My Wife Is Trying To Kill Me

Recently I had some bloodwork done at a routine doctor appointment.

Now, I'm not the most healthy person when it comes to eating: 'hot, fried and fast' beats out 'green, healthy and requiring preparation' on a scale of the tortoise versus the hare in a footrace. But after getting my bloodwork results back, I realized that much like the fable, the tortoise is going to have to win this one, too.

While my cholesterol was somewhat high, my triglycerides were... through the roof. Which was interesting, because I had no idea I even had them, let alone know what they even do. To me, they sound like the final ingredient in a deadly bomb fashioned by Dr. Evil. But apparently they have something to do with poor eating habits, lots of sugar, and having once owned an 'Air Supply' album.

So, in the interest of... living... I decided to radically amend my diet. Salome and I went shopping the other day, and I scrutinized EVERY item we bought. Cholesterol, sodium, sugar... if it was low, we bought it. Hello, oatmeal, breakfast bars and bananas. Yum.

This morning I awoke to find that Salome had cooked up some orange-cinnamon buns with that gooey frosting that oozes deliciously. Having made 8, she took 2, and instructed me to take the rest.

I then started hunting through our paperwork to see if she had secretly taken an insurance policy out on me.

Now, I don't know if Triglycerides can kill you per se (Coroner: 'Poor guy. Done in by triglycerides.'
Detective: 'Right. We're taking a hard look at the guy's wife.'), but it seems that reasonable precautions should be taken.

But since the time that we have received the test results back, Salome has:

- encouraged me to finish the ice cream in the freezer
- cooked a rice, beans and kielbasa dinner, encouraging me to 'finish' the foot-long kielbasa, minus the two inch cut she took for herself
- Sent me to the grocery to pick up frozen pizza, and expressed bafflement when I returned with said pizza for her and a chicken breast with brown rice for myself
- Keeps trying to give me hot chocolate

In fairness to Salome, she IS very pregnant, and oftentimes craves sweet things. Moreover, given that a baby is pressing against her stomach, she gets full rather quickly. So, I get the lion's share of the junk food that we eat. So, while I can't accuse her outright of trying to do me in, I suspect that all of this is just her patient way of setting herself up with an alibi:

Salome: *Sniff*... I didn't know that lard-encrusted donuts were dangerous, detective. I was pregnant. I was craving. I didn't think they'd be fatal!!!

Detective: I understand, Mrs. R----. My wife was the same way. I'm truly sorry for your loss.

Salome: *Stiffling a sob*. Thank you, detective. It came as such a shock. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to call the insurance company.

If you are reading this, and something should happen to me... ooh, donuts.

Random Thoughts

- Saw a morbidly obese person getting out of a car she had parked in a handicapped stall. Seems to me it ought to be the other way around: shouldn't fat people be required to park at the end of the lot, so they at least get a little exercise?

- Debated about getting a 'Baby on Board' bumper sticker, once the baby comes. Then it dawned on me: no one ever drives more carefully when they see this. It only explains why YOU are driving like an idiot.

- An entertainment news magazine started an article saying 'Paris Hilton's fans...'. Baffling. Doesn't one need a particular talent in order to have fans???

*Twiddling Thumbs

So far, throughout these past 5 unemployed days, I've gone through just about every mental state imaginable. Based on Kubler-Ross' 5 stages of grief, I've gone from denial/shock to anger, depression and acceptance. Somewhere in there I'm supposed to 'bargain' as well, but in this present situation I'm not sure what to bargain for, unless it means taking a few things to a pawn-shop or selling one of the cats' kidneys.

One thing I hadn't counted on (and which isn't one of the five stages of grieving) is the 'mind-numbing boredom with an explicable craving for Cheetos' stage I am currently in.

It makes sense, though: for the past few years, my days were all pretty much pre-planned. Granted, it was a wacky enough business that you had to improvise at times, but if you had meetings scheduled, you attended them. If you planned to target an area that day, you... er... targetted it. What I mean to say is that overall, you had a plan, and that dictated your time throughout the day.

Now unemployed, that means my raison d'etre has lost its 'raison', and I'm left with the 'etre' part. I've got to have goals, a plan, a reason for being- while simulatneously knowing that it won't bring in any income anyway.

So, in an effort to combat this awful ennui, as well as give me a sense of purpose and 'raison d'etre' (my high school French is certainly coming in handy during this post, isn't it?), I have given myself the following goals to accomplish during this time of unemployment. While technically 'inactive', by golly, I'm going to be proactive!!!

Please note: these goals are not in any particular order

Goal #1: Eat a zillion M&M's

Goal #2: Dissect and analyze every Will Ferrell movie for the hidden, underlying meaning

Goal #3: Pretend we're still in election season, and campaign furiously for Ralph Nader

Goal #4: Take that course in macrame that I always wanted to do, but never had time

Goal #5: Grow a wicked handle-bar moustache

Goal #6: Dress the cats in silly costumes and post pictures to the web

Goal #7: Burn ants with a magnifying glass (weather permitting)

Goal #8: Apply for jobs that are far outside my skill set (e.g. Physics Professor- MIT), and then send nasty follow-up emails asking why they haven't called me for an interview

Goal #9: Find a suitable answer to Pink's existential question 'So What?'

Goal #10: Develop the skill of rubbing my belly and patting my head at the same time

If, during this time, you need to get in contact with me, please call and leave a message. As you can see, I am going to be quite busy for the time being.

The Light... Don't Go Towards the Light!!!

Whoever coined the phrase 'a light at the end of the tunnel' ought to be spanked, because it's a phrase that gives hope to the listener.

In actual fact, however, that 'light at the end of the tunnel' can sometimes be an oncoming train.

For those who have been keeping 'up' on things, you may know that the last 4 months have been difficult for Salome and I. One issue after another has been piled on to our lives that have left us terrified and feeling as if we are without any mooring. And just when you think that things can't get any worse, they suddenly do.

Yesterday, I joined the ranks of the rising percentage of unemployed workers in America, adding that little tidbit to our ever growing pile of worries. And this one... it's a doozy. Yup, that light at the end of a tunnel WAS a train.

But here's the thing: I'm suddenly not scared anymore.

The night before receiving this ghastly news, Salome and I had a shocking fight that was several months overdue. No need to go into the details, other than to say that I had been a complete and utter ass over the past four months- right at the time when my wife needed me the most. During these last four months, I have been angry, resentful, and most of all, terrified. This has caused me to withdraw into my own self. She has felt the exact same way during this time, which caused her to reach out for a husband who wasn't there.

But before coming to this realization, as we stood there yelling at one another, a sudden thought came rushing into my mind: what was this stress I was putting on Salome doing to the baby???

I suddenly became terrified and- in that instance, I believe- became a real father. She and I cried together that night, and held each other into the small hours of the morning.

So I awake, and begin work, only to get the call from my CEO with the news. Gut kick. Panic attack. I am pleased to report, however, that there was no shameless pleading.

Here's why: it is what it is. Externally we are at the mercy of circumstances: the economy, the culture, the decisions of those in authority. These are the things over which I have no control.

But I am not powerless, because there are things I CAN control: I can be a better person. I can be a better husband, a better expectant father. I CAN give my wife the love and support she deserves, and I can look for what is good in this 4 month package of what I had always thought was 'bad'. There is opportunity here, and in this time I can do the things that are right.

Although this is terrifying, this feeling of being cast adrift, perhaps there is one of the greatest blessings of all attached to it: time with my beautiful wife and growing child. To be there fully as a support and cognizant of the blessing that is coming. Perhaps this happened now so that I can fully participate in the things that really matter, being there and living in every moment.

I am sorry, Salome, for being so dense.

PS- I STILL hate trains, though.

Nesting

The day is drawing close now.

This much anticipated arrival, this long-awaited appearance by Donovan/Auden (what if it's a hermaphodite? Thoughts like these keep me up at night. Not that we might have a dual-sex baby- but rather, if we do, what the heck do we call it: 'Donden'? 'Audovan?') seems to be hurtling towards us now with all the speed of a major league fastball.

As an impending father, I find myself caught between two ways of thinking. The first is, of course, impatience. Is 9 months really necessary? Can't we cut it off at, say, 8? Is there an extra hormone bath that occurs in the 9th month that makes the wait necessary? I mean, aren't we overdoing it just a tiny bit? It's like a pizza, or cookies: if it comes out not completely browned it's still just as delicious, right?

The second, however, is immensely much more practical, if not (at times) more hysterical. It's the side that takes the longer view. It's an odd juxtaposition, this practical hysteria. At various times in the day I will find myself thinking 'Holy ----!!!! This kid is coming quickly!' And run through the checklist in my head of all the things that need to be done.

But then there is the practical side that spills out, and runs directly in conflict with the mother's internal instinct of nesting.

In other words, the parents have two separate conversations going on:

Male, panicking (at 6 weeks out):
- Must look at health insurance policy and determine coverage
- Request from work that no travel be required past the date of --/--/2008
- Start attending wife's medical appointments and ask pertinent questions like 'Now, what's a baby again?'
- Talk with other new dads and determine sleep-to-work ratio, to assess productivity
- Enter directions to hospital into MapQuest or navigation system to insure smooth transfer
- Uh... weren't we supposed to take a 'Lamaze' class or something somewhere in there?

Female, nesting (at 6 weeks out)
- Daily monitor gift-shower registry to see what's coming, and plan accordingly
- Get husband to move a heavy chest of drawers into the baby's room because 'it matches'
- Stand immobile in the baby's room for hours at a time, assessing the impact the chosen colors may have on the baby's psyche
- Drag husband on a Sunday afternoon to 'hell-o-rama' (Babies 'R Us) to purchase playpak and pampers because we 'need to have these things for when the baby comes' which is, as has already been pointed out, 6 weeks away.

So, at this point we now have bedroom ready for a baby (except for soothing butt-cream to assuage diaper rash, which I'm assuming we'll pick up next Sunday afternoon). If the stork were to drop one in our arms right now, we'd be pretty much set to go, with one or two minor things that we missed and could easily be picked up at a local drugstore.

And in regards to the above nesting priorities, I am looking at each one of them and thinking of a rational explanation as to why these things need to be done now.

Practically, I am realizing how much work lies ahead of us, and shouldn't we be spending this time indulging in our favorite activities (eg, napping) because for the next 18 years we can pretty much kiss those things goodbye? Do we really have to postpone the enjoyment of watching football on Sunday afternoon to pick up pampers at this point?

Turns out, the answer to that last question is 'yes'.

I'm learning.

My Suspicion of the Day

If McCain says 'My friends...' one more time, I am going to think it is a rhetorical device, and that he doesn't really consider me one of his friends.

Getting Political

Since my last blog, detailing the nuances of politician-talk, was met with considerable acclaim (one person responded with a comment, and I happened to be married to her), and since the very future of our country, economy, and our freedom to yell 'COCKROACH!!!" in a crowded theater is at stake (Shouting 'FIRE' in a theater is illegal, unless you happen to be watching 'Shrek: The Musical, in which case you'd be doing everyone a favor), I thought I'd delineate those people who will be voting in this upcoming election. Regardless of what vote you cast, these will be the fools you're going up against.

PARTISIAN VOTERS: These are the individuals who cannot 'see the forest for the trees'. Regardless of character, position, opinion or even whether they are capable of thinking, partisian voters will always cast a ballot for their party's nominee. Never mind the fact that parties change philosophies and stances from time to time: if your party is for 'it', so shall you vote for 'it'. For example, in the matter of slavery, it was actually the Republicans who supported Emancipation (Ashley, Sumner), aided only by one Democrat (Henderson).

This is the same party that would later elect Strom Thurmond (NC) to the Senate, who switched from Democrat to Republican after expressing disgust at the Civil Rights movement. This was a senator whom, as the venerable Wikipedia points out: 'Throughout the 1960s, Thurmond generally received relatively low marks from the press and his fellow Senators in the performance of his Senate duties, as he often missed votes and rarely proposed or sponsored noteworthy legislation.'

Character? Courage? Conviction? Um... only if my party says it's okay.

SINGLE ISSUE VOTERS: These are the voters who are so singularly focused on one political issue that they cannot- 'in good conscience'- vote for anyone else if it opposes their viewpoint, despite the fact that their views are in line with the opponent all the way down to... that single, critical issue. Example:

Candidate's stance:
WAR- Bad
ECONOMY- Needs work
HEALTH CARE- A darn good idea
FISHING OR HUNTING WITHOUT A LICENSE: punishable by death
TAXATION: Cut 'em. Let's see a big screen HDTV in every home in America
'IFFY' ON ABORTION: 'Rot in HELL, you fetus-murdering badger!'

Result: The putative forerunner is dismissed, Al Gore is elected in a landslide, and his entire administration is dedicated to providing air conditioning for polar bears and penguins.

APPEARANCE VOTERS: In 1960, Richard 'Tricky-Dick' Nixon was running for president against the fresh-faced brat from Massachusetts, John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Coincidentally, John F. Kennedy was also running for president against Richard Nixon, which made things very convenient for the voter.

Unlike now, when presidential debates are limited to three (given our shart attention span), Nixon and Kennedy agreed to a series of four debates. What set these debates apart were that they would be televised: the first ever for a presidential debate. Nixon, having recently recovered from a rather lame injury, refused to take time away from campaigning to have a facial done. Or get some sleep. Moreover, on the night of the debate he refused to wear make-up, not wanting to appear... well... gay. Kennedy had no such reservations, and welcomed having his cheeks rouged, thus indicating that he was courting the 'in-the-closet-crossdressing' demographic.

Given his injury, his active campaigning up until a few hours of the debate, and his refusal to wear make-up, Nixon looked haggard and worn during the event. Not that he wasn't on top of his game: people who had listened to the debate on the radio- as opposed to that 'talking-picture box'- felt that he had won the debate. Those watching on TV, however, felt differently. Sweating profusely, looking exhausted, and with a 5 o'clock shadow, Nixon took Kennedy on. However, a rested, tan and 'pancaked and rouged' Kennedy looked scrum-delly-licious to viewers, and the consensus of the TV viewers was that Kennedy won the debate. He had been lagging slightly in the polls until then, but with the novelty of that 'talky-box', Kennedy pulled slightly ahead and eventually won. Slightly. Nixon suspected voter fraud, but unwisely did not suspect Florida, which has managed to botch every single election since.

The moral of the story is that there will be those who- with no understanding of the issues at stake- will vote for the candidate that is 'cuter'. What, you think McCain picked Palin because she was bright?

I VOTE THE CANDIDATE, NOT THE PARTY: Lordy, this sounds good. People who are willing to listen to what each candidate has to say. Wants to view their stance on issues. Hear their proposed solutions. Dis-regard the attack ads sway that try and sway them one way or the other ('McCain has a record of always voting for the wrong thing.' 'Yeah? Well Obama has a record of barely voting!!!').

The trouble with these people- of which I am one- are that they are the ones who really decide the election (Spoiler: I've since decided, unless one of them has the bright idea of spreading our military out even further, and wants to invade Canada. Or cut taxes to corporations on the off-chance that they might use that revenue to keep jobs here in America, rather than using those gains to build manufacturing plants in countries whose name the average American can't pronounce and whose average workforce age is about 12. Oops. Guess I gave that one away).

They are the Missouri-ans, the 'Show-Me' crowd, who don't get excited at balloons dropping from the ceiling at conventions. They want answers, solutions, a course of direction. They won't mind someone who's 'anti-gun' if they're 'pro-education'. They won't require a candidate stand against Roe v. Wade (which will never be overturned anyway) if they're also for fiscal responsibility. There's give and take in politics- a weighing against the lesser of evils, or of the good and the better. They are the gray ones, who refuse to see things in black-and-white because they know (usually from bitter experience) that very few things are that way.

It is they- and not George Dubya- that are the Deciders, and God grant them wisdom come November.

Politicianspeak- Translated

Like many Americans, I tuned into the presidential debate this evening. For many, it was an opportunity to hear them speak to one another one last time before they cast their vote. For me, it was because I heard that, like John McCain's choice in a running mate, Obama was going to try and appeal to the undecided female voters by wearing a tasteful dress.

As the proceedings began, I wasn't entirely sure whether I was watching tonight's debate, the one two weeks ago, or if they just decided to save everyone the time and just re-run the first one. I'm sure many others felt the same. Had the network realized the candidates would be saying nothing new, it seemed to me it would have been a great practical joke on the American people if they kept substituting moderators: sending in Gwen Ifill to ask one question, and Tom Brokaw dashing in like a relief-running back to ask the second. But perhaps, wisely, the network decided that the American public was confused enough.

Midway through a yawn, however, I had a sudden epiphany: I could understand these guys! Not in terms of what they were saying, since both were remaining steadfast in their campaign promise that goes something like 'I will never answer a question directly.'

However, there have been enough rhetorical devices and overused vocabulary in these debates, that somehow, for some reason, it clicked for me. I GOT it! And I am proud to share it with you on this blog, all to help you in these last 19 days before we all cast our votes for Ralph Nader.

The format will be as follows: Word or phrase, followed by who said it, and completed with the translation.

Saying: 'New direction'
Said by: Biden, McCain, Obama, Palin
Translation: See 'Change of direction'

Saying: 'Change of Direction'
Said by: Biden, McCain, Obama, Palin
Translation: See 'New Direction'

Saying: 'Gamechanger'
Said by: McCain's campaign advisor and pundits
Translation: 'We're getting our asses kicked. Let's switch to Dodgeball.'

Saying: 'Change'
Said by: Biden, McCain, Obama, Palin
Translation: 'Anything other than Bush.'

Saying: 'Maverick'
Said by: McCain, Palin
Translation: 'NOBODY likes us.'

Saying: 'Reach across the aisle'
Said by: McCain
Translation: Repeatedly putting my hand on the knee of that cute junior senator (D) from New Mexico. So far, he doesn't seem to mind, either...

Saying: 'Joe Sixpack'
Said by: Palin
Translation: Joe, the plumber from Holland, OH. For the record, he's a Cabernet fan and resents the stereotype.

Saying: 'You want to use a hatchet when you need a scalpel'
Said by: Obama
Translation: 'I'm afraid that arm has become gangrenous and must be removed, Mr. Sixpack. Would you like us to use a hatchet for that, or would you prefer a scalpel?
Secondary translation: 'By the way, your health plan doesn't cover things like... anesthesia.

Saying: 'Just three days ago I was...'
Said by: Biden, McCain, Obama, Palin, and any other campaigning politician
Translation: 'I am SO making this shit up.'

Saying: 'Transparency'
Said by: McCain, Obama
Translation: 'Major, costly government oversight that will accomplish nothing.'
Secondary translation: 'Brownie, you're doing a heckuva job.'

Saying: 'Stop giving $700 billion to countries that don't like us very much.'
Said by: McCain
Translation: Editor's note: Wait a sec: Some countries don't like us?!? Name me 30 of them. And you can't say 'France' 29 times.

Saying: 'Sit down with our enemies without any preconditions...'
Said by: McCain
Translation: 'Mark my words: hash, jugs of moonshine, and a depraved orgy... Paid for by
YOU, Mr. Sixpack!!!'

Saying: 'Look at my record.'
Said by: McCain
Translation: 'I DARE you to make any sense of it!!!'

Saying: 'I'm completely open about my association with Mr. Ayers.'
Said by: Obama
Translation: 'He's a cool guy. I just hide the matches when he's around.'

Saying: 'Ooh, look! Shiny!'
Said by: George W. Bush
Translation: 'Ooh, look! Shiny!'

Saying: 'Hockey Mom'
Said by: Palin
Translation: 'I connect with the 138 moms around the country who actually consider hockey a real sport.

The soccer, football and little league moms, however, think I'm a dingbat.'

Saying: 'Pitbull with lipstick'
Said by: Palin
Translation: 'I am a cross-dressing dog.'

Saying: 'I know you're hurting...'
Said by: Obama
Translation: 'That's why I ask you, whenever you visit my web site, to send my campaign
$5 dollars. I've only managed to collect $350 million so far, so clearly, you aren't hurting ENOUGH.'

Next time: we translate 'Dianetics' for you.

Our Day So Far...

1. Woke up this morning to discover our cat had vomited on our new bedspread

2. Discovered our coffee maker has a cracked casing, when half of the water actually made it into the pot, while the other half seeped onto the counter

3. Ripped the top casing of our new washing machine's agitator when trying to wash vomit out of new bedspread

4. Ripped the new bedspread during the course of the wash, which still had cat vomit stain

5. Tried to clean stain with a steam cleaner, and later a toothbrush, to no avail

6. Have not heard anything from either our agent or buyer's agent re: the recent, botched, aborted and otherwise idiotic crumbling of our house deal

All this, in a week that saw:

1. The sale of our house go from '100% certain' and 'a one-in-a-million chance' of not closing to
'the deal is dead', when the estranged wife, with no authority to do so whatsoever, swooped in and killed the deal

2. Our landlord firing our property manager and becoming our active landlord. Given that the property manager was a tool, this may not be so bad. However, we may end up with the landlords from hell'

3. Again, paid rent and our mortgage

4. The first tumbling of the inevitable collapse of Wall Street

5. Saw a bill pass to 'shore up' the above, which does nothing to help anyone out, except those who created the mess in the first place

6. Lane Kiffin was fired as head coach of the Oakland Raiders by Al Davis, thus insuring that he will continue his 'Commitment to Excrement'

7. Governor Palin did not entirely fuck up in the VP debate

'And if I laugh at any mortal thing,
T'is that I may not weep.'

- Byron

This Is what I Feel Like Today

Ask a stupid question...

Salome asked me if I would like to watch the Sex and the City DVD this evening.

I told her I was very much in debate over whether I should do that, or eat shards of broken glass.

Freefall

Almost a month ago, I did something that- for a person like me- was inconceivable.

People who know me best know that I am a person who is not only terrified of heights, I am literally phobic about them. I cannot ride in an airplane without a tranquilizer. I will pay extra money to avoid having a window seat. I get queasy in tall buildings, avoiding any window views, and if an elevator is glass enclosed I will NOT ride in it. Not even if Shangri-La were at the top.

Yet on the date of my second anniversary of marriage to Salome, I climbed into a steel cage, was lifted 130 feet in the air (the equivalent of an 8 story building), and with nothing but reinforced elastic affixed to my ankles, I jumped head-first out into the open air.

Yes, I rebounded (painfully, truth be told). Yes, the adrenaline rush was incomparable. But when pressed by my family (who witnessed the event), I could not come up with a single reason as to why. Jokingly, I told them that it was because I had turned 37 three days prior, and wanted to prove to myself that I wasn't 'old'.

This was not the truth. Merely rationalization of a rather insane act. At the time, I didn't know what the truth was.

I have since studied the pictures on occasion: my arms outstretched, wind whipping through my wild and untameable hair, upside-down against an azure evening sky tinted with a gentle hint of lavender.

I am proud of myself. I admit it.

But as I dwell on the last month, I also realize there was more to it than just simple thrill-seeking. I have always been afraid of making choices, because choices are, by their very nature, a limiting act. It is the acceptance of an option to the exclusion of all others: the sound of multiple doors slamming shut, with only one remaining open.

Of course, often this is a good and necessary thing: my decision to pursue theatre at an early age, for example, shut the door on my option to ever become a chemist (that plus the fact that I openly cheated to get a passing grade in my high school chemistry class). At other times, however, the differences between decisions is not so clear-cut or easy. Nor is the outcome so readily predefined.

I have been very lucky in my life, in that I have been able to do most of the things I have wanted to do. Or done things I thought I have wanted to do, only to find out that they weren't. To date, I have been: an actor, a factory worker, a published author and a food server. I have managed businesses and I have pastored a church. I have been a theater critic (not my finest moment) and tended bar. I have attended seminary and I have attended business school; enthralled with the one and thoroughly bored with the other. But regardless of which ever academic or vocational pursuit, it has always been on my terms, and I am proud of that.

But only Peter Pan flies forever, and eventually choices must be made. While what follows may sound like a great deal of self-pity, I want to say that I do not regret a single decision I have made. My marriage to Salome, my decision to leave the ministry, my stable Mon-Fri job (or in the case of this last week, my stable Mon-through-Mon-through-Friday job), nor the decision to try and bring a 'Pup' into the world (and succeeding sometime in December). Every decision that has led me to this here- this now- is not one that I have any regret over.

At present, however, I'm just not thrilled with the results.

As evidenced by my last post- which was sometime over a month ago- Salome and I are living in a city that I vowed never to reside in again, awaiting the closing of a house sale that has already fallen through once, while we pay rent on another.

And I realize that I am here, now, with no doors to go through or choices to make. Things are pre-planned now, mapped out, and if there was ever a time for spontaneity, it is NOT now.

The last couple of months have made me a Calvinist.

And also made me feel like I am life's bitch.

My life is now a series of deadlines and expectations now. Responsibilities and duties; placating and pleasing. I feel as if I am at the beck and call of everyone: from angry practitioner to domesticated housepet, feeling like I have neither the right nor the opportunity to make decisions, but merely to react. To be where I am supposed to be. To say the things that need to be heard. To enter the appropriate fields, fill out the appropriate paperwork, and make the appropriate gesture.

Don't get me wrong: it's not like I don't get anything out of this. I have some very nice toys as a result. And I am very grateful- not for the toys, but for the opportunities I have. But I am lost somewhere in all of this, feeling as if no matter where I am, I am not quite there, because the things that I think and the things that I feel shouldn't be said. I feel present, but irrelevant; a means to an end. A facilitator, a broker, an arbiter.

So if you speak to me, and your sentence starts with 'You need to...' or 'You should...', know that I hear you. I totally agree. And I will most definitely try.

Just know that every so often, without warning or forethought, I may do something unexpected. Neither dumb nor terribly dangerous; nothing that jeopardizes position or place. Just something... out of character. Something unlike me.

Something like a leap, to let me know I'm still alive, and that not every moment is preordained.

Sacramento

Sacramento is the city where dreams go to die.

Guilty Pleasures

You know, when I first started this blog, I had hoped it would be relevant, theological, thoughtful and reflective. I had intended for it to be a meeting of like minds, where art and culture would be discussed. I had hoped for pithy insights, profundity, and for it to be graced with a soupcon (imagine the accent agrave on that last word. I can't find how to insert it on this blog) of satirical wit.

I, alas, have failed in this regard.

I say this as a preamble, just to show how far departed I am from the lofty goals I had set forth above.

As a general rule, I hate television. It is one of the greatest thieves in our lives, robbing us of our time, a rich inner thought life, and yada yada yada.

Okay. Essentially, it's crap. To prove it, tonight a new reality show is premiering, entitled 'I Survived a Japanese Game Show'. It's a reality show where brain dead Americans travel to Japan, try to survive living with each other AND making it through the manic, infantile machinations of... you guessed it... a Japanese game show.

However, one of the GREATEST all-time shows premiered just before it, called--------------

WIPEOUT!!!! Where buxom babes and middle-aged men spin on a wheel until dizzy and then make their way through an obstacle course. Where they leap over a phallic-shaped pink Nerf that circles them wildly, and if they get hit by it, THEY'RE KNOCKED IN THE WATER!!!!!!

Craziness! Madcap! Zany hilarity ensues!!!!!

But I have to admit, it was damned funny, and I intend to watch it again. It was like the other night when I was bored and watched Jackass 2, and liked it.

So I'm not as deep, intellectual nor certainly as interesting as I thought I was. But I think I have the strength to admit that now, and though TV certainly is a cultural wasteland, it is not without its rewards. So, here is a list of guilty pleasures (TV shows) that hereby disqualify me as an intellectual:

- The Daily Show and The Colbert Report
- Lost
- (I hate to admit this one, but I dig the challenges and the utter sniping) Survivor
- Football
- American Gladiators (Only the end, when they do the Eliminator. The rest is dull)
- Wipeout (Snide comments from commentators and people getting whacked. BEAT THAT,
INDIE FILM PRODUCTION COMPANIES!)
- The Amazing Race (Watching couples' relationships implode while in Kenya is just fun)

*Sigh* I'll turn in my 'Semi-sentient' membership at the door.

THINGS I HAVE LEARNED: While Traveling

Yes, here at Platypusking Productions, where our motto is 'Strive for mediocrity- at least it's better than failure...', I'm unveiling something new on my blog. Never mind that's been used elsewhere to better acclaim than it will receive here: it all comes from the heart.

Every so often, I will compile a list of things I have learned in the intervening weeks. And to open this off, this inaugural post is entitled:

THINGS I HAVE LEARNED WHILE TRAVELING

1. The coveted aisle seat on an airplane will ALWAYS result in the following:

-Your ankles will be smacked no less than 3 times by the snack and beverage cart
-The back of your head is a target for flight attendants and overweight passengers waddling
to the restroom (note: multiply the amount of smacks you receive by 2 if you happen to be
sleeping)
-No matter where you travel, the passenger in the middle seat will always be talking on their
cell phone prior to take-off and upon landing.
-The conversation of the above is always boring, but must be done at FULL VOLUME

2. Receiving 'the finger' in LA is no longer the vituperous obscenity it once used to be. As a matter of fact, it is now something between a half-hearted threat and a way of saying 'Hi!'

3. If you are ever, for ANY reason, stuck in the Detroit International airport, keep in mind it is actually MORE sanitary to NOT wash your hands after using the bathroom

4. Speaking of Detroit, those roads are where the world's worst drivers are. Presumably, they are either just coming from the airport and are trying to sanitize themselves with handi-wipes, or are on their way there and are trying to put on their Haz-Mat suits en route

5. Wearing a lavender shirt with a charcoal gray suit looks absolutely smashing in San Francisco. In LA, it'll get your ass kicked.

6. When crossing the border from Canada to the US, remember that the guards are trained to ask questions that will throw you off. The easiest way to get through, then, is to ask them questions they aren't prepared for. For example:

- 'What was the nature of your visit, sir?'
- 'Could you scratch my back? Right there... middle down... it itches like hell. I think it's a rash.'
- 'Go on through, sir.'

7. If someone in the service industry- regardless of what it is- does anything that makes your travel experience one iota easier, tip them handily. They deserve it. Their job sucks.

8. If someone in the service industry doesn't do anything to make your life easier, you can bitch about it all you want. They don't care, and will move twice as slow.

9. To avoid fights and marital discord, never offer driving suggestions to your spouse while they are behind the wheel. If you are driving and they offer suggestions, obey them no matter how idiotic the suggestion may be.

10. It doesn't matter if you are the first to the baggage claim and you have plastered your knees against the carousel like they were glued there. Some jackass will always cut in front of you once the carousel starts. Only say something to them if they are smaller than you.

How Much Sleep?

Interesting article from Time Magazine via CNN online, with scientists talking about sleep, and how much we really need.

The article is here: http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1812420,00.html?cnn=yes

It is here where I take my heroic stand. I stand for THE OPPRESSORS!!!

I stand for those brave souls who threatened Galileo with excommunication and the Inquisition because of his heretical idea that the earth revolved around the sun.

I stand for all those people in Southern enclaves who believe the earth is 7000-10,000 years old

I DISAGREE with all of those eggheads who thought the atom could be split- EVEN THOUGH THEY ACTUALLY DID IT!!!

My friends, it is time to rise up. It is time to take up the bold (but clueless) cause of Willful Ignorance, under whose mighty banner we march but keep missing our turn-off because the map is wrong, the earth is flat and there are monsters waiting to devour us at the edge of the oceans where the water falls off.

Never mind 'FACT'. Disregard 'EMPIRICAL'. If anyone utters the phrase "The evidence clearly states..." shoot them on the spot immediately. Make haste to silence any fool who tries to make sense, and do so with the weighty phrase spoken by that dude whose name I forget: 'By any means necessary.'

6 to 7 hours of sleep each night, my ass.

It is here that I will make my stand.

Sorry for Getting Political, But...

Did anyone BUT George W. Bush NOT see this coming??!?

The leaders of two nations with a past history of violence, bloodshed and war against each other, shake hands in solidarity against elements of the proposed US-Iraqi Security Pact.

Where to End?

If there was ever a blog that I wish I could pour myself into, it would be this one. I'm struggling here, trying to channel thoughts and feelings through my fingertips and into this text in some superhuman, kenotic effort , knowing that no one possesses the words- or has the gift- to say exactly what they mean and have it truly understood or felt at the same intensity as the one who wrote it. Such is the limitation of language. Derrida knew his stuff.

I've written before of how life is often like a hurricane: a concantenation of endless anticipation followed by a fury that lasts far less long than the antipcation itself, but still seems to last an eternity.

Today I had two tasks to accomplish: one fairly quick and easy, the other long but not without reward.

The first was to meet with our realtor, to ask a few questions in regards to the 16 page document that lay before us, develop a plan of battle, and then sign, sign and sign. Oops, missed one, sign this one. On Thursday night, we received an offer on our house. On Friday, we parsed the offer, discussed options and concerns (the close date was shockingly short), and on Saturday we gathered in a small conference room and signed our counter-offer, which simply consisted of putting the close date out a few weeks later.

Within a few hours, our 'counter-offer' was accepted. Our house is now off the market, Subject To Inspection, and in the month of July it will pass out of our hands and into those of another.

Shortly after signing the offer, I climbed into my new car (another blog, another day) and made the once-quarterly journey to Canada to pick up my prescriptions.

As usual, the automative arteries of Seattle were clogged and sluggish: stop-and-go traffic through the city center, up past the Mercer exit and all the way up through the U district. I was wearing my jacket, as all of us have had to do during this past April, May, and now part of June, and the clouds circling above the city divested themselves of some mist which- not sure what button was what in the new car- meant that it took me 15 minutes to find out exactly how to set my windshield wipers on 'intermittent'.

The freeways finally coughed, hacked, and spat me onto the open highway, leaving the mess of traffic where it belonged- stuck in that miserable city.

My mind was filled as I drove: so much to think about. So many logistics to consider. The deal was done and the ink was drying. I had applied for a transer/promotion at work and received it. My wife had requested the same transfer and received it. We are California bound, now, and that quite shortly as well.

As I pondered this, the logistcal questions fell away from my mind, and as I neared the Canadian border I realized that this may in fact be the last time I see this city that I have loved so dearly, deeply and unequivocally.

It is hard to explain, certainly to myself, but also to those around me who know and love me. From that first exploratory moment when I stepped from the plane and onto the Vancouver tarmac to explore seminaries in Canada, I felt that I had found 'home'. There is no way to describe it in any way that make sense, other than in the words of Tenessee Williams from Cat On A Hot Tin Roof, where you feel the 'click': that moment when everything goes right. I knew then, and even know now, that I could live in that city for the rest of my life and never want to be elsewhere. In our discussions of posthumous disposal, my wife wants to be cremated and her ashes be spread in the Pacific ocean near where sharks dwell. For me, I want my ashes taken to Stanley Park and scattered to the winds that blow along the ocean near the quay.

My time in Seattle has been like living in a 'shadow city'- a darker, meaner, dirtier cousin- sure, it's still the Pacific Northwest, but it's an angry city. It is soiled and squalid and full of people with small minds and large ambitions, where everyone angles and deals and claims they work for Microsoft and in every transaction ask 'Could I get a discoont?'.

It's as if you have lived at the foot of the Alps for years, able to see the scope and beauty of those peaks everyday, never tiring of the majesty before you. And then you have to move to Fresno, CA, but your new landlords paint a clumsy landscape of the Alps on your bedroom wall to make you feel more at home. That is the best and only way I can describe it. It's a fake; a poorly orchestrated representation. I am not sad to leave it behind, and I am certain it will shed no tears at my departure, either.

Almost as if to underscore this point, the closer I drew near to Canada, the more the clouds the broke through and the sun peeked out, casting a welcome warmth onto the ground below. I stopped at a rest stop near the border and removed my jacket, and revelled in the 70 degree heat. I climbed back into the car and passed through the border, trying to drink in every detail, because I realized that I now do not know if I'll see it again anytime soon. Or, indeed, ever.

Suddenly, this all-important errand that I wanted to complete as quickly as I could so that I could return to the project that is my current life faded in urgency, as I realized that this might be my last chance to carress those few touchstones that had meant so much to me over the years.

Driving across the Oak Street Bridge, I took the first turn-off and not the second, which would have taken me to where I needed to go to complete the business I had come up for. So, rather than circling around and heading west on Marine Drive, I turned east towards the city center, and turned right on 16th. Driving a few blocks, I came to 71st, my old street, and turned down the crowded street. I pushed past the parked cars and came to rest in front of the tiny stucco and cement house I had called home for 3 years.

This 800 square foot top floor of a house, with a walled ledge and the cement steps that led up to the house. It was here I lived with the unfortunately named fellow seminarian, Ron Knickerbocker. It was in this house that we discussed theology and women with equal fervor, played Madden Football endlessly on the Playstation 2 and tried to write our theses (he finished his: I didn't). I parked my car where I used to park my old 240SX; the sound of the motor familiar to my cat, Leo, who would always come running from a corner to greet me as I came home at night from leading a bible study or a day of preaching and fellowship. He would mew, following me towards the house, alternately running ahead of me towards the door, and then back behind me as if trying to hurry me to open the door for him.

The house had changed very little, and I hoped that our ancient landlords, Al and Marie, were still in possession of it and were doing well. They were a dear couple who, for unknown reasons, hated Ron but loved me. Al was from Nove Scotia, and spoke with the heavy accent of a native Norwegian, and Marie could talk (without accent) for hours. And often did: whenever they called on some business, if Ron answered, they always asked for me. I would talk for an hour with her, only to have her come to the eventual point that she was calling for- which usually required an answer from Ron in the first place. They also adamantly refused to allow us to do any yardwork, and there was more than one occasion when he or I would arrive home to find two septuagenarians working and sweating in the yard, clipping, raking and mowing. It was a bit discomfitting, being an able-bodied 20 something doing nothing while 'grandma and grandpa' worked in our front yard.

Despite much change in the neighborhood, this tiny house was still the same, and I wished Al and Marie health and happiness in these later years. I climbed back into the car and drove away, this time heading west again on Marine Drive, my destination this time being the scenic drive that led to the University of Bristish Columbia campus (or as some of my Chinese college students called it, the 'University of a Billion Chinese'), to see my old seminary one last time.

The road to UBC was populated with bikers, taking advantage of the warm weather and sun, cycling earnestly as frustrated drivers tried desperately to find space to pass them. Slowly the caravan I was in made it onto the main college drive and the road opened into a few lanes.

Once free of the bikers, I was able to circle onto "Theology Lane", or "Religious Row", thus dubbed because there were 4 different theological schools all within blocks of each other. In fact, often I would have a class at Regent College, and then have to literally run the 3/4 of a mile to Carey Theological School (where the sorely missed Stanley Grenz taught) to make my next class.

It had been a few years since I'd last seen Regent College, but there was no mistaking it as the sun reflected off the multi-windowed front which always seemed to have a slight tint of green to them when the sun shone directly on them.

The seminary itself was locked for the day, but the square in front was still open, and in my mind's eye I could see seminary students sitting with Ross, the homeless man, sharing a meal with him and talking some near-blasphemous theology. He was radically irreverant, but had adopted us just as much as we had adopted him, and I had been one among many students who shared a lunch with him on cold winter days. It was and is a socially progressive school, and Ross never went hungry, nor was he ever pressed to 'accept Christ'. 'I believe in God, and Jesus and the Virgin Mary and all that,' he told me once, 'I even talk to them now and then. They've done alright by me.'

I hope we did alright by him, too.

Despite the addition of a couple of walkways, and what looked like the broadening of the lower level where the library was kept, the school appeared largely unchanged: this architecturally unique building that caught my breath the first time I lay eyes on it. Even the laughably small student parking lot remained unchanged, holding enough parking spaces for maybe 20 students. If they carpooled. Progress and priorities.

While there was so much more that I wanted to see- downtown, Broadway, Burrard and Georgia St, Stanley Park and the Lion's Gate Bridge- but these were long diversions from the one place that I had to go to: The Lord's Love Church, where I had served as an assistant- and then associate- pastor for 3 years.

I remember driving up to the church for the first time in June of 2000, for my first interview with the church leaders. I almost didn't get out of my car. It looked run down and unkempt, the grass uncut and the stain-glassed windows either had mis-matched panes or was broken: even during the three years that I worked there, I was never able to figure out which.

The cement walkway that led up to the entrance and the nave within was cracked and pockmarked, and as you stood from the sidewalk looking up at the church, the upper portion of the apse had Chinese characters written on it, with the English title written in much smaller letters below it. The ONLY reason I exited the car that day of my interview was the rationale that this would be a good experience in interviewing for church positions. It was to be a lesson in honing my interviewing skills and articulately answering theological questions thrown at me quickly. I planned to go that far in the process, and then pursue it no further. I had no idea that I would eventually fall irretrievably in love.

Driving up in June of 2008, almost eactly 8 years to the day that I first saw it, was like driving up to it for the first time again. It was still in need of a paint job, and the grass in front desperately needing cutting. The sign board out front still proclaimed Rev. S.Y. King as the reverend, though he had retired even during my tenure, to finish his book on the Psalms. I had the privilege of being mentored by him for a year. A gentler, more humble man I have never met, but with a sharp wisdom that either belied or augmented his 85 years of life. Working with him had been a singular, unforgettable honor.

SPOILER ALERT: Here's where things get 'religious'. Mac, if you're reading this, you may or may not find this interesting, but I think it is germane to past discussions.

Standing there in front of the church, it seemed like it would have been the most natural thing in the world to reach into my pocket, retrieve my keys and enter the church, making my way back to my tiny office in the tiny main church office.

But this was mine no longer: someone else now occupied it, and it- all of it- was no longer my job. My job has changed now. I am soon to be a father, and I am preparing for that. My job is to provide for my family. To love and support my wife, to make money for the company that now employs me.

So I stood there, in front of the church, in the middle of a dying afternoon, while behind me on the sidewalk turbanned Sikhs and Chinese students walked back and forth. And at that moment, I closed my eyes, clasped my hands, and prayed.

I prayed for forgiveness, for it has been long since I have done so, and even with the best of intentions there is much need for forgiveness. I prayed for those people who called this church home- whether I knew them before or never knew them at all. I prayed for peace within those dilapidated four walls, and for the Spirit to bless and work within them.

And then I prayed for myself.

For a season, I had been called to them- for whatever mystical, humorous and ultimately cruel reason- and had been so lucky to have been there, with them, for that season. I don't know if I did them any good, but I know they did so for me- and maybe that was what it had all been about, anyway.

And so today I prayed for the NOW- the immediate. The 'here'. And it was for nothing, other than for the guts to finally surrender and accept another calling. Not to the ministry, not to the church. There is a fine line between 'practical joke' and 'outright cruelty', and I have no wish to tap-dance along that dangerous line.

Mac, and all others exploring this framework of thought, forgive the young Jedi bucking the wisdom of the master, but there is no Saturday for us. I appreciate Eugene Peterson's attempt to try and answer this obvious gap we live in, and of course the famed Willard tension between 'now' and 'not yet'. But Peterson is as much a poet as he is a theologian, and there are times when what at first analysis seem analgous simply does not have any correlation.

'Saturday' is despair. It is hopelessness. It is the crumbling of every thought and dream you've ever had, and it is the bitter divestment of identity, as everything you had seen and believed up till then has been nothing but dust.

When I think of the dicsiples, those clods who couldn't believe that Jesus had died (never mind the fact that he'd been predicting it from the start of his ministry), the only thing they knew is what they had bought into was a lie. They had seen bread multiplied and the dead rise. Some had seen him transfigured, while all of them had seen him take on the established orders of the day... and win.

And now this. Christ died yesterday. Tomorrow, he will still be dead. In a few days he will stink, despite the lineaments and oils rubbed into his brusied skin. In a few years, dust. And it is not just the waste of the last few years of their life, or the future and the stigma they will now have to live under: these followers of the slain 'messiah'. The worst, and what is most unimaginable to Christians nowadays is that, with his final cry (had they been around to hear it) and last breath, everything become meaningless.

We do not live in a pre-resuurection world. We do not live in that Saturday, and our while our lives are filled with struggles and confusion, we still have that ultimate hope that the disciples lost when Jesus breathed his last. I appreciate Peterson's attempt to articulate the confusion and tension we live in, but it is not without hope. No matter how hard we try and identify with that Saturday, we know about Sunday. We know what happens then.

Our tension and difficulty is not living in hopelessness, but rather it's living within befuddled hope. What he is doing at present, as we wait for the 'kingdom now' is as confusing to us as it was for the disciples when they heard Christ's proclamation at the heighth of his ministry that he came to die.

I am at the busiest, craziest hurricane of my life now. And today as I stood at the foot of the church, looking up at it, I wondered today just as I wondered then: 'what the hell am I doing?'

If you had pulled me aside on that first day of work when I had been hired by the church, and told me that I would suffer a breakdown, lose my ministry, not finish seminary, live in squalor doing penance, then pull forward out of it, get married, find a 9-5 job making decent money, have a child on the way and be moving back to California (a place I vowed never to return to)... I would have never entered that church, for I wouldn't have wanted that fate. I wouldn't want the failure, nor the pain.

But now, having made it through the shit, I wouldn't be anywhere else in the world.

There are times when my head whirls, and I have no idea where I got to where I am. But I am here, and during the roughest times of all, I still believed. I didn't want to, and I feel guilty at the times when I felt hope, for I felt I wasn't even deserving of that palliative gift. But it was there. I didn't know the future, I could only live in the moment. Maybe some people want to call it 'Saturday', that soul-crushing day after crucifixion but before resurrection, but it is not. Because I knew, even in my most despairing moment, of the risen Christ, and even in my bafflement and self-castigation I could not divest myself of this belief.

If Christ bore the sins of the world on his shoulders, it was the disciples who carried the despair of loss and meaningless on their shoulders for us.

For a day.

We do not need to live in 'Saturday', for they did so for us.

I closed my prayer, left the church, finished my errand and turned towards home. I felt called to be there.

We Owe You One

Hey, St. Joe,

This might be a little premature, but...

Thanks.

I Am So Conflicted

At night, when all the world's asleep,
The questions run so deep
For such a simple man.
Won't you please, please tell me what we've learned
I know it sounds absurd,
But please tell me who I am...
- Supertramp


So.

To all intents and purposes, it looks like Barack O'Bama has secured the Democratic nomination.
This is good. This is what I've wanted.

Sorta.

See, here's the problem I've been running into lately. I want to be a liberal. I've always thought of myself in those terms after high school, and my motto has always been 'When in doubt, always lean to the side that is most dolphin-friendly'. But lately it seems that there has been darker, shadowy, conservative side to me that seems to whisper deep within my psyche: 'Screw the spotted wood owl, but not the rich white oil executive'. And it is then that I want to crawl into my clothes hamper and weep.

I guess the biggest conflict of all is that I want to be a liberal, but without having to buy into everything a liberal believes. I guess liberals have been pushed into so many corners that the only thing they can do is become even more zealously devoted to their cause than they ever were before. In many ways, it's much like the church in China in the 80's and 90's: the repeated persecution only galvanized the faith of the Christians, rather than eliminating it. But they weren't as obnoxious, self-righteous and all-knowing like many liberals tend to be.

So, I am terribly, terribly sorry. But like the song lyric above, I simply don't know who I am. A conservative in a hemp t-shirt? A liberal in suit and tie? Here. Just observe my inner conflicts:

1. I DON'T believe in global warming (There... see that? I just lost Al Gore) as an immediate threat. Is it not happening? Sure it is. Did we cause it? Um... ice cores, ancient weather patterns, the waxing and waning of glaciers throughout history make a pretty strong argument that my Ford Escort is not causing the ice caps to melt.

2. I believe in the near-immediate withdrawal of our troops in Iraq, because we were led into that quagmire by a stuttering imbecile and apart from deposing a dictator that we were shaking hands with in the 80's, have accomplished nothing more than fucking up the lives of good Iraqi people (Al Gore just moved a little closer).

3. I believe we either have the most inept, incompetent, technologically retarded military if we can manage to find microchipped lost pets, but cannot find a middle-aged Saudi who has not changed his appearance once since 9/11 and is walking around with an oxygen tank, for Pete's sake. And for the record, I don't think that way about our military at all. Quite the contrary- our people in uniform never fail to inspire me. However, I think our esteemed president-elect, George W. Bush, took our eyes off the ball and waved the red cape of Iraq like a toreador so that he wouldn't actually have to eliminate or prosecute a member of the royal Saudi family (Al Gore now wants to cuddle).

4. I think increasing taxes, particularly at this time, is NOT a good idea.

5. I believe that national healthcare is not only achievable (if we learn from other countries' mistakes), but required for a country with our (previous) largesse. To not have the least of basic healthcare for our citizens is appalling. To have our healthcare costs be double the cost of other wealthy nations is equally appalling.

6. I believe we're already paying for national healthcare already, at least for those who aren't citizens.

7. I believe that the 'No Child Left Behind' initiative actually meant 'we'll dumb down the education of every other kid so the dumbest kid in the class can do the same work at the same level that the smartest kid does'. I also believe George W. Bush WAS that dumb kid back in school, and this initiative was based on his own personal experience. Therefore, under the morass that that initiative propogated, I think we shouldn't have thrown that money at education.

8. I desperately believe that if there is a smart way to use the funds, TONS of money should be thrown at education. And teachers. And re-working curriculum so it actually teaches something.

9. I truly believe we need to lessen and eventually eradicate our dependence upon oil. ALL oil: not just foreign. We're not so dumb, folks, that we can't come up with better a means of powering up our homes and vehicles.

10. I don't believe we should eradicate our need for oil in order to 'clean up our air' (LA notwishtanding, because let's face it: liberal or conservative, that place sucks).

11. I believe our economy is in trouble, and that good people need help.

12. I do NOT believe we are in a recession, based on the conventional definition of 'recession'. Now, while Bush may sound like an idiot when he tells us not to worry, the fact that unemployment has gone down, the market has fluctuated wildly but has always remained at a mean of 12,500, and that we have NOT had two successive quarters of negative GNP growth, means that for the moment he is right. Oh, and in regards to the above good people who need help? I firmly believe that. It's the dumb ones who need to get their whuppin' (what the hell were you thinking, buying into a sub-prime mortgage which, even then, equalled your total monthly take home pay??? Did you think the mathematics of this would work? Clearly, you are a 'child that was left behind'. Why the hell should the government- meaning us and our tax dollars- bail you out?)

I believe that the government that governs least, governs best. I also believe in walking softly and carrying a big stick. I think Jimmy Carter is one of America's greatest heroes, and (present administration excepted) one of the worst presidents we've ever had.

I think it's time for the Bush/Clinton dynasty to move on, the stale air to be fanned away, and new ideas and definitive changes need to be piped through the dusty air ducts of Washington.

But I'm not sure how. I can't buy into any one candidate or party's platform. I can't be liberal because I support the building of new refineries, but I also can't be conservative because... well, hell, the very nature of the word means 'stubbornly resistant to any change whatsoever', and change is so desperately needed.

Someone. Please. Tell me who I am.

Virtual Relationships

It's so easy to hide nowadays.

And do it in plain sight.

Yesterday Salome and I were on our way to a barbecue yesterday and- as per our usual custom- we were running late (sidebar- I say 'we were running late' much in the same way one uses 'the royal we'. In other words, I'm late by proxy and not by actual negligence). At about 3:15, my wife receieves an email on her Blackberry: a quick sentence from her friend who is throwing the barbecue, asking where we were.

Now, as Salome was driving (we've discussed this state of affairs in recent blogs), she handed me the Blackberry and asked me to reply to the email. And so, as I sat there trying to type a coherent message on a bumpy freeway with a 'qwerty' keyboard that had keys roughly the size of a head of a pin, I realized what a collossal waste of time the whole affair was.

Granted, this epiphany was fueled by the fact that I was seriously annoyed at having to try and type on a sophisticated cell phone, for God's sake, but it was also dawning on me to what lengths we will go to in order to avaoid actual contact with a human being.

With text-messages, emails, voice mails, answering machines, Skype and ICQ, not to mention Slingboxes and Bluetooth, we can have a relationship with virtually anyone, without ever having to soil ourselves by actually talking to them.

Consider the script and the likely time requirement:

- Salome's friend dials her Blackberry: 10 seconds. Or 5, if she's in the 'contact' list
- The Blackberry rings twice before Salome picks up: 5 seconds
- Salome's friend inquires as to our whereabouts ('Hey, where are you guys?'): 5 seconds
- Salome replies 'We're running late, but will be there in 15 minutes': 5 seconds
- The friend replies 'Ok, we'll see you then.': 3 seconds.
- Each person then hangs up the phone: 2 seconds
Total time: 30 seconds

But no. Said friend must email this query, which requires typing on a keyboard designed for small rodents. The recipient must then receive the inquiry, and type a reply (in my case, as I hate the damned things and text as seldom as possible) that takes 3 minutes to send back the following:

'WeER runningh late (Big bump in road, and can't find the punctuation button) Bbe ther in 15.'

Now, granted, we were on our way to spend actual time with them: face-to-face discussions, laughter, and the enjoyment of food.

But somehow we've come to the point in our high-tech world that the actual talking to someone without seeing them face to face is a terrible breach of decorum, much like flatulating in mixed company.

Put another way, there are now so many ways to get a hold of me, that why should you even bother getting a hold of me? Leave a voice mail. Text me. Email me. Let's set a date to IM each other online. Ok! Cya then! TTYL...

And after all the texting and emailing is over and done with, why is it that we still feel dreadfully, awfully alone?

Buy, D--n You! BUY!!!!!

To all the people who have looked at our house, liked it, and then went on to buy nothing at all:


Look, I want you to know: I get it. I know exactly what you're doing, and I don't blame you because I would be doing the exact same thing if I were in your position. Moreover, if one of you ever gets the gumption to actually make an offer, I WILL be in your position in 30-60 days.

You're looking for the best house with a price that has plummeted the most so that you can get the absolute best deal. I'm with ya on that. And you probably have seen us lower the price on our house on occasion. But this is what you must know:

1. We did not get a sub-prime loan
2. We are not unemployed and struggling to make payments
3. We will NOT be selling this house for a loss
4. We are open to any offer that possesses a semblance of reality

So if you're looking for that SEO, that short sale, that foreclosure, I know of a couple of heaps about 4 or 5 miles away.

But if you want this house- and there are those of who you DO want this house- stop being a vascillating weiner or greedy opportunist and buy. Otherwise we rent this house to one of the two major corporations that are less than 8 miles away, get their corporate housing money, and keep paying the mortgage on this place. Trust me: there's about a year of bad market times, and then things will bounce back. I know you're thinking 'Let's not buy until the price drops below 300k.' Let me assure you: IT WILL NOT.

And in a year, you could have had a house for the price we were reasonably asking in 2008, but a year from now when the market stops sliding, we'll be asking 60k more than we're currently asking. And we'll get it.

So grow a pair and throw in an offer. You've got maybe a month left. We don't want the hassle of dealing with renters, which is why we're selling it. But I assure you: if we have to, we will.

And Seattle: try something new. Show the sun once or twice. It's frickin' June, for Pete's sake, and today our barbecue had to be moved indoors because it was too cold. That's just dumb.

Those are my gripes for the week. Thank you for listening.

The Hump

If 'April is the cruelest month' (if you haven't guessed yet, TS Eliot is both my favorite and only poet I read), then May must be the longest.

It certainly has felt that way, having spent most of the last 3 weeks in either New Orleans or Denver, or on a plane going from one to the other. All business, very little pleasure (unless you count the guys on Bourbon Street who were lifting up their shirts to get beads from girls 'pleasure', which I most certainly do not), utter exhaustion and a suitcase full of stinky socks when I finally come home.

So I'm home now, and since I've returned, I've noticed this curious little phenomenon that really screws up my personal productivity. It's been there ever since I took started my 'day job', but lately I've really been noticing it.

You see, there is a little... hump... in my day, everyday, right around 4 or 5 pm. It's like this little speedbump in the middle of the afternoon, where I am finally free from the office and can come home. And then I get home, and find that the energy that sustained me throughout the workday is now utterly gone. Depleted. Sucked out of me like a leech.

I know there are a million things I either could be doing or SHOULD be doing: my lord, take one look at our garage and you'll see what I mean. But I just can't. I don't want to do anything. And if I must, then it has to be the least taxing thing in the world, like staring open-mouthed and drooling at a blank wall. (Note: my skills in this area have improved greatly over the last year)

Tragically, this is where the rest of the evening gets planned, right during this time of 'the hump'. What to do for dinner? Should I return those movies? And, oh, hey, how about that novel I've been writing for about 4 years now? Or maybe that gym membership that we keep paying for like homeowner dues? And, of course, the answer is always:

Flump... sigh... "I don't want to. I just want to... decompress. It's been a long day."

So I sit, fiddle, drool, while the hours pass.

And then, after 7 pm, my energy comes right back. But by then, it's all ruined. I didn't exercise, dinner was take-out, and now I'd rather read a book than write one. I've made it over 'the hump', but it's not like I'm in a good place, because it's too late to do the things I wanted to work on.

It's amazing how little sense of accomplishment you feel, when you've succeeded at accomplishing nothing at all.

A Phone Call from Mac

Not long ago, I received an email from a long time friend, mentor and all around Jedi knight. Mac, as he is now known, was once Chris MacDonald in a previous incarnation: whipping-boy for the Session and the Presbytery, which was part of his regular duties as college minister of this particular church. However, with the blessing and the curse of his brilliant (and I DO mean brilliant) mind, coupled with his devilish delight in irrevererence, I am not entirely convinced that he did not, on some occasions, deserve the private floggings of the committees mentioned above. I'm just saying.

This is some 14 years in the past now: Mac has moved beyond the creeping tendrils of ministry, and is probably embroiling himself in some other brilliant but self-destructive enterprise where he seems to have his downfall preplanned already. That's just Mac. And I don't believe he'd disagree. Rather, he'll pick himself up off the ground, dusting his pants and laughing, probably quoting some goofy line from 'Highlander'. If a weather vane is used to attract lightning, Mac is a pillar to attract shit, taking it all in stride and still believing in the grace of God.

There is much to be said about Mac, and no doubt future entries will contain references to his mis-adventures, but what this post is really about is a picture. The one above. He sent me this recently, during a time when life seemed to be reaching a point where I could not possibly voice a single complaint, yet I felt empty and bereft inside.

Then this came. This awful, ugly photo of an ungainly and awkward young man, struggling to make sense of the world after the loss of his brother and the onset of depression. I cringe whenever I look at it, but I have it saved, still, because behind the LensCrafter glasses and the awful mullet, there is this boy who is wistfully looking out at something vast, immeasurable, and beautiful. Yes, I look like a myopic pirate with a lip full of chewing tobacco, and if I dwell on this period of time too long, I feel what I felt then: adrift, sputtering, gasping, splashing and struggling.

And then I realize: that's what calls me to this picture, over and over again. It wasn't the feeling of being lost and useless, it was the struggle: that damn-ed struggle for meaning and position in a world that is never static, never allowing you to set your feet on solid ground BECAUSE THE WORLD ISN'T REALLY WHERE YOU WERE MEANT TO BE.

Yes, this picture is reference back to a time I would rather forget. But that would render the whole experience worthless- and if it were not there, I would not be here, at this moment, at this now, wanting that struggle again. I would not have my beautiful wife, my coming child, my past failures that ring now like handbells of grace.

I think Mac knew this when he sent it. He was there for me- a big, bloody, awful, wonderful, gifted mess- at the time when I needed someone most. Someone who would get down in the dirt and the grit and the grime of faith, and be satisfied with not coming up with answers... because answers soon become platitudes that we substitute for actual experience.

He understood then, just as he understands now, it's all about the struggle.

Wait without words, for you are not ready for words...
- TS Eliot

An Apology to Half of Seattle

The car I currently drive is an inherited one- inherited in the sense that when Salome and I married, she brought it into the nuptial relationship as a shared asset (see image of car here).

When the infamous snows of Seattle hit, we purchased a Honda CRV, and Salome's old car was designated as my main mode of transport. It was a wise move- and I'm by no means complaining- as my commute is significantly shorter than hers and I drive like an elegant figure skater when it comes to icy roads.

But still, it's an old Ford Escort, and it's not the most luxurious of drives.

The other day the battery light in the Escort went on. As the Escort has the following issues:

1) The brake light never goes off
2) The gear box is not lighted, so at night you have to guess what position 'reverse' is in: which has the potential for the creation of a great drinking game
3) The 'check oil' light is always on

I think I can be forgiven for thinking this new battery light was just another sign of the old girl showing her age. Who knew the car was actually trying to tell me something???

She made her final statement by dying at the intersection between a freeway off ramp and a major arterial street. On Friday afternoon, during the prime traffic hour.

And here's where the apology comes in. You see, for years I have taken a rather dim view of Seattle. I have hated its dim corridors that pass for 'streets', and the uppity denizens sipping coffee in Starbucks in front of their laptops. I have hated how one out of every 2 cars is an SUV, and how the small community churches have died off in favor the mega-churches. It has seemed that the only value Seattle had was 'big': whether it was a start-up company reaching up to become a giant (or big enough to capture Microsoft's attention and subsequently be bought out by them), or the egos of those who walk the city streets.

So, as I sat in my dead car, with the hazard lights blinking (nice: enough juice in the battery to let everyone know the car was dead, but not enough to get it started), it took less than 5 minutes of sitting before someone edged around my car and came to a stop. He offered assistance, tried to jump start it (no go), and then to help push it off to the side of the road (gear box was stuck in park, and wouldn't move into neutral). I thanked him, but there was nothing he could do.

I then called for a tow truck, which came interminably late, (just under an hour) but during that wait I had no less than 7 people stop and offer assistance. This, in a city that doesn't care- unless the yellow-spotted grout lizard is in danger of having to move 20 feet from its habitat because of some proposed road construction.

From the Hispanic man who pulled off to the side and offered a jump start and tinkered with the engine, to the Asian man who instructed me on what I'd need to do to get it running, to the delivery driver who, with a few of Hispanic co-workers, showed me how to get the car out of 'park', into 'neutral', and helped push me off the road, to the black man who pulled up behind me just to ask if I was alright. And I would be remiss if I didn't mention the 20-something Latinos in their souped car and thumping bass- and whom I would probably dismiss as 'gang-bangers' or
'thugs' under other circumstances- who also stopped and offered assistance.

In fact, with the exception of the first gentleman who tried to give me a jump start, I never received offers of assistance from anyone who was Caucasian, and drove a Mercedes or some other luxury car.

And yes, the paragraph above about why I dislike Seattle so much is not one I'm going to retract: I think my earlier criticism still holds true. But my error- and thus my apology- is that there are some genuinely good people out there who defy typology and stereotypes, and are willing to stop and help someone in need.

These are the people that are the glue that hold this city together, and though none of you will be likely to read this blog, I just want to say yet again:

Thank you.

The Beating of a Heart

3 weeks ago, I learned that I might be a father.

Might.

Based on a $10 test that- pardon the details of the mechanics- required someone to pee onto a swab of cotton.

I am not one that requires flow charts, diagrams, confirmations from experts and an army of lawyers to write a brief before I'll believe something. But I would like a soupcon of empiricism and a dash of research before I buy into something entirely. I've bought several used cars in the past, and have completely learned from those experiences. Particularly one where you never buy a used car from a guy who insists you call him 'Dutch'.

I digress.

Further testing (and the indignity it engenders) was required before I would even allow myself to start to hope, let alone believe. 5 tests and 24 hours later, I started to believe.

This was further augmented by:

a) Salome phoning the clinic and describing the situation, an appointment (LONG in the future- what the hell is the matter with these doctors? This is my CHILD we're talking about here) set, and a nurse practitioner telling my wife 'congratulations'.

'You mean...?'

'Honey, those tests are designed to look for one single thing. It found it. 5 times. You are.'

b) A terrifying moment when my wife had to go into the clinic for an ultrasound to make certain everything was okay. I skipped work and broke traffic laws to get to that appointment, but was 5 minutes too late to observe the ultrasound. DAMN YOU, SEATTLE!!! DAMN YOU AND YOUR SHITTY PARKING!!!

At this point, there was no plausible denial of what was growing in my wife's belly, but still... I still felt a bit... reluctant to fully rejoice. At 6 weeks and 6 days, it's still an 'embryo': it hasn't even graduated to a 'fetus' (which occurs at week 10, according to the books I'm reading, as if there's some sort of cap and gown celebration where someone shakes the new fetus's hand and slips them a diploma), and this seemed to me to be a somewhat precarious, could-go-either-way sort of situation, and I didn't want to get too hopeful.

But oh.

Oh.

Salome calls me today at work, after her appointment, and tells me the news. My baby has a heartbeat.

My baby has a heartbeat.

It's beating, it's alive, pulsing and throbbing with new life. Sorting out 23 chromosomes from mom, and 23 from dad to decide what it wants to be (hint: choose more from your mom's side). It's growing, and healthy, with the steady quick thrumming of 115 beats per minute. It's drawing strength, it's in the process of becoming itself.

And in some inexplicable way, despite a lifetime of fumbles, failures and befuddlement, I did something right.

I gave my baby a heartbeat. And now I am a believer.

I love you. Come soon.

Song Lyrics That Are Just... LAME

Hey, I've got artistic roots.

I appreciate that creative spark. That muse. Whatever your medium, baby, spill your soul to the world. Paint it, sing it, interpretive-dance it (well...), write it, yodel it. I don't care. I will not, in any way, stifle it.

Unless it's absolute crap.

Lately, there have been song lyrics bouncing around in my head. I can't get them out. I can't. Can't, can't, can't CAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNN'T. Unless I purge them into this blog, pass this curse onto you and make all of you suffer.

And what makes these songs echo and reverberate in my head is NOT because they're catchy, have a good beat, and you can dance to them. It's because whether it be a simple line or an entire refrain, they're just freakin' stupid.

So, in no particular order since they all equally suck, the winners are:

Artist (term used loosely): Plain White T's
Song: Hey There, Delilah
Lyric: Hey there Delilah,
I've got so much left to say,
If every simple song I wrote to you
Would take your breath away
I'd write it all...

Okay, no problems here. Actually quite beautiful. Simple, adoring love song. THAT SUDDENLY SLIPS INTO VICTORIAN ENGLISH in the last line:

Even more in love with me you'd fall
We'd have it all.

Comment: Try saying this in plain, everyday language, and you'll get your ass kicked for being 'Poncey'. Thanks, Plain White Dickens. Talk about desperate for a rhyme.

Artist: Fergie
Song: Big Girls Don't Cry
Lyric: And I'm gonna miss youuuuu like a child misses its blanket.......

Comment: Can we say... 'searching for a simile'? It's a stretch, a dumb stretch, and it conjures images of you as a grown up wearing 'Little Mermaid' body pajamas with feet and carrying a teddy bear, but- oh the strength of you!!!!- you're going to grow up now and leave the little pink blankee at home. However, at least it marginally beats your next lyric, which is:

Artist: Fergie
Song: My Humps
Lyric: My hump, my hump, my hump, (Ha) my lovely lady lumps (Check it out).

Comment: Um.... given the obvious regression into the 'women are meat' mentality, I'm not sure how she got away with it. Could you imagine P. Diddy coming out with a song that goes:
My sac, my sac, my sac, (Ha), my hairy scrotum sac (Check it out)...?

Artist: Justin Timberlake
Song: Sexyback
Lyric: Get your sexy on, go 'head and be gone with it.

Comment: Apart from the whole thing not making a lick of sense, I do have to say this in response to the first phrase: Hey Justin, I don't know about you, but I always have my sexy on.
I am currently wearing red panties as I write this.

Artist: Jordin Sparks
Song: Tattoo
Lyric: Just like a tattoo,
I'll always have you (even when I'm an 80 year old grandmother with upper arms the size of hams and a backside that you need a king-size bedspread to cover, and that tattoo is sagging and wrinkled and stuck in my waddles of fat...).

Ah, but then it gets worse:

Lyric: You're still a part of everything I do,
You're on my heart just like a tattoo.

Huh?

Comment: People normally don't put tattoos on their hearts, darlin'. It kind of defeats the purpose- while simultaneously being darned dangerous. And if my being 'a part of everything [you] do' means I'm the equivalent of blue-inked sketch of a lotus flower or some other tramp-stamp, I'm not entirely convinced I'm all that special to you.

Gotta song lyric you hate? Spread the venom. Leave a comment with the lyric.

ONE day, Seattle? Seriously... One Day?!?

People say I was lucky to have grown up in California.

I always reply, 'It depends upon what part of California you grew up in.'

While I spent most of my childhood in Placerville, it was close enough to Sacramento to endure the same weather patterns. In essence, there were two seasons in Sacramento: 'miserably hot', and 'tar-boiling, tennis shoe-melting, fry-an-egg-on-your-dashboard' kind of hot. Either way, it made me appreciate those occasional days when the sun was covered by clouds and rain fell in little droplets, and I decided that when I was old enough to be on my own, I would be moving to a climate that was not so relentlessly sunny; I actually pined for rainy days, for fog and sleet and occasionally the driving snow.

I'm about to change my mind on that now.

It's friggin' April- no, it's the end of April, with May speeding around the corner like a pollen-belching locomotive. Only thing is, this particular train is being pulled by 'The Little Engine That Couldn't', and each day we awake to that same, dismal grayness, where the clouds cover the sun with bellies full of rain.

Seriously, the last time Salome and I saw the sun for any extended period of time, it was when we took our belated honeymoon trip to Cancun last summer. And even then, we had a hurricane (Dean) bearing down on us. But even still, we were grateful.

In the last 30 days, we've had two- count 'em, two- days where the sun broke the back of the relentless clouds, and finally showed its face for all of 16 hours- the slutty little tease- and so now California is looking better and better.

True, the relentless sun that beats down upon that state puts you at an increased risk for melanoma, but no one (as far as I know) ever suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder by living in sunshine.

Talk about only ever seeing things in shades of gray.

If This Doesn't Touch Your Heart...

We learn our lessons in the strangest of places.

I remember as a child in Sunday school class, sitting around in a circle and trying to sing a song about 'the fruits of the spirit'. Some poor, demented soul had actually tried to put music to the words 'peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, self-control...'.

It seemed, in that hazy understanding children have of the world, that if something wasn't put into song, it wasn't real. So we mercilessly belted out this tune, not having a clue what 'self-control' was, but it was in the song, so we bravely clapped out of sync, and stumbled over the syllables we tried to sing.

As years have passed, it is rare to come across individuals who possess even a few of these 'fruits'.

Sometimes, then, the best examples of how to be human do not come from humans at all. Watch this video. Let it take the time to load. It's worth it.

PS- Please adopt from animal shelters