Pride + Amnesia = Pridnesia

Going home for the holidays is always interesting. Especially when you run into people you went to high school with. This is the sole cause of anxiety in my life when I go back home. These people are everywhere. Lurking around aisles at the grocery store, waiting in line at Starbucks, the next table over at Chili's. And the worst thing about these people is that I have completely forgotten all of their names. And this is why I get so tense around them. This is why I avoid them at all cost. It's the awkwardness of it all that drives me into hiding.

I see their face and the visual sparks some far off memory, lodged deep in the back of my mind where I rarely ever venture. The memories are so covered in dust that I can faintly recall that I do know them but have no clue where I know them from. And of course trying to retrieve a name to go with the fuzzy and foggy memory is out of the question. If people are not in the context that you knew them, it is very hard to peg them into a familiar hole in your head.

For years whenever I came home, I would awkwardly go with the conversation. "Hey...you," would be my response to them calling out my name and walking towards me with an extended hand. And I'd stand there for the next few minutes shaking and sweating and asking them questions and tip toeing around the conversation for clues as to who they might be. The fear of getting caught not knowing their name drove me insane. I couldn't take it. And so if I saw anyone that I faintly recognized, I would duck and hide and dodge. I'd grab my cell phone and quickly press it against my face to engage in a fake conversation that seemed so important it was understandable that I couldn't talk right then.

But not this trip. Not this time. I graduated in 1999. That is almost 7 years ago. I have come to the point in my life that I am willing to openly acknowledge the fact that I have forgotten people's names. By now, it should be understandable. And if someone actually gets upset that I have forgotten their name, they have major problems. After 7 years of not seeing someone, you have the right to forget. To be upset that your name was not remembered after 7 years exposes the ugliness of pride like lifting a rock and seeing the black, slithery, shiny insect underneath. "What?!?! You don't remember my name??" Give me a break.

And that's what I did. And nobody got upset. And it was wonderful to be freed from the self-imposed social chains. So from here on out, I'm asking. If I have forgotten (and I most likely have), don't be offended. You are not as important as you think.

By the way, I am writing this in a coffee shop back in Baton Rouge. And there is a grown, Indian woman a table over from me with a "Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen" bookbag at her feet. Ah, it's good to be back home.

Tip of the Day

One aspect of our society that has always perplexed me has been the idea of tipping. Here we have a person who has been hired by an establishment to perform some sort of service and when they actually perform that service, not only do they get a paycheck, but they get a little bit extra. From me. Simply for doing what they are supposed to do. The age old question remains - should we tip?

I waver on the issue, personally. Sometimes I tip, sometimes I don't. Sometimes there is no question - your lunch bill may have an added 18% gratuity in it. This is obligated tipping (which I am not a fan of). Or maybe your waiter was exceptional and it actually gave you pleasure to put down a few bills for him on the table. But sometimes it is not so black and white. There are a few situations that hang out in the gray zone. For example - Sonic. Do you tip the people that bring out your food to you from the little hut thing? What did they do that warrants something extra? They really only did what they were supposed to do, and that wasn't that much. They hang out inside the hut thing, when the food is finished cooking (which they play no part in cooking the food) they grab it, and walk it out to my parked car...15 feet away. In my opinion, that doesn't warrant a tip but yet there is this whole tipping climate at Sonic. You feel bad if you don't tip them. And I frankly don't know why.

Or what about that extra line on credit card print outs? There is a sandwich shop in town that I always go to. The procedure is this - you walk up to the cashier, place your order, he writes it down and hands it to a couple of "sandwich chefs" who assemble your requested sandwich. I hand him my credit card. The little receipt spits out and there it is - that glaring, blank line assigned for a tip. This one really puzzles me. Who I am I tipping - the cashier, the sandwich chefs, all of them? Where does that money go? And what extra service have they provided me that would warrant me to give them more money than their offered service that I already payed for? I don't get it. The dude is standing behind a cash register and punching numbers. He doesn't even have to know how to do math because the computer tells him how much change to give back. He takes my card, swipes it, gives me a receipt and a pen and...that's it. And that's what he is payed to do. I see absolutely no reason why I should tip him. And I don't. But for some mysterious reason, I always feel like he is upset with me when I hand him back the receipt with a line drawn through the spot for his would-be tip.

I really appreciated the tipping policy of Europe when I was there a few summers ago. There was none of this "obligatory" tipping like we have in the States. You sit there, the staff does their job...you know, they serve you food, and you pay for what you ordered. That's that. They will wish you well if you don't tip them. They will be glad you stopped in their restaurant. Now if they did an exceptional job, or if you were feeling a bit generous, you could gladly put a little extra on the top. This was their reward for great service. And this makes sense to me. In America, this function is removed. People everywhere are obligated to tip. It's like Christmas every time you go out to eat - you are obliged to give. And this, it seems to me, strips the heart out of what it means to give. To give means you give freely. You are motivated by generosity. You desire to expend your resources when someone has masterfully performed their duty.

If you were to roll out to Chili's or On the Border or wherever and had your meal and left no tip, the staff would hate you. You would not be welcome back. The manager would want to know what was wrong with the service. I hate this awful obligated tip-giving. If I want to reward someone's service, I should have that freedom and it should be an act of generosity. If I decide not to, I shouldn't get dirty looks and feel bad about myself and walk out with my head ducked down to avoid eye contact.

But as it were we live in a culture where you must tip. So tip I will. Only not at Sonic.

Egg Nog Blog

What in the world is egg nog? I've asked a great number people recently. No one really knows. Sure, everyone can identify what an egg is. But it is the nog that trips everyone up.

I'm used to drinks and foods to follow the normal, simple English concept of adjective and noun. Take Grape Juice for example. The "juice" is the noun that gets clarified with the adjective "grape." Simple. Or Vegtable Soup. Again, "soup" is the noun and "vegtable" is the adjective. If you apply that formula to egg nog, you find yourself in a world of confusion. No one knows what nog is.

Could there be Carrot Nog out there and we just don't know about it? Or Vegtable Nog? (Veg Nog). Or Shrimp Nog? Or Bacon Nog?

So I looked it up on ole trusty dictionary.com. The first definition was helpful - A wooden block built into a masonry wall to hold nails that support joinery structures. Most of the other definitions centered around that idea. Wooden blocks. Nails. Yeah, yeah.

Then I went to an Acronyn finder in hopes that mabye N.O.G. stood for something. I found out that in fact it does. The first on the list was National Orchid Garden. Then Net Operating Goal. Not Our Goods. Notice of Gaurantee. Nuclear Operations Group. Number One Gun. Beyond that, there was nothing to help unlock the puzzle.

Nowhere on the internet do we discover what Nog is. It remains a mystery, a perplexing conundrum to be unraveled only in glory. For on this side of heaven, let us all add it to the collected files of unsolved mysteries.

The Question of '05

Yesterday I was at a local coffee shop and after having ordered my cup of coffee, I walked over to the little "fixin' station," you know, the counter designated to the sugar, creamer, etc. I did my usual thing - a bit of sugar, a splash of cream - and something for the first time struck me as very odd. There on the shelf was a glass counter next to sugar. The contents of this container looked almost identical to the sugar - grainy, powdery like white stuff. Only the label on this container read "Creamer." And this got me thinking.

How can powder be creamer? Shouldn't creamer, by definition, be...you know...creamy? I don't understand how you put powder in your coffee and you get creaminess in the end. This makes no sense to me. Powder is one thing. Cream is quite another.

So there I stood in deep reflection at the fixin' station, pondering the metaphysical possibility of powder-based cream. And it reminded me of the astronauts and the freeze-dried, vacuum-sealed, stiff blocks of cardboard they would eat that was supposed to "ice cream." You remember this? Colorful cardboard can't be ice cream. And in the same way, white powder that dissolves in hot coffee can't be creamy. Call me crazy, but that is what I think.

More Musings on the Homeless

Yesterday I got approached by a 'homeless' man who was smoking a cigarette and looking for any spare change I had. Here's my question - should I give money to someone who has more jewelry on than me?

On another note - when I was in Memphis for Thanksgiving, Kathryn and I got approached by a large, large man who said he was looking for spare change to catch a train back to Phoenix. He was large. And this is how he began his request - "You're a Christian, right?" Very sneaky Mr. Large Homeless Man. I love it when they immediately manipulate you by tinkering with your conscience. Then he went on to say that he hasn't 1) eaten in 10 days; 2) just had heart surgery; 3) can't walk good because of a busted foot (he pointed to his shoe at this point); 4) he needed to go back to Phoenix to help people out there; 5) he has walked across town through the blistering cold; and my personal favorite, 6) I'm not on drugs.

Having just heard that the man hasn't eaten in 10 days, I kindly offered if he wanted to go across the street to get some food at a restaurant. He said, "No, they want me to have cash." I asked, "Who are 'they'?" He replied that 'they' were the Greyhound people. They wanted him to have money so that he could eat for the next few days. Hmmm. Does this story even make sense.

Again I offered, "Hey, if you haven't eaten in 10 days, I will gladly buy you some food, but I am not going to give you money." He didn't like this. He accused me of not "believing him" and not "listening to what he was saying." I said, "Hey man, I hear what you are saying. I am offering you food. I am offering to meet one of your needs. You know...food, the stuff you haven't had any of in 10 days." He walked away frustrated. I walked away frustrated.

My feelings toward the homeless fluxuate each day. Sometimes I walk away heart broken and eager to help, eager to give, eager to bring them into my home and prepare them dinner and have them sit at my table. And other times I feel so scandalized, so manipulated by their petty, transparent lies that I leave my encounters with them hardened and irritated. Can someone help me sort out these feelings?

The Single Man's Diet

Cheap and easy. This is the banner behind every single man's decision making process when it comes to cooking at home. We have no problem cooking a pot of macaroni and cheese and taking the whole pot to the couch to eat directly out of. This would be a good meal for us. No side items. No salad. Just the mac and cheese. Because when you are a man and having to cook for yourself, you think linearly. You make one thing. You eat one thing. Very rarely, very, very rarely will a man make two things. And it is only a myth that a man would make three.

For example - I came home one day from work, searched the kitchen over and found that I had no groceries. Well, all except for a pound of frozen ground chuck in the freezer. Good, now I don't have to go to the store. I had just found dinner. I thawed the meat, browned it, drained it, and then...ate it. By itself. A pound of ground beef. Straight.

Tonight (I kid you not), I ate beans. I opened up a can of baked beans, heated them on the stove and ate them straight from the pot. There was nothing else. No meat to eat with it. No bread to dip in it. Just the beans.

This is the single man's diet. We cook one thing (we usually don't even do that) and we eat it. We don't chop vegetables for salads. We don't have one pot of rice cooking and one pot of green beans cooking and a brisket in the oven simultaneously. We like to take it one dish at a time. One meal at a time.

That's not to say we can't combine items we might find around the kitchen. Macaroni and cheese and tuna? Great idea. Bread and cheese? You got yourself a sandwich. Chili and baked Lays? Healthy Frito pie. Biscuits and hotdogs? You've got yourself a biscuity hotdog.

The possibilities are endless. We will continue to eat and we will continue to survive. We are poor and we are single. And this is what we do.

A Letter

Dear Downstairs Neighbor,

You are probably wondering why I am writing you a letter at 4 in the morning. Let me remind you. Oh yeah, it is because your music is still vibrating through my ribs even after I walked down stairs and asked you to turn it down. It seems that you have enjoyed providing me with mid morning wake up calls. I especially liked the one last night when I woke up to the sound of glass breaking, only to look outside to see your girlfriend smashing out your windows in a drunken frenzy. My favorite part was when you got home and engaged in a primal shouting match for another 30 minutes.

You should know that I have been fantasizing for the past 20 minutes on what I would like to do to you and your noisy friends. I first thought of lobbing water balloons from the other side of the street, disrupting your outdoor latenight get-together. Then I thought of going downstairs and flipping the power breaker. That would stop the music at least. You know those holes in your windows from where your girlfriend smashed them? I have thought about tossing in stink bombs or live rats or things of that nature. I'm not beyond calling the police, too you know. You see, the thing is, I am struggaling not to hate you right now. That is a struggle that I am losing. I hate you. And I am dreaming of inflicting bodily harm on you.

I will tell you this - I love your raw unconsiderateness. You don't seem to remember that you have people living all around you, separated by paper-thin walls. That is admirable. You also know how to enjoy yourself. At 4 in the morning. Several nights a week. I have grown used to waking up to your late night shindigs. You just fail to remember that other people exist besides yourself. That is pure virtue.

So please cut back on the mid morning wake up calls. Otherwise, I might carry out some of my threats. I would burn your place down, but mine would go up in flames with it. So you are at least safe from that. But whatever else I can do to send you to your demise, I will certainly do if the noise continues.

Thanks for understanding.

Matt

O Day of Rest and Gladness (Happiness)

Yesterday was my birthday. And it was happy. It was happy simply because everyone I knew wished it to be so. They wished it and it came true. What a powerful word my friends have, that they would wish something upon me and it come to pass. Thankfully they didn't wish me an ear infection birthday or a diarrhea birthday or a poison ivy birthday. That would have been miserable.

I'll be honest, I don't understand the point behind the happy birthday wish. Well, ok, sure I do. You want the person who had the birthday to be happy. How sweetly simple. There's nothing to it. You want the person to be happy so you simply say to them "happy" and the expectation is for them to be so. That is why I think we should wish our hopes for happiness on the birthday person the day before their birthday. To say 'happy birthday' half-way into their day is to basically say, "well, whatever remains of this day, I hope that part is happy." If we said 'happy birthday' the day before the actual birthday, we would be wishing them the maximum 24 hours of happiness. None of this, part of the day happiness wish. And that would be the best gift of all - 24 hours of solid, unbreakable happiness.

Why do we only wish happiness on people once a year? Well, I guess that's not quite accurate. We do wish them a happy new year. We wish them happy Valentine's day. Happy Hanukkah and Thanksgiving. (Do people say 'happy Easter'?) And once a year, we strangely enough wish people to be "merry." Beyond a few exceptions, your birthday is a day where you will be guaranteed a wish of happiness. Something finally dawned on me after all these years of receiving happy birthdays - I have been selfishly hogging all the happiness on my special day. People should be able to share in the happiness of my birthday with me. It is much too greedy of me to horde it all. So throughout my special day I wished people a happy Matt's birthday. I just figured others should partake in the happiness. If the day is that special to grant me happiness, there should be enough happiness to go round. But of course, if I am consistent (and I am) then I should wish you a happy Matt's birthday the day before my actual birthday. So get ready people. Next year on November 15th, I am going to wish happiness upon you for a full 24 hours - the day we celebrate because on that day I came to exist, the day of rest and gladness, the day of my birth.

Star Whores

I live in a toilet. Seriously. This place is a dump. My entire place is caving in at the middle, making a nice slant-like decline in my room. I am afraid that it will collapse soon. Raccoons scurry about. Poison Ivy crawls up the back side of the house. The foundation is so bad that doors are getting harder to close. The bathtub is caked in brown mold. The electricity is unbelievably unpredictable. There is absolutely no insulation so if it is hot outside, it is an oven inside and if it is cold outside, it is a freezer inside. There are patches of wood on the floor that are so torn up and squeeky, I avoid stepping on them out of fear that I will fall through to the floor below. My mailbox is nailed to the dilapitated wood ouside, dangling precariously by a single nail. Because of the rotten foundation, there are actually holes in the house where the windows are bent downwards, letting in all kinds of fun uninvited insects (mosquitos and wasps mostly).

But don't get me wrong, I love it here. Well, love is a bit strong. Maybe strongly like. No, that's a bit too strong too. Let's just say that I like it here. Now, come to think of it, it is more like hate. Hate is the most appropriate term. I hate it here. Let's be honest, people, living in a toilet can have ramifications on your welfare. If you are not happy at home, you are not happy. If a man's home is in disarray, so is his heart, so I've heard. And I believe the rumors. That is why I am hoping to be out of here in December when my roommate gets married.

Oh wait, I almost forgot, Yeah, there is no real estate in Baton Rouge because of Katrina. Hmm, that poses a problem doesn't it? And it's not like people want to move into a new place with me because after all, I'm moving out in April. No one likes a roomie to split three months into a new lease. And so my options are this: move in with somebody and pay rent for a few months (which poses a whole new set of concerns) or stay here. Here, in the toilet.

Conundrum? Oh yes. Sort of like the title to this post.

Tanning and Masculinity

I'm not going to lie. I went tanning. I actually paid $7 to lie/lay (?) for 20 minutes in this glowing, body-length pod, subjecting my skin to the perils of burning and cancer. And I did it willingly. I was not compelled. I was not forced. I choose to.

My reason: I have developed these "sun spots" on my shoulders and back, a bacteria that naturally lives in your skin but can emerge to the surface in tropical climates. The pigment is not working or something and the only way to restore a unified color of skin is to burn the top layer altogether. Hence the tanning bed. There.

I walked into the lobby and there sat the receptionist, a college-aged, blonde who was carelessly smacking away on some gum. The room was fortunately empty, except the several displays of lotions and oils, all identified with such names like "Edge" and "Sexified." I was already emasculated. I approached the counter and she asked, "Have you tanned with us before?" She had her hands in position on the keyboard, ready to type in my information. "Uhh, no. This is my first time. And I only want to go once."

"But that is so expensive. You can get the $20 package that allows you to go five times."

"Yeah, I only want to go once."

"Fine. Fill out your information." I picked up the pen and took the clipboard, seriously considering making up an entire fake identity. I looked at the names on the list above me. Surprisingly, some of them were guys. One was named Rodney. I felt that that name sounded fake. I didn't want people coming in after me and reading the list and seeing my name. Now I know that sounds a bit arrogant of me, like the entire city of Baton Rouge is going to know my name. But what if someone comes in that does know me? And the one time in my life where it would have been justifiable to lie and to forge an identity, I didn't. I wrote down the truth. I think I even gave my address and phone number.

So I'm escorted to this little room with this space pod in it. There was a fan and a chair. That was it. "Since this is your first time, only go 10 minutes."

"How high does it go up to?"

"20."

But I wanted to get burned. Surely 20 minutes wasn't going to do it. She left, I closed and locked the door, and got...naked. Well, almost. I kept my boxers on. There are some areas of my life that I don't want to get burned. I set the dial for 20 and climbed in to the glowing, xerox-looking-glow, body pod. I drapped a towel over my face and laid/lied (?) there. Kelly Clarkson was playing over the internal speakers. And I was given the next 20 minutes to be alone inside of my head and reflect and evaluate on what I was honestly doing. It was truly miserable. They shouldn't give you that much time to be aware of the fact that you are actually tanning. Insecurities run wild.

After a while, the lights shut off and I climbed out, searching my body for signs of red only to find the usual pale hue that was there before. I dressed, left and waited for the burn to emerge. And it did. Remember that towel I put over my face? Well, that left a nice awkward, sideways burn stretched across the front of my neck. The rest of my body turned into a nice reddish-pink by that evening, all except for where my boxers were and...my shoulders. Yes, that's right. The one spot I wanted to get burned didn't. I couldn't figure it out. I think it is because of how those machines are shaped, it tends to only tan your front and back and neglect your sides and your shoulders.

So, yes, I am planning on going back. Only this time I am going to lay on my side and let the shoulders get in on some of the action. 7 more bucks down the drain. 20 more minutes alone to evaluate how pathetic I am. And all for the expense of my sunspots and masculinity.

Credited Credit

A month or so back I applied for a credit card. I don't have one. I need one. And so I applied for one. This makes sense right? They send you those things in the mail - "Hey!! Sign up for this credit card!!! It's the greatest thing ever!! Come on everybody!! Sign up!!" So I did. I filled out the little application. I sent it in. And then I waited.

Their reply came back with a tactful denial. Their reason - insufficient credit history and not enough "established revolving credit accounts." Hmmm. That's funny. That's the whole reason that I applied for one in the first place. You know, because I don't really have credit history or "established revolving credit accounts."

And so I recently applied for another one. This time I knew I could get it. This is a company that I have my savings with. They sent out one of those "Hey!! We've got a sweet credit card with sweet benefits!! Apply today!!" things in the mail. I figured I couldn't lose. They were already working for me. They already have my money. Oh, but no. I was wrong. I got the letter of denial in the mail today for, oh, guess what, the same reasons as before - "insufficient credit history and insufficient established revolving credit accounts."

Ok. Help me out here people. How in the world do people get credit cards if they grant you a credit card on the basis of credit which presupposes you have a credit card?? How do I break into this cycle of credit? How do I establish a revolving credit account? What in the hell is a revolving credit account?

Am I the only one to whom this makes no sense? I see people with credit cards out there. I know they have them. How do they get them though? How do they get all this "credit?" And what in the world is credit anyway? Is this the government's economic brownie point system? Yes. It is. You do enough good things (transactions) and you get extra points (credit). If you get enough points, you can turn them in to get a point card (credit card). The only snag is, you have to use the credit card to get the points.

This reminds me of going to the arcade and pumping in handfulls of quarters into those machines so that it would pump out 5 pink, paper tickets. I would horde and gather and save my tickets and then take them up to the desk and trade them in for a black, plastic spider ring you could slide on your finger only to get it stuck at the knuckle. But apparently in the "real world" you trade all your tickets in for...more quarters.

Sin, Tax, and Syntax

"Writing is a disorderly and unnerving enterprise."

I am applying to seminary, a process I have greatly enjoyed. Well, that is, until I got to question number 37 on the application form. It reads as such, "On a separate page, please type a comprehensive account of your conversion, your relationship to the Lord Jesus Christ, and your ministry experience in or outside the church (1 to 4 pages, double spaced)."

And so I began writing. This can't be hard. It's autobiography. This is a subject I feel well versed in. It's me. I can fill up 1 to 4 pages. And very quickly I did. So quickly that I filled up 4 pages and had barely only answered the first section of the question - "a comprehensive account of your conversion." I thought they wanted a "comprehensive" account. I can't do that and all the other stuff in under four pages. Double spaced.

So I went back through and tried to find sections that could be cut. Oh here's one - how about the whole first 2 pages of unorganized rambling of my pretentious attempt to be philosophical in understanding the principles imbedded in me growing up and how they worked both for my advantage and peril. Ok, I can rewrite that. After all, I was only trying to be "comprehensive." I have to explain the back story to get to the real story right? You can't just start with Episode 4 like Lucas did and not expect everybody to want to know what happened in 1 through 3. After all, isn't that being "comprehensive."

So I gave it another shot. I truncated and simplified the first section. I included a few "yada yadas" to fill in gaps. On the second section, you know, the one about my "relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ," I simply wrote, "Yes, I have one." They didn't designate me to be "comprehensive" on that one. And for the third section, I just skipped it. It didn't seem to important.

So 1 to 4 pages later, I had my application finished. You know, trying to write for a seminary is very strange. You want to sound smart but not overly pretentious, like you are transparently trying to impress them with your writing ability. You want to be humble, but not overly humble, as if you have absolutely no confidence in your intellectual capacity. It is a strange tension to write in. And oh yes, I get to write in the middle of that tension for the next three years (if they decide to overlook my rediculous application essay and accept me. No, that was too humble. I meant, "my unbelievably brilliant essay and accept me." There. Better.)

Discoveries of Yesteryear

I just found out that the word "wheel barrel" does not exist. It is in fact "wheelbarrow." This is a complete shock to me. I always thought it was barrel, not barrow. I have spent 24 plus years on this planet thinking it was barrel. And all along it was barrow.

I looked up barrow on dictionary dot com. Sure enough, the first definition is simply "a handbarrow," which doesn't help you out much if you didn't already know what a barrow was. The second definition is equally as unhelpful - "a wheelbarrow."

But then I scrolled down to the jackpot. Definition number four. It reads as such, "a pig that has been castrated before reaching sexual maturity." Wow. That can't be. A barrow is a castrated pig that has never hit puberty. Check it out for yourself. I kid you not.

Then I googled (which by the way, I hate that term) it for pictures. And sure enough, I found me a pic of a barrow. A real barrow. Here she is boys http://www.gerlachshowpig.com/champs.htm. This is a picture of a Prize winning barrow who is noted as having "screamin semen from Indiana." That's a bit scary, I'll be honest.

I wonder if I've ever eaten barrow bacon? Or barrow chops? Or barrow loin? I wonder if the meat is better, sort of like veal is in the cow realm.

Bloods and Crips and Other Big Words

You don't hear that much about gang banging any more. Do people even use that term? Gang banging? It already sounds so antiquated. Maybe it was just a term from the 90s. I always heard of the gang bangers, you know, the people who ride in old townscars, who sit low, who listen to rap music, who wear bandanas on their head, who most likely have hydraulics (16 switches), who participate in organized crime and/or violence, who are black, and who run around in groups whose membership necessitated initiation. These were the gang bangers. And now I never hear of them.

The Bloods and Crips of course were the most famous. You know all the rumors. If there is a car driving down the street at night with its lights off, don't blink your brights. It is a gang banger. They will shoot you. They show no discretion for virtuous acts of public safety awareness. In fact, if you try to better society by notifying people that they are driving without their lights on, they not only discourage this, they hate this. They kill over this no no. This is in the gang banger handbook.

And you don't want to be caught in the wrong part of town wearing the wrong color. You may expose who you actually "rep." So all through Junior High, I never wore red or blue. I didn't want the Crips to mistake me as a Blood. And I surely didn't want the Bloods to mistake me as a Crip. I was positive that if I was wearing a red Mossimo T-shirt, the Crips would no doubt think I was repping Blood. White, blonde, middle class, public school Blood repper. It is highly possible.

And you remember the hand signs. The Bloods threw up that notorious "b" in the air. The Crips followed suit with the "c." If the opposite gang bangers didn't already identify you by your primary colors, they surely wouldn't have room for doubt when you threw up the first letter of the gang you represented. Remember the kids that could contort both hands to spell out "b-l-o-o-d"? I always felt bad for the Crips that they had nothing like this. They just had that isolated "c." Maybe for them that was enough.

Come to think of it, gang banging looks an awful lot like fraternities. There is a big, organized, pre-existing group that newcomers have to be initiated into. Once initiated, there is organized crime and/or violence. Both gang bangers and frats consume tons of cheap alcohol. Both have secret hand signs and hand shakes. Both have identifying colors and rich heritages. This makes me wonder whether there exists all female gangs. If so, would they organize the equivalent of a Date Party with the male gang bangers? Would they have silly names for them like frats do? How about - "Drive By Destination." Or "Liquor Store Loot."

I think the gang bangers should adopt Greek letters. The Bloods could be the Beta Lamda Omicron Omicron Deltas. The Crips could be the Kappa Gamma Iota Rhos. They should also have mascots. The Bloods could be a Vein. The Crips could be a Camel.

Gang banging needs to be brought back into the public spotlight. I need to hear about some innocent old man who got shot for trying to notify a stranger that their lights were off. I need to hear about somebody being beat up in the bathroom at school for wearing bluejeans (the Bloods have to have hated this invention). Bring it back gang bangers. Here I am wearing all blue throwing up a big "c." You best rep where you from.

Attack Obesity

My yahoo email account gives me two inboxes, as I'm sure most of yours do too. One is the normal one, where my trashy friends send me emails. One is the "bulk" one, where people I don't know send me trash. These bulk emails pile up quick as I have been known to come home from a long day at work and check my email only to have accumulated 15 of them. Sometimes I open the box up just to see what is in there, only to be disappointed. Nothing is ever good in there.

Until today.

The subject was, "Attack Obesity." Curiousity drove me to open it. I have never heard of the strategy against obesity to be an "attack." I had to read more. It turns out that the email was written by a doctor. Imagine that. Dr. Adrienne Washburn. Now Dr. Washburn has come up with a new thing called Hoodia and she expects it to be quite the success, as her email said that it will soon be "tripping off my tongue." I'm not quite sure what that means. Shouldn't it be "dripping?" At any rate, I felt that to have me just explain the email didn't do it justice. So I included it. Here it is folks, the way to attack obesity. The following is the exact email I received from Dr. Adrienne Washburn in my bulk inbox. The only difference is, any thing is parenthesis is my personal commentary. Oh and by the way, I googled for Dr. Adrienne Washburn and found nothing. Try it yourself. That makes this all the more fishy.

-Attack Obesity-

Each year, people spend more than $40 billion on products designed to help them slim down. None of them seem to be working very well.

Now along comes hoodia. Never heard of it? Soon it'll be tripping off your tongue (again, very strange that hoodia will be tripping off my tongue), because hoodia is a natural substance that literally takes your appetite away. It's very different from diet stimulants like Ephedra and Phenfen that are now banned because of dangerous side effects. Hoodia doesn't stimulate at all. Scientists (who are these nameless, faceless "scientists?") say it fools the brain by making you think you’re full, even if you've eaten just a morsel (who says "morsel' anymore?).

http://atuoswoan.info/

Suppress your appetite and feel full and satisfied all day long
Increase your energy levels
Lose excess weight
Increase your metabolism (someone explain how this works when you have no food in your stomach)
Burn body fat
Burn calories
Attack obesity
And more.. (Oooh, if only I knew what more there was...)

http://atuoswoan.info/

Regards,
Dr. Adrienne Washburn

There you have it - the perfect strategy on how to attack obesity. And oh yeah, also die from malnourishment.

Have You No Shame?

I love attention. Plain and simple. Always have. Always will. I hate that I love it, but I love it. I love a good stage and spotlight. I love a good mic turned up on high. I love a good crowd. And furthermore, I love a good comment on a blog. I am sure you are guilty of it too. You check your blog and see what new comments have been placed. Ooh, sometimes you ruffle some feathers. Those are good comments. Sometimes somebody truly identifies with what you wrote. Good comments too. Sometimes a sweet girl just wants to let you know that she read it. Always good. I have discovered the not so good comments.

And those are the advertisements.

Come on blogger dot com. Have you no shame? Must you sell us out to where we now get ads on our comments? And ad people - have you no shame that you would sink so low as to paste your worthless ads on a blog comment? Is that the epitome of desperate? And don't you love how sneaky they are when they write it. They sign it as anonymous and get you hooked from the start, "Hey, I was searching around and I came across your blog. It is totally awesome. And I agree 100%." You are thinking, hey some chick out there really likes me stuff. And then their cards are shown, "You should totally check out this website www.bla bla bla.com." We see through your stupid little ploys advertisers. You can't fool us. And you can't pay me enough to click that blue link.

Advertisements have taken over the world. Everything is a freaking commercial now. MTV (back when it played music videos) was a never ending commercial. You are either watching the promotion of Aerosmith or Zest. And what about sports arenas? Ads fill every square inch. Home Depot, Old Spice, Alpo, etc. And for goodness sake, the Nascar people. Is there anyroom left on your outfit to sell yourself out? Your only restriction is space. I bet the Nascar corporate folk want fatter drivers. They have more spots to put more ads. You just wait. That will be the new face of Nascar - fat drivers.

Frankly, I'm sick of it. And now you advertising bastards are invading my little piece of cyberspace, my little blog. But you know, now that I think about it, aren't blogs advertisements too? For what am I sellling other than myself and my stories and my thoughts. Perhaps I am the biggest sell out. I have sold out my soul. The only difference is, what I sell is free. It only costs you some time. And it only costs me some dignity.

Perhaps I have sold out, and I have, but please advertisers, let this be MY shameful plea for attention. Don't interfere.

Memoirs and Memories

In lieu of saying phrases like "in lieu" and attempting to think a bit more adult-like these days, I thought it would be worth spending some time and reflection on the days of yesteryear. This idea hit me this morning as I stood in my disgusting bathtub taking a shower. The water doesn't run directly down the drain. It gathers and stagnates, making an ankle-deep bath as well as a shower. I like the thought of that. It is like two in one. Shower and bath. If you take a long enough shower, you really could lie down in it and the water would keep flowing from above.

So as I turn off the faucets and reach for a nearby towel, I notice the little tornado forming as the draining water made its way out of the tub. That little cyclone used to fascinate me. I used to think that if the drain was big enough, it would be this huge whirl pool and you could get sucked down it. And so there I stood, naked and captivated by the swirling water this morning. And it brought me back to my youth. The memories began to flood.

I remembered sleep overs and taking advantage of that first victim who actually fell asleep first. I remembered submerging his fingers in hot and cold water to make him wet himself. For some reason the biggest thrill was simply tickling his nose. In his sleep he would reach up and clumsily scratch and wipe while we would be on the ground, cupping our hands with our mouth trying not to lose it. The older I got, the more extreme the punishments. We'd pour freezing water on them. We'd violently push them out of the bed. We'd sprinkle things on them that we shouldn't have. Ask Corbin.

And as I watched that water drain, I remembered catching frogs and sticking fireworks up their, well...you know. Nothing thrilled us more than watching a frog get dismembered into pieces by a carefully inserted explosive. I remembered hunting snakes and beheading them with nearby rocks. It makes you wonder why more boys don't grow up to become more violent. Or at least, it makes you wonder why I didn't.

I remembered starting fires in my neighborhood. I actually went into my neighbor's yard, lit a zippo lighter, and placed it to the bark. When the impending fire engine got loud enough to hear, we would scatter. And we would hide behind our houses until our parents found us and forced us to talk with the authorities. Why weren't we arrested? Good night.

I remembered stealing people's filled plastic trash bags, taking them to the railroad tracks and lighting them on fire. I remembered stealing paint cans out of people's garages, busting the tops off, and running through the streets letting the paint fall where it would. I remembered the prank calls. You know, the awful ones that were possible before caller id. Back before *69 was a threat too.

And so there I stood, naked and fixated on the little water cyclone. And it made me wonder how in the world I got there. And why in the world I would be getting married.

Please begin praying for Kathryn now.

Engagement vs. Estrangement

Well, I finally did it. You know, "it." I am now no longer considered a boyfriend. I am a fiance. And I have one too. I am a betrothed man.

Who would have thought that I would be jumping face first into the real world? In a few short months, I will be beginning sentences with "my wife..." (My wife has an inner ear infection.) I will be thinking about purchasing real estate. I will be discussing family plans for cell phones. And family rated insurance. And retirement funds. And my children's college education. And what matches the drapes. And dining sets. And his and her sinks. And titles. And deeds. And other words that have previously been useless to me.

People like me should not be allowed to get married. We should be caged and disciplined until we are finally capable and mature. People like me prefer to launch water balloons at unsuspecting cattle than to iron shirts. We prefer throwing food to preparing it. We would rather destroy than build. And vandalize than decorate. We would rather sleep in till noon than get up and work. We prefer grape juice to coffee. We prefer comics to the newspaper. They have a term for people like me. It is called "children."

And here I am getting married. Kathryn Drinkard is her name. And she is in for a good time ahead. Well, let's hope. For her sake.

Philosophical/Ethical Question

Well done commenting. I guess it turns out that 100 comments is not the limit. Good to know.

Moving on...

I was recently required to purchase a white, buttoned down dress shirt for one Mr. Russ Edwards' wedding. I was in the Gap in the mall and I was purchasing some khaki pants that were also required of me for the wedding. I saw a white, buttoned down dress shirt there and made the purhcase with the khaki pants. Heck, I needed them both, right? Why not kill two birds with one stone (which would be impossible, I think, were one to actually consider throwing one stone in the air and hitting and killing two flying birds. I think the expression should be "shoot two birds with one shotgun shell.")

When I get home I realize that the dress shirt was $50. Yikes. That is expensive. You can get dress shirts much cheaper than that. So the next day I drive back up to the Gap and return it. I don't know why I said this but I did. My excuse was, "Yeah, I found a white dress shirt in my closet and it turns out that I don't need this one." Why I didn't just say, "It is too expensive and I'm cheap and I can get it cheaper elsewhere" I don't know. I always tense up in returning things. I fear that whatever excuse I give them will not meet some "unreturnable clause" in the fine print of my receipt.

So I dig through my closet this morning, a full week or two since returning the shirt, and I pull out a white, buttoned down dress shirt, the very style and design that Mr. Russ Edwards wanted. And I sighed a sigh of relief. Now I don't have to go get another one. AND my excuse came to be legitmized.

Or did it?

In looking back, did I tell the cashier at the Gap a lie? Afterall, what I thought to be an untrue statement turned out to be true. But I didn't know that at the time. So does that make it a lie? Or does the fact that I did indeed find the dress shirt make it a legitimate excuse? Where does my motive fit into this puzzle? Since I had a motive to deceive does that trump the fact that in reality I was telling a true statement and that deceptive motive make it a lie?

Hmmm. Your thoughts?

Haley's Comment

I am conducting a personal experiment. How many comments can I accumulate for one blog post? Let's shoot for 100. So here is your responsibility as the reader. Leave me a comment. Heck, leave me 30 if you have time. I don't care if they are repeats. Just pump them out. Get other people to leave comments. I want to see if there is a limit. Will people get cut off from comment-leaving? Your dead line - one week. Next Tuesday I will post another blog and the comment contest will be officially terminated.

Here are a few examples in case you don't know what to write:

"Matt, here is a comment. Does this count?"

"Matt, this is a stupid idea. But here I am leaving a comment to tell you that it is stupid."

"If something is remarkable, that means it warrants you making marks about it over and over again. So isn't this idea recommentable? Ha ha!! Hee ho! Squeef pow!!"

You get the idea.

Have at it.

Bay St. Louis, Mississippi

At 5:30 this morning I was up and driving to meet up with three friends of mine to spend the day working at Bay St. Louis, Mississippi. BSL is about 60 miles east of New Orleans and directly on the coast of the Gulf. We spent the day in the hot Mississippi sun sawing down fallen trees and hauling logs to drop off points. There were about 12 of us working on the trees and we managed to clear about about 5 or 6 the entire day. The work was unbelievably difficult and I discovered that I am much whimpier than I previously thought. I have never consumed so much water in one afternoon before.

But that is not what I am going to write about. I am going to write about a sight that I have never seen before - an upclose and personal view of what an eye wall in a category 5 hurricane is capable of. I am still beating myself up for not bringing my camera.

The devastation was horrific. We drove along the beachfront road and saw concrete slabs of where whole houses used to be. Concrete stairs led up to nothing. We passed several army jeeps on the road and ran into many more soldiers in the city. Trees were torn out from their roots and crushed whatever was below them. Most of them were snapped at the middle, leaving eerie naked trunks pointing into the sky. We were informed that bodies were found caught up in the branches of the trees that were still standing.

And inland we drove, finding the remains of those beach front houses intermingled with the remains of other houses, torn and mangled in an enormous pile of rubble and wood. All of the houses were flattened, buried under their own rooftops that were the only recognizable thing that showed that what we were looking at was once a house. Wood was everywhere, splintered and snapped, littered in the street and on the sides of the road. Cars were overturned. Powerlines were twisted and wrapped around the remains of the fallen trees. And inward we continued. For another mile or so.

Garbage was everywhere. Businesses were boarded up with plywood, if they remained standing. Boats were found several miles from the coast. One was parked, strangely enough, in a Burger King drive through. Shingles on roofs were ripped off. The houses that were standing were gutted or leaning over about to fall. The huge concrete bridge that goes across the bay to the other side was completely shredded. Every piece of the bridge that was meant to sustain the weight of several tons was no longer there. All that remained were the ghost-like concrete slabs erected in the water at equal intervals. The water even ate up the asphalt we were standing on as we surveyed the coast line. Cars were picked up and slammed into houses and on top of other cars. Windows were blown out. Glass and wood and clothes and trash was everywhere. It was like an atomic bomb exploded.

We worked at a house about a mile inland. They had 5 feet of standing water in their house. That means a wave was carried onto the land that carried so much water that houses were buried up to 5 feet one mile inland. And obviously that wave stretched for miles and miles across the Gulf, most likely all the way to Mobile. Houses 3 miles away had standing water as well. Some folks told their terrible stories of having to flee to their attic as water began to rise. One couple was trapped in their attic with no way out and the water rose to their necks. Can you imagine standing there, trapped and completly helpless, with water rising and rising with no promise of ever stopping? I can't imagine being more terrified.

We saw a van that was laid down sideways in one neighborhood that belonged over a mile away. Car dealerships had cars crunched together, with several of them resting on top of each other. The horror and hero stories will keep coming. We heard a story about one man who drove a jetski through the bay during the eye of the storm to pick up some relatives and drive them back to his trailer just in time before the second eye wall hit.

I did not grow up around hurricanes. The devastation I saw today was enough to tatoo those images in my head for a good while. Some people are left with nothing. Their houses simply do not exist any more. Some only have huge trees smashed through their living rooms. The damage is astronomical. The frustration and disappointment is high. The reality of it all is a bit too real for my liking.

As we drove through the remains, none of us said a word. The sights were too consuming. And so with amazed somberness, we drove on, clueless of what to say and how to help.

When Crisis Hits Home

I was told that a crisis would bring the best and worst out of people. And when I examine my heart, I certainly believe that to be true. Unfortunately, primarily with the latter.

Baton Rouge has doubled in population in the span of 6 days, making us the fastest growing nation in the country as well as setting the record for the fastest growing city in American history. With the population influx, you can imagine the logistical nightmare that follows. We simply cannot accomodate hundreds of thousands of new people. The gas is scarce. The cell phones are all down and a mess. Some places still don't have power. Wal-Mart can't keep their shelves stocked. There is absolutely nothing available to rent. Baton Rouge is 100% occupied. Schools are now overloaded and teachers are working into the night. Restaurants are packed. And the traffic is absolutely unbelievable. On Tuesday it took me 15 minutes to travel the length of a 30 yard street.

I should be responding with compassion and love, but instead my heart resents the New Orleans folks for being here. I wish they hadn't invaded "my" city. I wish they would leave. The coldness of my heart's response has convicted me greatly, revealing the pervasiveness of sin and judgment that lurks behind a paper-thin veil of holiness.

I can twist a horrifc natural disaster to invite pity and sympathy from others. I can complain about how I have been affected, how I still don't have hot water or running plumbing. I can complain about the traffic, tell the gruesome stories, write my emails and my blogs, and I get the reaction I want. "Oh Matt, that is horrible. I am so sorry for you." My mouth waters over such responses. And yet I look around and see people who have nothing now, whose entire house is gone, together with baby photos, priceless heirlooms, and vehicles. And in comparison, to mope over my inconveniences is wildly confused. There is no escaping the curse of sin, even when hurricanes change life forever.

This is indeed a crisis here. Folks in New Orleans are taking aim and shooting at those trying to rescue them. That boggles my mind. And the fact that my perverted heart swells up with self-righteousness, assuming that I would never do such things, is mind boggling as well. There is another crisis here as well, and that is dealing with the disaster of my own heart, repenting of my self-righteousness and self-absorption, and praying that Jesus would restore and renovate my heart just as the authorities attempt to restore New Orleans. May God be kind to His church by bringing them low and enabling them to love much.

Katrina is a Whore

Two days after Hurricane Katrina hit landfall, I found myself in a car headed for Dallas to catch a redirected flight out to Baltimore, in hopes of making my dear friend Russ and Katherine's wedding. My flight was originally booked out of New Orleans. But that was obviously cancelled.

The wedding was great. I flew back to Dallas. And drove back to Baton Rouge. And just when you think the horrors of this whole ordeal have stopped unfolding, reality proves you wrong yet again.

And that is what is scary. Reality. Watching the images on the news always carries with it an element of surrealness. Or at least of safety. You can watch the images from the comforts of your living room and know that what is going on is miles away and will only affect you economically and surely emotionally. And that element of surrealness and safety quickly vaporated as I drove in past the mile long stretch of military convoys heading into my city. And on the way out was bus after bus after bus after ambulance after ambulance. Things got more somber as we approached.

My driving comrad, Laura, and I stopped just before Baton Rouge to fill up on gas. Port Allen is just on the other side of the river, probably 2 miles from Baton Rouge proper. The gas station was a zoo. Packed to the gills with trucks and military personnel and vans and trailers with families and children running around everywhere. We were notified earlier on the phone from a friend that most gas stations are closed in the area. They have simply run out of gas. And the ones that still have some are packed. It took a friend of ours 45 minutes to get her tank filled. We heard that another woman waited over 2 hours for hers.

And then the reports of the crime increase started hitting our ears. The poverty of New Orleans has directly influxed into Baton Rouge, doubling our entire city population over night. And the poverty and reputation of New Orleans has now been substituted to us in Baton Rouge. We heard on the news of several hold ups in convenience stores already. And with the gaurantee of crime increasing, as well as the gas prices, mixed with the overloaded traffic and all around chaos, you begin to get the feeling that the entire world is unraveling.

As for me, the hurricane has indirectly left me homeless. My roommate works for an energy company that had assigned him to track the telephone poles in the area. Katrina chewed up most of those telephone poles, which meant that the project for my roommate was officially cancelled and they are transferring him to another city in Louisiana. Which means I need to move out this week lest I pay for a whole month of rent by myself. So that process will begin today.

When I first saw the large, red, ominous donut filling the Gulf on those satellite images, I had no idea what it was capable of. I had no clue that it would be this bad, that it would decimate an entire city and its surrounding neighborhoods on the coast line. Down the street from me there is a big dumpster that faces the traffic with a spray painted message on it that reads, "Katrina is a whore." I agree.

Dog Eat Dog

The following is a true story. Unfortunately.

When I was living with my old roommate, he would occasionally "dog sit" for his then girlfriend, now fiancee. The dog was a cute little King Charles Spaniel, white with brown spots. It was sickly and puny, as was mockingly identified in its ironic name. Samson. We had a few good times together. It has since passed away, but that is not why I am writing.

Samson's usual daily schedule was this: wake up early with Benn (my old roommate), enjoy his breakfast, fiddle around the house through the morning, sleep the day away. Most working adults have an opposite schedule. One morning Samson aroused me from my sleep very early in the morning. Very early. I don't recall what I did the night before but I know I was out late and I was intentionally trying to catch up on sleep that morning. Samson wouldn't have it. The house was empty except the two of us and I guess his insecurity drove him to a barking frenzy.

I sat there in bed for a while, hoping that surely he would shut up. He wouldn't. I got up, swung open my door, stomped into the next room and found him sitting there. Barking. At nothing. My fury erupted to the point where there was no chance I was going back to sleep. I picked him up and carried him upstairs, tossing him on Benn's bed, closing the door behind me and set out to start my day. A few hours earlier than intended.

I couldn't work though. I was bent on revenge. I can't believe I honestly did this, but I did. Benn's room is where Samson sleeps, where he enjoys his long, lazy afternoons. And Benn's room is also where the computer and internet is. After breakfast I made my way back upstairs to do some work on the computer and found Samson curled up on the sheets, arousing from a morning nap at my presence. "Wake up." I snapped at him as I sat down at the computer. And what I did for the next few hours was intentionally keep him from sleep. He can't think that he is going to wake me up in the morning and not get away with it. If he is going to cost me sleep, I will cost him his. So I did my work and every now and then I would look over and see if Samson was sleeping. If his eyes were shut, I would shout and wake him. "Don't you dare go to sleep," I threatened. And then back to the computer I went. And I'd look over a few minutes later and his eyes were heavy and nearly closed. "Wake up!" I'd snap again. I think I even went over to him and shook him once. Just to make sure he wasn't catching up on the sleep that he cost me.

I honestly did this. For the rest of the afternoon. A few months later I moved out and then found out about Samson's passing. I can't help but think that at some level I am responsible. I prevented a dog from sleeping for an entire afternoon. And in retrospect, I can hardly fathom I actually did that. But I had my revenge. And it was sweet. And now I enjoy my quiet mornings.

My Friend Clint Rule

I recently returned from the wedding of one Clint Rule and Nicole Powell. They got married August 6th in Edmond, Oklahoma somewhere between one and two o'clock. And as I reflect on the event, my heart gradually swells with happiness and sorrow. You could even say it ebbs and flows with joy and sadness, though I'm not too sure what ebbing means. The ontology of our relationship has changed. A radical shift has occurred. And it is a beautiful thing. A wonderful thing to be thankful for. But the very shift is an ever present reminder that the chapter of our lives where we happened to overlap is now closed. And while there is much reason for celebration about the future, about a life reveled in the wonders of matrimony, there is also much reason to reminisce, to reflect, and to mourn. And to that end I dedicate this blog. To the memories of a single Clint. To the man who was once a member of adolescence. To the man who logged 76 straight hours of conscienceness for the sake of personal experiment. To the man who has stolen my heart. So raise your glasses with me as we explore the man himself, my friend Clint Rule.

Clint Elliot Rule emerged from the dust hole of Elk City, a strange blip on the radar of Western Oklahoma. It was there that his social apathy and surpassed intellect drove him to the uncharted waters of cyberspace. He mastered the internet, enjoying what he grew to understand as the golden era of pirating music, movies, television shows, and anything else you could desire with just a simple download away. I first walked into his dorm room as a junior. He was a freshman. As we acquainted ourselves with each other, I studied his bookshelf, the posters on his wall, and his stacks of CD cases labeled "Seinfeld." A bit confused I asked, "What are all those Seinfeld CDs?" "Episodes," he responded. I was blown away. A huge Seinfeld fan myself, I thought I had mastered the art of gathering them by recording them on VHS tapes, complete with commercials and all. "But how?" "The internet." It was then I knew that we would be great friends. Well, either that or I knew I had to glean everything I could from his brain.

He stood out on the hall for the simple fact that he wore tight, Wrangler bluejeans (has anyone seen Clint wearing anything else?), ratty Thrift store Ts and had rumors hovering around him that he smoked marijuana, courtesy of Steve Harrington. Therefore, I'm not quite sure how we developed our friendship. He was always tucked away in his dorm room, downloading things, typing away on Instant Messenger, listening to obscure music I had never heard of before. Come to think of it, how did he get to know anyone? His schedule nearly overlapped everyone's in those days because he would stay up till breakfast and sleep the day away while the rest of the world conducted business. There were those memorable occasions when he and Russ Edwards played video games through the night and enjoyed breakfast together in the cafeteria when it opened at 7 am.

In time his dorm room became a little haven for the hall. It was dark and cluttered, but cozy and intimate. And it had a couch. And blinds that he hung up over his bottom bunk to guard the invading sunlight. And it smelled funny. It was in that room that he introduced our inexperienced minds to "films." I still remember seeing Requiem for a Dream sitting on that couch of his. And I still have nightmares about that film. He showed us how to record music. He taught us how to evaluate movies. He introduced us to new bands and innovative music. It was in this way that he cultured all of us. Jones House Dormitory became the canvas that he painted, showing all of us a glimpse into our culture and into a reality we had never experienced. And his tutelage was in the little things. Little, strange things I observed from him. The simple idea of carrying around a thought journal. The forgotten genious of using pencils (they have erasers). The brilliance of a little mousse in the hair to make it "crunchy," as he called it.

The Dorm years were an amazing time for me. My relationship with Clint grew and strengthened with such silly and stupid events. We raided Norman for free pizza together. We attacked fraternities with water balloons and carried out a 15-man toilet paper heist on a sorority together. We lounged in hot tubs with Taco Bell while it was snowing. We performed on stages together in front of hundreds and thousands. We've chunked water balloons at cows before. I've seen him through E. coli poisoning, a busted head, a broken heart, below freezing rivers, Blake's unbearable snoring, two full length albums, uncountable regrettable nights, and the time he puiked immediately after kissing a girl. I shared a room with him at the infamous Crested Butte where we watched Seinfeld and Family Guy in our beds together with sack fulls of Taco Bell every night. There were several nights where he actually read me to sleep from the book of John (not lying).

He's Clint Rule. He eats very slowly. He was very hostile in the first book discussion group I led. He eats frozen fish sticks and corndogs. He is committed to truth, love and service. He knows how to enjoy himself. He has consumed more allergy medicine than he has milkshakes. And now he is married. And so in sad way the Clint we have all known is gone forever. It will be a rare day indeed that I throw another water balloon at a cow or a frat guy with him. I will most likely never steal and roll a pumpkin with him racing down country roads in his Volkswagen van at 60 mph again. I will probably never step foot into the slaughterhouse with him hiding on the second floor. But in a strange way, that is probably a good thing. And we all look forward to getting to know Married Clint. A Clint that will pay bills. A Clint that will be known as "husband" and someday "father." A Clint that will mow the grass and clean the gutters and change the oil and take out the trash and use words like "mortgage" and "insurance" and "rates." This is the Clint that I very much look forward to getting to know. And if I have that privilege 30 years from now, I will be greatly blessed.

Nicole, I hope you like Taco Bell.

Flight of the Bumblebee

In three hours from now I will be on a plane, how ever many thousands of feet in the air heading for Dallas.

And I am terrified.

I have posted before about my fear of flying. It's actually a fear of heights. Or even more actually, a fear of falling. The other day I went over to the Baton Rouge capital, a 27 story-phallic-like-goverment-building, and I couldn't take the elevator to the top. My heart began to race. My stomach began to turn in on itself. I had to wait at the bottom.

And as far as I can remember, this has only been a recent phobia. I loved roller coasters growing up. I wanted to bungie jump and sky dive. But now there is no monetary amount that would kick up the desire to do it. There is nothing you could do to persuade me. I will be called derogatory names. My character will be defamed. I am ok with that. I will take my insults and wait at the bottom where the farthest distance I may fall is 6 feet.

The thing that I am so upset about is that I developed this phobia so young. I am going to have to travel throughout my life; I would love to get back to Europe sometime; and today is not the last time I am going to be in a plane. I wish it would have come later in life, you know, when you're worthless and don't do anything. But I have my whole life ahead of me. And the most convenient way to get around (for some reason) is thousands of feet in the air. Maybe, and I'll keep praying, they will invent some other form of transportation to where if something goes wrong, there isn't 3 thousand feet between you and the earth. Maybe.

One other thing. As I have been saying bye to people today, they usually say "Have a good flight" or something of that nature. They are commanding me to have a good flight. I always say "thanks" but I want to ask "How in the world am I supposed to insure that I have a good flight?" There is nothing I can do. I just sit there and hope that the pilot knows what in the world he's doing. My life is in his hands. The only way for me to insure having a good flight is not getting up and going into the cockpit. Maybe that is what people mean when they say that. "Hey Matt, don't get out of your seat and bug the pilot. Have a good flight. Not a bad one." Maybe they should say, "Hey Matt, I hope the pilot has a good flight." That would make more sense. He is the one behind all the little buttons and switches and levers. I'm in the back trying to read, trying not to look out the window, and going back and forth between my decision for Sprite or Coke (sometimes I read SkyMall catelog).

So into the wild blue yonder I go. If you read this before 6 o'clock today, pray for my sanity.

Inquiries and Injuries

When you have cooked a frozen pizza in the oven and you pull it out and begin to divide it up into slices, and the knife blade happens to land directly on one of those round, mine-like pepperoni's, do you try and cut through the pepperoni, or scoot it over a little bit and keep cutting on your original path?

When your downstairs neighbors are throwing a kegger (like right now) and you are trying to go to sleep (like right now), do you put in earplugs, go down stairs and tell them to be quiet, join them in their late night activities, or default to updating your obnoxiously self-preoccupied blog site?

When stray dogs, cute ones at that, approach you, do you pet them or avoid them?

Minesweeper or Solitaire?

What does RSVP stand for? Honestly.

Do you pronounce it envelope or on-velope?

Has anyone ever read "A Dream to Squish By" by Michel Alexus? And if so, how was it?

When your downstairs neighbors are throwing a kegger and you are trying to go to sleep do you throw groceries down at them from your second floor window, do you call the cops, do you walk outside naked, or do you meander through the crowd asking them if anyone has read "A Dream to Squish By" by Michel Alexus?

Would you ever remove belly button lint in public?

Is there any other toast or bread product named after a state besides Texas? Michigan Muffins?

In an apartment with two guys, one of them purchases a 24-roll package of toilet paper for the apartment. It was out of necessity. But what if they are planning on moving out in a few weeks and the bulk of the toilet paper remains. Does the one who purchased it take it with him? Do they divide it up? If so, who gets to keep the plastic, cellophane like wrapping it came in? Do they split it evenly? Does the one who bought it get to keep more?

Someone make them stop.

Poo Poo and Sex Sex

So I'm at a gas station, using the potty, you know, the old number 2. Not the number 1. Number 1 is wee wee. Just like how the number one starts with a "w" sound. Wwww-one. Wwwww-ee wee. But not that. Well, that's not entirely true. A little bit of 1. A little bit of 2. Thankfully no 3. Here's a way to remember this numeric code in case I reference these numbers again. 1 - wee wee (think of the w sound.) 2 - rhymes with poo (number 2 is poo). 3 - squish.

So I'm at a gas station, using the potty, you know, the old number 2 (see legend above). I take a gander (goose) at the stall wall. I read a few of the entries, you know, the correct phone number to dial in case I feel led to have a good time. There were some racial threats on there (I was in Mississippi). There was some dirt on some poor girl named Amelia. And a whole bulk of sexual profanity I will spare you of.

Which leads me to a question - In such a disgusting context, why is the first thing the graffiti (spelling?) artist usually thinks of is sex and the escapades thereof? Nasty, revolting, pee-drenched, half-flushed, mustard-stained-toilet-bowl, fecal-fuming bathrooms do not begin evoking desires to think of, much less document, my sexual fantasies and/or invitations. I just don't get it. It's like carving the words "Who wants some vinegar?" at an oil plant. Plain and simple. It just doesn't make sense.

On the subject of bathrooms, I happened to be in Atlanta this past week and found myself dining at The Varsity, which if you don't know, is a famous old, fast-food like diner joint. The place is huge and old, spread out with like 30 cash registers with each one being manned by a black woman shouting "what'll ya have?" This is a glorified fast food place. Burgers, hotdogs, cokes, shakes, bla bla bla. This is not the point of my entry.

The point is that I went into the bathroom, again with the need to effectually accomplish a number 2 (see legend above). There was only one problem though. The stalls had no doors. There were two walls, sure, but no door. Which, if you think about it, is really the most important part of the bathroom stall. The door. But there were none. And my little situation was not going away anytime soon. So there I find myself, sitting there with my pants around my ankles, out there and exposed for the perpetually revolving incomers to see. I might as well been sitting there in the middle of the room with no walls around me. I have never squeezed and wrenched so hard to speed up the process. Had I used the bathroom after my disgustingly, greasy, deep fried double cheeseburger with french fries, the whole thing would have taken about 4 seconds. But it would have been a much louder exodus.

I think I was in too big of a hurry because I didn't even take note of the nearby engraved sexual invitations and the relevant phone numbers to dial were I to be so inclined. Good thing I wrote down that number from the Mississippi gas station, were I to find myself interesting in needing a "good time."

Lies, The Homeless, and All Around Conviction

The other day I lied to a homeless man. And he caught me. He caught me lying. The story:

I live right on the edge of where Baton Rouge ghetto evolves into Baton Rouge hippieville (I know, what a corney name, but I could think of nothing else). I live in poverty. It is not uncommon to get asked by meandering homeless for change. Not uncommon = every day. At first I felt the pressure, I would fish around in my pockets and whatever I had I would give them. "God bless, man. Thank you so much. God bless." And I would feel pretty damn good about myself.

And then the next day they'd ask again. And I didn't quite feel like giving up my money. Especially when they are holding a nalgene bottle half-filled with dark liquid with a foamy head on it.

Side-story: I once walked out of a restaurant close to campus holding a to-go box of my leftover red beans and rice. A homeless man approached, rather staggered. "Hey, can I get some change for something to eat." And here I was holding something to eat. "I don't have any change, but here is something to eat."

"What is it?"

"Red beans and rice." I opened it to reveal the still-warm pile of food.

"Naw, I don't eat red beans and rice." He turned down the offer for free food. I thought beggars weren't supposed to be choosers. He went on to tell me a few other items that he doesn't eat like speghetti and creamed corn. I told him, "I guess you aren't that hungry then."

This raises a whole series of questions concerning the ethics of how to deal with the homeless when they are asking you for your money. Do you give it to them regardless? Is it your responsibility to know what they are going to do with the money? Should we not give it if we know we are contributing to unhealthy habits of theirs? Or is that not even an issue - as if we can hold out our money only if we are assured they are going to use it in the way that we want them to?

I have chosen not to give any more change to the homeless. And I stopped saying that I didn't have any when I knew that I did. I started saying, "I'm sorry, I can't help you."

But the other day, I didn't say that. I got into my car, which was parked out behind this coffee shop I frequent (the very coffee shop I am writing this from now). I got in, started it and was approached by a homeless man (wearing a gold necklace by the way). "Hey can I get some change?"

"Sorry, I don't have any."

Then he looked down at my console and saw the plastic cup that I have in there filled with change. Filled. He pointed at it with a sense of betrayal and questioned, "What's that then?"

I glanced down at it, shot a look back up to him and uttered out an apology and drove away as quickly as I could. And the conviction lingered with me for days. It still does. Because after all, here I am writing about it.

I think the best solution is to ask them for change before they can ask you. This turns the tables a bit. I'd like to see them squirm for an appropriate response for once. What would they say? Would they lie? You know they have change. Would they say they didn't? Would they say, "Sorry, I can't help you?" Would they simply laugh? Or would they actually give some of it up?

Maybe I could learn to live off of other people's pocket change. Heaven knows they do. And they still find extra money for gold necklaces, cigarettes, beer, magic markers (to write on their little cardboard signs), and food preferences. This doesn't seem too bad at all.

Real Reality

Everyone has heard the expression. You've no doubt used it yourself. You hear it come out in extreme circumstances or when you're watching something unbelievable on the news. It was used often to describe the images of the planes crashing into the Twin Towers. You might now know what I'm getting at. The expression is, "It looks just like the movies."

A few months back I had a student pick me up from the airport in New Orleans. On our way back to Baton Rouge I told him to be careful with his speed as I know cops like to lurk around curves. He slowed down and sure enough, as we rounded the corner, there sat a perched police officer. Thankful that I warned him and a bit baffled at my prediction, he used the expression. "Man, it was just like the movies."

Here is my problem with that expression. Media images have so saturated our culture and swallowed our perception of reality that we now appeal to them as the standard. Movies are more real to us than reality and so when we encounter something in our real experience, we compare it to what we know best - the movies. We know movies better than we do our own experience. We are more in tune with fantasy than we are with reality.

Does anyone else see the problem here? Movies are supposed to reflect reality, not replace it. When we see explosions on the big screen, we should say, "That looked just like 9-11." Not the other way around. When we see relationships either crumble or piece back together on film, we should note how that reminds us of our own experience. See, we have replaced our normal, every day encounters of life with the more exciting pseudo-reality of movies.

Real life is more exciting than the movies anyway. There is never going to be anything "ordinary" on the big screen. You'll never watch someone sleeping (well, unless you rent Andy Warhol's 8 hour long film entitled "Sleeping"). You'll never watch someone take the pebble out of their shoe. Or show the whole 30 minute long segment it takes to drive to work. Real life involves real people with real emotions and real experiences. It is simply a shame that we evaluate our experiences through the lens of fiction, and not reality.

This blog post was just like a novel.

Existence is Expensive

Have you ever considered what it costs just to be alive? Ponder with me.

You have to eat. That means you have to buy food. They come in packages that must be discarded in a trashcan. So you have to buy a trashcan. And trash bags. And then you have to pay the city to come by and get it. But let's say you decide to toss your trash on the ground instead, you know, bypass the expenses of cans, bags, and city. Well, if you litter, and you get caught, you still have to give up some cheese.

And on the other end - you have to pay for the water in the toilet to carry away the leftovers.

What about hygiene? What must you buy just to be clean? Soap. Wash cloths. Comb. More water bills. If you are like me, then a loufa. Shampoo. Towels. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Floss. You could blow a budget in the hygiene arena alone.

So let's say you get a job. How are you going to get there? Well, you got to get a car. And then gas. And insurance. And oil changes. And inspections. You even have to pay for the roads that you drive on.
So you decide to go public transit instead. Well, bus' require tickets. Tickets require more money.

And after work you have to go home. Home. Those cost money too. If you are like me then you have rent and utilities. I don't pay housenotes yet. But housenotes are just adult code language for "more money." Not to mention repairs, light bulbs, brooms, dust pans, vacuums, dusters, cleaning supplies for the bathroom (I don't have any of these), and all the money it will take for you to fill it with furnature, kitchen gear, and pictures and frames for the walls.

Now, you can't walk around naked. You have to get at least a shirt and pants. But not just one pair of pants. You have to buy an extra pair of shorts and wear these UNDER the pants. Why we do this, I don't know. I think it is like Halmark holidays, they are made up just so that we can shell out more cash. Don't get me wrong, I wear underwear, I just don't know why I do.

Besides, every step you take ruffles the threads in your clothes, creating a nonstop wear and tear which will inevitably force you to buy more. Buying more = giving away more money.

We Americans like our entertainment. This usually doesn't come free. Movies. Video games. TV shows. Internet. Laptops. Board games. Musicals. Sporting events. Bars even make you give up a few bucks to play pool.

And on and on I could go. I could get into alcohol or cigarettes, whatever tickles your fancy. I could get into books or magazines. Or coffee. Or even paper. Believe it or not, I could go on and on, but I will spare us all. It is clear though - every thing you do costs money. Every breath you pull in can be calculated as an expense. Every step you take could be factored into your budget (especially if you are on the envelope system). But there are a few things I have discovered that come free. I will impart my knowledge on you at this time:

THINGS THAT ARE FREE

1. Staring. You can stare at anything really. Except the sun. And then this activity will cost you a great amount of money.

2. Eating trash. People go to Denny's. Don't finish their meal. Get up and leave. I'm talking free mashed potatos and left over chicken fingers. All for the cost of your pride.

3. Checking the time. This activity can be fun in high school. And as long as it isn't a watch or clock you bought, it is a free activity.

4. Drinking water from a water fountain at a public library. In a strange way, I feel that this does not come free. Somehow taxes are funding that water. I don't know about this one.

5. Any number of gerunds come free. Squeezing, pulling, begging, walking, rummaging, stalking, plundering, ripping, tearing, sliding, sitting, resting, climbing, panhandling, squeezing. The list is almost endless, except for the end of it. There is also squeezing.

6. Having a blog. Go to the public library with free internet access. Get you a blog. They're free and quite fun. You get to indulge yourself in your own thoughts and then sit and wait for attention and approval by way of "comments."

If anyone else can think of free activities and/or items of use, it would indeed be appreciated, as I am committing myself to a frugal life of frugality.

Poison Ivy Five: Independence Day

While the country celebrates our liberation from Britain, I celebrated the liberation of my poison ivy. Almost two weeks of sleep-interupting, skin-crawling, lotion-rubbing, pill-popping mania. And so today I will light my sparklers, I will eat my watermelon, I will enjoy my hamburger, because it is Independence Day - and I have been freed from the tyranny of poison ivy.

And as I celebrate (by myself) I wonder if the country even considers Britain as it enjoys its day of independence. Do we even care that we are no longer bound to Britain? I think we'd rather be under their rule, actually. They have influenced our pop culture more than we care to give them credit for. They do produce some fine foods (London Broil comes to mind). They even invented our language. We have much to thank them for. So why must we celebrate our departure?

I can't help but think that Britain is a bit resentful of this national holiday. If I were a Brit, I'd think that this day is one big middle finger directed at the UK. We take off work, we get an extra long weekend, we drink ourselves sick, we eat ourselves sicker, we watch fire works, we bathe in the glory of our freedom from Britain. They stand by across the ocean and overhear the laughter of our triumph. I would hate Independence Day, were I British.

A few interesting questions to ponder in light of our holiday:

What must we do with Romans 13 and the call to submit and obey our civil authorities?
What is the difference between fighting for our independence and all-out treason and rebellion?
Isn't freedom just a patriotically cloaked idol of our country? Freedom is autonomy, both of which don't exist. Furthermore, the ideas of freedom being disconnected from God and self-reliance are clearly revealed in Scripture as odiously sinful.
So what do we do if we consider Independece Day to be a glorified terrorist attack on the UK?

I have no clue. I'm not suggesting we stay inside while all the pagans celebrate. Heck, I'll be celebrating. And I'll be saying "heck" a great deal. But of course, my celebration will be for something much grander than our country's liberation from the Brits, it will be for the restoration of my skin.

Thus concludes the poison ivy saga. May that God-forsaken plant rot in hell forever.

Poison Ivy Four: Annoyance

Day 9. My entire body looks like this guy's arms. And how I wish I looked this like guy.

The worst thing about poison ivy is that it impairs sleep. Last night I was up till 3:30 scratching. I eventually poured myself a glass of bourbon (not joking) in hopes that my senses would dull long enough for me to go to sleep. This monster is unbearably miserable.

I was outside the other day talking with some students. We were lounging around on some lawn chairs that sit outside of my house on this little patio looking thing. Keep in mind that I'm covered in reddish, itchy bubbles.

Here is my question - What happens to mosquitos when bite poison ivy victims? They are sticking their little needle-like mouths directly into poison-filled puss bubbles. They are swallowing the poison ivy oil. Does this mean they get it? Do their tiny throats get encrusted with itchy bumps? Or do they get it on their outer body? Their wings? Their legs? Or are they immune to it?

While we were outside talking we saw a slug making his way from one side of the patio to the other. This is simply a sidenote but what a terrible and unfortunate insect. It has no protection. At least a snail can scurry up into its shell. A slug has nothing. It is just out there and exposed for all. It moves about as slow as my mother drives and it has no means for protection. No exoskeleton. No claws or teeth. Nothing. It is worthless and completely unable to protect itself. Even salt kills it. Salt. If salt kills it, it stands no chance in the food chain. These are my thoughts on slugs. Back to the lecture at hand (perfection is perfected so I'm a let 'em understand, from a young g's perspective).

Poison Ivy is diabolical enough to have a Batman villian named after it.

Poison Ivy is hazardous enough to have "poison" in its title.

Poison Ivy is kind enough to not discriminate. It will poison anything and any body.

Poison Ivy is dominating and ruining my life as we speak (or type (or read)).

Poison Eye Vee Three Vee

Day 7 with the plague. This is sort of what my face used to look like. Except imagine only one of my eyes looking like this guy's left eye. Mutant is the only word that comes to mind. It is looking a bit better. The large puss-filled bubbles seem to be deflating a bit. The bright redness isn't as sharp to the eye. Or maybe perhaps I am just getting used to it. I am running out of medicine though. So this thing better clear up soon.

Poison Ivy makes your skin tough and leathery. Does that go away when the rash does? I want my body to be back to normal, you know, smooth and silky like. I don't like this tough, bubbly, red, leather parasite that covers me. There is more red bumpy spots on me than there is skin. If you skinned me and laid out all of my skin, separating the infected areas from the healthy areas, the infected pile would be much larger. I'd like to go through with the skinning and the separating. That sort of reminds me of Silence of the Lambs. The antagonist makes a skin suit from the remains of his murder victims. I bet he would be frustrated if his skin suit had poison ivy all over it. I wouldn't wear it if that were the case. The lambs would indeed be silent.

I must admit, I was dishonest with my last post. I wrote about how it was "my" idea to write a series on my ongoing experience with the poison ivy plague. This was not the case. There was nothing "my" about it. The idea originated with one of my friends/students here named Eric Bellard. Perhaps you know him. If you don't, you should. This paragraph was intended to give credit where credit is due. Credit is due to Eric Bellard. Not "my."

So I went to the doctor last week. I'm in the back, sitting on the little bed-like thing with the paper. The nurse comes in and does her thing. Checks my pulse. Blood pressure stuff. Then she sits down and asks me some questions as she writes it on her little form there.

"Are you currently taking any medication."

"No."

"Let's see, I have you down as taking an inhaler for your asthma. You using that?"

"As needed."

"Are you allergic to anything?"

She asked if I was allergic to anything. My entire body looks like it vomited up on itself. My eye looks like I got pelted with a bean bag, that is, a heavy bag of beans.

"Yes, I'm allergic to poison ivy."

Poison I.V. Part Deaux

I'm on day 5 with the poison ivy. Day 5. That is five days of looking like an ogre and feeling like my skin is crawling. I made a decision. My decision was this - I am going to write a blog about my thoughts/hatred for poison ivy until it goes away. This is part two of the series. I will keep you informed of my progress.

I was with a student the other night and we were looking at my arms, which currently resemble more of a pepperoni casserole than they do real arms. Ok, so there might not be pepperoni casserole but you can imagine. He said that a friend of his bound up some poison ivy with other foilage for a bonfire. You've seen people do this before. It is like burning trash. You've seen it. Trust me. So the guy burns it. And he inhales the fumes from the oil from the poison ivy. And his throat breaks out and swells up. He can't breathe. He is rushed to the emergency room.

OK, so what is up with this f&#^in' plant? It is determined to harm any and everyone in its wake. But of course, its crappy defense mechanism doesn't work until a few days later. One bright commenter (Luke) wrote that its defense mechanism is for the corporate plant at large. You know, like maybe you won't mess with its brothers and sisters. This is complete nonsense. For now I have more of a desire than I had before to kill them. The rage that boils with every scratch is directed toward the living counterparts of this diabolical plant. It must die. It must.

And here's the thing, I wasn't intentionally messing with it in the first place. I was doing some yard work around my house to pull down the vines that are growing up on the walls. I wasn't out to get it. It was just there, mixed in with the vines and weeds I was removing. And it unleashed its wrath on me. And I have been in pain for days. Pain. Not to mention the fact that I look like a freak. I am a mutant freak. My swollen eye has gone down some, only to give rise to the thousands of red bumps all over my arms, legs, and stomach. And now the red bumps are mutating into puss filled bubbles.

It really looks like something out of a horror film.

My vow to you: Destroy all poison ivy from here on.

Poison Eye Vee

I have poison ivy right now. It is all over me. My neck. My legs. My arms. My stomach. Behind my ears. It has even made its way onto areas of my body that I will not mention explicitly. But oh, you can imagine.

But that is not the worst of it. The worst is that I woke up this morning with my left eye swollen shut. No lie. It turns out that if you have poison ivy, you shouldn't rub your eyes. This much should have been obvious to me. But it wasn't. And now I must go to the doctor for a cortozon shot. This will happen in about an hour. But until then I will look like a mutant.

The itch is killing me. It is so enticing. I scratch it and it feels unbelievable. Seriously. To scratch a poison ivy itch is unbelievably orgasmic. But then when you stop scratching, the itch doubles up its intensity. And it makes you pay if you choose not to scratch it again. I have been writhing for the past 30 minutes. Writhing. My skin is crawling. My skin is burning. I must scratch it. I must. But I shalln't.

And don't forget about my ogre-like eye. I wish I had a picture to post. I look like Egor off of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I'm hideous. I haven't left my apartment all day. But I will soon. One more hour. And then the cortozon shot. All I know is, this thing better work.

I've never been so pissed at a plant before in my life.

OK, help me out people. I don't understand this freakin plant. So it has this poisonous oil on its leaves that acts as a defense mechanism. It is supposed to keep predators at bay. But it only really works about 2 days too late. The predator has already killed the plant. The poison on Poison Ivy doesn't stop you from killing it or stepping on it or carrying out whatever threats it feels endangered from. It is like having a can of mace that doesn't work until a week later. The thief already has your purse. Who cares about it 2 days later? I don't understand this plant. It has a crappy defense mechanism. And believe me, it is not stopping me from messing with them again. I will put on gloves and long sleeves next time. And I will pull them from the ground by their roots. And I will enjoy tearing them to pieces, bit by bit. I will laugh. Yes I will laugh.

But for now, I will scratch.

My Friend Brent Corbin

For those of you who do not know Brent Corbin, you are surely unfortunate. Brent is the most intriguing, most interesting, most puzzling person I think I have ever met. One day I want to write a book about him. But for now, a blog will suffice.

Corbs is from small town Duncan, Oklahoma, where he was indoctrinated early on with the teachings of a local Bible Church. This is where he learned to close his eyes and lift his hands to such songs as "Brokenness, Brokenness is what I long for; Brokenness is what I need." He also sang other Christian classics like Heart of Worship, Shout to the Lord, and Sanctuary. He was indeed going back to the heart of worship and it's all about You, it's all about You Jesus.

Brent Corbin is physically attractive, personally disarming, fun to be around, and incredibly bright. To list a few of his accomplishments, he has been in the Presidents Leadership Class, Sooner Scouts, the Mortar Board, the Crimson Club, Campus Activities Council, Student Alumni Board, and the Beta Gamm Sigma Honor Society. He is a ConocoPhillips Scholar, a Kenneth and Juliet Woodward Memorial Scholar, a Valedictorians Scholar, an Oklahoma Scholar, and was voted by his peers into the Top Ten for his Freshman, Sophomore, and Junior year. Think about it. He was one of the top ten, which was taken from a pool of thousands of other contestants. I'm not sure what qualifies one as being a "Top Ten" but he received it. Three times. He was the Vice President of his fraternity, Brothers Under Christ. (BYX was his second fraternity experience. He dropped out of Pi Kappa Phi after his freshman year. Reasons are still pending.)

He is muscular in his build and he cares about his appearance. In college he shaved his chest. He might have even shaved his legs, I can't remember. I wouldn't suprise me if he did. He owns products for his face and hair that I have never heard of, nor could ever afford. And he's gone tanning.

And of course, the ladies love him. But not more than he loves them. With his looks and personality, he had his pick of the litter in small town Duncan. Going out with girls was like taking out the trash, you need to do it a few times a week. The pattern continued into college and beyond.

The stats alone are mind boggling. How does one not develop a sense of pride with that report card? How does one not drown in self-absorption with those credentials? I'm not suggesting that he suffers from such vices. I'm simply alerting my reading audience to its hightened potential with such statistics.

His thoughts shifted in college from the dispensational sensationalism of the nondenominational Bible Church to the theologically rigorous Calvinism of the Presbyterian Church. And so shifted his targets for relationships. But this also provided new and interesting reasons to break up with girls. In the past, a common reason he would break up would be "God told me we shouldn't be together" or "I just feel like I can grow more spiritually on my own." Now, his break up reasons are "because you don't affirm paedobaptism" or "because you want to be something other than a mother of 8 children."

Brent Corbin is an amazing walking paradox. Seriously. He is the funniest person I know. And he frustrates me more than anyone else. He has all the reasons to be prideful and self-absorbed and he is constantly acknowledging his insecurities and failures. He lives out the synthesis of Romans 7 and 8 fully and honestly, tiptoing on the tight rope of his own sin and the assurance of God's forgiveness. People are attracted to him for a reason. He is a screw up. But he knows it. And God's glory is trumpeted as a result.

I have no doubt ragged on Corbin through this blog more than was probably appropriate. And there is more to rag on that will be left unmentioned. But as I close, allow me to reinforce my absolute adoration of him. He is a walking reminder to me of God's grace, that God is kind to those who distort and ruin life. He shows me this because he understands his ability to sin and he knows the free grace of a King who pardons him despite him. He tells the greatest and funniest stories because they are usually at his expense. He is the easiest person to laugh with because he knows how to laugh at himself. He is indeed a clay pot that the Great Potter is sculpting; dry and cracked and seemingly falling apart and yet being shaped into someone who exalts God's work because of his awareness of what God is actually working with.

He is a screwed up, corrupted, perverted, arrogant, beautiful, humble, faithful, faithless, pure, manipulative, honest person who has been redeemed and is being redeemed by grace. He is my dear friend Brent Corbin. And you should get to know him.