TWENTY FIVE YEARS

WOW!

Why is it that turning 25 years old does not seem to be that big of a deal? Twenty-one is big. Eighteen is big. Thirty is big. And the old 4 - 0 is huge. Not so for twenty-five.

But when talking marriage, 25 is big--not as big as 50, but big nevertheless. So here we are, my beloved and I, twenty-five years into this thing.

So far the occasion is huge. Are we taking a cruise? Are we having a party? Are we going to an expensive restaurant?

Nope. We are home. Together. Playing. Not working, per se.

Miracle of miracles, I have cleared off my schedule. My wife is taking a vacation day, and we will enjoy each other’s company. She will walk the dog. I will read the news. She will check her email. I will eat a bowl of cereal. But together we will play Scrabble (or more properly Scrabulous, because of copyright issues).

And then we will head off to a play. Nothing Broadway for us today. No Tony award winning productions on the docket. We will head off to the center of middle-class suburbia, to a place called the Plymouth Playhouse, to see a kitschy performance called “Church Basement Ladies 2: A Second Helping.” The original play has struck such a chord with this state’s Midwestern sensibilities that the theatre troupe responsible is offering up seconds for all those hungering for more. So off we go, later today. And it will be great. It will be cheesy, but cheesy is good, even if we’re not from Wisconsin. We will laugh. More specifically, we will be laughing at ourselves. And that will be good.

For it takes a lot of laughter to make it through 25 years. We’ve had to laugh at ourselves often and not take things too seriously to weather the storms of everyday life.

I’m eternally grateful to have someone by my side who will laugh with me (and at me when the occasion calls for that). When I think about laughter, my mind often jumps to the Hebrew Scriptures where the promised, long-odds fruit of an old, old man and his barren wife is a baby named laughter.

Life is odd. It often helps to laugh.

Thanks for our first 25 years of laughing together, honey. (Oh, did I tell you the one. . . )

Tax Freedom Day (at least for us accountants)

(Lack of sleep plays tricks with the mind.
So here’s a little ditty I just happened to find.
Change is in the air, can you feel the wind?
I filed my extension, you should see my grin.)


April is the cruelest month
At least in the United States
We dread the ides
When we’re taxed to our eyes
It puts us all in dire straights.

April is the cruelest month
At least here in Minnesota
The days are chilly
The nights are colder
It feels like North Dakota.

April is the cruelest month
At least in my little town
The lakes we’re not using
For boats or snowshoeing
And the grass is an ugly brown.

April is the cruelest month
At least in my humble home
I’m too busy to blog
Daylight savings’ got me in a fog
My mind is on a constant roam.

April is the cruelest month
At least in my comfy chair
I sit here and fret
Think about bills being met
But still I shouldn’t despair.

For April is the cruelest month
At least up on that tree
The spotless one
Was tortured and hung
And somehow makes us free.

Is it already Sunday

I just remembered that I didn't blog yesterday, thus breaking my continuous string of blogging days, and this led me to contemplate the fact that I shouldn't use "just" to modify my speech as I often do (and did early on in this sentence), because it weakens what I'm trying to say, and then tempts me to justify or explain why I do it, all of which leads me to write run-on sentences, which I think I was taught not to do somewhere along the way in my attempts at learning.

Zzzzzzzzz

Sat down to blog. . . Fell asleep.

Woke up, remembered that my brother with the birthday went to Vegas for vacation in a Tahoe. The Chevy Tahoe is an 8 cylinder, but when it’s cruising down the freeway, four of the cylinders shut down to save on gas. This reminded us of an old high school friend, who in about 1975 took four spark plugs out of his V-8 Oldsmobile and claimed he saved lots of gas that way. It clunked and sputtered and sounded like a tractor, but it ran. Maybe he was ahead of his time.

Or maybe that was a dream.

Happy Birthday Greg and Adam

Hey this is pretty easy blogging, the whole happy birthday gig. My brother and his oldest each rack up one more year. And tax season marches on. No energy for inspiration.

Happy Birthday Mom

My mother is blowing out one more candle on her cake this year, 73 to be exact.

Another Reason they shouldn't allow me to have a blog

There was an old blogger named Tim
Who anxiously went out for a swim
It’s April he thought
I’ve been cooped up a lot
(To the lake he did go
Through the ice and the snow)
And now he’s in bed with the symp-

Toms of a runny nose, the chills, a hacking cough, blurry vision, and a headache

The Beauty Returns

If it were a day later, this might be some cruel April Fool's Joke, but hey it's March, and the world again looks magical. The huge flakes grasping onto tree branches as they flutter down from the whitish-gray skies make even the camera shy want to be shutterbugs. I wanted to be outside experiencing and capturing all those delightful moments, but instead I stay cooped up inside playing responsible.

But for my blog I had to click at least once (or twice) to lend credence to my story. (If one squints one can find a Prov. 31 woman in the background.;)

Last Sunday for Paul

We had a moving tribute to Pastor Paul and his family on this their last Sunday at church.


And now hours later, instead of bedtime stories I'm telling my daughter blond jokes and this was her favorite:

A blonde takes her car in to the shop because it's been running rough. After a little while the mechanic comes in to the waiting area. She asks him if the problem was fixable. "Sure," he replies. "Just crap in the carburetor." Oh, my goodness," says the blonde. "How often do I need to do that?"

Copa what?

My wife and I are winding down on a Saturday night by doing none other than playing Scrabulous. As is her favorite activity, she was complaining about a word that I used. I used the word "cabana." I know it sounds Spanish and maybe is for all I know, but I've seen it around on buildings by the beach and figured it would be a great choice for that spot on the board. After complaining for a little bit more she decided to look it up and sure enough, it means hut or shack often by water.

This got up reminiscing about our beloved Bolivian daughter Carla, who was a bundle of energy and continually surprised us with her candor and frankness. One evening we were engaged in a discussion about our home and we asked her what the Spanish word for ceiling was. ". . . I don't know," she said. She pondered and prodded. But it just wouldn't come. This native speaker of the Spanish language was simply lost to find this simple word which she had, no doubt, learned as a child. But it was something to rejoice about. We laughed and giggled as she simply couldn't come through with an answer.

I guess it just goes to show that life is more fun if you don't know everything.

Still more

Yet more

Enjoying the snow, she had her bare feet in the white stuff for this pic.

More Pics

Her cell phone surgically attached to her right ear.

New Pics

Late Friday night we received Christina's senior pictures from the photographer. They are awesome. I'm trying to upload some to my blog, but I'm having trouble. So for now, imaginations will have to do. Wait. . . now it is working. Yippee. Now I have been informed that this is the one picture the daughter hates.

Such is life.

Big Bod Little Bug

It’s amazing how a little germ or virus bug, probably unseeable with the human eye, can put someone down who is over 6 feet tall and has over 200 pounds of gravitational pull. It reminds me of the parable of the mustard seed. Something small can have a huge impact.

I had my first official meal this evening. It started with soup and then progressed to a shrimp and spinach salad. So far so good. I can still hear the faint churn churn, but I think I’ve made it. (I suppose I shouldn’t have stolen those French fries from my wife’s plate.)

Forced Fast

Today is day three of my forced fast. Monday night I started feeling sick and this was sick with capital letters. Actually it should be capital letters with exclamation points. SICK!!!!!!! I think I blogged about being sick earlier this year, and even about being sick of being sick. But that was mere coughing and hacking and constant nose run and the like. I felt lousy, but I could still go to work and function pretty well although miserable.

But this week’s SICK was one that put me on my back (and on my butt). My energy was near zero, but most important (tada) I could not eat. Nothing would stay down or in and that’s no fun. Even today as I ventured into the realm of a cracker, a banana, and a piece of toast (hours apart from each other), it only served to increase the queasiness.

I’ve relearned how much I love food this week, even though on one level it doesn’t yet appeal to me. I had to put the pros and cons on a scale as I drove by each restaurant while traveling from job to job. Even the architecture of a McDonald’s building didn’t look that bad. That red and yellow lured me at some primal level. The double cheeseburgers, which I normally disdain because of their greasiness, were calling my thrifty sensibilities with “only $1.”

But I’ve survived another day. And instead of eating a bag of popcorn or a bowl of ice cream right now, I am sitting here blogging.

For now for me it’s to everything churn, churn, churn. There is a season, churn, churn, churn. I hope it’s over very soon, churn, churn, churn.

Monday Night at the Improv

Last Monday was the final week of my Intro to Improv class at a local high school in north Minneapolis. The six of us (Dan, Peter, Amy, Emily, Roneete, and me) and our teacher Michael had ten weeks to play games together. These games stretched us by forcing us to listen and concentrate. These games and exercises were used to help our minds from straying, to keep us in the moment. It was hard. Listening and concentrating at that level, with that intensity, is tiring. We did that for almost two hours straight each Monday night.

I think it was very beneficial in many ways. Sure, it helped us as we did short improv acts, but I hope it will transfer to other areas of my life. Maybe my parenting will improve, or my reading comprehension, or my organizing, or maybe even my blogging?

What? I’m sure everyone is asking, how can there possibly be any room for improvement in any of those areas?

So maybe I wasted my time at Improv. Oh well, I got to meet some fine folks.

Sicker than a Pit Bull

I was up much of the night with what I’d rather not describe. This conveniently continued throughout all of today. Blah, blah, blah.

I am so glad that I don’t get sick often. It’s only about once a decade that I feel this lousy, too weak to do much of anything. Only now at 9:30 do I have the strength to blog about it.

Zzzzzzzzzzzz . . . .

The Day After

I’m truly enjoying the fact that I have no pressure to blog today.

Use your imagination and pretend that under the day March 24th there is nothing. No blog. No pictures. No comments. Nothingness. Sheer blackness. A void from Easter till who knows when.

The obligation has been fulfilled, the test has been passed. The habit has been formed???

Only time will tell.

Easter Came Early

Easter came early.

The Sabbath was for resting. But Easter is now here. And for us fortunate enough to live in the Twin Cities, we can “get out an’ shovel.”

Ah the wonders of snow.

It brightens. It cleans. It makes new. It freshens up and makes fresh. It covers over the ugliness of dirty streets and dirty cars.

What better metaphor for Easter than that?

We gathered early this morning, 7 am sharp. We were supposed to watch the sun rise over a Minneapolis lake. But we saw no sun. We saw only grey clouds and we could feel their chill. So we had to huddle close together, being warmth to one another. And we were one in seeing our collective breathes rise to the ceiling of the bandshell.

We gathered to proclaim the hope of the resurrection. The leader encouraged us to respond to his call of “Christ is risen” with the phrase “and He is freezin’.” But tradition took hold of us and the gathered called back in a single loud voice “He is risen indeed.”

The message of the morning began with an explanation of the timing of Easter. It was Christians from the fourth century that we can blame for setting up a system that would make it a possibility to celebrate Easter in a Minneapolis snowfall. But my thoughts, being the better Minnesotan, are that we have them to thank for the picturesque scene that we experienced this morning.

Behold all things will be made new. The sun is shining, whether we see it or not.

Happy (early) Easter!

Gates of Hell

Today’s post should probably lie dormant. And maybe it will.

But let me quickly explain the piece of art beside this text. The multi-colored print is a Holy Saturday piece. Not a common theme now or in the past. Museums are full of artwork containing crucifixion and resurrection, but finding a work representing that in-between time is difficult.

Is it because of the difficulty of showing that limbo period? Or does that time not grab our imaginations? In this print we can see the sun’s rays breaking into the blackness of the cave. And we can see the body resting on the blackened gates of hell, holding back the blood redness.

We’ve had Friday. We’re in the midst of Saturday. But Sunday is right around the corner.

Good Good Friday

It was and still is Good Friday, a good Good Friday in much the way the original one was good. We “celebrated” the first day of Spring by having the weather anything but springlike. No sun, no birds chirping, no flowers blooming, no trees budding, no signs of new life to speak of. As far as typical spring weather we fell far short.

However, there was a beauty in the lack of spring-ness. We had a beautiful snowfall that brightened and cleaned up all of our surroundings. At home we had about 4 inches, but where I worked this morning, about 20 miles south, the amount was at least double. It was the perfect amount to cover the tree branches completely, but not overwhelm them. It was picture perfect scenery everywhere I drove, causing me to kick myself for leaving my camera at home. Glistening white against the grey skies made everything a magical monochrome. It was so peaceful and cozy, even outside. The winds were almost non-existent, so one could linger outdoors without pain.

This evening though I got a call from a friend whose sister just found out that her boyfriend was found dead at home. She drove her sister to the home, but they were not allowed to enter by the police. I don’t know any more about the situation, but my heart was heavy as I spoke with her on the phone, even as the glimmer from the street lights made each tree in the front yard twinkle through the window.

A few other odd and sad things happened today too. It was that sort of day. Unexpected, unusual, tragic, and sorrowful somehow got mixed in with beauty, peace, comfort, and hope. Death and life are such strange partners at times.

Blogging in Limbo

I’m really too tired to be blogging. Anything I say or do could have disastrous consequences.

I’m really too tired to be playing Scrabulous too. Any play I make could have disastrous consequences.

But here I am writing, primarily because I’m waiting my turn. My wife can’t decide which tiles to lay down, so I am left here in limbo.

But I guess that way I can relate to anyone who might by chance actually be reading this blog. You too, and you know who you are, are in limbo. You are in limbo as you wait for something to be said which might reward you for running your eyes over these here words. This limbo could last for a long time, for I sure don’t know when something of significance will appear here before your eyes and mine. But we’re in this together. Both of us waiting here in eager anticipation for a point to be made or a purpose to be revealed.

Will it come? I guess that depends on when my competitive wife lays down her tiles. If she continues to search for that optimum score, I might have time to find out where I am going with this blog. If she becomes impatient and settles for a 20 point word, then our time together will quickly come to an end. For when she does finally play, I will leave this hallowed place in cyberspace and migrate back to the Scrabble board where I can practice dominion over my wife (the one and only place really).

Oh, there she did it. She has played and I must end. Good night to all and have a Good Friday tomorrow.

Five Weeks

I’m feeling almost Catholic as we’re in the middle of Holy Week, Lent 2007 is almost a memory, and I’ve practiced enough discipline to carry this blogging thing on for five weeks now. It hasn’t been quite as grueling as a tax season for a full-time accountant, but the temptation to say (or write) nothing is always very strong. (One of those silent retreats has always sounded appealing to me, but even moreso now.) But for now I plod on, continuing to write one word at a time.

Missing My Calling

This past year the world has been graced by my good looks a number of times. I don’t know if it’s the Dick Cheney factor (sort of a leftover crumbs deal) or something bigger. But I continue to see my smile popping up in print in the strangest places. First it was the front page of the Minneapolis StarTribune, front and center, where my baby blues could be seen following the pastor’s swinging arms as he chopped up the air.

Then months later, I’m sitting in a restaurant minding my own business and KSTP-TV shows up and decides to put my mug on their news broadcast as a refined fair-trade coffee drinker.

Now today I look at the latest Cornerstone brochure advertising this year’s upcoming fest and who do I see but yours truly. Top and center are my bald head and gentle eyes tuned in to the lanky speaker sporting his smock and dreads. The speaker, Shane Claiborne, is far left in the photo (appropriate?) while I’m seated right there in the center.

So what’s the deal? Should I start to exploit these circumstances? Do I go find an agent and work my way into modeling? What is a humble Nordic-looking type to do?

For now I’m open to bookings. I will appear at any gatherings you may have. I suppose my fees should start somewhere in the $2,000 per shoot area. But for now I better get back to signing some release forms to further expand my pictorial presence in this world that is desperately seeking more beauty.

I Really WAS NOT Drinking Green Beer when I wrote this (although I should look for some excuse)

There is a wise blogger so fair,
Who thought it would be fun to dare,
Her readers to write
A limerick despite
That it might only be much hot air.

For what could one say
On this enchanted O’day
If he’s not got a stitch
Of Irish with which
To brogue or cant or convey

That his wardrobe is lacking
Any Green for attracting
His dearest sweet Gaelic
With looks so angelic
A swan would only be acting.

She’ll just have to be content
With a fat bald one who’s descent
Is from much farther north
Where those Vikings came forth
To plunder, pillage and torment.

Driving to Palm Sunday Service with a New Bible

It was the last Sunday for Pastor Paul to be preaching at the Well this morning. Easter Sunday will be all music and the last Sunday of the month will be music and testimonies. So we heard his last sermon to the church that he founded--it was on intimacy with God. As he and his wife step into the unknown, that message will be his hope for the church as they carry on--stay close to God. In summary, it is more important to be working with God (by his side as friends) than working for God (as his servant).

I got to follow along in my new New Living Translation bible, a gift from my godfather. He gave it to me on Saturday no strings attached, an offer I couldn’t refuse. The complete Living Bible came out when I was in high school and it was my bible of choice during those Armstrong years. I loved the clear conversational style and it was much easier to memorize from for me. In years since I’ve spent as much time in the New International Version, the Jerusalem Bible, and the Message, but I’m still moved by the faithfulness of the Living Bible. As an added bonus, this particular study bible has great maps, concordance, footnotes, and introductions.

Now if only I could do something about this work hanging over my head. Well, at least this blog is done.

Dumb Minneapolis Lutherans

Happy St. Patrick’s Day. Yes, that’s right. It is St. Patrick’s Day today. And the Catholics in St. Paul are whooping it up good right now. They know how to follow the church calendar. But it’s a different story over on this side of the River.

When Easter (and therefore Lent) falls early in the year it creates a conflict with that high holy Green day. According to the powers that be, St. Patty’s Day cannot be a part of holy week. So what I thought was set in stone, March 17th, actually takes a back seat to Holy Week. And thus, today, the Ides of March, is also for wearing of, and drinking of, the Green, with nary a thought of the environment.

So get with it Minneapolitans. And next time this happens, I think in about 75 years, try to get it right, and take the lead from your inferior, smaller, non-identical twin.

Good Blog

My wife blogged yesterday, but I didn't. (I'm going to cheat and post this under Friday even though it's Saturday morning. Go ahead and report me.)

Rolling in the Dough

My favorite radio personality was talking about money this afternoon. He told the story of a guy who, although a millionaire, didn’t feel that he was really set for life. This guy felt that he needed something more like six million before he could put his mind at ease. Of course this gave Mischke some great fodder to ramble on about the “good old days” when being a millionaire meant something.

And of course before those "good old days" we had the really really good older days when one could be happy about being a thousandaire. And if one reaches even further back in time the goal of being a hundredaire was a lofty one.

After listening to Tommy pontificate I felt much better about being a hundredaire myself. I may not be a millionaire and I probably never will attain that status, but for now I should be content with the title of hundredaire. It has a nice ring to it.

And if I use my toes to also count I probably qualify as a thousandaire. That really sounds impressive. Tim the Thousandaire. I better not let it go to my head.

Have the tables been turned?

The fact that I am blogging more frequently than my wife does not seem right. For many years it has been her obsession. But her focus of late has turned to Scrabulous, the Scrabble-like application on facebook. She has many games going at once, and usually a few simultaneous ones against me. She continues to think that she might someday dethrone me as king. (Fat chance.) I try to be civil, but I just can’t keep my competitive nature in check. I continue to bury her, but I don’t feel guilty yet.

Maybe the loving thing to do is to continue to provide for her a high standard of play, to stretch her as a wordsmith and person. Yeah, that sounds believable (especially at this late hour.)

But as far as providing a good model in the blogging realm, she will have to look elsewhere.

Not quite what I had planned

I’m currently reading a book by the above title, NQWIHP. This could also be an apt description of my evening.

I won’t give any details, but the discussions of my evening covered the issues of Chinese bear bile harvesting, a more humane way of processing mass quantities of chickens, adoption stories, and midlife. None of the issues was necessarily uplifting.

So maybe my immediate blogging time now will usher in a more tranquil stage of the evening.

My pillow is calling.

Great Idea

I was thinking.

Today is the beginning of Great Lent, a holiday observed by the Eastern Orthodox Church. It always begins on a Monday and includes strict abstinence from meat, dairy products, wine, and olive oil. (How’s that for harsh?)

No cheese, no Dairy Queen, no butter. . . Now I’ve lost my train of thought. Bummer. I guess thinking about no ice cream and no milk on my cereal sent my mind elsewhere.

I did have a point though. Seriously. Please believe me. But it has completely vanished, like the hair on my head. Lost in space, before it ever made it to cyberspace. I'm so sorry.

So please accept my deepest apologies for wasting your time. I’ll try to not do that again.

Larry Part VI

It's easy to listen to sincere. And I think sincerity helps make things timeless.

The Road out of Lameness

Aaahh the joys of blogging in

(insert seven hour break)

the morning!

But actually I only wrote two thirds of that previous sentence in the morning, and now it’s already night and I’m trying to carve out a few seconds to write.

And now I’m listening to Prairie Home Companion and typing. I’m trying to blog about something of significance, but Garrison is telling jokes and talking about flatulence. What could be more engaging? How do you expect me to concentrate?

Why did God make farts smelly? It’s so deaf people could enjoy them too.

How can I compete with that?

I wanted to write more about Larry Norman. I’m not that sad about his passing (maybe because I’ve been expecting it so long), but I’ve spent much time remembering. I’ve played and replayed his songs as I’m rushing from job to job. Strolling down memory lane without the time to say much about it.

Well, I managed more than a single sentence, but the road completely out of lameness still eludes me. I’ll set the alarm earlier tomorrow.

Ooooops

definitely heading in the wrong direction

Lame, Lamer, Lamest

Is it really possible to follow a lame blog post with one even lamer?

G.W. or G.C. or G.L.

I'm tired of stuff freezing in my truck.

Primary Blog

The fact that I'm blogging means that I'm not watching primary results. What better reason to be blogging? (Actually I did just peak.)

It seems that the Texas race is too close to call.

But all I have to say is that it saddens me that MY favorite color has been co-opted by a political party. And who's decision was it to standardize the color allocation? And what role did the public have in this decision. Talk about a lack of political process, this stinks. Talk about taxation of my eyeballs without representation. I want my color back.

We Will Miss You Paul

We received word today that our pastor announced his resignation on Sunday. We were being heathens on Sunday morning, so we didn’t receive the news first hand. I’m personally very saddened that Paul will no longer be pastoring the Well. But I’m hopeful that God will follow-up with good things for Paul, his family, and the congregation.

A book a week, that’s all we ask

This is not the time of year that I should be reading books, or blogging for that matter.

But I did. And I’m glad. So I confess. Real good book. Real fast read. Easy to relate. So I write.

After church last Sunday night someone came out with a bag full of a soon-to-be-released book. I saw a flock of people swarm toward the bag, especially since the price of “free” was announced. I wasn’t one of the flock, knowing I was too busy to read a book now. So I stayed put. But just before we left I walked by the bag and took a peek inside--one solitary copy left.


Should I or shouldn’t I? That was the question.

I did. I started reading Tony Jones’ New Christians: Dispatches from the Emergent Frontier when I got home. Immediately I was hooked. In many ways, it was my story. I’m almost 10 years older than the author, but his journey took him to and through many of the same places and thoughts. So I could relate. I finished the book this evening. I hope to have more to say on it soon, before I forget what I read

Sorry to tease, but it’s getting late.

Why Should the Devil?

Thanks to Dave for the link to Paste Magazine. Paste columnist Andy Whitman wrote an insightful and honest article on Larry Norman, his life, and legacy. It’s worth the read.

My experience mirrors those of many who have commented on Norman’s impact this past week. My first Norman album was Only Visiting This Planet and I literally wore the groves out on that piece of vinyl. From the first listen through it grabbed me. And it never let me go. It became my anthem, my mission, my passion, my canon. Those were the words I sought to live by. They became deeply etched in my heart and mind. I could use them as an excuse for who or what I am today.

His music led me to many other artists over the years, but his words were the ones that stayed fresh. Even as my theology continued to evolve through the college years, and I questioned some of the presumptions that undergirded his work, I still listened and appreciated.

I got to see him numerous times in concert. And whereas his studio sessions had the edginess apparent in his lyrics, the live performances especially brought forth his playfulness. He would make it enjoyable (or at least palatable) to be challenged to the core of your being.

Leap Day

I only have 19 minutes to come up with a blog for today.

The pressure is on! Any suggestions? Hurry up and post them as comments. I need something to write about. Anything. I need to fill this space.

Now we're down to 18 minutes. This month of February is fading fast.

Oh!!!! How could I forget. Today is my son's birthday, the one who has found the secret of eternal youth. He is 5 today.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MARK. WE ALL LOVE YOU LOTS.

Watching His Jaw Drop

It’s not too often that I get to see my younger son’s jaw drop. Yesterday was such a day. We were working together listening to a local Minnesota Public Radio station “The Current.” They are a station that does a great job staying ‘current’ and playing a wide range of musical expressions throughout each day. The key to the station is its variety.

After playing a tune from one of my son’s favorite bands, Modest Mouse, the DJ went on to say that this band was in the studio with Larry Norman just prior to Norman’s recent death. (Of course, I already knew this, having done some reading about Norman’s passing.)

My son, however, was in utter shock that this uber-hip band would rub shoulders with some old long hair that sang a lot about Jesus. My son had the opportunity to see Norman in concert a few years earlier at Cornerstone (because I made him go,) and I think he was impressed even though Norman could barely move at the time. (His band was tight.)

Those two musical names just didn’t seem to fit together, and the fact that this station (which is THE station "informed, relevant" college-aged kids are “supposed to” listen to) would report on this collaboration caused his face to contort.

It was fun to see.

And there is probably some point to be made in this story, but I’m still claiming sickness. So figure it out yourself. (With a smile.)

SMILE Larry!

SICK

Sick of sick.

Sick

It seems that everyone I know is sick, except for me. Make that including me.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I've Been Outted

Well, anonymity is now past. The Warden, my wife, has once again found my blog. Let's see, how long did that take?

Good Bye Larry

I had planned to blog about the Oscars today, but some news has changed that. I heard this afternoon that Larry Norman died yesterday. I hope to have time to write a little more than I can right now about his influence on my life.

But for now I rush off from work to class and don't have the time to adequately say what I'd like to say.

Can I Make it a Full Forty Day?

Is it really true that Sundays are not counted in Lent?

If that's so, then I really shouldn't have to blog today. Right??????

Well, I guess it's in the Western Church that Sundays are not counted. If I were Byzantine then Sundays would be counted. And other things would change too, like the start date and the finish date.

As you might be able to tell, I'm falling asleep at the computer right now. I hope this is making sense. I've got a cold, my nose is running, and I better put into practice a Sabbath rest.

Adaptation

Twenty is feeling warm again. Fahrenheit, that is. Twenty notches on the Celsius scale is always warm.

Minus twenty is a great reality check. It sort of re-calibrates your senses. It lets you know how vulnerable you are without the proper shell.

The brightness of the winter sun also shatters any phoniness. As I stare at the MacBook screen before me, the strong sunlight through the south window bounces back the image of my slightly silhouetted head. This reflection, which is superimposed on my laptop, reveals the imperfections of my right side, the crevices and lines and day-old stubble.

And so I adjust to the warmer air, the maturity showing through my face, and the quiet in the room, which allows me to hear the subtle tic tic tic from the clock on the wall.

Time for Pie

My daughter is taking Greek during her final semester of high school. To help her get a head start, I dusted off my old books (and even older mind) and taught her the alphabet, Alpha through Omega.

After the first day of class my daughter came home to tell me that I taught her the wrong pronunciation of several letters, including the letter most like our letter “P.” I taught her to pronounce it “pee,” while her teacher taught her to pronounce it “pie.”

I told her that I was quite sure I was right, but I would do some research on the issue. I proceeded to get online and visit numerous websites and came to the conclusion that although “pie” is the preferred pronunciation in math and science, “pee” is the preferred pronunciation in literature and theology. So I felt confident that I was correct and told her as much.

She took this information with her to the next Greek class, and because she loves to argue, argued with the teacher until he gave her the ultimatum: in this class we will only use the pronunciation “pie,” because that is the correct one. Because of his firm stance I started to question myself, maybe I did learn it wrong. So I checked with a handful of friends that have studied classical or koine Greek. Same result, “Pee” it is.

I passed this along to my daughter, but told her to be respectful, and use whatever pronunciation your teacher prefers.

A week later she was in Greek class and felt the urge to use the ladies’ room. She raised her hand and said, “Teacher, I need to go pie.” Taken back he said, “What?” She said, “I didn’t think we were allowed to say ‘pee’ in this class.” She was promptly kicked out of class for the day.

Visitors from the East

Disclaimer: The Above Image is a Fictional Representation of the types of people which actually come from the East. This in no way represents the actual fine folks who visited our home.


I face a moral dilemma this evening. Can I justify blogging when our home is host to two visitors from the East (not that far east, but east nonetheless.) (Actually if you force it out of me, they’re Cheeseheads, next-door-neighbors, long-time rivals.)

No. . . . .

(But I might try to come up with a justication as the evening passes.)

Apologies to My Fellow Minnesotans

Like millions of my neighbors and comrades, I awoke this morning to actual temps nearing minus 20 degrees Fahrenheit. With the winds factored in it is downright scary out there. My nose hairs froze before I could reach my cold work van. I dressed in my best painter’s pants again today, planning to apply drywall compound at many different locations. I thought I would once again drive my big cube van around this fair city burning my share of fossil fuels today.

However. (Kind of becoming the story or theme of this blog.)

I decided to stop in at my mother’s accounting office first this morning, and put in an hour of so of work. NOT. I’m still here--seven hours later, crunching the numbers.

The reason for my apology? I have not done my fair share of trying to warm up this ice box. (International Falls might be the official ice box of the nation, but we’re not too far behind here.) So, I’m sitting here inside. . . Parked in the driveway is an idled V-8 engine that could easily have burned up 10 gallons of gas today.

So friends, Minnesotans, countrymen, get in your cars. We need to bury winter, lest we get further buried. In my place I ask that you acquire that fuel while you can and burn baby burn.

TV Star Again

The first time I was on TV was a long time ago. I was very young, not at all experienced as an actor. But there I was on the tube and enjoying it.

It didn't last that long though. My mother came in yelling. She told me to get down immediately. "You're going to scratch something," she said.

Not too many years after that, I was filmed (I think it was before videotape) taking my soap box derby car down a steep hill in NE Minneapolis. There on citywide TV, I lost by a nose.

Then in my teen years I traveled with my baseball teammates to take on the championship team from Minot, ND. I was shown hitting a double on the evening news. But that was then.

This is now. As a legitimate "old fart" I have tried to avoid the camera. When the local NBC affiliate came to our house a few years back and set up their huge TV camera in our family room I was able to stay clear of the wide angle lens. They captured only our vibrant exchange student from Japan and my lovely wife.

However.

This morning started like any other Tuesday morning. I woke up and skipped breakfast at home in order to join the "guys" of the Porch men's breakfast at a restaurant in south Minneapolis. For the past few months we've been meeting at Victor's 1959 Cuban Cafe, a quaint little spot half way between "yuppiedom" and the "Hood." The food is great, the prices are good, and the atmosphere is engaging.

The owner, from what I've heard, is a strong supporter of Castro. And this is not too surprising if you look around at the posters and graffiti in the place. The sign above the front door warns people that they are "now leaving the American sector." It's a funky place and we've been having fun there these many winter weeks.

Before entering the restaurant this morning I saw a KSTP TV van parked on the street in front of Victor's. I didn't think much of it, seeing that it's a busy urban block with lots going on. But once in my booth I looked a few chairs to my right and I saw this guy holding a huge video camera. And then I noticed this young, attractive (here I am glad that my wife does not know I am blogging) young, well-dressed, young woman holding a microphone. She was interviewing a gentleman. I was trying to overhear. Finally, I got the drift of the conversation. It was about Castro, about him resigning. Now I got it. (I'm a little slow.) They were at this Cuban restaurant trying to get Cubans' reactions to the news.

So after that one interview was over, the young woman comes to our table. Usually we're about 5 to 6 strong, but this morning when she approached it was only Simon (the Australian) and me. (I later found out that Simon thought she came to "hit" on him.) I knew by then what she was up to, so I tried to stay invisible. I told her that I've been too busy to follow the news and she would be better served if she could wait for some of the late-arriving "experts" in our groups, those who actively follow politics.

After successfully "brushing her off," she went back to Simon and convinced him to put on a lapel mic. She then recorded him for about five minutes as he pontificated in his best Crocodile Dundee voice. He basically said that he didn't think much would change until Fidel actually dies.

When I got home I thought I would check KSTP's web site to see what they decided to report. I watched a re-broadcast from earlier in the day. They showed this gentleman from Cuba giving his take and then they showed our table. And for some odd reason they decided to show a close-up of me drinking coffee, "fair-trade" coffee no doubt. Unfortunately, Simon's words of wisdom were dropped on the cutting room floor, while my smiling face was kept for posterity.

So there you have it. I've spilled the beans.

President's Day

Hail to the chiefs. I read an article a few months back about great American presidents. It was in a Teaching Company catalog trying to sell lectures about the presidents. The professor who presents the lectures had selected the 12 greatest presidents in his opinion.



As you would expect, I was surprised by some, but not by others. Of course the original G. W. would have to be on the short list along with honest Abe and the man from Monticello. But who else should be included?



I asked a friend from church to give me his input, since he loves all things presidential. But he has yet to get back to me. I think he's waiting for himself to be put in that office before he gives me his definitive list.



I'm going to start listing them as I remember them, and then if I can find that catalog (I don't think I tossed it) I will complete the list.



1. George Washington

2. Thomas Jefferson

3. Abraham Lincoln

4. Franklin Roosevelt

5. Ronald Reagan

6. Thomas Jefferson



I'll go look for that article.

Random Thing # 7

7. I think I'm addicted to Scrabulous on facebook.

Alright. Now I'm done with that obligation, even though it really wasn't an obligation, since no one actually tagged me; it was more of a preemptive strike, a way to stay one up on the Warden who will some day discover that I'm again blogging, and probably demand to know those deep dark secrets that I only reveal when I'm faced with a challenge like coming up with random thoughts, which are kind of my forte, something I've honed from years of living with teen-agers and even more years of having to teach them. So now I am free, free to possibly write about what I really think.

I think I'm hungry. It's way past lunch.

Random Thing # 6

6. I sometimes get blamed for having nothing but random thoughts.

Random Thing # 5

5. I sometimes have trouble coming up with random thoughts.

In Technicolor

We're off the see the Joseph, the wonderful one with the coat, the one that has red and yellow and green and brown and scarlet and black and ochre and peach and ruby and olive and violet and fawn and lilac and mauve and chocolate and gold and cream and crimson and silver and rose and azure and lemon and russet and grey and purple and white and pink and orange and blue.

We're going this week because we know the "fill-in" Joseph.

We would have tried to go sometime anyways, but this was added incentive. We love the play. When you read the original in Genesis, you might think it would be impossible to tell it better. But Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber just might have done that.

I've seen the play in person numerous times and the DVD almost as many. I highly recommend it, even if you can't stomach Donny Osmond.

Is this what daughters are for?

My wife and I were sitting around talking with our daughter and her friend this evening. I could tell she was bored, but she was being polite. The conversation was not about guys or makeup or hair styles, but rather boring stuff like older people, you know, her parents and such.

So I told her that I was sorry for boring her to death, and then thanked her for being courteous and polite. I went on to tell her that it was a great time "chillin'" with her and her friend and that I too was tired of hanging around old farts.

Ever the one with a quick and sassy comeback, she says "Is that why you make so many new ones?"

Isn't that great? She gave me a reason to blog today.

Random Thing # 4 (with a Valentine's Day spin)

I thought I’d put a Valentine’s Day slant on today’s entry. My past Valentine’s Day blogs gave me the opportunity to show off my lack of poetic ability. But this year I will save myself any further embarrassment and will save any possible readers from having to grimace.

# 4. I met my wife on the glossy pages of a magazine.

But that’s not the whole story.

The rest of that story is that Suzi and I, both non-Baptists, were chosen by a Baptist publication to each write a one page article. The pages that these articles appeared on were back to back in the magazine, cheek to cheek so to speak (no rhyme intended).

This was before we ever dated. We knew of each other, and kinda, sorta knew each other, but we were somehow put in that very friendly, "compromising" position by some unknown editor.

Nowadays, we’re usually facing the other way, staring lovingly into each other’s eyes, holding each other tight. (How’s that for a mushy story? But it’s true.)

Happy Valentine’s Day, honey. And if you don’t read this until months later, happy belated Valentine’s Day.

I Have NOT been Tagged

My wife was tagged to list seven random things about herself. She complied. I thought I should beat her to the punch in case she ever finds out that I’m once again blogging. I know she would want to reach out and tag me, seeing that she is constantly poking me in facebook.

So here goes. Seven random things, things that will probably surprise those who don’t know me that well.

1. I’m now taking an improv class at a local high school Monday nights. It’s pretty wild.
2. I lettered in high school. Not in baseball, not in football, but in debate.
3. I was murdered once, when I was the lead in a one act play in college--”The Claw.”

Well, that’s enough excitement for today.

Gooooooogle Again!

They continue to surprise me. I was looking for an address this afternoon. I went to click on satellite view and found something new to me--a button labeled "street view." Of course I had to click it on. And low and behold, there in living color was a view from street level, allowing one to look up and down a street or over at the houses or businesses on the block. Coooooool.

What will gooooooogle do next?

Happy Birthday Abe!

It's now Fat Tuesday plus one week. It's also Abraham Lincoln's birthday.

Because of our government's decision a few decades back, we can now give Clinton and old "W" equal billing with Abe and celebrate President's Day next Monday. An early happy birthday to all.

Unable to comment on my wife's blog

I actually read my wife's blog today, and caught up on reading what she's been up to for the last three weeks or so. However, since I'm blogging incognito, I'm unable to comment on her blog, lest she suspect that I'm blogging again.

So here is my comment. The swamp story???!!!???!!!

My iPod holds approximately 10,000 songs or one of my wife's retelling of her swamp story. (Sorry Steven Wright. I stole that joke from his recent CD, "I Still Have a Pony," which I got Saturday with my Christmas gift card from Best Buy.)

Steven Wright still has his edge. It's worth a listen.

Declining Social Status

Facebook is fun, sort of. I don’t have time to go into how it all started for me, (maybe some other time when I’m not enthralled in a tough head-to-head battle of Scrabulous.) But following is the real rub.

Facebook, as almost everyone knows by now, is a social networking site. It’s a great way to connect or reconnect with people from all over the world, helping to make this planet even more “flat.” One way this is done on facebook is through the countless number of applications. Some are useful, helpful, interesting, or fun. Others are downright stupid and annoying. I won’t say which category this applications falls into, but this one ranks people. I think it’s called “Compare People.” I don’t know how I got included in this app, but somehow I get notices on a regular basis on how I stack up against those on my friends list.

This morning’s notice let me know that my status has slipped. I am no longer ranked as high as I was. Others among my group of friends are now considered better than me. I have dropped a full 13 places. Ouch. How will my ego deal with this?

The category in question?? “Two left feet Tim” has fallen from #13 to #26 in the category of best dancer. This should probably make all my Baptist friends ecstatic. On the positive side, it will probably help if my wife ever asks me again about square dancing. And I suppose it’s not a bad thing to happen during Lent.

Idea # 2

Grateful for the Game I'm in.

comment: probably not the strongest memoir, because of the four two- & three-letter words.

P.S. This is kinda cool--writing undercover. The Warden has no idea I'm doing this.

Possible Epitaph

Building bridges by boldly embracing paradoxes.

I Can Summarize my Life in Six Words or Less

This morning we listened to my son’s iPod. He has an extremely wide repertoire of great songs, and he always comes up with a great mix for us. But by 1 p.m. I needed some talk. I needed some Mischke. (Tommy Mischke, for the uninformed, hosts a show from noon to 2 and is easily the funniest guy on radio.) Mischke was his usual self today, having us alternately grinning and chuckling out loud.

At work with my son and I this week is a friend from Moldova. He moved here about four years ago and is proficient in all phases of construction, drywall included. His English, however, is still in its infancy. He probably didn’t catch much of what Tommy was talking about, but his comment was enlightening. After listening for about a half hour, he said “that man is very happy.” He didn’t say funny, but rather happy. Funny is usually the label that Mischke gets tagged with, but I like happy. Happy is usually how I feel after listening to him.

He had us laughing at lots of things today, but the item that stuck with me wasn’t a laugh out loud funny one. Rather it concerned summarizing one’s life. He talked about a magazine, Smith magazine and a book that they publish, which includes “six-word memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure.” The topic was intriguing. Supposedly the impetus for this book was a challenge once given to Ernest Hemmingway, the master of pithy sentences.

Ernie was challenged by a guy in a bar to write a short story in six words. He took the bet and responded to the guy with these six words.
For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

Those simple six words quickly conjure up some pretty strong feelings, emotions, and pictures in the old mind.

Anyways, back to the book, it has almost 1,000 six-word memoirs. And their website allows folks to add their own to the mix. So I’ve been thinking. But I think it’s still too soon for me to come up with something worthy of putting on paper.

So for now I’ll leave it merely as a challenge for myself and for those who read these words.

Blogging For Lent

It should be too early for Ash Wednesday. It’s only the first week in February. The snow is piled deep and the winds are still cold. Cool is still weeks away.

But it’s here. That holy day that falls furthest from the weekend.

It got me thinking--about lent and self-denial and self-discipline and self-sacrifice. I never checked in anywhere to get my ashes, but lent is still here, ready or not. Am I ready? Do I still play along? Should I self-examine and find something from which to abstain?

Since I don’t consider coffee a bad habit, and fast food red meat is never a temptation, what is a good old Midwestern boy supposed to do?

After some sole searching (by myself that is), I figured that I would give a run at abstaining from my blogging abstinence. Forty days during the height of the infamous American tax season, that time of year when I personally moonlight and ignore my wife, might not be an optimal time to attempt such a feat. But who knows, miracles do happen.