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.
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!
It seems that everyone I know is sick, except for me. Make that including me.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Well, anonymity is now past. The Warden, my wife, has once again found my blog. Let's see, how long did that take?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
