Thank ya'll for the nice words today.
I appreciate the thoughtful e-mails and phone calls, really I do.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Susan
I met Susan through a mutual friend the first year I lived in Colorado.
Through my 22-yr old world-seasoned eyes Susan seemed young, but at 19 she was already a generation or two beyond any daydreams I had about catching up. Even in a ski town notorious for glamour, conspicuous wealth, chemical excess and sexual indulgence Susan was a maelstrom ... a femme fatale who fractured men's tedious egos by becoming bored and simply glancing away.
Not that she was either the prettiest nor the most physically attractive, although even by Aspen's mile-high standards she was certainly more than attractive enough. Susan was simply the most alluring and also the most dangerous ... a raven-haired succubus in heels and designer jeans who compelled stammering men to make ridiculous offers of cash, furs, vacations or jewelry for her attention ... who'd later shrug off their affection with indifference.
I knew firsthand of more than a handful of examples, and they were all pathetic.
Am I painting too colorful a picture? No, I am not. Susan not only burned bridges ... she set fire to the luckless men (and women) trying to cross them.
Despite our friendship, Susan and I moved in different social circles. I was a security guard and bank janitor; she was the quintessential party-girl whose name and face were ubiquitous across the most debauched party town in the Rockies. I never heard any lies or exaggerations about her ... probably because I already knew every thing I heard was true.
I knew the stories were true because Susan would tell me herself, often answering questions with a sad smile and a shake of her head, starting off with "Joe Joe Joe," as though pitying me for volunteering my ears for the sword.
We were friends in a town during a time when there was no such things as "going out," dating or "getting serious." Either two people were having sex , about to have sex, or they hadn't met. Emotions and commitment were never any part of the Aspen equation.
We ran into each other outside The Ute City Banque late one afternoon just as the twilight brought one of the first snowfalls of the season. The flakes didn't fall, they floated and swirled like silk tufts riding invisible currents through the streets.
Susan brushed away the snowflakes from my face and frowned a half-smile. "Look what's happened to your hair."
Susan left for several months soon after that; I driving her to the airport and thinking I'd never see her again. It's supposed to be bad luck to take pictures before a flight but I did anyway, though the two pictures disappeared before I remembered they were important.
Susan moved back the next summer and lived in Basalt, a 20-minute ride downvalley by bus. The first stop inside the city limits was outside my window below the filthy room I rented at The Agate Lodge, a tumble-down of a 1940s-era motorcourt locals referred to as "The Maggot."
Even though it meant adding a 10 minute walk to her trip, Susan stopped by and visited for an hour or so on her way to work (by then she had the occasional day job) at least once every week. But other times she had the day off and we'd walk five blocks past the gingerbread houses into town and spend afternoons at Say Frommage! or Horsefeathers over coffee and croissants ... hinting and remembering our secret that one day we'd run away (because no one else could put up with either one of us) and disappear together in Paris.
Eventually she'd check her watch, promise we'd see each other again soon, hug goodbye and walk out the door ... leaving most of the testosterone universe quivering in her wake.
Susan set the Gold Standard for telling men "Yes" but meaning "No" as her eyes flashed like razors through fantasies and expectations. Even though she told lies and broke promises as easily as the sun rises and sets Susan promised me one thing, and she kept her word.
Almost ... she tried to anyway, but it was probably my fault she didn't follow through.
We'd vowed to each other through the years that should one of us get trapped into becoming engaged to anyone else, the other one would show up ahead of the wedding on an idling Harley outside the church... representing a last avenue of escape that meant, "It's still not too late ... you don't have to if you don't want to."
Susan had a dark, adventurous no-risk-is-too-great personality that thrived on adrenaline and hinged on self-immolation. One night while a snowstorm raged outside we sat together by the fireplace in my apartment, Susan told me more than I wanted to know about her past and her upcoming "plans" ... and finished by saying she'd known all her life that she'd never live to be thirty. But thirty was 10 years away and impossibly too blurred to imagine.
We stayed in contact with cards and phone calls across 10 states after we'd both finally moved away, though there wasn't always much exciting to talk about ... after Aspen, conversations about her job, the insufferable heat in Arizona and her ongoing health problems (which may have been code for Rehab) felt like shadows trespassing across our city of lights.
We stayed friends even after that tense, borderline hysterical midnight call she made telling me she felt abandoned, accusing me of being selfish, saying I'd turned my back when there was no one else, and that she wished she was dead. She slammed down the phone in incoherent tears asking why didn't I care, adding she'd never bother me ever again.
Susan didn't keep her promise on that one, not by a lifetime.
It took a several months without contact before I wanted to hear from her again, but even that episode passed and eventually we were back in touch, though I can't remember who made the first healing gesture.
We hadn't seen each other in five years, but the afternoon I told her I was engaged Susan's voice seemed uncertain and offguard as she managed, "Then I'll be there on the Harley." By then the bright lights of Responsibility and Reality had dimmed Aspen's glitter and I told her No Susan, not this time.
"You're sure?"
Over the next few weeks Susan called more often, whimsically but always pleasantly closing, "Are you sure?" The truth was that my ex-wife bought none of my assurances that Susan and I had never been lovers nor had we had any sort of physical relationship at all ... yet women are expansively intuitive and perplexingly focused on maintaining their domains. When it came to Susan she wasn't having any of it. She didn't even want Susan coming to the wedding.
Telling Susan she wasn't invited was hard, maybe at that time the hardest thing I'd even done. Despite everything I've mentioned so far I could tell she was hurt, and hurt deeply ... probably because rejection and closed doors weren't something she was used to.
I never heard from Susan again.
A few months later I got a phone call I didn't see coming. After confirming it was actually me he was talking to, the caller identified himself as a detective for a sheriff's department in city in a southwestern state, and began asking a series of uneasy questions including-
Did I know Susan?
How long had I known her?
Where had I been during the past six months?
When was the last time I'd seen her?
When was the last time we'd talked?
Did I have any idea why the last thing she'd written in her day planner was "Call Joe ASAP"?
He couldn't share details from the ongoing investigation but Susan had been murdered, found dead in her trailer outside Phoenix. Worried friends had called the police after they hadn't heard from her over the weekend. Later I learned Susan had been stabbed to death, that the police had a boyfriend/suspect who'd confessed, but some technicality about Miranda warnings rendered his confession inadmissible.
Susan was 29 years old.
The suspect had the same first name, the same first letter in his last name that I do.
I knew Susan's mother but didn't know whether to call with condolences. It seemed too much like saying, "It's terrible ... but are you surprised?"
A few years later I was divorced and got a phone call from the friend who'd been Susan's best friend who'd introduced us more than 10 years before. She'd called to tell me some of Susan's personal belongings, papers mostly, had been released to her through the police. She wanted nothing to do with Susan, not even in death, but before destroying Susan's effects she asked if I wanted to have them instead.
A few days later the package arrived by mail, an odd collection of Susan's papers still folded in a plastic bag.
Years, literally, passed before I could open and actually touch what I saw inside. The first thing I opened was her address book and as I thumbed through it the entries, snapshots of names, rumors and newspaper stories flashed back in detail.
And there was my name, with the old Aspen phone number and address, opposite the name, address and phone number of a suspected coke dealer who'd been machine-gunned to death in his Aspen driveway. I remembered the name because she'd told me about his parties. And there were a few names you'd probably recognize, too.
I've never been big about hanging on to photographs, memories, scrapbooks or reminiscenes. I've looked several times since then but can't find one picture of Susan ... nor a birthday, Valentine or Christmas card anywhere. Not so much as one letter remains from the stack Susan sent me through the years.
They've all vanished, disappeared, probably intentionally included and thrown out among the refuse that began accumulating the day someone saw my reaction to hearing, "Just tell her she's not invited. It's my wedding ... why is that so hard for you to understand?"
I wish I knew how Susan and I changed or at least affected each others' lives. But I don't know. Hopefully she knew I was her friend and never forgot. I don't want to think she ever felt scared or abandoned again ... that I'd turned my back on her one last time.
I've wondered what our relationship would be like today if things had gone differently. But there were already a thousand different If's by the last time we talked ... without even starting on the afternoon she never showed up on the Harley.
And there's no point wondering what made her decide that was the time she ought to believe me.
It's Just A Playlist, after all
All Through the Night - Donna Summers
Sunset People - Donna Summers
My Baby Understands - Donna Summers
Through my 22-yr old world-seasoned eyes Susan seemed young, but at 19 she was already a generation or two beyond any daydreams I had about catching up. Even in a ski town notorious for glamour, conspicuous wealth, chemical excess and sexual indulgence Susan was a maelstrom ... a femme fatale who fractured men's tedious egos by becoming bored and simply glancing away.
Not that she was either the prettiest nor the most physically attractive, although even by Aspen's mile-high standards she was certainly more than attractive enough. Susan was simply the most alluring and also the most dangerous ... a raven-haired succubus in heels and designer jeans who compelled stammering men to make ridiculous offers of cash, furs, vacations or jewelry for her attention ... who'd later shrug off their affection with indifference.
I knew firsthand of more than a handful of examples, and they were all pathetic.
Am I painting too colorful a picture? No, I am not. Susan not only burned bridges ... she set fire to the luckless men (and women) trying to cross them.
Despite our friendship, Susan and I moved in different social circles. I was a security guard and bank janitor; she was the quintessential party-girl whose name and face were ubiquitous across the most debauched party town in the Rockies. I never heard any lies or exaggerations about her ... probably because I already knew every thing I heard was true.
I knew the stories were true because Susan would tell me herself, often answering questions with a sad smile and a shake of her head, starting off with "Joe Joe Joe," as though pitying me for volunteering my ears for the sword.
We were friends in a town during a time when there was no such things as "going out," dating or "getting serious." Either two people were having sex , about to have sex, or they hadn't met. Emotions and commitment were never any part of the Aspen equation.
We ran into each other outside The Ute City Banque late one afternoon just as the twilight brought one of the first snowfalls of the season. The flakes didn't fall, they floated and swirled like silk tufts riding invisible currents through the streets.
Susan brushed away the snowflakes from my face and frowned a half-smile. "Look what's happened to your hair."
Susan left for several months soon after that; I driving her to the airport and thinking I'd never see her again. It's supposed to be bad luck to take pictures before a flight but I did anyway, though the two pictures disappeared before I remembered they were important.
Susan moved back the next summer and lived in Basalt, a 20-minute ride downvalley by bus. The first stop inside the city limits was outside my window below the filthy room I rented at The Agate Lodge, a tumble-down of a 1940s-era motorcourt locals referred to as "The Maggot."
Even though it meant adding a 10 minute walk to her trip, Susan stopped by and visited for an hour or so on her way to work (by then she had the occasional day job) at least once every week. But other times she had the day off and we'd walk five blocks past the gingerbread houses into town and spend afternoons at Say Frommage! or Horsefeathers over coffee and croissants ... hinting and remembering our secret that one day we'd run away (because no one else could put up with either one of us) and disappear together in Paris.
Eventually she'd check her watch, promise we'd see each other again soon, hug goodbye and walk out the door ... leaving most of the testosterone universe quivering in her wake.
Susan set the Gold Standard for telling men "Yes" but meaning "No" as her eyes flashed like razors through fantasies and expectations. Even though she told lies and broke promises as easily as the sun rises and sets Susan promised me one thing, and she kept her word.
Almost ... she tried to anyway, but it was probably my fault she didn't follow through.
We'd vowed to each other through the years that should one of us get trapped into becoming engaged to anyone else, the other one would show up ahead of the wedding on an idling Harley outside the church... representing a last avenue of escape that meant, "It's still not too late ... you don't have to if you don't want to."
Susan had a dark, adventurous no-risk-is-too-great personality that thrived on adrenaline and hinged on self-immolation. One night while a snowstorm raged outside we sat together by the fireplace in my apartment, Susan told me more than I wanted to know about her past and her upcoming "plans" ... and finished by saying she'd known all her life that she'd never live to be thirty. But thirty was 10 years away and impossibly too blurred to imagine.
We stayed in contact with cards and phone calls across 10 states after we'd both finally moved away, though there wasn't always much exciting to talk about ... after Aspen, conversations about her job, the insufferable heat in Arizona and her ongoing health problems (which may have been code for Rehab) felt like shadows trespassing across our city of lights.
We stayed friends even after that tense, borderline hysterical midnight call she made telling me she felt abandoned, accusing me of being selfish, saying I'd turned my back when there was no one else, and that she wished she was dead. She slammed down the phone in incoherent tears asking why didn't I care, adding she'd never bother me ever again.
Susan didn't keep her promise on that one, not by a lifetime.
It took a several months without contact before I wanted to hear from her again, but even that episode passed and eventually we were back in touch, though I can't remember who made the first healing gesture.
We hadn't seen each other in five years, but the afternoon I told her I was engaged Susan's voice seemed uncertain and offguard as she managed, "Then I'll be there on the Harley." By then the bright lights of Responsibility and Reality had dimmed Aspen's glitter and I told her No Susan, not this time.
"You're sure?"
Over the next few weeks Susan called more often, whimsically but always pleasantly closing, "Are you sure?" The truth was that my ex-wife bought none of my assurances that Susan and I had never been lovers nor had we had any sort of physical relationship at all ... yet women are expansively intuitive and perplexingly focused on maintaining their domains. When it came to Susan she wasn't having any of it. She didn't even want Susan coming to the wedding.
Telling Susan she wasn't invited was hard, maybe at that time the hardest thing I'd even done. Despite everything I've mentioned so far I could tell she was hurt, and hurt deeply ... probably because rejection and closed doors weren't something she was used to.
I never heard from Susan again.
A few months later I got a phone call I didn't see coming. After confirming it was actually me he was talking to, the caller identified himself as a detective for a sheriff's department in city in a southwestern state, and began asking a series of uneasy questions including-
Did I know Susan?
How long had I known her?
Where had I been during the past six months?
When was the last time I'd seen her?
When was the last time we'd talked?
Did I have any idea why the last thing she'd written in her day planner was "Call Joe ASAP"?
He couldn't share details from the ongoing investigation but Susan had been murdered, found dead in her trailer outside Phoenix. Worried friends had called the police after they hadn't heard from her over the weekend. Later I learned Susan had been stabbed to death, that the police had a boyfriend/suspect who'd confessed, but some technicality about Miranda warnings rendered his confession inadmissible.
Susan was 29 years old.
The suspect had the same first name, the same first letter in his last name that I do.
I knew Susan's mother but didn't know whether to call with condolences. It seemed too much like saying, "It's terrible ... but are you surprised?"
A few years later I was divorced and got a phone call from the friend who'd been Susan's best friend who'd introduced us more than 10 years before. She'd called to tell me some of Susan's personal belongings, papers mostly, had been released to her through the police. She wanted nothing to do with Susan, not even in death, but before destroying Susan's effects she asked if I wanted to have them instead.
A few days later the package arrived by mail, an odd collection of Susan's papers still folded in a plastic bag.
Years, literally, passed before I could open and actually touch what I saw inside. The first thing I opened was her address book and as I thumbed through it the entries, snapshots of names, rumors and newspaper stories flashed back in detail.
And there was my name, with the old Aspen phone number and address, opposite the name, address and phone number of a suspected coke dealer who'd been machine-gunned to death in his Aspen driveway. I remembered the name because she'd told me about his parties. And there were a few names you'd probably recognize, too.
I've never been big about hanging on to photographs, memories, scrapbooks or reminiscenes. I've looked several times since then but can't find one picture of Susan ... nor a birthday, Valentine or Christmas card anywhere. Not so much as one letter remains from the stack Susan sent me through the years.
They've all vanished, disappeared, probably intentionally included and thrown out among the refuse that began accumulating the day someone saw my reaction to hearing, "Just tell her she's not invited. It's my wedding ... why is that so hard for you to understand?"
I wish I knew how Susan and I changed or at least affected each others' lives. But I don't know. Hopefully she knew I was her friend and never forgot. I don't want to think she ever felt scared or abandoned again ... that I'd turned my back on her one last time.
I've wondered what our relationship would be like today if things had gone differently. But there were already a thousand different If's by the last time we talked ... without even starting on the afternoon she never showed up on the Harley.
And there's no point wondering what made her decide that was the time she ought to believe me.
It's Just A Playlist, after all
All Through the Night - Donna Summers
Sunset People - Donna Summers
My Baby Understands - Donna Summers
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Bring lots of quarters
Hey, stop what you're doing and think about this.
It's 5:24pm here in The Electric City. What do you feel like doing?
Doesn't Stewart's sound awesome? I mean, doesn't it?
It's 5:24pm here in The Electric City. What do you feel like doing?
Doesn't Stewart's sound awesome? I mean, doesn't it?
Know Your Destination
Remembered this morning that Thanksgiving's just around the corner. And with even more rain, fog and gloomy weather on the horizon I realized I was ready for some real winter ... with snow, mountains and yes ... even skiing.
I picked up the phone and called Skimpy Travel looking for a great deal on a vacation getaway. Skimpy himself answered the phone.
"Thanksgiving ski vacation? Sounds great!" Skimpy squealed excitedly. "Already have a destination in mind?"
"You bet," I said. "Death Valley."
"Death Valley? California?" Skimpy cleared his throat. "Uh, I'm pretty sure there's no skiing in Death Valley. That's the hottest place in the US."
"I always heard that as a kid ... but I don't think it'll be that bad."
Skimpy sounded like he wasn't sure whether I was kidding. "You don't think Death Valley's hot? Even during the winter the average temperature is over ..."
I cut Skimpy off. "But I don't believe it, that's the whole point. Back in college I found out all that stuff about Death Valley is a fairy tale somebody made up a long time ago to scare people. And if I think there's skiing in Death Valley, then what's it to you?"
"Well you're right, sir. It is your decision. What travel dates did you have in mind?"
"I want to leave on November 23 and return the day after Christmas."
I heard Skimpy groan. "It's gonna be tough finding a flight on Thanksgiving Day."
"What are you talking about? Thanksgiving's on November 20."
Skimpy typed something into his keyboard. "I don't think so. I'm looking at my calendar, and it says ..."
"Don't bother me with somebody else's little rules," I interrupted, getting angry. "I never met the people who print calendars and it's a free country, buster. I've got a right to celebrate Thanksgiving any day I want ... or not at all if I choose not to."
"Anything you say, sir. Now you want to fly back on December 26 ... "
But by then I'd already lost patience and hung up on Skimpy ... because there's no point arguing with zealots who think Christmas falls on December 25th every year. Each person is free to find their own Christmas and decide what Christmas works best for themselves.
And don't anybody try to tell me it's hot in Death Valley, either. That's an old superstition.
Besides, I'm pretty sure all flights lead to Death Valley ... and finding my own route is the best way to get there.
I picked up the phone and called Skimpy Travel looking for a great deal on a vacation getaway. Skimpy himself answered the phone.
"Thanksgiving ski vacation? Sounds great!" Skimpy squealed excitedly. "Already have a destination in mind?"
"You bet," I said. "Death Valley."
"Death Valley? California?" Skimpy cleared his throat. "Uh, I'm pretty sure there's no skiing in Death Valley. That's the hottest place in the US."
"I always heard that as a kid ... but I don't think it'll be that bad."
Skimpy sounded like he wasn't sure whether I was kidding. "You don't think Death Valley's hot? Even during the winter the average temperature is over ..."
I cut Skimpy off. "But I don't believe it, that's the whole point. Back in college I found out all that stuff about Death Valley is a fairy tale somebody made up a long time ago to scare people. And if I think there's skiing in Death Valley, then what's it to you?"
"Well you're right, sir. It is your decision. What travel dates did you have in mind?"
"I want to leave on November 23 and return the day after Christmas."
I heard Skimpy groan. "It's gonna be tough finding a flight on Thanksgiving Day."
"What are you talking about? Thanksgiving's on November 20."
Skimpy typed something into his keyboard. "I don't think so. I'm looking at my calendar, and it says ..."
"Don't bother me with somebody else's little rules," I interrupted, getting angry. "I never met the people who print calendars and it's a free country, buster. I've got a right to celebrate Thanksgiving any day I want ... or not at all if I choose not to."
"Anything you say, sir. Now you want to fly back on December 26 ... "
But by then I'd already lost patience and hung up on Skimpy ... because there's no point arguing with zealots who think Christmas falls on December 25th every year. Each person is free to find their own Christmas and decide what Christmas works best for themselves.
And don't anybody try to tell me it's hot in Death Valley, either. That's an old superstition.
Besides, I'm pretty sure all flights lead to Death Valley ... and finding my own route is the best way to get there.
Preface
This morning's post is taking longer in the oven than expected, so in the meantime please accept this preface as a tiny appetizer. It's low sodium, low calories and has zero fat grams.
Stick it in the fridge beside the half-eaten salad, the leftover steak from Tueday and yesterday's sub if you're in a hurry; microwave later for lunch.
Woke up again at 2:30 this morning, still snickering about yesterday's adventures in the grumblemobile.
I'd previously discovered McCoy arrived from the factory with a pushbutton for a fuse ... and relying on me as a navigator while lost in traffic in an unfamiliar city during a rainstorm created lots of finger-pointing ... and opportunities for spontaneous ignition. Like, at one stoplight:
"Joe, roll down your window and ask that guy in the semi where we are and how to get where we're going."
"You mean that guy who looks like he just escaped from prison? McCoy, men never ask for directions."
"Why not? And you're about to make me ill."
"Because men never actually get lost when they're driving."
Disgust, muttering and dagger eyes: "Lean back and get your big head out of the way. I'll do it."
But in the end McCoy was a good sport ... and didn't make me ride in the trunk on the way back.
At least, not the whole way.
Stick it in the fridge beside the half-eaten salad, the leftover steak from Tueday and yesterday's sub if you're in a hurry; microwave later for lunch.
Woke up again at 2:30 this morning, still snickering about yesterday's adventures in the grumblemobile.
I'd previously discovered McCoy arrived from the factory with a pushbutton for a fuse ... and relying on me as a navigator while lost in traffic in an unfamiliar city during a rainstorm created lots of finger-pointing ... and opportunities for spontaneous ignition. Like, at one stoplight:
"Joe, roll down your window and ask that guy in the semi where we are and how to get where we're going."
"You mean that guy who looks like he just escaped from prison? McCoy, men never ask for directions."
"Why not? And you're about to make me ill."
"Because men never actually get lost when they're driving."
Disgust, muttering and dagger eyes: "Lean back and get your big head out of the way. I'll do it."
But in the end McCoy was a good sport ... and didn't make me ride in the trunk on the way back.
At least, not the whole way.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
I thought LOST was on hiatus - updated
There's a tableaux occuring downstairs I can't quite figure out.
McCoy's laptop is parked on dj's table in my dining room.
Everytime I go near it I'm afraid black smoke is gonna come swirling through the screen-saver, chase me through the downstairs for a few minutes and then drag me kicking and screaming down down the ductwork ... at this point I wouldn't be surprised if I found a big alabaster foot wading in the bathtub.
---
Just went downstairs, and McCoy's laptop is gone.
Stop it.
I found the laptop in its case by the front door, just where I'd left it. Now it's back where it belongs, and so am I. Exasperating.
McCoy's laptop is parked on dj's table in my dining room.
Everytime I go near it I'm afraid black smoke is gonna come swirling through the screen-saver, chase me through the downstairs for a few minutes and then drag me kicking and screaming down down the ductwork ... at this point I wouldn't be surprised if I found a big alabaster foot wading in the bathtub.
---
Just went downstairs, and McCoy's laptop is gone.
Stop it.
I found the laptop in its case by the front door, just where I'd left it. Now it's back where it belongs, and so am I. Exasperating.
A Spider's Tale ... and a near-death encounter
I swung by the office yesterday afternoon to check on dj ... and ran into "bodyguard" J's wife Sz, and two of their small children in their car on the parking lot.
Suddenly as we were talking, one of the boys in the backseat began screaming and pointing in my direction (I'm used to evoking this kind of reaction, from small toddlers in particular).
But Sz said, "He's pointing at the spider. Would you mind getting it for me, please?"
Sure enough, there was a spider lowering itself from the top of the window by a single thread of silk.
I'm not particularly affected by spiders so I reached inside the rear window, caught the spider and held it cupped in my hand. Sz and I finished talking a few seconds later and as I walked away I noticed there was bodyguard J and P talking with Sd at the side staircase.
Wanting to get rid of my new friend right away, I glanced down and noticed the spider had escaped from my hand ... and discovered him vaulting over my watchband. Then he disappeared up my shirt sleeve.
Look, I take P very seriously when he describes what happens to folks who, trying to be "funny," take their eight-legged friends within close physical proximity of him. It ain't pleasant. And there I was walking straight toward him with the missing spider I'd plucked from Sz's car scrambling around loose somewhere inside my shirt.
Sd waved and said "Hello." Immediately nightmarish visions of being motioned over for a quick "howdy" and then watching the spider launch from my collar and leap toward P's forehead flashed behind my eyes ... making me wonder how truly bad it'd be if P decided I'd intentionally brought a spider along as a joke.
But I guess he never even saw me, because I slipped past without a word and in just a few more steps I was inside the building ... and out of harm's way.
I'm glad things turned out like they did: explaining to the paramedics why my legs were folded behind my shoulders and my arms tied in figure-8's, just for having a stupid spider inside my shirt, would've been more humiliating than I could handle.
Suddenly as we were talking, one of the boys in the backseat began screaming and pointing in my direction (I'm used to evoking this kind of reaction, from small toddlers in particular).
But Sz said, "He's pointing at the spider. Would you mind getting it for me, please?"
Sure enough, there was a spider lowering itself from the top of the window by a single thread of silk.
I'm not particularly affected by spiders so I reached inside the rear window, caught the spider and held it cupped in my hand. Sz and I finished talking a few seconds later and as I walked away I noticed there was bodyguard J and P talking with Sd at the side staircase.
Wanting to get rid of my new friend right away, I glanced down and noticed the spider had escaped from my hand ... and discovered him vaulting over my watchband. Then he disappeared up my shirt sleeve.
Look, I take P very seriously when he describes what happens to folks who, trying to be "funny," take their eight-legged friends within close physical proximity of him. It ain't pleasant. And there I was walking straight toward him with the missing spider I'd plucked from Sz's car scrambling around loose somewhere inside my shirt.
Sd waved and said "Hello." Immediately nightmarish visions of being motioned over for a quick "howdy" and then watching the spider launch from my collar and leap toward P's forehead flashed behind my eyes ... making me wonder how truly bad it'd be if P decided I'd intentionally brought a spider along as a joke.
But I guess he never even saw me, because I slipped past without a word and in just a few more steps I was inside the building ... and out of harm's way.
I'm glad things turned out like they did: explaining to the paramedics why my legs were folded behind my shoulders and my arms tied in figure-8's, just for having a stupid spider inside my shirt, would've been more humiliating than I could handle.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Waiting at a traffic light, shoe shopping
McCoy, gravity is never so selective. Yet, being neither here nor there ... you are.
Must be your color.
"At Least They Don't Make Sparks- Uh oh, It's Already Tomorrow" Playlist:
Those Shoes - Eagles
Must be your color.
"At Least They Don't Make Sparks- Uh oh, It's Already Tomorrow" Playlist:
Those Shoes - Eagles
You know your church is too big when ... -updated
I've invited lots of folks to church with me. The funny thing is, seems like non-church goers are more likely to say Yes than people who even only occasionally attend other churches.
Typically they shrug and explain, "I'd feel lost in a church that big." But there's also a subtle, uneasy squint in their eyes implying, "And whatever they're doing over there to grow that fast can't be right ... and it can't keep growing much longer before something goes wrong."
That's their reasoning for staying away, as though there's a perfect preordained size that, like Goldilock's porridge, is neither too small nor too large ... but somehow exactly "just right."
Maybe the critics think it's easier for "megachurch" members to sin when they're surrounded by thousands of other believers on Sundays and in fellowship with other members throughout the week than if 50 or 60 members meet together for an hour every Sunday morning.
So what would the critics prescribe as the "right size"? 1000? 500? Less than 100?
Christ had 12 disciples, but Judas was among them. So when the Perfect Church reaches eleven members, maybe it's time to bolt the doors and not take chances. Just to be safe.
Scripture doesn't tell us what happened, but Paul describes a major falling-out with Hymenaeus and Alexander, "whom I have handed over to Satan to be taught not to blaspheme." 1 Timothy 1 19:20
Uh oh. Maybe that example shows us that three members is too large to be perfect, too.
The conclusion might be that the Perfect Church has just one member, but every follower of Christ I've ever met has admitted to having a few shortcomings, so that's out too.
Wow. So how do we know what's the right size to keep everybody happy?
Maybe the surest sign a church has reached the "right size" is when its leaders lose their enthusiasm and conviction about reaching outwards with the gospel, ignore the Holy Spirit and turn their attention inward to concentrate on their own agendas, squabbles and selfishness instead.
Typically they shrug and explain, "I'd feel lost in a church that big." But there's also a subtle, uneasy squint in their eyes implying, "And whatever they're doing over there to grow that fast can't be right ... and it can't keep growing much longer before something goes wrong."
That's their reasoning for staying away, as though there's a perfect preordained size that, like Goldilock's porridge, is neither too small nor too large ... but somehow exactly "just right."
Maybe the critics think it's easier for "megachurch" members to sin when they're surrounded by thousands of other believers on Sundays and in fellowship with other members throughout the week than if 50 or 60 members meet together for an hour every Sunday morning.
So what would the critics prescribe as the "right size"? 1000? 500? Less than 100?
Christ had 12 disciples, but Judas was among them. So when the Perfect Church reaches eleven members, maybe it's time to bolt the doors and not take chances. Just to be safe.
Scripture doesn't tell us what happened, but Paul describes a major falling-out with Hymenaeus and Alexander, "whom I have handed over to Satan to be taught not to blaspheme." 1 Timothy 1 19:20
Uh oh. Maybe that example shows us that three members is too large to be perfect, too.
The conclusion might be that the Perfect Church has just one member, but every follower of Christ I've ever met has admitted to having a few shortcomings, so that's out too.
Wow. So how do we know what's the right size to keep everybody happy?
Maybe the surest sign a church has reached the "right size" is when its leaders lose their enthusiasm and conviction about reaching outwards with the gospel, ignore the Holy Spirit and turn their attention inward to concentrate on their own agendas, squabbles and selfishness instead.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Uh oh, it's a quiz!
Don't act like you didn't know it was coming. I hope you're prepared, so let's get right down to it.
Being a devoted and diligent reader, you were watching the live video feed from Africa last night, weren't you?
I mean, weren't you?
For tonight's Bluebook quiz separating you husks from all the kernels, answer the following:
What drove past the water hole just after 6:45am [their local sunrise] this morning?
(A) Land Rover Discovery
(B) Land Rover Series truck
(C) Toyota diesel with no top
(D) There was no truck; that was a rhino
Time's up, put down your pencils and turn your papers over on your desk.
The correct answer is (C). Those who answered correctly receive a Bluebook A on the scorecard and may proceed to Tonight's Playlist. The rest of you need to lose your Ipods, forget about Halo and stop skimming.
I AM a Winner! Playlist:
Who Do you Love? - George Thorogood and The Destroyers
----------nothing less than Full Volume please, Mr. Zulu======
Being a devoted and diligent reader, you were watching the live video feed from Africa last night, weren't you?
I mean, weren't you?
For tonight's Bluebook quiz separating you husks from all the kernels, answer the following:
What drove past the water hole just after 6:45am [their local sunrise] this morning?
(A) Land Rover Discovery
(B) Land Rover Series truck
(C) Toyota diesel with no top
(D) There was no truck; that was a rhino
Time's up, put down your pencils and turn your papers over on your desk.
The correct answer is (C). Those who answered correctly receive a Bluebook A on the scorecard and may proceed to Tonight's Playlist. The rest of you need to lose your Ipods, forget about Halo and stop skimming.
I AM a Winner! Playlist:
Who Do you Love? - George Thorogood and The Destroyers
----------nothing less than Full Volume please, Mr. Zulu======
I don't THINK I'm a fuddy-duddy
Yeah it's silly but I've got accounts at both MySpace and Facebook.
It's silly and a distraction ... not to mention a waste of time ... because I've also got this awesome and virtually unused technological marvel sitting on my desk that makes social networking sites 100% obsolete.
It's called a telephone.
An Open Plea to De-Sleaze, Please
You need to have each other's numbers to qualify as "friends" but one of my MySpace"friends" is Jill Wagner, "The Mercury Girl" from TV car commercials.
I'm not posting it here but today Jill's new profile photo shows her posed in a black two piece something-or-other that might've been sewn by a middle schooler inspired by a Victoria's Secret catalog ... if he was a sci-fi fan, called his sister a Murloc and blogged about the government's secret military bases on Mars.
Her hip-slung-low pose, overdone base, "I'm so totally always here for you" facial expression and torched-dry hair styling all suggestively combine to render her inextricably anonymous among the thousands of bikinied actress wannabes who sincerely believe the road to box office success is paved with skin and curbed with cleavage.
Because they have nothing else to offer.
Probably not at all what she intended ... the image is painfully superficial and disappointly falls short of intriguing or even engaging the viewer. It doesn't even hint Jill might have a unique presence or personality we'd be interested in finding out more about. Unless you're a 14-yr old boy, the photo amounts to a big So What?
It's like trying to out-Paris Paris Hilton. Even if you could, where would that leave you?
Jill, you're trying to blend into the crud crowd when you've got absolutely no reason at all to try to.
And if you were paying big bucks for my advice that's just what I'd tell you.
It's silly and a distraction ... not to mention a waste of time ... because I've also got this awesome and virtually unused technological marvel sitting on my desk that makes social networking sites 100% obsolete.
It's called a telephone.
An Open Plea to De-Sleaze, Please
You need to have each other's numbers to qualify as "friends" but one of my MySpace"friends" is Jill Wagner, "The Mercury Girl" from TV car commercials.
I'm not posting it here but today Jill's new profile photo shows her posed in a black two piece something-or-other that might've been sewn by a middle schooler inspired by a Victoria's Secret catalog ... if he was a sci-fi fan, called his sister a Murloc and blogged about the government's secret military bases on Mars.
Her hip-slung-low pose, overdone base, "I'm so totally always here for you" facial expression and torched-dry hair styling all suggestively combine to render her inextricably anonymous among the thousands of bikinied actress wannabes who sincerely believe the road to box office success is paved with skin and curbed with cleavage.
Because they have nothing else to offer.
Probably not at all what she intended ... the image is painfully superficial and disappointly falls short of intriguing or even engaging the viewer. It doesn't even hint Jill might have a unique presence or personality we'd be interested in finding out more about. Unless you're a 14-yr old boy, the photo amounts to a big So What?
It's like trying to out-Paris Paris Hilton. Even if you could, where would that leave you?
Jill, you're trying to blend into the crud crowd when you've got absolutely no reason at all to try to.
And if you were paying big bucks for my advice that's just what I'd tell you.
Guess I'm just dense about Justice ...
Started thinking about a peculiar scenario this morning.
Imagine hearing on the news that a judge about to pass sentence in a particularly cruel domestic abuse case suddenly announced, "It's clear beyond reasonable doubt that the defendant is guilty of harming his wife and molesting his children for more than 10 years and deserves a life sentence. But because he stubbornly questions my authority, I have no choice but to find him Not Guilty. Sir, you are hereby released to go on about your business ... and have fun with the rest of your life."
Imagine the indignation we'd see from the victims and their families. Imagine the outrage we'd hear about this terrible miscarriage of justice.
Then picture courts across the country adopting the same bold new precedent: all a defendant need do, no matter what the charges against him, is challenge the court's right to pass judgement or question its authority to hold him accountable in any way for his crimes.
Bank robbers, child molesters, rapists, murderers and terrorists are simultaneously released as every inmate in the US challenges his presiding judge's authority. In fact, we wouldn't need prisons any more because lacking authority to impose sanctions, the new legal system allows each person to decide for themselves what's legal and what's not.
Would that be justice? Would anyone willingly choose to live under such a crazy "rule of law"?
Still atheists and skeptics argue their inalienable right to ignore God's law, and scoff at His authority to pass judgment and hold every one of us ultimately accountable for our actions.
But God's authority is eternal and without fault, and never depended upon consent or popular consensus in the first place.
Imagine hearing on the news that a judge about to pass sentence in a particularly cruel domestic abuse case suddenly announced, "It's clear beyond reasonable doubt that the defendant is guilty of harming his wife and molesting his children for more than 10 years and deserves a life sentence. But because he stubbornly questions my authority, I have no choice but to find him Not Guilty. Sir, you are hereby released to go on about your business ... and have fun with the rest of your life."
Imagine the indignation we'd see from the victims and their families. Imagine the outrage we'd hear about this terrible miscarriage of justice.
Then picture courts across the country adopting the same bold new precedent: all a defendant need do, no matter what the charges against him, is challenge the court's right to pass judgement or question its authority to hold him accountable in any way for his crimes.
Bank robbers, child molesters, rapists, murderers and terrorists are simultaneously released as every inmate in the US challenges his presiding judge's authority. In fact, we wouldn't need prisons any more because lacking authority to impose sanctions, the new legal system allows each person to decide for themselves what's legal and what's not.
Would that be justice? Would anyone willingly choose to live under such a crazy "rule of law"?
Still atheists and skeptics argue their inalienable right to ignore God's law, and scoff at His authority to pass judgment and hold every one of us ultimately accountable for our actions.
But God's authority is eternal and without fault, and never depended upon consent or popular consensus in the first place.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
This is THE FEEL GOOD Church, isn't it? - updated
Sometimes I wonder what our church's first-time visitors must think. Especially today, when The P taught what it means to be a man.
-Arriving from the highway, the building sure looks more industrial than church-ish. There's no steeple, no cross, and no stained glass windows signifying right here is a church.
-But there's people greeting traffic on the parking lot and still others welcoming guests as they enter the auditorium. And not a single one of the 1200-or-so volunteers is dressed in a suit. But they're all smiling and seem glad to be doing what they're doing.
-Instead of a wood panelled vestibule, there's a functional atrium that looks a lot like an airport terminal.
-There's no pulpit or baptistry inside the auditorium; there's a poured concrete stage with theatrical-caliber lighting, huge video screens and outrageously BIG SPEAKERS instead.
So far, as the first-time visitor is escorted by a volunteer usher to his or her seat, maybe this still seems like the Feel Good Church after all.
-After the rock band plays (there's no choir, no choir robes) and things settle down it might be hard to tell who's the pastor, because he comes out without fanfare and he's dressed in jeans ... pretty much like everybody else.
-He doesn't have his hair in a pompadour, wear expensive jewelry or split "Jesus" into three syllables.
But then things are likely to become suddenly and distinctly uneasy.
Like today, when Perry taught men the importance of setting Christ, and not corporate executives or celebrity icons like Brad Pitt, as their role model. And things get distinctly tense when folks hear Jesus Christ presented for the first time from scripture as a powerful warrior who fights for those he loves, instead of as a wimpy, doe-eyed lamb-loving victim.
Maybe lots of men went home tonight feeling uneasy and questioning most of what they believed about themselves. Maybe there are dozens more who got angry learning that their marriage is not All ABout Me, that their lives must absolutely not revolve around work or career, that wives and family come first and it's NOT OK EVER to be on a short fuse because of work-related stress ... and solemnly promised themelves they'd never go back.
On the other hand, maybe there are several thousand wives, families and children who by tomorrow morning will have witnessed the Holy Spirit at work as a result of today's message, and seen a change in their husband, fiance, boyfriend or father signalling a reason not to give up, not to despair or file for divorce ... and will have realized first-hand that only Jesus Christ changes lives.
Maybe it's not about showing up at church expecting to feel good, after all.
Maybe it's about hearing the gospel taught from scripture, setting Christ as our standard and not accepting the selfishness of settling for anything less.
Disclaimer: I'm not on the church staff nor am I writing on anyone else's behalf. Any viewpoints, opinions or impressions presented here are entirely my own, as are any errors, ommissions or misstatements of fact.
-Arriving from the highway, the building sure looks more industrial than church-ish. There's no steeple, no cross, and no stained glass windows signifying right here is a church.
-But there's people greeting traffic on the parking lot and still others welcoming guests as they enter the auditorium. And not a single one of the 1200-or-so volunteers is dressed in a suit. But they're all smiling and seem glad to be doing what they're doing.
-Instead of a wood panelled vestibule, there's a functional atrium that looks a lot like an airport terminal.
-There's no pulpit or baptistry inside the auditorium; there's a poured concrete stage with theatrical-caliber lighting, huge video screens and outrageously BIG SPEAKERS instead.
So far, as the first-time visitor is escorted by a volunteer usher to his or her seat, maybe this still seems like the Feel Good Church after all.
-After the rock band plays (there's no choir, no choir robes) and things settle down it might be hard to tell who's the pastor, because he comes out without fanfare and he's dressed in jeans ... pretty much like everybody else.
-He doesn't have his hair in a pompadour, wear expensive jewelry or split "Jesus" into three syllables.
But then things are likely to become suddenly and distinctly uneasy.
Like today, when Perry taught men the importance of setting Christ, and not corporate executives or celebrity icons like Brad Pitt, as their role model. And things get distinctly tense when folks hear Jesus Christ presented for the first time from scripture as a powerful warrior who fights for those he loves, instead of as a wimpy, doe-eyed lamb-loving victim.
Maybe lots of men went home tonight feeling uneasy and questioning most of what they believed about themselves. Maybe there are dozens more who got angry learning that their marriage is not All ABout Me, that their lives must absolutely not revolve around work or career, that wives and family come first and it's NOT OK EVER to be on a short fuse because of work-related stress ... and solemnly promised themelves they'd never go back.
On the other hand, maybe there are several thousand wives, families and children who by tomorrow morning will have witnessed the Holy Spirit at work as a result of today's message, and seen a change in their husband, fiance, boyfriend or father signalling a reason not to give up, not to despair or file for divorce ... and will have realized first-hand that only Jesus Christ changes lives.
Maybe it's not about showing up at church expecting to feel good, after all.
Maybe it's about hearing the gospel taught from scripture, setting Christ as our standard and not accepting the selfishness of settling for anything less.
Disclaimer: I'm not on the church staff nor am I writing on anyone else's behalf. Any viewpoints, opinions or impressions presented here are entirely my own, as are any errors, ommissions or misstatements of fact.
why I don't sing in church - clarified + more & some extry
Because my voice sounds like a pregnant seal regurgitating last week's herring buffet.
Can that Rose-Ann girl belt out a tune, or not? Say.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Saturday Night in The Electric City
I've been trying to think of this song for months.
Hope you like it ... because no matter where you are, what you're doing or who you're with ... in some part of the world it's always Saturday Night in The Electric City.
Tomorrow Never Knows - Phil Collins
Hope you like it ... because no matter where you are, what you're doing or who you're with ... in some part of the world it's always Saturday Night in The Electric City.
Tomorrow Never Knows - Phil Collins
Flu-eeeww
Wow, all day I've like a feather's tickling the back of my throat and every joint's getting a continuous electrical shock ... like what you get sticking a metal fork in the toaster trying to coax a stuck waffle from the inside.
Ok, maybe not quite that intense.
How many weeks has the flu been keepin' the man down? Long enough, yet too long to be whining about.
Housekeeping Department
One of my goals for next week is to reorganize The Blue Book so the posts are sorted into different categories like Humor, Friends, Music, Miscellaneous, Technology and Seriously Spiritual.
I've been concerned about posts sometimes launching like rockets into space and then jettisoning unfamiliar readers at strange, ambiguous destinations. Like when I jump from serious spiritual topics immediately to a post about Justin Timberlake before moving on to posts about friends from Paris in the 1920s.
And only readers familiar with McCoy are likely to make sense of Orp, The Frashleys or see why Trigger's ESP is amusing.
Hopefully the sorting and reorganization will make sense, or at least be less distracting.
Ok, maybe not quite that intense.
How many weeks has the flu been keepin' the man down? Long enough, yet too long to be whining about.
Housekeeping Department
One of my goals for next week is to reorganize The Blue Book so the posts are sorted into different categories like Humor, Friends, Music, Miscellaneous, Technology and Seriously Spiritual.
I've been concerned about posts sometimes launching like rockets into space and then jettisoning unfamiliar readers at strange, ambiguous destinations. Like when I jump from serious spiritual topics immediately to a post about Justin Timberlake before moving on to posts about friends from Paris in the 1920s.
And only readers familiar with McCoy are likely to make sense of Orp, The Frashleys or see why Trigger's ESP is amusing.
Hopefully the sorting and reorganization will make sense, or at least be less distracting.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
she's bringing brain surgery back
"What could be more interesting than the human brain: the kidneys, the spleen, the skin? No. There is nothing that rivals the human brain in complexity, elegance, or mystery.
"Katrina Firlik is a neurosurgeon, one of only two hundred or so women among the alpha males who dominate this high-pressure, high-prestige medical specialty."
"Firlik both vividly describes some of her surgeries (including a man with maggots eating his brain) and bluntly appraises the questions on what parts of our mind make us human (when pondering an operation she did on an infant with hydrancephaly, who only had the lower reptilian parts of the brain).
"Katrina Firlik is a neurosurgeon, one of only two hundred or so women among the alpha males who dominate this high-pressure, high-prestige medical specialty."
"Firlik both vividly describes some of her surgeries (including a man with maggots eating his brain) and bluntly appraises the questions on what parts of our mind make us human (when pondering an operation she did on an infant with hydrancephaly, who only had the lower reptilian parts of the brain). "And when she comes home at night, looking for love, her husband oftentimes pushes her away, complaining she smells like bone dust."
-blog.wired.com/tableofmalcontents/2006/11/the_brain_is_so.html
General Nonsense
About LOST
Since when did ABC's hit series "Lost" move to Wednesday nights? I thought it always came on Thursdays at 8 PM.
Anyway ... they may shoot 16 new episodes but I doubt we'll ever see them ... unless they're included on the DVD after the series is cancelled in mid-spring 2007.
Bow Wow Tacos
I made tacos for lunch. They taste like wet dog hair. I added some olive oil and red pepper powder to the ground beef while it was cooking. Wonder if that's a bad combination of ingredients.
The Weekend Starts Tomorrow - unless ABC changes that, too
A weekend without The Frashleys is like a month without sunshine.
Since when did ABC's hit series "Lost" move to Wednesday nights? I thought it always came on Thursdays at 8 PM.
Anyway ... they may shoot 16 new episodes but I doubt we'll ever see them ... unless they're included on the DVD after the series is cancelled in mid-spring 2007.
Bow Wow Tacos
I made tacos for lunch. They taste like wet dog hair. I added some olive oil and red pepper powder to the ground beef while it was cooking. Wonder if that's a bad combination of ingredients.
The Weekend Starts Tomorrow - unless ABC changes that, too
A weekend without The Frashleys is like a month without sunshine.
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