not losing an opening game while playing with the Scrubs (though memory could be, admittedly, failing me here). I am a little disappointed with my own performance, though. While I did manage to earn the self-titled "Destroyer" nickname (I'm hoping it will catch on) by smashing the face or body of opposing players with the ball quite forcefully multiple times (I wasn't trying to hurt anyone, they just got in the way), as well as one time knocking a guy down just by standing in his way (this time I got in the way, but hey - he ran into me - and yes, this did make me feel manly), I was otherwise a little pathetic, to be perfectly honest. (Or as Kathryn so frankly put it, I seemed to be getting outrun a lot out there. To be quite accurate, I would think it better to say I was "run" as opposed to "outrun", seeing as frequently the other team was running, whereas I was walking.) In heat like this, I'm afraid that if I over-exert, I may keel over and evaporate or something. But I am over 20 pounds lighter this year than last - whoop! - so that's helping quite a bit.
It's A New Month: You Know What That Means!
Actually, you may not know what that means. What it means is both Kathryn and I get paychecks! Which means a new month for our "budget". (I say that, not sarcastically, but matter-of-factly, given that I'm still warming to the concept that a budget is primarily intended to be functional, as opposed to aesthetic. Tomato, tomato. See? Who can tell the difference anyways?) Which means a new chance to not overspend. Which means renewed hopes of getting to the 15th of the month with some eating-out money left. Seriously, though, it's going to happen this month. At this point, I'm not joking around any more - I know it's hard to tell in print, but it's true. Seriously, ask me at the end of the month, and once you have heard about how we've stuck to budget this month, I'll let you buy me lunch.
Performance Review - Delusions Of Better-Than-Averageness
I had my annual performance review at work last week. It actually went really well, and I would actually go so far as to say it was something of a "glowing" review, without verging on celebrity frenzy. I say that because you're ranked on a scale of "Does Not Meet Expectations" to "Meets Expectations" to "Exceeds Expectations" to finally "Outstanding" - at which point, if I'm not mistaken, you start getting calls from people asking you to run departments and governments and things like that. I pulled off an "Exceeds Expectations" overall, which I think puts me somewhere between a firm handshake/pat on the back and a little eyebrow-raising on the part of the office bigwigs.
What's interesting to me about these measures of how worthwhile of a human being I am (other than our culture's audacity and propensity to so readily quantify people's worth) is the point of shift from culture making great efforts to motivate and assure people, not just of their potential but also of their innate stardom, to the point at which everyone is more seemingly on level playing field, except for the true stars who float above the crowds with their feet and buttocks hitting the rest of our faces. You may recall this transition in your life as the time when you went from being pretty much an 'A' student by default to pretty much a 'C' student by default. And while we've all got variations on this theme, there's definitely a point when the coddling stops and you realize that the world is saying to you, "You're not really exceptional unless you're truly exceptional." The way this seems to be communicated is, "You're not exceptional." In this context, the way someone truly does become exceptional is to elbow their way up and proclaim from the top of the heap, "I'm all that. Love me, hate me - I'm the schnitt." Sure, some celebrities and elitists do this with a touch of class, but such a touch doesn't appear to be required to be admired.
I don't really have any particular point in saying all of that, and I don't claim any originality in recognizing it, either (if I did then you might claw over me in your scramble for a better view of the blogosphere... although, I know most of my blog readership, and you are all much better people than that; and for those of you I don't know, I'm quite certain that reading my blog is already helping you to become a much better person anyway). But despite all its quirks and the bureaucratic nature of this whole review process, I'm not unaware of the significance of the process of being measured up according to this cultural metric. I just hope for a greater measure of the kind of spirit whose value is evident in the kind of redemptive tendencies I exhibit, and a shortened leash for the one inciting me to throw elbows, cross tongues and divide loyalties.
Wrap To The Rap
Well, folks, that's all for now. I'll come atcha again as life gives me a fresh batch of wordiness to cook up on here. Until such time, keep it cool, keep it real, keep it real cool, and try not to lose whatever it is you're keeping.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Fives Are Wild
My friend Ross tagged me and seemed to think I might respond to this. Heck, yeah! I'm totally in my element when I'm doing things that many people find awkward or beneath them. (I've got blue face paint and I'm not afraid to use it.) Besides, having been tagged by a rock star/teen idol, how could I resist the chance to take a shot at, as he puts it, "revealing how insecure I am"?
Here goes everything.
Edit: Oh yeah, almost forgot to post THE RULES:
1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning.
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves.
3. At the end of the post, the player then tags five people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read the player’s blog.
4. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.
What were you doing 5 years ago?
Let's see, what was I doing 5 years ago today? (As we all learned in junior high essay tests, it really helps your answers look a lot more solid when you first restate the question before totally B.S.ing the "meat" of your answer.) I know one thing was just starting to breathe again as my wife finished the first of her three final years of school at A&M (after the year off she took to join me in California, which followed her first two years at A&M), and thinking how long the next two years would be until we could get the hay out of College Station. The better question here is, what are you doing today, five years after that time five years ago? The answer then becomes: Watch, and Learn.
What are 5 things on your to-do list today
(NOTE: I started this Saturday. I'm finishing this Monday, but I'm leaving the to-do list intact. Saturday's was much more interesting than today's.)
1. Wake up - check. (Starting the day out slowly and with attainable goals allows for greater momentum going into loftier and more blog-worthy goals.)
2. Help make coffee and quiche for the in-laws in town - check. (Pretty sweet deal, huh? I'm available for private parties, and also I'm a lot of fun on karaoke.)
3. Go look at potential houses - check. (We sort of are and aren't looking at this point in time - today was more of an "are" day than one of the "aren't"s.)
4. Help a friend from our ComGroup move to a new apartment - check. (Get really sweaty while carrying the things that people have to have in all rooms of their house and actually use on a daily basis - also check.)
5. See the new Indiana Jones movie - unchecked at this point in time. But the tickets have been purchased.
What are 5 snacks you enjoy?
1. Tortilla chips with dip
2. Fritos with dip
3. Potato chips with dip
4. Bagel chips with dip
5. Paint chips (plain)
What 5 things would you do if you were a billionaire?
1. Pay off the national debt.
2. Go back to school and take a class in economics.
3. Pay off my own debt.
4. Pay off my friends' and families' debts and probably the debts of a bunch of other people who came up to me and played the sympathy card (I'm such a sucker for these types of people, it's sickening).
5. Go to random stores, on occasion, and say with glee in a loud voice, "I'll have one of everything."
6. Give gobs of money to my church and other Kingdom-minded causes (in a much less showy way). And I'm not just saying that because this guy and this guy said it first.
What are 5 of your bad habits?
1. Loving shock-value attention
2. Eating way too many chips
3. Wow, five is a lot of bad habits to have to list
4. I kind of feel like that first one was worth at least two or three because it was so honest and motive-baring, but okay - I'll list one more:
5. Suddenly quitting a game because I want to, even if other people are still playing (if you've ever played mini-golf or Guesstures with me, you'll know what I'm talking about).
What are 5 places you have lived?
1. Crappy house in Pasadena, TX (a.k.a. Stinkadena)
2. Nicer house in Pasadena, TX (this location smelled a little better)
3. Malibu, CA (if you haven't heard my celebrity stories, I've got a few good ones I can tell sometime)
4. Agoura Hills, CA (through "the Canyon" - this is where Kathryn and I had our first apartment! 500 sq. ft., $670/mo.)
5. Bryan/College Station, TX (hullabaloo connect the dots)
What are 5 jobs you've had? (These will appear in chronological order)
1. Grocery sacker (I was pretty spickin' good at keeping cold items together and totally dominating the canned vegetables, back in the day)
2. Lifeguard (I wasn't actually very good at this)
3. Chick-Fil-A customer satisfaction artist (actually, I don't know what my official job title was, and I only worked there a month because my parents wanted me to focus more on school, but this was a pretty sweet job because you could eat the "employee meals" for $1, which basically consisted of as many of those nuggets and fries as you could fit on a plate)
4. General student worker (I paid my dues for all four years of college...)
5. Various office jobs/Research Assistant (something about wondering whether people noticed that I'd already paid those dues in college - but somehow you continue to pay them long after. I have to be pretty vague here because I'm actually the first name that comes up when I google myself, and most of my current co-workers are either web-savvy or outright techie. Actually, the job I'm at right now is pretty sweet, so it's not like I have a lot to vent about out here in Cyber-topia.)
What 5 people do you want to tag?
1. My wife (seeing as she's working on one of these posts but hasn't published it yet, I'd say this timing works out well; hers will be quite a formidable post, seeing as she's hilarious in her own right, but I can almost bet money on my post being way longer, so I'm not too worried)
2. Thad (he can't ignore the impatient crowds forever)
3. Danny (seeing as he's recently gotten back into blogging, I thought I'd be nice and send all my incredible scores of web-traffic his way)
4. Britt (who is currently suffering from major blog-frost)
5. Cory (another blog-frosty, but ought to be able to craft something hecka interesting)
Here goes everything.
Edit: Oh yeah, almost forgot to post THE RULES:
1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning.
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves.
3. At the end of the post, the player then tags five people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read the player’s blog.
4. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.
What were you doing 5 years ago?
Let's see, what was I doing 5 years ago today? (As we all learned in junior high essay tests, it really helps your answers look a lot more solid when you first restate the question before totally B.S.ing the "meat" of your answer.) I know one thing was just starting to breathe again as my wife finished the first of her three final years of school at A&M (after the year off she took to join me in California, which followed her first two years at A&M), and thinking how long the next two years would be until we could get the hay out of College Station. The better question here is, what are you doing today, five years after that time five years ago? The answer then becomes: Watch, and Learn.
What are 5 things on your to-do list today
(NOTE: I started this Saturday. I'm finishing this Monday, but I'm leaving the to-do list intact. Saturday's was much more interesting than today's.)
1. Wake up - check. (Starting the day out slowly and with attainable goals allows for greater momentum going into loftier and more blog-worthy goals.)
2. Help make coffee and quiche for the in-laws in town - check. (Pretty sweet deal, huh? I'm available for private parties, and also I'm a lot of fun on karaoke.)
3. Go look at potential houses - check. (We sort of are and aren't looking at this point in time - today was more of an "are" day than one of the "aren't"s.)
4. Help a friend from our ComGroup move to a new apartment - check. (Get really sweaty while carrying the things that people have to have in all rooms of their house and actually use on a daily basis - also check.)
5. See the new Indiana Jones movie - unchecked at this point in time. But the tickets have been purchased.
What are 5 snacks you enjoy?
1. Tortilla chips with dip
2. Fritos with dip
3. Potato chips with dip
4. Bagel chips with dip
5. Paint chips (plain)
What 5 things would you do if you were a billionaire?
1. Pay off the national debt.
2. Go back to school and take a class in economics.
3. Pay off my own debt.
4. Pay off my friends' and families' debts and probably the debts of a bunch of other people who came up to me and played the sympathy card (I'm such a sucker for these types of people, it's sickening).
5. Go to random stores, on occasion, and say with glee in a loud voice, "I'll have one of everything."
6. Give gobs of money to my church and other Kingdom-minded causes (in a much less showy way). And I'm not just saying that because this guy and this guy said it first.
What are 5 of your bad habits?
1. Loving shock-value attention
2. Eating way too many chips
3. Wow, five is a lot of bad habits to have to list
4. I kind of feel like that first one was worth at least two or three because it was so honest and motive-baring, but okay - I'll list one more:
5. Suddenly quitting a game because I want to, even if other people are still playing (if you've ever played mini-golf or Guesstures with me, you'll know what I'm talking about).
What are 5 places you have lived?
1. Crappy house in Pasadena, TX (a.k.a. Stinkadena)
2. Nicer house in Pasadena, TX (this location smelled a little better)
3. Malibu, CA (if you haven't heard my celebrity stories, I've got a few good ones I can tell sometime)
4. Agoura Hills, CA (through "the Canyon" - this is where Kathryn and I had our first apartment! 500 sq. ft., $670/mo.)
5. Bryan/College Station, TX (hullabaloo connect the dots)
What are 5 jobs you've had? (These will appear in chronological order)
1. Grocery sacker (I was pretty spickin' good at keeping cold items together and totally dominating the canned vegetables, back in the day)
2. Lifeguard (I wasn't actually very good at this)
3. Chick-Fil-A customer satisfaction artist (actually, I don't know what my official job title was, and I only worked there a month because my parents wanted me to focus more on school, but this was a pretty sweet job because you could eat the "employee meals" for $1, which basically consisted of as many of those nuggets and fries as you could fit on a plate)
4. General student worker (I paid my dues for all four years of college...)
5. Various office jobs/Research Assistant (something about wondering whether people noticed that I'd already paid those dues in college - but somehow you continue to pay them long after. I have to be pretty vague here because I'm actually the first name that comes up when I google myself, and most of my current co-workers are either web-savvy or outright techie. Actually, the job I'm at right now is pretty sweet, so it's not like I have a lot to vent about out here in Cyber-topia.)
What 5 people do you want to tag?
1. My wife (seeing as she's working on one of these posts but hasn't published it yet, I'd say this timing works out well; hers will be quite a formidable post, seeing as she's hilarious in her own right, but I can almost bet money on my post being way longer, so I'm not too worried)
2. Thad (he can't ignore the impatient crowds forever)
3. Danny (seeing as he's recently gotten back into blogging, I thought I'd be nice and send all my incredible scores of web-traffic his way)
4. Britt (who is currently suffering from major blog-frost)
5. Cory (another blog-frosty, but ought to be able to craft something hecka interesting)
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Common Play-It-Off #1: The "Sniff Catch"
I'm hoping this post will be the first of many explorations of what I'm terming "Common Play-It-Offs" - which are basically timely behavioral adjustments employed to quickly manage the perceptions of those around you. They are clandestinely desperate efforts to ensure that you don't give something of yourself away that you didn't premeditatedly intend to give away. The type of things about which those less subtle of your friends and/or acquaintances might be quick to say, "He's totally trying to play it off!" Hence the name.
Let me give you an example. Let's assume you find yourself in some form of social situation. Suddenly, something in your immediate environment tickles your funnybone. Perhaps you are in conversation and someone says something unexpectedly ironic. Perhaps you are supposed to be hard at work, though in fact you were daydreaming when a joke or scene of hilarity stumbles into the forefront of your consciousness. Within a fraction of a split-second, before you've braced yourself to withstand the wind of laughter, a gust blows through and exits out your nostrils, thus producing a slight, but plainly audible sniff-laugh, perhaps accompanied by a slight twinkling in your eyes. In yet another fraction of a second, this one no larger than the one that brought on this almost certain disaster, your mind rattles off the following: "Oh no! Did anyone hear that? Did anyone see that? Shoot! How embarrassing if they did! But maybe there's still time... maybe I can [everyone all together now] PLAY IT OFF..." Of course, this would be more of a quasi-conscious reaction - the way the play-it-off would more likely be conceived and executed in real time is something like this: ! nff. And "nff," of course, is what I would call the "Sniff Catch." That timely, ever-so-smooth save that, if successful, will have those in your airspace thinking, "Did he laugh just now? Oh, must have been merely clearing his nose."
And of course, if someone asks you how your allergies are doing this season, you know you're in the clear. Golden. (Barring any hint of sarcasm, of course.) However, should you find no forthcoming offers of Kleenex, you are then faced with a difficult decision. Do you follow up your sniff laugh and catch with another similar sniffing combination? Or would doing so jeopardize the subtlety of your defense? After all, your whole strategy here rests on flying below the radar. Friend, let me just say that I don't envy your decision in the least. All I will offer here, other than the obvious advice that you should factor in as many variables as you can in the time you have (what's your audience like - how well do you know them? are you in a noisy location - perhaps the air conditioning prevented anyone from noticing your blunder? how drunk is everyone - not at all or beyond memory? do these people even care whether you exist - perhaps if they all look down on you they wouldn't care even if they did notice?) - you know, read the situation and make an educated guess - is this: prevention is the best defense. Let me explain further in the next paragraph. See you there in a minute - I have to run to the bathroom.
Okay, I'm back. Hopefully you weren't waiting too long. Now, prevention. The key here is practice. I'm talking, stand in front of the mirror and practice all kinds of get-out-of-trouble looks (I'm a younger brother - trust me, they work. Actually, I really did get in trouble a lot as a kid. But I think this tapered off significantly as I got older, so I take that for eventually getting better at getting out of stuff, especially given the fact that I've always been a learn-the-hard-way type of guy). Especially hone in on such gems as the hee-hee-aren't-I-so-cute look (caution: this look's effectiveness can be compromised by the presence of pepper in between front teeth, or any other foreign objects), the oops-aren't-I-so-cute look (the key here is not in making your surprise come off as genuine, but in how adorable you are), and finally the oh-well-aren't-I-so-cute look (the king of all looks, because once you've mastered this one, you can pretty much get away with anything except for cannibalism and cutting in line). Also, Blue Steel and Magnum are handy options. So then, once you've got some tools in your bag, you're ready to pull them out should you totally botch the play-it-off.
So, without further ado, here it is (in my first ever blog-video!) - the "Sniff Catch":
Let me give you an example. Let's assume you find yourself in some form of social situation. Suddenly, something in your immediate environment tickles your funnybone. Perhaps you are in conversation and someone says something unexpectedly ironic. Perhaps you are supposed to be hard at work, though in fact you were daydreaming when a joke or scene of hilarity stumbles into the forefront of your consciousness. Within a fraction of a split-second, before you've braced yourself to withstand the wind of laughter, a gust blows through and exits out your nostrils, thus producing a slight, but plainly audible sniff-laugh, perhaps accompanied by a slight twinkling in your eyes. In yet another fraction of a second, this one no larger than the one that brought on this almost certain disaster, your mind rattles off the following: "Oh no! Did anyone hear that? Did anyone see that? Shoot! How embarrassing if they did! But maybe there's still time... maybe I can [everyone all together now] PLAY IT OFF..." Of course, this would be more of a quasi-conscious reaction - the way the play-it-off would more likely be conceived and executed in real time is something like this: ! nff. And "nff," of course, is what I would call the "Sniff Catch." That timely, ever-so-smooth save that, if successful, will have those in your airspace thinking, "Did he laugh just now? Oh, must have been merely clearing his nose."
And of course, if someone asks you how your allergies are doing this season, you know you're in the clear. Golden. (Barring any hint of sarcasm, of course.) However, should you find no forthcoming offers of Kleenex, you are then faced with a difficult decision. Do you follow up your sniff laugh and catch with another similar sniffing combination? Or would doing so jeopardize the subtlety of your defense? After all, your whole strategy here rests on flying below the radar. Friend, let me just say that I don't envy your decision in the least. All I will offer here, other than the obvious advice that you should factor in as many variables as you can in the time you have (what's your audience like - how well do you know them? are you in a noisy location - perhaps the air conditioning prevented anyone from noticing your blunder? how drunk is everyone - not at all or beyond memory? do these people even care whether you exist - perhaps if they all look down on you they wouldn't care even if they did notice?) - you know, read the situation and make an educated guess - is this: prevention is the best defense. Let me explain further in the next paragraph. See you there in a minute - I have to run to the bathroom.
Okay, I'm back. Hopefully you weren't waiting too long. Now, prevention. The key here is practice. I'm talking, stand in front of the mirror and practice all kinds of get-out-of-trouble looks (I'm a younger brother - trust me, they work. Actually, I really did get in trouble a lot as a kid. But I think this tapered off significantly as I got older, so I take that for eventually getting better at getting out of stuff, especially given the fact that I've always been a learn-the-hard-way type of guy). Especially hone in on such gems as the hee-hee-aren't-I-so-cute look (caution: this look's effectiveness can be compromised by the presence of pepper in between front teeth, or any other foreign objects), the oops-aren't-I-so-cute look (the key here is not in making your surprise come off as genuine, but in how adorable you are), and finally the oh-well-aren't-I-so-cute look (the king of all looks, because once you've mastered this one, you can pretty much get away with anything except for cannibalism and cutting in line). Also, Blue Steel and Magnum are handy options. So then, once you've got some tools in your bag, you're ready to pull them out should you totally botch the play-it-off.
So, without further ado, here it is (in my first ever blog-video!) - the "Sniff Catch":
Sunday, May 18, 2008
A Week In The Life Of Joe
I’ve determined that weekends are the best times for revealing how desperately inept one is at living life. Here’s the way things typically tend to shake out for me on weekends. Actually, to get a better idea, it’s best to start with Mondays – the days on which, usually, my weekend expectations begin to form. Mondays usually begin with an unpleasant discovery: that in the intervening time between Sunday night bed-time and Monday morning wake-time, a miracle has, in fact, failed to occur yet again, and I will, in fact, have to deal with each week day in due course and miss out on skipping right ahead to Friday night. Such is life (imagine that in a French accent). These types of dark epiphanies are much less common throughout the week, but have been known to occur as late as about Wednesday morning.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Little Dribbler, National Champion
I just witnessed my cousinito (little cousin - she'd be my cousin-niece if we had a word for it in English) become a National Champion in Little Dribblers, at a basketball court in Franklin, Texas. National Champion. Has quite a ring to it, right? Imagine how a 10-year-old girl feels having that title to throw behind her name now. Imagine roll call: "BONNIE FIELDS." "National Champion HERE!"
Actually, two things about that. First, the actual title of the Little Dribblers tournament was the "Continental National Tournament." Just enjoy that one for a minute. (In doing a little research on the website for the event, apparently the "Continental" version of the tournament is for those communities, holding Little Dribblers charters, under a population of 2,500. The biggest version, the "National" - as in the "National National Tournament", I'm assuming? - has a population limit of 35,000. So this is small-town stuff, pretty much. Or, as you'll see next...) The other thing is that all the places involved in the Continental National Tournament are from Texas. (All over, though - one team came all the way from Farwell, which is an hour and a half north-west of Lubbock, right near the New Mexico border; they lost the championship game. Ouch. That's a really, REALLY long bus ride back.) I have two potential explanations for this. One is that Little Dribblers happens in more states than just Texas, and each one has its version of the "National" tournament. The more fun explanation for me (which, unfortunately, I just found out to be false because I read this - but humor me anyways) is that, in the deep reaches of small-town Texas, there is still a strong sentiment that Texas should be, as it once was, its own country. Thus, any competition comprised entirely of teams from Texas, is a "national" competition. Heck, even despite the Little Dribblers history page, there may be a fair few who would fire off a shotgun into the air in affirmation of such a sentiment. God Bless Texas.
Hey now, I really don't want my having a little fun with this to detract from my cousinito's accomplishment. Seriously - who would have ever thought that elementary-age girls' basketball could be so enthralling and nerve-wracking? I'll tell you what. I'm hoarse, and a little bit worn out emotionally.
I went to two games today. They'd already won several games this week, but lost one yesterday, in a double-elimination tournament. So the first game today could have been their last. It was a nail-biter, with the Lady Devils (my cousinito's team) staying ahead by about 2-4 points most of the game - not a comfortable lead to those in the stands by any means, especially when the star player from the opposing team - who's a pretty darn good shooter - runs the ball down the court and makes the same play EVERY TIME, keeping the pressure on. That's one thing about basketball with kids this age, especially girls (no offense, but hear me out): they haven't really learned to think for themselves yet (probably true across sexes), which is not helped by the fact that their reaction time is so slow (probably less true across sexes) that if the ball is loose and heading for the sideline, you can put money on it being a turnover. Or worse yet, all the passes that were totally catchable or retrieve-able that ended up flying out of bounds.
I'm sure I'd be more disappointed with such minor blunders if they'd lost. But hey - SCOREBOARD!
After that, I went home, because I wasn't quite sure whether I'd make it back for the evening game. Wow - that was almost a really dumb decision, potentially not going back. But I thought about it, and I don't get to see this part of my family all that often, and especially for something so big, so... national to a little girl, it would be really cool to support her in it. So I went back for the Championship game.
This time we were in the Big Gym (Franklin High School's best, with elevated bleachers on both sides, so this time we could actually shout at the other team's fan-base, rather than just juxta them). Gosh, I was so nervous. Remember that one loss I'd mentioned? This was that team. Oh, and after the first game today, here's what the coach said to the girls, "Okay, tonight we're going to play Buffalo. Remember that those girls were passing well and making shots and pretty much doing everything flawlessly out there on the floor. I'd like for us to be doing the same." (Gee, coach, I don't know whether to be more disturbed at our prospects tonight, or the way you're drooling over their athleticism.) I may have had a super-fan exterior on. But inside, I had all the confidence - in this team of little girls - of, well, a little girl.
Things quickly did a massive 180. After the first quarter, the Lady Devils were on top 10-2. For those of you not acquainted with young girls' basketball, eight points has the potential of taking five to ten minutes of game time to be scored. By both teams together. Which is an eternity in basketball-reckoning. At the half, with continued Lady Devil domination, an eleven-point lead. And huge heads all around on our side of the court. Not a whole lot changed during the third quarter, I think, though the Lady Devils' offense started to slow down. Fourth quarter.
Fourth quarter. Something changed. Namely, the position of my stomach, which was now somewhere in the general vicinity of my ankles. Something else changed: the no full-court press rule. That's a handy little rule I'd never heard of before (must be particular to younger-age game-play) - for the first three quarters, no one is allowed to defend the back court. Doing so will actually earn you a technical foul. (Honestly, there were other odd rules that made the game a little annoying to watch, because not only were the referees a little whistle-happy, they were frequently calling these penalties which were quite foreign to me. If I'd had more of a voice by this point, I think I'd have been yelling more protest.) What does all that mean? Suddenly, the Lady Devils were being afflicted in the back court, and they were not handling it well - at all. Actually, the other team went on something like an 8-0 run, with the Lady Devils failing to even make it past half-court ONCE. It was infuriating. Not to mention that since Buffalo was so close to Franklin, they had a huge cheering section, and so once their girls got some momentum back, the cheers coming from across the court were quite imposing. Also, and I won't go into this because I'll just end up getting worked up, the Lady Devils' coach would not have his girls maintain any pressure in the back court. So the fourth quarter, for the most part, felt like a Lady Bison shooting rampage.
And then the Devils broke through to the other side. Hallelujah. Somebody made a shot. Thank you, Lord. (My cousinito told me later that at some point, while she was on the court, she was praying. ;) Maybe it was at this point?) But the Bisons answered. And oh, crap - they pulled ahead. At this point I sat down and looked dejected. The Devils had blown a 12-point lead in a matter of minutes (the quarters are only 6 minutes, anyways). Time was ticking off the clock. In about the last minute of game play, players on both sides were shooting free throws. Somewhere in all of that, someone tied the game up. This lasted until the end of regulation time. So now there was overtime! Can you imagine the tension in the room? If you've never witnessed elementary girls' basketball, you probably can't imagine it. But you could cut it with a knife. Not that they'd probably appreciate you carrying one into a tournament like this, though.
2 minutes on the clock. Tip-off. Lady Bisons get the ball - shot's no good. Lady Devils' turn. Nothing. This pattern repeats itself for what seems like a hundred years. Finally, fortune strikes. A Bison fouled a Devil! Two shots at the line! I mutter inaudibly, "You really need to make both of these." She makes one. Better than nothing, as you can probably already guess. Oh, and at this point there are 9 seconds left on the clock. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Just enough time for one of those agonizing last plays where the other team rushes down the court, barely manages to get an open shot, throws up a wild prayer, and sinks it, along with all of our dignity. But then a miracle happened. Bisons inbound the ball. A Devil contests the Bison-recipient of the ball. The clock ticks. They scramble for the ball, both unfoulingly (a miracle in itself). The clock keeps ticking. Now they're both on the floor trying to get the ball. The clock stops ticking. Hey! The clock stopped ticking. And no whistles have been blown! And now everyone on our side of the court is cheering, and all the Lady Devils have these uber-surprised looks on their faces and are also yelling and cheering. They won the Continental National Championship! (Yes, Queen actually does come on over the loudspeaker at this point. These Little Dribblers really know how to create a moment!)
Somewhere in the next few minutes of elation, both teams line up to be announced and receive their honors and trophies. This is the part where my heart broke. Looking over at the Lady Bisons, several of the little girls were sobbing and wiping their eyes. Mine started to leak, too. (They are even now. Wow, I can't even imagine how much of a pushover I'm going to be if Kathryn and I ever have any girls.) Okay, I'm about to offend some people now, and I'm not going to apologize for it, either. While I don't really have a problem with girls playing sports, I'm just going to go ahead and question whether they're really designed for sports. Now, I definitely recognize there are females who are great athletes, and even for those who aren't, I don't have any problem seeing value in their athletic pursuits. But here's the thing: those didn't look like emotionally healing tears as much as they did emotionally damaging tears. And what effect does it have on girls to have coaches yelling at them so harshly when they forget which play is being run? I wonder whether something is being lost in developing the tough skin to cope with all the pain of the gym floor, or field, or court - something beautiful. (Granted, we have some friends with a very young son who, when playing soccer, cries whether he messes up a kick or scores a goal - so it's tricky to make hard, fast rules - but I still wonder.)
Anyways, back to story. Lady Bisons have all been called. Now Lady Devils are lined up to go pick up their trophies (they were so excited, twice the whole line starts for the middle of the floor before their names are called). I cheer most loudly when Bonnie is called up. They stand in the middle of the court, raising trophies high, with parents behind and around me in near-hysteria. What a great moment.
Later Bonnie was telling me she thought the trophies were supposed to be about "this tall" (she reaches her hand about a foot above her head). We go to dinner at a Mexican restaurant to celebrate, and Chelsea (my same-ish-age cousin, Bonnie's mom) answers the loads of voicemail she got and spreads the news of the victorious Lady Devils, radiating with pride, as was Bruce, her husband/Bonnie's dad. Ah, what a night.
Here's to you, Bonnie. Congratulations. Enjoy your victory, little miss National Champion.
Actually, two things about that. First, the actual title of the Little Dribblers tournament was the "Continental National Tournament." Just enjoy that one for a minute. (In doing a little research on the website for the event, apparently the "Continental" version of the tournament is for those communities, holding Little Dribblers charters, under a population of 2,500. The biggest version, the "National" - as in the "National National Tournament", I'm assuming? - has a population limit of 35,000. So this is small-town stuff, pretty much. Or, as you'll see next...) The other thing is that all the places involved in the Continental National Tournament are from Texas. (All over, though - one team came all the way from Farwell, which is an hour and a half north-west of Lubbock, right near the New Mexico border; they lost the championship game. Ouch. That's a really, REALLY long bus ride back.) I have two potential explanations for this. One is that Little Dribblers happens in more states than just Texas, and each one has its version of the "National" tournament. The more fun explanation for me (which, unfortunately, I just found out to be false because I read this - but humor me anyways) is that, in the deep reaches of small-town Texas, there is still a strong sentiment that Texas should be, as it once was, its own country. Thus, any competition comprised entirely of teams from Texas, is a "national" competition. Heck, even despite the Little Dribblers history page, there may be a fair few who would fire off a shotgun into the air in affirmation of such a sentiment. God Bless Texas.
Hey now, I really don't want my having a little fun with this to detract from my cousinito's accomplishment. Seriously - who would have ever thought that elementary-age girls' basketball could be so enthralling and nerve-wracking? I'll tell you what. I'm hoarse, and a little bit worn out emotionally.
I went to two games today. They'd already won several games this week, but lost one yesterday, in a double-elimination tournament. So the first game today could have been their last. It was a nail-biter, with the Lady Devils (my cousinito's team) staying ahead by about 2-4 points most of the game - not a comfortable lead to those in the stands by any means, especially when the star player from the opposing team - who's a pretty darn good shooter - runs the ball down the court and makes the same play EVERY TIME, keeping the pressure on. That's one thing about basketball with kids this age, especially girls (no offense, but hear me out): they haven't really learned to think for themselves yet (probably true across sexes), which is not helped by the fact that their reaction time is so slow (probably less true across sexes) that if the ball is loose and heading for the sideline, you can put money on it being a turnover. Or worse yet, all the passes that were totally catchable or retrieve-able that ended up flying out of bounds.
I'm sure I'd be more disappointed with such minor blunders if they'd lost. But hey - SCOREBOARD!
After that, I went home, because I wasn't quite sure whether I'd make it back for the evening game. Wow - that was almost a really dumb decision, potentially not going back. But I thought about it, and I don't get to see this part of my family all that often, and especially for something so big, so... national to a little girl, it would be really cool to support her in it. So I went back for the Championship game.
This time we were in the Big Gym (Franklin High School's best, with elevated bleachers on both sides, so this time we could actually shout at the other team's fan-base, rather than just juxta them). Gosh, I was so nervous. Remember that one loss I'd mentioned? This was that team. Oh, and after the first game today, here's what the coach said to the girls, "Okay, tonight we're going to play Buffalo. Remember that those girls were passing well and making shots and pretty much doing everything flawlessly out there on the floor. I'd like for us to be doing the same." (Gee, coach, I don't know whether to be more disturbed at our prospects tonight, or the way you're drooling over their athleticism.) I may have had a super-fan exterior on. But inside, I had all the confidence - in this team of little girls - of, well, a little girl.
Things quickly did a massive 180. After the first quarter, the Lady Devils were on top 10-2. For those of you not acquainted with young girls' basketball, eight points has the potential of taking five to ten minutes of game time to be scored. By both teams together. Which is an eternity in basketball-reckoning. At the half, with continued Lady Devil domination, an eleven-point lead. And huge heads all around on our side of the court. Not a whole lot changed during the third quarter, I think, though the Lady Devils' offense started to slow down. Fourth quarter.
Fourth quarter. Something changed. Namely, the position of my stomach, which was now somewhere in the general vicinity of my ankles. Something else changed: the no full-court press rule. That's a handy little rule I'd never heard of before (must be particular to younger-age game-play) - for the first three quarters, no one is allowed to defend the back court. Doing so will actually earn you a technical foul. (Honestly, there were other odd rules that made the game a little annoying to watch, because not only were the referees a little whistle-happy, they were frequently calling these penalties which were quite foreign to me. If I'd had more of a voice by this point, I think I'd have been yelling more protest.) What does all that mean? Suddenly, the Lady Devils were being afflicted in the back court, and they were not handling it well - at all. Actually, the other team went on something like an 8-0 run, with the Lady Devils failing to even make it past half-court ONCE. It was infuriating. Not to mention that since Buffalo was so close to Franklin, they had a huge cheering section, and so once their girls got some momentum back, the cheers coming from across the court were quite imposing. Also, and I won't go into this because I'll just end up getting worked up, the Lady Devils' coach would not have his girls maintain any pressure in the back court. So the fourth quarter, for the most part, felt like a Lady Bison shooting rampage.
And then the Devils broke through to the other side. Hallelujah. Somebody made a shot. Thank you, Lord. (My cousinito told me later that at some point, while she was on the court, she was praying. ;) Maybe it was at this point?) But the Bisons answered. And oh, crap - they pulled ahead. At this point I sat down and looked dejected. The Devils had blown a 12-point lead in a matter of minutes (the quarters are only 6 minutes, anyways). Time was ticking off the clock. In about the last minute of game play, players on both sides were shooting free throws. Somewhere in all of that, someone tied the game up. This lasted until the end of regulation time. So now there was overtime! Can you imagine the tension in the room? If you've never witnessed elementary girls' basketball, you probably can't imagine it. But you could cut it with a knife. Not that they'd probably appreciate you carrying one into a tournament like this, though.
2 minutes on the clock. Tip-off. Lady Bisons get the ball - shot's no good. Lady Devils' turn. Nothing. This pattern repeats itself for what seems like a hundred years. Finally, fortune strikes. A Bison fouled a Devil! Two shots at the line! I mutter inaudibly, "You really need to make both of these." She makes one. Better than nothing, as you can probably already guess. Oh, and at this point there are 9 seconds left on the clock. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Just enough time for one of those agonizing last plays where the other team rushes down the court, barely manages to get an open shot, throws up a wild prayer, and sinks it, along with all of our dignity. But then a miracle happened. Bisons inbound the ball. A Devil contests the Bison-recipient of the ball. The clock ticks. They scramble for the ball, both unfoulingly (a miracle in itself). The clock keeps ticking. Now they're both on the floor trying to get the ball. The clock stops ticking. Hey! The clock stopped ticking. And no whistles have been blown! And now everyone on our side of the court is cheering, and all the Lady Devils have these uber-surprised looks on their faces and are also yelling and cheering. They won the Continental National Championship! (Yes, Queen actually does come on over the loudspeaker at this point. These Little Dribblers really know how to create a moment!)
Somewhere in the next few minutes of elation, both teams line up to be announced and receive their honors and trophies. This is the part where my heart broke. Looking over at the Lady Bisons, several of the little girls were sobbing and wiping their eyes. Mine started to leak, too. (They are even now. Wow, I can't even imagine how much of a pushover I'm going to be if Kathryn and I ever have any girls.) Okay, I'm about to offend some people now, and I'm not going to apologize for it, either. While I don't really have a problem with girls playing sports, I'm just going to go ahead and question whether they're really designed for sports. Now, I definitely recognize there are females who are great athletes, and even for those who aren't, I don't have any problem seeing value in their athletic pursuits. But here's the thing: those didn't look like emotionally healing tears as much as they did emotionally damaging tears. And what effect does it have on girls to have coaches yelling at them so harshly when they forget which play is being run? I wonder whether something is being lost in developing the tough skin to cope with all the pain of the gym floor, or field, or court - something beautiful. (Granted, we have some friends with a very young son who, when playing soccer, cries whether he messes up a kick or scores a goal - so it's tricky to make hard, fast rules - but I still wonder.)
Anyways, back to story. Lady Bisons have all been called. Now Lady Devils are lined up to go pick up their trophies (they were so excited, twice the whole line starts for the middle of the floor before their names are called). I cheer most loudly when Bonnie is called up. They stand in the middle of the court, raising trophies high, with parents behind and around me in near-hysteria. What a great moment.
Later Bonnie was telling me she thought the trophies were supposed to be about "this tall" (she reaches her hand about a foot above her head). We go to dinner at a Mexican restaurant to celebrate, and Chelsea (my same-ish-age cousin, Bonnie's mom) answers the loads of voicemail she got and spreads the news of the victorious Lady Devils, radiating with pride, as was Bruce, her husband/Bonnie's dad. Ah, what a night.
Here's to you, Bonnie. Congratulations. Enjoy your victory, little miss National Champion.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Mountain man and aspiring artist? (part 1)
New Blog!
Dear adoring fans and breaders-Like-You,
Welcome to my new blog! Not only had JoeZone not been updated in a while, but it had also begun to seem to me like clothes that just don't fit anymore once you've lost some weight. (Or even, perhaps, those clothes were starting to wear through around the armpits because of you wearing them all the time on account of how awesome you thought they were during that time, but then fashions start to change and you realize it's probably time to toss the old Hypercolor tee.) It's not a perfect analogy because I think there was some good stuff on there (in terms of the subtext and substance; of course, the writing was excellent, or so I've heard. Or maybe that was one of those inner-cranial conversations? I don't remember now.), but that's not to say there wasn't a measure more of the self-absorbed spirit, which I feel I'm starting to shed, than I'm agreeable to perpetuate. Along with that came my tendency towards self-disparaging remarks, which I'd like to mighty-morph into a healthy self-respect (which I'm learning doesn't have to be self-worship - any other recovering pop-psychology-skeptics out there?). Anyways, what better place to work all of this out than on the 'net? It's like blogs are to normal face-to-face social interaction what draining the beef-grease before adding the Hamburger Helper is to a meal. Ideally. Or else it's like a teenage slumber party in which one of the kids has access to Mom and Dad's car key and its automobile (accompanied by an opportune lack of parental oversight), where stupidity has a chance to percolate before bubbling out into the most unfortunate places. So in one such fashion or the other will I work out this personal transformation. Either way. But also neither, too - because it's probably better to work out life's big questions in community as opposed to all by oneself. So whatever.
The particular stories which occasion this post (as well as the next - I'll be splitting them up seeing as I already seem to be digressing more than progressing) are quite appropriate and timely for the contemporaneous life-shifting and blog-hopping. One is a tale of adventure, the kind that every man should have regularly so that the world, with its institutions and fixations on safety and risk-management and comfort, doesn't tame him - especially if he finds himself at a desk or computer each day (not necessarily a bad thing, but it's just not in our nature to sit still! Look at little boys, and remember they are the way they are because God made them that way. There's a lot less fallen-ness in youthful energy and vitality than is easy to believe, in my opinion.); the other is a tale of vocational discovery (what is it that God, throughout the course of my life, in all of my doings and pursuings and learnings and strugglings, is preparing me for? It's the "big question", and it's so much more than merely paid employment, though neither is that excluded). Both stories are ones I believe may ultimately prove to have been critical to my journey of self-and-other-within-Kingdom discovery. Or else they'll suffice as acceptable blog-fodder. Either way. But hopefully more the former. So whatever.
Potential milestone #1: The call of the wild (don't let it go to voicemail)
From Nine March to Eleven March Two-Thousand Aught Eight In the Year of Our Lord Anno Domini, did myself and my portly pack ascend the mount beyond the River Paluxy upon the Park of the Valley of the Thunder-Lizard, and there we did make camp and exercise much manliness through the lugging of said pack, the subsequent scaling of lofty cliffs, the drowsy braving of thunderstorms, the marking of trees and ensuing domination of nature, and the continual sweating-through of apparel. Yea, most assuredly, did no pleasant odor go unconquered.
Ironically, I was expecting that backpacking would allow me to get away for a few days of relative relaxation and peaceful reflection. No sooner did monkeys fly out of my butt than I said to myself, "Spike, that was pretty danged naive." One-man backpacking is a heckuva lot of work, especially when you get onto the wrong trail an hour before dark, and by the providence of God stumble onto a different campsite with just enough time to set up a tent before dark and the onslaught of a Texas thunderstorm, only to wake up the next morning with a wet tent and sleeping bag, and still somehow think how much you'd like to continue on to that campsite which the park ranger said was his favorite (which happens also to be the one furthest out), if for no other reason than to prove how much of a man you are. And since such was utterly and undeniably proved, it was therefore a heckuva lot of work. But an awesome experience.
Oh, and it gets lonely and scary in the wild of those state parks where there may not be any major roads or facilities for literally thousands of feet, and where, at night, you can almost feel the hot, putrid breath of the wild raccoons and white-tailed deer on the thin tent-nylon, cold and dewy from the rain of the forty-degree, onslaught-uous Texas thunderstorm. And me without my hatchet! Thus the marking of trees. Not to mention the mini-concert of songs that any person or thing within probably a couple-mile radius heard that night as I belted out my defense against the enveloping darkness. The score: Darkness and Beasts-of-the-Wild, zero; Joe, eight-hundred and ninety-three. Million.
So, all things considered, and all hatchets and packs back in their respective places of storage, do I think I got out of the whole experience what I thought I was signing up for? Probably not. Did I get more, and in different ways than I expected? Probably so, and most definitely yes! And so, to this day, some people who backpack in DVSP say that, on cold, thunderous nights, they can still hear a young man singing:
Or something like that.
Tune in next time for...
Potential milestone #2: The-artist-soon-to-be-known-as-Joe-Peebles?
Dear adoring fans and breaders-Like-You,
Welcome to my new blog! Not only had JoeZone not been updated in a while, but it had also begun to seem to me like clothes that just don't fit anymore once you've lost some weight. (Or even, perhaps, those clothes were starting to wear through around the armpits because of you wearing them all the time on account of how awesome you thought they were during that time, but then fashions start to change and you realize it's probably time to toss the old Hypercolor tee.) It's not a perfect analogy because I think there was some good stuff on there (in terms of the subtext and substance; of course, the writing was excellent, or so I've heard. Or maybe that was one of those inner-cranial conversations? I don't remember now.), but that's not to say there wasn't a measure more of the self-absorbed spirit, which I feel I'm starting to shed, than I'm agreeable to perpetuate. Along with that came my tendency towards self-disparaging remarks, which I'd like to mighty-morph into a healthy self-respect (which I'm learning doesn't have to be self-worship - any other recovering pop-psychology-skeptics out there?). Anyways, what better place to work all of this out than on the 'net? It's like blogs are to normal face-to-face social interaction what draining the beef-grease before adding the Hamburger Helper is to a meal. Ideally. Or else it's like a teenage slumber party in which one of the kids has access to Mom and Dad's car key and its automobile (accompanied by an opportune lack of parental oversight), where stupidity has a chance to percolate before bubbling out into the most unfortunate places. So in one such fashion or the other will I work out this personal transformation. Either way. But also neither, too - because it's probably better to work out life's big questions in community as opposed to all by oneself. So whatever.
The particular stories which occasion this post (as well as the next - I'll be splitting them up seeing as I already seem to be digressing more than progressing) are quite appropriate and timely for the contemporaneous life-shifting and blog-hopping. One is a tale of adventure, the kind that every man should have regularly so that the world, with its institutions and fixations on safety and risk-management and comfort, doesn't tame him - especially if he finds himself at a desk or computer each day (not necessarily a bad thing, but it's just not in our nature to sit still! Look at little boys, and remember they are the way they are because God made them that way. There's a lot less fallen-ness in youthful energy and vitality than is easy to believe, in my opinion.); the other is a tale of vocational discovery (what is it that God, throughout the course of my life, in all of my doings and pursuings and learnings and strugglings, is preparing me for? It's the "big question", and it's so much more than merely paid employment, though neither is that excluded). Both stories are ones I believe may ultimately prove to have been critical to my journey of self-and-other-within-Kingdom discovery. Or else they'll suffice as acceptable blog-fodder. Either way. But hopefully more the former. So whatever.
Potential milestone #1: The call of the wild (don't let it go to voicemail)
From Nine March to Eleven March Two-Thousand Aught Eight In the Year of Our Lord Anno Domini, did myself and my portly pack ascend the mount beyond the River Paluxy upon the Park of the Valley of the Thunder-Lizard, and there we did make camp and exercise much manliness through the lugging of said pack, the subsequent scaling of lofty cliffs, the drowsy braving of thunderstorms, the marking of trees and ensuing domination of nature, and the continual sweating-through of apparel. Yea, most assuredly, did no pleasant odor go unconquered.
Ironically, I was expecting that backpacking would allow me to get away for a few days of relative relaxation and peaceful reflection. No sooner did monkeys fly out of my butt than I said to myself, "Spike, that was pretty danged naive." One-man backpacking is a heckuva lot of work, especially when you get onto the wrong trail an hour before dark, and by the providence of God stumble onto a different campsite with just enough time to set up a tent before dark and the onslaught of a Texas thunderstorm, only to wake up the next morning with a wet tent and sleeping bag, and still somehow think how much you'd like to continue on to that campsite which the park ranger said was his favorite (which happens also to be the one furthest out), if for no other reason than to prove how much of a man you are. And since such was utterly and undeniably proved, it was therefore a heckuva lot of work. But an awesome experience.
Oh, and it gets lonely and scary in the wild of those state parks where there may not be any major roads or facilities for literally thousands of feet, and where, at night, you can almost feel the hot, putrid breath of the wild raccoons and white-tailed deer on the thin tent-nylon, cold and dewy from the rain of the forty-degree, onslaught-uous Texas thunderstorm. And me without my hatchet! Thus the marking of trees. Not to mention the mini-concert of songs that any person or thing within probably a couple-mile radius heard that night as I belted out my defense against the enveloping darkness. The score: Darkness and Beasts-of-the-Wild, zero; Joe, eight-hundred and ninety-three. Million.
So, all things considered, and all hatchets and packs back in their respective places of storage, do I think I got out of the whole experience what I thought I was signing up for? Probably not. Did I get more, and in different ways than I expected? Probably so, and most definitely yes! And so, to this day, some people who backpack in DVSP say that, on cold, thunderous nights, they can still hear a young man singing:
Then sings my soul,
My Savior, God, to Thee,
Back up offa me, raccoons,
How great Thou art!
Or something like that.
Tune in next time for...
Potential milestone #2: The-artist-soon-to-be-known-as-Joe-Peebles?
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