Onions + Fun = Geometrical Madness

I can't think of anything more repulsive than the thought of eating onion flavored, deep fried snack chips. But that is exactly what Funyuns are. Why in the world would anyone want to eat onions, raw and by themselves (by the handfull) as a mid-day snack? I went to the Funyuns website and they have this paragraph included to describe this zany product:

"Funyuns Onion Flavored Rings are a deliciously different snack that is fun to eat. These playful rings have a crisp texture and are packed full of zesty onion flavor. Next time you're in the mood for a snack that's out of the ordinary, try Funyuns Onion Flavored Rings."

Oh, I see. Please forgive me, Funyun people. I didn't realize that Funyuns were "fun to eat" and "playful." I wasn't thinking about them as entertainment. I was only thinking about how gross it is to eat crispy, zesty deep fried onions at 3 in the afternoon.

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Off brand, generic, non-name brand cereals always entertain me. They usually don't come in boxes, but bags. They have a different cartoon mascot. They usually taste a hint different. But other than that - the exact same. Well, of course for the names. And that is the best part. You want Apple Jacks but can't afford them - just go with Apple Zings. You want Corn Pops but don't want to shell out $5 a box - go with a bag of Corn Bursts. Can't keep up with Golden Grahams? Go with Honey Graham Squares. Now, I have not made up any of these fake names. I promise. Go to malt-o-meal's website and see for yourself. Other wonderful off-brand names of comedy include: Scooters (Cheap Cheerios), Cocoa Roos (Cheap Cocoa Puffs), Cinnamon Toasters (Cheap Cinnamon Toast Crunch). Malt-o-Meal started it all by my observation and other companies have hopped on the bandwagon - exploiting well-known cereals by making them the exact same, giving them an extremely similiar name, but putting them in a bag. Kathryn came home from the grocery store the other day with Food Lion's generic brand of Crispix, and get this, the name was Crispy Hexagons. I am not lying. I am looking at the box right now. Crispy Hexagons. What in the world kind of name is that? Is there any ounce of creativity involved? At least with "Apple Zings" you get a small dose of imagination and creativity. But Crispy Hexagons? That is just telling us at the most basic metaphysical level what it is. How will that sell on the same shelf with intriguing and ominous Count Chocula? Or adventurous and exciting Fruit Loops?

Crispy Hexagons? Good grief. I wonder what their name is for their fake Cheerios? Crunchy Round Things with a Hole In It? What about their version of Fruit Loops? Fruity, Crunchy Round Things with a Hole In It? What about their fake version of Frosted Flakes? White-Sugar Dusted Wheat Leaves? Give me a break. Crispy Hexagons? A second grader could come up with that name. Actually, now that I think about it...do second graders even know what Hexagons are? Just who is this cereal appealing to? The geometrical elite? The educated upper-class? But then you have to think, if they are going after the Wall Street Fat Cats, they have to know that these big wigs aren't shopping at Food Lion nor are they interested in generic-brand cereals. Quite a delimma these Crispy Hexagon people have.

Deck the Stalls

I can't believe I was tricked for so many years. With every passing Christmas, I honestly thought that an obese, bearded caucasian broke into my house not to steal stuff but to leave stuff. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have not seen through all the clues? Looking back, I at least thought I was capable of making sense of things, of deducing truth from the information I was given. But I guess not. Aside from the obvious indications that this whole Santa thing isn't true (you know, the claim that one man could single-handedly visit EVERY Christmas-celebrating house in the world in one lone night...not to mention that an obese individual would chose to enter into a house through the chimney), I have since had time to see more clearly.

Let's start with the whole cookies and milk thing. You know the scoop, before the kids go to their bedrooms, they leave out some cookies and milk for Santa and when they wake up in the morning they discover only some crumbs and a milk-film-lined empty class. If Santa has broken into your house to leave some goodies for you, he isn't going to waste his time with a couple of stale cookies and a luke-warm glass of milk. No, he would go INTO THE KITCHEN and find the good stuff. Ice cream, cake, maker's mark, wheat thins, I don't know, whatever Santa enjoys. Why fill up stomach space with meager cookies when you have access to the entire pantry?

Then you got the chimney entrance thing. Aside from the obvious (chimney - thin, Santa - fat), most people will have their chimneys going in wintery December, you know, flaming hot. Santa should know this. It is cold in December (except in Baton Rouge). Fires will be going. He should instead enter through the air conditioning unit. No one will be using that. But the burning, flaming fire place? Come now.

And of course you have the ongoing "e" debate. You are familiar with this - Is Clause spelled with an "e" at the end or not. There is no consensus on this. Some spell it Claus. Others Clause. And this is excluding the wonderful movie trilogy starring Tim Allen. What are children to do with this?

Down south (in Mexico) the folks there don't use a Bible. They use Santa's Bible. They honestly think Santa was the author. Ever seen one of their Bibles? It is titled "Santa Biblia." I guess that means Santa's Bible. This is just one more proof that the whole Santa thing has evolved to out of control proportions.

All in all, it is obvious to see that this whole Santa thing is a farce. And everyone has been tricked. We simply bought into it all wholesale. Speaking for myself, I must have been caught up in Santa's jolliness. It is obvious to see why Santa would be so jolly. He does nothing for an entire year. He sits bak and digests, I suppose, and lets his army of elven slaves build his products. Then he works one night out of the year. One 12 hour shift and the rest of the year is vacation. Not to mention that one 12 hour shift is littered with "milk and cookies" (translation: cake, bourbon, wheat thins, etc.) And let's not forget about that sweet red and white suit of his. Anyone would be jolly (or merry) to be rocking that. You know Santa is riding dirty. But even his jollity or merriness will convince me anew. I am forever scarred. And scared.

Milk Malaise Explained

In case you read the previous post "Milk Mania", but failed to read the comments, this blog post is for you. If you failed to read the previous post "Milk Mania," this blog post will make absolutely no sense to you. Either way, do enjoy. Here is a note from my unnamed friend (Dave Kulp) who was responsible for putting us in the milk malaise.

Matt,
Okay...here is the deal...Have you ever seen a movie where someone is on government food stamps? I always wondered what kind of stamps they were do you send away for free cheese or what? Or maybe you listen to the rap stylings of the roots who speak of "toast in the oven with government cheese bubblin." Now I like cheese as much as if not more than the next guy...and what is not to like about free cheese. So...A question I have had for most of my life is how does one gain cheese through the current government system...Where can i get said stamps...The Post office never seems to understand my request for a roll of the stamps that get me the free cheddar.
Recently we found out the deal. Becasue of the lack of money i am making by being a student we are now on WIC through which we recieve food stamps. We have come to find out that they are not stamps at all! They are more like coupons, and each coupon lists exactly what you can get free...Basically they take care of Baby formula, eggs, juice, peanut butter, MILK, and yes CHEESE!!!! Jackpot! Last month we were away from home for 10 days, then upon returning we had just bought milk (duh!) so our milk coupons were stacked up and had to be used before expiration. Thus the visit from the Milk Fairy. We got the free milk and passed along that which had been purchased through poor planning on my part!
Just so you know at all times we have 2 gallons in our fridge. 1=Whole milk for Benno, and then a 2% for Celia. Things get really nuts when Mary buys Skim for herself. When that happens basically the whole top shelf in the fridge is lactose...What a wild world...Thank God for Government cheese.
Sincerely,
Dave

Milk Mania

It was last Tuesday, I believe, though the exact day is rather inconsequential. We had just returned from the grocery store (Food Lion - which is a somewhat scary image if you think about it) and we were loading up the various items in their respected places in the kitchen. One of those various items was a gallon of 1% milk. We were in need of milk, obviously, so we stocked up. A whole, fresh gallon of pure, snow-white, liquid lactose awaited us.

Later that afternoon, a friend of ours stopped by the apartment. This is a friend that I will not name (Dave Kulp). He (being Dave Kulp) had too many milk gallons himself for some reason, and basically dropped a fresh, unopened gallon (skim milk) on our doorstep. Refusing to deny anything free, I brought it inside and placed it in its new home - right next to the other unopened gallon of milk.

So now Kathryn and I have a big problem on our hands. All of this milk must be taken out before the expiration date. The countdown had begun. Sweat beaded on our foreheads. Everything suddenly got tense. It was like a domestic version of 24.

We first made instant pudding, knowing that pudding used a good bit of milk in it. It required two cups - barely denting one of the gallons. We started eating cereal for breakfast (I normally eat a bagel). I would come home for lunch and have a glass of milk with lunch, something I don't think I have ever done in my life - but have certainly seen this done on television for macaroni and cheese commercials (and I think, Home Alone as well). Needless to say, it was not a pleasant experience. Chalky, thick milk and mustardy turkey sandwiches with jalepenos on them is not a good mixture. Moving on...Every night after dinner we would enjoy some cookies or cake or whatever baked goods were around the house with a tall glass of milk. We had two sets of friends over - and we both offered our guests as much cereal as they wanted in the morning as well as the offer to top off their pint of milk throughout the afternoon. We have done everything possible to get rid of this milk. And as I type this, in the fridge still sits two towering gallons of milk, each half-empty.

Now as I think about this, said friend above (Dave Kulp) could have been doing the exact same thing we are. He, for whatever reason, had acquired too much milk. Perhaps one of his friends dropped off a free gallon and my friend (Dave Kulp) was smart enough to know he couldn't possibly pound down two gallons in a week and a half, so he just kept passing along this orphan gallon of milk. And perhaps the guy who passed on the gallon to my friend (Dave Kulp), had the milk passed along to him as well. This gallon of milk could have theoretically been passed all over the larger Charlotte metroplex, concluding its journey with its arrival at my doorstep - and I was the only one stupid enough to take it in and break its blue, plastic seal. My friend (Dave Kulp) could have been suffering under the same plight that we are. He could be up to his ears in milk, dreaming about it, having a glass three times a day, peeing white, feeding it to stray cats, boiling milk "just to see what it does," and using it as moisturizer. But no, he opted to casually and comfortably enjoy his one gallon and pass along the insanity to me. Blast. Foiled again.

Here's the moral: Never accept free, unopened milk from anyone. And if you do, instantly give it to someone stupider than you.

Christmas Card Bloopers

Here are some outtakes from taking a Christmas Card picture. I wanted at least one of these to be our Christmas Card. Let's just say I was voted down. So here they are for all to see - Our Christmas eCard (or if you are rockin the Mac, our Christmas iCard.)

Exam Salad Sandwich

Upon preparation for my history of Christianity 1 class, I noticed that those church folk didn't make things too easy on us. Everything in the same period starts with the same letter. Why does it have to be this way? In the first few centuries of the church, it dealt with such heresies as Marcionism, Montanism, Monarchianism, Manicheanism, Modalism, Mythraism, Monophysitism, and Monothelitism. Now, why in the WORLD do they all start with M? Couldn't they have made it a little easier on us? Then you get to the 11 and 1200s and everybody is named Peter - Peter Abelard, Peter Lombard, Peter Waldo (my favorite). Again, throw us a bone people.

And don't even get me going with all the Gregories. Gregory the 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, etc. Good grief. Somebody break out of the mold. Give me a Tim in there somewhere. How about Gregory the 9th, also known as Sammy? Help me out here people.

The thing that fascinates me about heresy in the early church was that the bulk of the heresies had to do with denying Jesus his humanity. They assumed that Jesus was so uber-God that he could not have also been truly or fully human at the same time. Its interesting to note that we deal with a much different heresy today. Critical scholars assume Jesus was truly and fully human, but nothing more. It is funny how the tide changes.

Pray for me. I am in the height of exams. 3 down. 2 to go.

Thankful for my Sister's New Computer

Cartoony Kathryn.
Mushroomy Matt.

A Manifesto of Sorts

We went up to Washington and Lee this weekend in Lexington, VA to visit Kathryn's old school. There is an actual intersection of streets there: Washington and Lee. You simply walk up Washington Rd. until you hit Lee Way (or something like that) and you are standing at Washington and Lee. I made a LOT of jokes about that. Everytime we were at that intersection I'd say, "Hey Kathryn, guess where we are? We are at Washington and Lee." She wasn't too amused. And after the 10th time I did it, I was more amused with her non-amusement of it.

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They should call it Thanksgorging. Because that is what I will be doing in a few days - Thanksgorging.

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I was looking at a recipe yesterday and the recipe called for a "sprig" of parsley. Is that a made-up word? Sprig. Sounds like something I would make up. I think it is a combo of stem and twig. It isn't big enough to be a stem, but too big to be a twig - hence sprig. Maybe people who only eat sprigs can call this week Thankssprigging, instead of Thanksgorging. Happy Thankssprigging.

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We drove through a snow storm yesterday. I can't remember the last time I saw snow. It has certainly been a while.

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Why are raisins so disgusting? I like grapes and wine, but am not a fan of the raisin. And don't get me wrong - I love dried fruit. Just not the raisin. I would rather Thanksgorge on sprigs than raisins.

Whole Lotta Shakin' (and Noddin') Goin' On

While reading an article this morning, I came across a sentence that left me a bit confused. It read, "Now, if you are a parent, you are probably shaking your head." I've heard the expression 'shaking your head' before, but I always get tripped up as to whether it means moving it back and forth to respond negatively or moving it up and down to respond affirmatively. I asked Kathryn what it meant when I read it. She said that when you shake your head, you are actually moving it back and forth (side to side). It means you disagree. She said there was a distinction between nodding and shaking. Nodding = yes. Shaking = no.

But herein lies the confusion. When I "shake" someone's hand, I grip it and then gently shake it up and down. Not side to side. When I "shake" a bottle of orange juice to stir up the pulp, I shake it up and down. Not side to side. When I shake a rock out of my shoe - up and down.

Ahh but when I shake a package to see if I can tell what its contents may be without opening it...I shake it side to side. Not up and down. And when I make homemade milk shakes, I stir up the milk and ice cream with a spoon by going from side to side. NOT up and down. When I shake someone from their sleep - I try to rouse them by moving them from side to side. Not up and down.

And then there are certain shakes that don't go up and down OR side to side. They go sort of back to front. Like when I shake my fist at someone. And there are certain shakes that I have absolutely no idea what is going on. Like when someone tells me that something will happen in "two shakes of a lamb's tail." Now that is just simply odd.

With all this shaking going on, how am I to interpret a line in an article that reads, "If you are a parent, you are probably shaking your head"? Is that back and forth shaking? Side to side shaking? Back to front shaking? Lamb-tail-shaking?

And furthermore....what is nodding all about? I can nod in approval. I can also nod off to sleep. But can I nod an orange juice bottle? Can I nod a rock out of my shoe? Can I drink a milk nod? Can I nod a lamb's tail?

It's the Freakin' Weekend, Baby I'm About to Have Me Some Fun

Our weekend was action packed. You could say it was "action-stuffed," even. Or maybe even "action-loaded," like extra cheese pumped into the crust or something.

Friday: I went to a men's retreat with my church in Black Mountain, NC. It was a great time to be had. Made me think, made me feel, made me vulnerable. The interesting part about it was actually getting there. The retreat center was two hours away from Charlotte, around Asheville. When we ended up in Tennessee, we knew we had missed a turn somewhere. When we stopped to ask where I-40 was (the next turn that we were looking for), the grizzled old man at the diner told me it is about 100 miles away. Needless to say, our 2 hour trip turned into a 6 hour tour through the mountains of Tennessee. We arrived to the retreat center at 8, missed dinner, and were thoroughly frustrated. But the retreat turned out to be wonderful.
Meanwhile, Kathryn and a friend of hers were house-sitting (The concept of house-sitting warrants a blog all to itself. Is house-sitting really necessary? Come on, people). The parents went away for the weekend and left their 17 year old son behind to take the SATs on Saturday. No big deal. Easy cheesy. Kathryn and her friend got ripped out of sleep at 3 in the morning by the college kid (the older brother) who decided to drive home that night from school and didn't happen to have a key. I'm not sure whether or not he knew his parents were out of town that weekend. Everything worked out fine that night, it just freaked out the girls to hear yelling and pounding on the door in a big weird house they don't know at 3 in the morning.

Saturday: I arrive from the Men's retreat that afternoon and meet up with Kathryn. We bring some food over to the house where we are "sitting" and sit down to a nice, quiet dinner while the 17 year old is in the back house watching football with his two buddies. The older, college brother had told Kathryn that morning that he would be heading back to school that afternoon. So we had the place to ourselves. Or...so we thought. As we sit down to eat, we hear a thud upstairs. Not knowing the particular sounds of the house, we ignored it, only to hear it again. Someone was certainly in the house. We cautiously went upstairs to locate the noise, only to find the college kid in his room...with a girl. And yep, he answered the door in only a towel. Not good. We gave him a stern talking to, only to discover that the poor girl's father had just had a heart attack. So we couldn't be overly upset. We sent them on their way. Then Kathryn went out to the back house to check on the 17 year old. His two friends had somehow mutated into 15, girls included, with a mini-fridge stuffed with Miller Lite. We cleared out the beer, threatened to shut down the party, and received a lot of not-so-friendly looks from the high schoolers. The party ended at 12:00. The next day, both boys apologized...I think when they realized that we would be updating their parents about all of the events.

Good grief. We were supposed to be HOUSE sitting. Not TEENAGER sitting. I think we have learned the hard way that when we accept house sitting gigs from here on out that we must demand that the only thing that will be sat upon will be the house. No naked teenagers. No parties. No beer. Just houses.

Forwards and Backwards

Everyone gets ridiculous forwards from people. Be it your aunt, your not-so-close friend, or your friends' parents. For me, it is my mother likes to forward me things. We are close enough to where I can calmly tell her to stop on many occasions. To her credit, she has cut back - especially on the cheesy Christian forwards that beseech me to forward it all of my friends less I lose my eternal security. But she did happen to send one that was not only humorous but blog worthy. Here tis:


Why do we press harder on a remote control when we
know the batteries are getting weak?

Why do banks charge a fee on "insufficient funds" when
they know there is not enough?

Why does someone believe you when you say there are
four billion stars, but check when you say the paint
is wet?

Why doesn't glue stick to the bottle?

Why do they use sterilized needles for death by lethal
injection?

Why doesn't Tarzan have a beard?

Why does Superman stop bullets with his chest, but
ducks when you throw a revolver at him?

Why do Kamikaze pilots wear helmets?

Whose idea was it to put an "S" in the word "lisp"?

If people evolved from apes, why are there still apes?

Why is it that no matter what color bubble bath you
use the bubbles are always white?

Is there ever a day that mattresses are not on sale?

Why do people constantly return to the refrigerator
with hopes that something new to eat will have
materialized?

Why do people keep running over a string a dozen times
with their vacuum cleaner, then reach down, pick it
up, examine it, then put it down to give the vacuum
one more chance?

Why is it that no plastic bag will open from the end
on your first try?

How do those dead bugs get into those enclosed light
fixtures?

When we are in the supermarket and someone rams your
ankle with a shopping cart then apologizes for doing
so, why do we say, "It's all right?" Well, it isn't
all right, so why don't we say, "That hurt, you stupid
idiot?"

Why is it that whenever you attempt to catch something
that's falling off the table you always manage to
knock something else over?

In winter why do we try to keep the house as warm as
it was in summer when we complained about the heat?

How come you never hear father-in-law jokes?

The statistics on sanity are that one out of every
four persons are suffering from some sort of mental
illness. Think of your three best friends -- if
they're okay, then it's you.

Randomology #643-648

New design for a new "me." I'm calling this my Fiona Apple stage. It's the new me. I'm Fiona Apple.

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I just finished a bottle of shampoo. I have no idea how long this bottle has lasted me, but I want to guess that it was in the measurement of years. And don't get me wrong, I do bathe (contrary to popular belief). I must have gotten thousands of uses out of this lone bottle. I started another bottle last night. I told Kathryn that I am going to keep a running tally to see how long this one will last. So far: 1 use.

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How come people put mustard on sandwiches AND hamburgers, but they only put ketchup on burgers? Why doesn't ketchup carry over into the sandwich category like mustard does?

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iPod. iTunes. iLife. iRaq?

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This morning Kathryn had to use the scrapey thing on her car to remove ice from her wind shield. Good grief, it is getting cold here. This certainly isn't Louisiana.

Christian Snobbery (and Hob Nobbery)

It has come to my attention that there are certain “snobberies” within the Christian community. Well, I suppose these snobberies would exist in any group of people, but the group I am most familiar with would be the Christian community. Snobberies…Little obsessive hobbies that we pride ourselves on and enjoy displaying our knowledge of. Whatever niche it may be, we hone in on it and feel good about putting other people down who are not quite as advanced in that subject as we are. A few examples:

Christian Beer Snob – These may be the most pervasive and the loudest of Christian snobs. For some reason they prefer the darker brews to the lighter. They hate anything domestic and even have nice little names of mockery for them (“Butt wiper” comes to mind for Budweiser). They hate macro-breweries. In fact, the only thing they really like is some weird, never-heard-of-it-before, Belgian and German dark brews that were produced in the basement of some monastery and come in larger, differently shaped bottles. These beers taste absolutely disgusting to the average beer consumer, but to their advanced and sophisticated tastes – it is the only real beer available. Everything else out there is a sell-out. Christian Wine Snobs and Christian Liquor Snobs could fit under this category as well, I suppose.

Christian Coffee Snob – These are less frequent than the beer snobs, but like them, they prefer their drink dark. Folgers, Maxwell House, and any homegrown, domestic, macro-produced, grocery-store-selling grounds are no good. They call that “brown colored water.” The real coffee has to be imported from some small, South American village where they privately grow their beans (organic, dark, bold, coffee beans). Depending on the degree of Coffee snobs – Starbucks is at worst Satan and at best tolerable. But most coffee snobs secretly like the coffee (they say that it is simply “ok”), they just hate the Starbucks culture. They would never order a frappuccino. The darker, the bolder, the better.

Christian Literature Snob – Don’t be confused, these people don’t prize themselves on “Christian literature,” no, no, they are Christians who happen to prize themselves on anything but Christian literature. They quote things from authors and books the average reader has never heard of and claim that these pieces of lit are the greatest things ever. And you have to read them. Ever tried reading one of these books that the Lit Snobs recommend? Try getting through the first 50 pages. They’re about as entertaining as watching dust collect. But they will assure you that it is the greatest piece of literature ever composed, touching the depths of human emotion (boredom).

Christian Music Snob – There are several different molds of the Music Snob. Some are Classical Rock Snobs and claim that the newer stuff can never compete with the old. Some are Indie Snobs, until the entire world went Indie and now they feel a bit insecure, hoping to find their identity in a different genre. Then you have the Real Music Snobs – people mentioning old school Jazz and country musicians from the 20s and 30s, people who only listen to vinyl, who have never even heard of Dave Matthews. These people scare me. There is a whole host of Music Snobs and they are by far the most predominant of the Christian community – there is a Snob for every conceivable genre and era.

Christian Movie Snob – These Snobs scoff at mainstream, blockbuster, Hollywood pictures. They prefer B films, no, C films. If it is foreign, it already has a head start against homegrown films. The more subtitles, the better. If it is black and white, even better. Does it have a never-heard-of-before foreign director? Now we are talking. The content should be abstract and confusing, looking absolutely meaningless and stupid to the average viewer, but to the Movie Snob, these movies far surpass anything else. They appreciate the lighting, the cinematography, the angles, the symbolism, and other ridiculous things that no one else pays attention to.

Christian Snobs are sort of like Christian Gnostics. Whatever field of expertise they camp on, they invest their heart and souls and discover the secret element that allows them to appreciate the thing more than your average, run of the mill consumer. They are the elite. They have the key to understanding. “Oh, you didn’t catch that can of peas on the table in the foreground, that was a symbolic foreshadowing of the protagonist’s plight against his childhood memories. Oh, that’s too bad you didn’t catch it. It really unlocks the story.” Or perhaps you’ve heard, “You don’t like that? You didn’t catch that peppery, almost cherry, hint on the back palate?”

I’m somewhat of a blend of all the above – too insecure to not want to be an expert in something and too lazy and scatterbrained to invest and commit to any one field. But I suppose if I had to choose, it would be the Coffee Snobbery. Hate that Starbucks (but secretly love it).

Which one are you?

Mascots and Have-nots

While reading the news this morning, Kathryn and I came across a few more articles pertaining to the Tamil Tiger rebel group in Sri Lanka. Kathryn said something to the effect of, "Finally, a terrorist organization with a mascot."

I agree.

It's about time those radical, political, militant rebel forces out there go by something other than those weird, unpronounceable names. They need something a little more down to earth, something a little more collegiate. How about the Hezbollah Eagles? Or the Al Quida Yellowjackets? Or the Hamas Oilers? Or the Taliban Sooners?

Do the Tamil Tigers have cheerleaders? Do they chant, "Go Tigers, Go Tigers, Go!!!" as they invade innocent lands and oppress innocent people?

I think these terrorist/political groups should establish an intramural sports league. I'd buy tickets to see the Eagles play the Oilers. I would even try and snag some courtside tickets for the Sooners vs. the Tigers.

But I wouldn't cheer for them. I'd bring one of those big, giant foam finger things. Only mine wouldn't be the pointer finger.

Budgeting with Bush

I am currently writing my very first blog entry. I can't tell if it's an inevitable stage, like walking or riding your bike, or if it's the beginning signs of a spiraling down. As George Costanza was convinced that every moment in life "could be a show," so Matt thinks every thought in life "could be a blog". So here I spiral...

I recently read an article about women with the highest salaries in the world. I then jumped to the thought of the President of the United State's salary. He makes $400 thousand a year, which looks like a quarter compared to some of these techies out there. I was confused and even a little angry. Doesn't the President hold the highest, most respected seat in all the United States? No, I don't want him and his family to have enough money to create their own reality TV show, but this discrepancy seemed a little ridiculous.

Then I started having a little fun with my ponderings. For real. Why does the President need money? "Yeah, I gotta fly out to visit the Prime Minister of Malaysia...Shoot...We didn't budget for this...eerrrr...we'll have to cut back on groceries next month." Or maybe at a dinner with his cabinet. "Y'all, seriously, I've got this one! What do you think they pay me for??" I don't know much of anything about the specifics of the President's salary, but I'm having a hard time coming up with things he actually has to pay for. Tuition? Would his daughters' institutions really charge the President for their tuition bills? Or the power bill for the White House...who pays for that? I honestly doubt it's GWB. I can see the daughters shopping with that money. I can see that. But my mind doesn't venture much further.

555-DUMB

Whenever I am watching a television show or a movie or sorts and somewhere in the action, a character reveals a 7 digit phone number, my initial reaction is, "I can't believe they gave the entire number. What if some stupid prankster-kid out there dials it and it turns out to really be some poor, unknowing person's phone number. And what if like 500 people around the world have the same idea and start calling that phone number? Wouldn't the poor, unknowing person be able to sue the television show or movie for televizing their phone number? Shouldn't they be held responsible for the harassment? The poor, unknowing person would have to change out their phone number. It would be a huge mess. They'd have to send out one of those mass emails that says, "Hey my phone number has changed. From now, on call this number..." And then you'd have those people out there that got the email, but didn't immediately update the phone number in their cell phone and 3 weeks down the road they'd try to call the poor, unknowing person and not be able to get in touch with them. They'd call and call and only be met with the obnoxious tonal sound and the robotic-lady voice informing them that the number has been disconnected. Relationships destroyed. Legal alligations made. Compensation. Responsibility. Culpability. Drama. All because a television show or movie decided to disclose some fake number they made up."

And then after a while, once I calm down, my secondary reaction is, "Who would actually call one of those numbers? What type of prank would that be? What would they expect to hear on the receiving end? Do people really do that? I mean, seriously. That's ridiculous. Why would anyone reach for the phone, dial it up real quickly (or perhaps rewind the show if they missed it - assuming they had TiVo or a DVD/VCR player), and make the call? That's just stupid."

And then after a longer while, once I get revved up again, my thirdary reaction is, "Maybe I should do that. Just to see what happens."

And I invite you to do the same.

Donuts or Doughnuts?

If I was a police officer, I think I would be just a little insecure about going into donut shops wearing my uniform. Do cops even go in there anymore? Is the stereotype still legit? It is, at least, in every one's mind, but do you really find cops sitting at a table by themselves in the old Krispy Kreme, passing the time with a chocolate cruller? I must admit, it has been a long time since I have actually gone into a donut shop, so I can not be the voice of experience on this one. But all that to say - suppose I was a police officer...go ahead, suppose it....I think I would feel a little stupid going in to a donut shop. Wouldn't the cashier make a subtle joke or something? Would the rest of my cop buddies tease me if they found out? "Oh, Officer Howell, we don't go into donut shops anymore. That was so 1993."

Why are cops known for their obsession with donuts? I still remember the opening scene from Die Hard 1, where the black guy from Family Matters is a cop in a convenient store buying some goodies and donuts. (By the way, he played a cop on Family Matters too. That's just bizarre. Does this actor only play cops? Carl Winslow.) And you know it is in other movies. Especially good 80s and 90s flicks. I don't doubt it was all throughout Police Academy, but I don't know. I haven't seen those flicks in a LONG time. But for whatever reason, Hollywood wants you think that our police officers love a good hunk of fried dough. But who doesn't? Why are cops the only ones getting stereotyped? Surely there are other professions that eat more donuts than cops. What about donut bakers? They are back there all day, probably eating donuts. Or what about loiterers? Certainly those that loiter in donut shops should be stereotyped more than the coppers.

Making this world fatter one person at a time...

Awkward Photos (Part 2)

For Corbin again...

Trident White: Whitens Teeth and Helps Prevent Stains

We recently purchased some Trident "White" chewing gum. Gum is always a handy item in case one is looking to have a chew. Besides, Trident White is sugarless. And it whitens teeth as you chew it. And it helps prevent stains. With all of the benefits included, it was hard to pass up. We gladly paid the 85 cents for a cool rush of Trident flavored chewing gum that aided in the whitening of our teeth.

Once we got home I read the back of the package and took a closer look at the fine print. It reads:

The great tasting way to a whiter smile!
Chewing 2 pieces of Trident White sugarless gum after eating and drinking helps:
-Prevent stains
-Strengthen teeth
-Whiten teeth in as little as 4 weeks

Ok. Let me get this straight, Trident White people. I need to chew 2 pieces of gum after every time I eat? I would say that it is fairly accurate to assume that an average person eats 3 times a day. So the Trident people expect me to chew 6 pieces of gum every day? Excessive. Then it goes on - it will whiten your teeth if you do this for 4 weeks straight! So in order to really experience the "white" part of Trident White, I have to relentlessly chew 6 pieces of gum a day for 4 straight weeks.

I've done the math. That is 168 pieces of gum. Only after chewing 168 pieces of gum do you get your whitening results. And if 12 pieces of gum come in one package, you have to buy 14 packages of gum. Surely this much gum chewing can't be good for you. Assuming they are 85 cents a package (I'm not sure....could be more or less), that is going to run you close to 12 bucks. Just on gum alone. You could buy a CD for that.

So there it is people. Do you want whiter teeth? You can have them. It will only cost you 12 dollars, 4 weeks of time, and 168 pieces of gum to chew. Stupid.

Greek Week: Sneak Peek

3 weeks, 20 chapters, and 227 vocab words later, I have survived Greek 1. Endless hours forcefully cramming bizarre paradigms and strange vocabulary into my skull are over. No more daily quizzes. No more third declensions. No more memory clues to help remember tricky words. No more afternoons spent plugging away on workbook excercises when I could be tossing a frisby in the park. No more dreams about me studying (it is true, I did have several dreams....nightmares). It is over. Yes, it is over. And I have the scars and battle wounds to prove it.

I'm very excited to be finished with Greek 1. And I really am going to enjoy the 5 WHOLE FREAKING DAYS I have before Greek 2 starts. Good grief. It just doesn't stop. 5 days. That's all I get. And then the insanity resumes. More vocab. More quizzes. More translations. More weird memory clues. More afternoons spent. More dreams.

I Grilled the Grill

Summer time marks the season of lemonade, bathing suits, sun burns and hotdogs. For our household, it marks the season of near disaster. Yesterday I was given a simple assignment - Grill two chicken breasts. It was about 7 in the evening, we had just enjoyed a wonderful meal outside on the back porch, and Kathryn was in the midst of preparing some chicken/pasta dish for the week's worth of lunches. She needed two chicken breasts grilled. We have a grill. This shouldn't be that hard. But of course....disaster.

I turned on the gas and lit the three igniters (sp?) - so far so good. Let it heat up. Give it a good ten minutes or so. Nice and toasty. Kathryn sat outside and I swept the porch while the grill heated up. We enjoyed our last few moments of an insanity-free evening. After a few minutes I opened up the grill to check on the progress and as soon as I lifted the lid, thick, cobalt smoke came billowing out. Balls of flames were consuming the insides. And then I saw what had happened. I had left the black, plastic scrapey thing in there from the previous use. Laffy Taffy-like, strings of burning plastic, stretched between the lid and the grates creating what looked and felt like the jaws of some monster you'd find in a low budget horror film. Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire....in fact, great balls of dripping oil-like fire that was once plastic, er..solid plastic.

For some reason in the moment of terror and desperation, I managed to kindly ask Kathryn if I could borrow her glass of water. (She said yes.) I tossed it onto the inferno and quickly turned off the igniters (sp?) and the gas to the troubling chorus of hissing and wheezing as the strands of black plastic cooled down. 2 hours later I evaluated the damage and discovered that plastic cools down to a solid that is just about as hard as it was before it liquified. Now I have chords of frozen plastic threaded between my grill grates.

There is no help desk phone number for this kind of problem. This problem does not make the FAQ list. Now we're left on our own to decide: do we spend money replacing grill parts and/or grill or do we take a chance with that first burger, marinated and seasoned with toxins? Tough call. Honestly. Tough call.

[Written by both Mathryn]

Sammy + Lily = Silly

This is my new nephew. And my new niece. Their names are Sammy and Lily. They are babies.

Aunt + Uncle = Auntcle

My sister had twins yesterday. Pics forthcoming. I am an uncle. Kathryn is an aunt.

The following is an email my mother sent out:

Samuel Jacob was born at 7:57 a.m. weighing 5 pounds,
3 ounces and 17 inches long.

Lillian June was born at 7:58 a.m. weighing 5 pounds
exactly and 17 inches long.

Mon, dad, babies and grandparents are all doing well.
We think the babies look like Todd but have Amy's
strawberry blonde hair.

This is gospel. What a great day.

Misnomers and Money

A broker is someone who buys and sells goods and assets for others. It is in the interest of the person who hires the broker for them to make the most amount of money possible.

So isn't it a bit odd that they are called a "broker?" Shouldn't they be called a "richer?"

I'm not going to hire a broker. That sounds masochistic.

Awkward Photos (Part 1)

For Corbin....who else?

Tommy Jaundice

Juan-Dee-Say

The Rise and Fall of Ol' Trusty

It had to have been 2002. I was living in the Gomer Jones Dormitory on the campus of the University of Oklahoma. In the athletic dorm lounge, the mini-student union of our little four-building complex, I played my first game of ping pong. The kind people in the athletic department had graciously supplied us with paddles - awful plastic paddles that reversed the purpose of a paddle - rather than sending the ball in the opposite direction, it absorbed the velocity and deadened it, dropping the ball immediately to the ground. They were smattered with green felt, a thin, fuzzy layer of cloth that not only didn't help, it made things worse. Those were the worst paddles ever.

And I was terrible. But day after day we would play. In between study breaks. After lunch. Right before your next class. Late at night. The paddle that once was so awkward in my hands was now perfectly conforming to it, resting in my palm as if it it were made to be there. Serves would be returned without the ball being lauched across the room in the other direction. Points were being made. Games were being won.

I don't know where Ol' Trusty was during all of this but we eventually met. Ol' Trusty was the coveted wooden paddle of the assortment of plastic, felt ones. Trusty was plain, brown, and simple - a meager wooden paddle with a sheet of sand paper glued on each side. It's handle was broken in that the added grips had been removed. All that remained was a flat, wide popsicle stick that fanned out into an actual paddle. But yet it was coveted because it was one of the rare wooden paddles among the pantheon of plastic options. I played with Trusty so much that I began to worry that perhaps while I was away, someone else would play with it and snap it in two in a raged response to losing (this was a legitimate fear for it had happened with many-a-paddle). So I did what I had to do. I took Trusty in to be my own. I adopted him. I took a sharpie pen to each side of the sand paper. One side read: Ol'. The other: Trusty. It was that day that the marriage was forged. The slogan would become, "In Trusty I trust."

I never played with anything else. We were known around the campus to always be together. People would say, "There goes Trusty and Matt." He would attend my classes with me. He would rest on the table while I was at the library preparing for a test. And then there was that legendary night where Charles and Jason and I stayed up well into the evening playing. The legend has it that Trusty and I could not be beaten. Charles and Jason would trade spots, back and forth, losing and sitting out and waiting their turn again, but it was no use. Game after game Trusty racked up the victories. It was a night like no other. I think we must have won 50 straight.

After I graduated college, Trusty came with me. I couldn't part with him. He rested in a small crevice in the trunk of my car for months. He moved with me from Oklahoma to Texas to Louisiana. He was called upon maybe twice in Baton Rouge to play, but for the most part he was content to sit peacefully in my trunk. Waiting. Waiting for his time to shine again.

And from Louisiana, Trusty joined me to Tennessee and then North Carolina. On my first day of school at the seminary, I was informed by the other students that ping pong was huge here. Students played nonstop. There was a room dedicated to the olde past time and it was filled during every class break. During my first class last week, I unsheathed Ol' Trusty from the trunk of my car and let him shine once again in the splendid glory that was his.

Only he did not shine as brightly as I once remembered him to shine. Technology must had gone and advanced since my days at Oklahoma, for the students here sneered at my simple wooden paddle - they all sported new, inline foam paddles, sleak and polished with the perfect amount of soft foam on each side to add just the right amount of spin and thrust. I soon learned that Trusty could not compete at this level. Defeat after defeat piled up as the week unfolded. At first I thought that it was my inability to play at this new level. I optimistically hoped that I would catch up with time and secure my first victory. But my fear was that the fault didn't lie with me...but with Trusty.

Fellow seminary student Dave Kulp let me know with no hesitation that Trusty would not be able to perform at the Seminary level. We were in the pros now. And game after game, Kulp pounded Trusty into embarrassment, thus fulfilling the ominous prophecy against it. Trusty would not be able to compete at this level.

And so in an act propelled by shame and sadness, the divorce was secured, and I set down Trusty and picked up the new, inline, glistening foam paddle. The other students diabolically smiled, as if I had been won over to the darkside. And no doubt I had. I had sold my soul to victory and left my dear friend behind. Trusty will be forever etched into my memory as a dear friend, a true companion, and one that would not give up a fight. But Trusty was indeed old (hence, Ol') and his capacities were discovered to be limited. And so this blog entry is for you, Ol' Trusty. It was good while it lasted, but I must move on. Adulterous traitor I may be, but victorious I will remain.

Ol' Trusty, may you forever rest in peace.

Jones House: Mander

My dear friend Steve is not normal. But who is, really?

My Reconciliation with Clive Staples

For years I rolled my eyes at C.S. Lewis. Inundated with Lewis quotes from books and sermons, I wrote him off as a syrupy, smooth, simple author whom syrupy, smooth, simple Christians appreciated. I associated him with rudimentary training manuals for Christian volunteer leaders who wanted to work with youth groups. The title of his great opus - Mere Christianity - can't help but give you that impression. He doesn't discuss anything deep, he only deals with mere Christianity - the bare basics, the simple and obvious, the trite and cliche. In my pretentiousness, I preferred to read those authors dealing with something beyond mere Christianity - those who used big theological words that ended in "ism" and "ification" and who quoted German theological journals in the footnotes. Lewis was cotton candy. They were the hard stuff.

And so when I got the syllabus for my first seminary class and noticed that two Lewis books were required, I was disappointed. And after reading them, I realize how greatly mistaken I have been for all of these years. Lewis is anything but cotton candy.

He is as gritty as it gets. He is just simply...cool. He writes about alcohol and cigars and sex. He makes no room for sympathy with those he disagrees with, in fact, he tears them to pieces with little remorse. His humor and wit is woven into his clear-headed arguments. He is miles deeper and much more profound and right than I ever gave him credit for. He understands reality and all of its strangeness, beauty, sickness and potential - and describes it all with fresh insight and imagination.

I have made my peace with Jack. And it is great to have found such a good friend in him. I now look forward to getting to know him better over the years over cups of coffee, pints of beer, and other pleasantries that he can enjoy with me.

The Only Four Pictures I Have of Gerard

Unfortunately, my dormitory webcam only caught four snapshots of the gorgeous Charles Gerard Steger VI. Here they are for your viewing pleasure.

A Clintvention

clintestructable

clintroduce

clintention

clinteractive

clintantaneous

Bachelor's Degrees and Two Pieces

It has come to my attention that 9 universities in the USofA require a swimming test to graduate college. This seems completely arbitrary and random to me. What in the world? The test: one must swim 50 yards and tread water for 5 minutes. If you can't do this, you don't graduate. Might as well not fool with bulking up the resume, putting in those extra hours of community service, heck, even quit studying if you know you can't pass the swim test. It is absolutely necessary. If you can't swim, not only do you drown, but you can't graduate.

The schools - Notre Dame, MIT, Cornell, Columbia, Hamilton, Dartmouth, Swarthmore, and Washington and Lee, plus the service academies.

Swimming requirements for a degree? I don't get it. I don't even think I could tread water straight for 5 minutes. Do you realize how hard that is? Good thing the University of Oklahoma could care less about my cardiovascular devolopment. They now seem to only care how much money I am going to give them as an alumni. Perhaps if they were more concerned with my natatorial maturation I would give them some money for a change.

Sand, Sunscreen, and Sundry Other Items of Annoyance

Two and a half weeks at the beach. RUF Summer Conference. Panama City. Anyone else would have been thrilled, I'm sure. They probably would even be aghast to hear me complaining about it. But complain I will. And complain I must. I don't like the beach. I don't think I ever want to return.

Last year I wrote a similar blog entry entitled, "Son of a Beach," where I elaborated a familiar rant of displeasure with the ocean, the sand, the sunscreen, the subsequent sunburns, the salt water, the sea weed, the smells, etc. And yes, all of those things still burrow into my patience and rob me of any enjoyment. After 2.5 weeks at the beach I stepped into the water twice. I walked on the sand four times. I'm sorry. It's just not my thing.

Sure I enjoy looking at it. That is fun. But that can only last so long. Don't get me wrong, the beach is beautiful. The relentless rhythm of foamy waves lapping on the sparkling, hot sand is a glorious sight. I just prefer to view it from within an air conditioned room. Call me spoiled. Go ahead. Call me that. Spoiled.

The routine is what gets me. You squeeze into that netted, uncomfortable swim suit and remove every other article of clothing. You smear smelly ointment over every square inch of skin that will be exposed to the sun. This requires calling in reinforcements to smear it on that part of your back you can't quite reach, which is most awkward if the only one around to administer help is a male. Awkward to say the least. Then you leave your pleasantly cool room and step out into the glaring, merciless sun (I forgot to bring sunglasses. Didn't wear them the entire time) and squint your way across the street to the beach front. It is hot. Sweat has begun to bead on your shoulders and forehead. You've only been simply walking. Walking. Once you arrive at the sand, you toss your sandals aside and trudge through the unbearably difficult-to-walk-through sand, which gives way under every step forcing you to put in twice as much energy into the next. Once you make it to the water (if you can muster the strength to walk that far) you step in only to have your skin constrict and your arms raise up in a spastic tauntness due to the surprisingly frozen temperature of the ocean. You may gradually and bravely go further into the rising tide, careful not to get certain extremities wet. Once you've had enough of the saltwater spilling into your mouth and the sweat stinging your eyes you return to the sand, only to have it almost magnetically stuck to your now wet feet. You trudge back up to the road collecting more sand as you go (which everyone knows never fully leaves your body. I've heard of people finding granules in their scalp weeks after leaving the beach). You snag your abandoned sandals, assuming someone else hasn't first, and tip toe your way across wood and hot concrete to those foot-showers where you are again blasted with frozen water on your legs to rinse off the glued-on sand. You slip back on the sandals and now walk back to the room, which ironically is no longer plagued by the blazing, suffocating heat, rather it is replaced by the ocean-driven winds whipping you and driving the chill into your shriveled, exposed skin. Back in the room you shower and more sand appears in the bottom on the tub. And thankfully that suntan lotion is now cooked into your skin, so the smell can linger about you everywhere you go. And when you step out of the shower you realize that the bathroon floors have collected large puddles from when you walked in from the beach, dripping swimsuit in tow.

Misery. Utter misery. You can have it. I was there for two and half weeks and I read three books. I sat by the pool. I swam a bit. I played basketball and volleyball. I played Pool Game with the LSUers. I ate ice cream. I talked with folk. But I did not go to the beach much. Nor do I think I'll return.

The Jones House Archives...UNLOCKED!

A Link to the Past

College. It was a time of many pranks, many adventures, and little studying. It was a chapter of life riddled with late night free pizza runs, water ballooning frat guys, running from angry frat guys, and touring unsuspecting people through abandoned slaughter houses. These are the memories and moments that stand out. These are what I look back on with great excitement and subsequent nostalgia. It was a chapter of life that is closed and forever behind me.

Or is it?

With being married I have discovered that the metaphorical "college years" of my life do not necessarily have to be forever locked away in the memory vault. In the dorms I had Steve, Clint, Jason, Blake, Russ and countless other idiots to parade the town, search out free food from closing fast food chains, and terrorize pedestrians with. Now I have Kathryn. And we will carry on the torch together. We will. We must.

Last week while in Charlotte we were on one of our many, exhausting, yet necessary errands around the city to pick up something that was 'needed' for the apartment. The errand was Best Buy to try and snag a very-much needed television before they closed at 9:00 with some of our very-much appreciated wedding cash. We found one, grabbed it, and had it loaded in the back of my car by 9:15. It was dark now, of course, and the metal bars that Best Buy rigged up on the doors behind us reminded me that places were closing down at this time. So when I saw the Domino's Pizza neon blue sign glaring at me on the same strip mall, two and two were instantly put together. Like the Kingdom of God in reverse, the age before broke into the present and I menacingly convinced Kathryn to step inside to attempt a free pizza scam.

I couldn't hear anything from the car outside. I sat in the driver's seat and saw her through the window talking with the young man behind the counter. The tension was mounting. What was she saying? Why was it taking so long? I was trying to piece together the conversation given their behavior and head nods. But there was nothing to go off of. It was a silent movie with manikans. Then the man turned and began looking around behind him. My heart began to race, for I knew that if you can just get the employee to turn and search, the battle has already been won. He is now on your side. He is now looking for pizzas that have been put into the pile identified as "messed up orders" or "pick-ups that were never picked up." It was that set of pizzas that the employees ate on while they worked and it promised to be the set of pizzas we would eat on as well, though without cost. Kathyryn emerged from the door moments later with three pizza boxes in her arms, boasting of thin crusts' pepperoni and pineapple, jalepeno and canadian bacon, and hamburger and sausage. The score was big. The emotions ran high. The celebration had begun.

On her way out to the car, the employee that gave her the pizzas burst out the door shouting, "I hate Domino's. I quit!" As we drove away we could see him walking out to his car in the parking lot. Terrified and embarrassed that she had somehow gotten the poor man fired, Kathryn called up the Domino's to check it out. It turns out the young man was simply going out to his car to get something and wanted a little attention from Kathryn as she left. No harm done.

Kathryn wouldn't touch the half-eaten-on pizza, leaving three large pies just for me. For free. And in so doing, a new era of life has been ushered in, a strange hybrid of past and present, single and married, adolescent and adult. And with this new era I will enjoy not only the adrenaline and newfound company, but the fruits of free pizza, free chicken and biscuits, free rice, free tacos, free custard, and free food wherever Kathryn can be convinced of going into next. May the trumpets of marriage resound.

married merriment

i am married now. we are very excited. thrilled, even. marriage is so much fun. we can hardly stand it. we can't take it. we're married. it is every thing we ever wanted. marital bliss. that's what it is. bliss.

we're so happy.

we're matthryn.

The Wedding Bells Toll For Me

The countdown is 48 hours. Wedding. Details. Insanity. This is my life right now. Parents meeting the in-laws. Opening gifts. Finalizing details. Checking into hotels. Running around town. Checking the weather. Packing. Getting sick and needing vitamins. More gifts. More weather checking. More insanity. More details.

48 hours.

And then it will all be over. Kathryn put it best - it has been interesting to enjoy all the preparation and at the same time wish it all away. And that is very true. You love it. You hate it. Light meets darkness. Ying meets yang. You love the wedding and you also desperately want it over. You cling to your last few hours of singleness and also can't wait to toss them away forever. Life is very strange in that regard. Very strange indeed.

48 hours.

I have nothing else to write here. I am spent.

U Haul?...Screw Yall

In the past 2 years, I will have moved 5 times. Gross.

1. Oklahoma to Dallas
2. Dallas to Baton Rouge (with Benn)
3. Benn in Baton Rouge to Nick in Baton Rouge
4. Nick in Baton Rouge to Barrett in Baton Rouge
5. Barrett in Baton Rouge to Kathryn in Charlotte

I hate moving.

Never before had I rented a U Haul truck to move with and never again will I. Despite the obvious name recognition, U Haul is no good. I'm not sure if I could be sued for libel here but I don't care. I hate U Haul. Don't ever use them. They are no good. Repeat: no good.

Kathryn reserved us the truck in Atlanta two weeks ago and just like Seinfeld, when we arrive our reservation proved to be pointless. They did not have the furniture pads for us that we had reserved and they only had one truck left - an old, worn out old-man of a truck with no gas in it and the check engine light on. Kathryn complained to them (actually, just to 'her' since there was only one woman working there that day) and asked them (again, 'her') what the point of "reserving" a truck and furniture pads was. The incompetent woman replied, "You just better be glad you even got a truck." And the whole Seinfeld episode repeated in our minds. "I don't think you understand the point of the reservation. The reservation reserves us a truck. You know how to take the reservation, you just don't know how to hold the reservation. Anyone can just take them..."

So without furniture pads and no time left to go somewhere else for a better truck, Kathryn drove Ol' Halfdead home and when I arrived the next day we loaded it up. To the brim. And when Saturday morning hit, we headed out for Charlotte with me behind the wheel of Ol' This-Truck-Is-About-To-Die and Kathryn in my car. When we made our way into Hill Country, I could tell the U Haul was having difficulty on the inclines. I found myself rocking back and forth in the driver's seat with the dillusional assumption that I was helping it creep over the hills. It miraculously was getting there. And making good time I might add.

Until we hit Gastonia, the smaller city just 30 miles west of Charlotte. Ol' Halfdead began to buck and sputter and was dropping speed quickly. 60 miles an hour descended to 50. Then 40. Then 30. I had to pull over. Cars were blasting by me. I rolled to a stop on the shoulder of the road and she died on me. Completely passed out. Ol' Halfdead had breathed her last. With all of our stuff in the back. And 30 miles away from its destination. I tried restarting it only to have it lurch back and forth and sputter dead again. In defeat I rested my forehead against the wheel cursing the doomed truck and the diabolical company that gave it to us.

I knew it would happen. I had numerous people tell me to not go with U Haul. They told me similiar stories. Trucks have broken down before. The employees are completely worthless. But I didn't listen. I let the numbers dictate my decision. Never again.

Kathryn sat on hold for 25 minutes with the U Haul idiots while I opened up the hood and looked at the engine. What I was looking for, I have no idea, but I have seen men on the side of the road do the same thing. Open it up. Make it look like you at least have some idea what you are doing. There is no desperation like sitting on the shoulder of a highway with a broken down car, having the loud woosh of cars force you to yell over the noise and cover your face from the wind. You begin to think crazy thoughts like "Maybe we'll have to sleep out here tonight" or "What if a car from the highway crashes into the back of our truck and all our stuff catches on fire?" There was no hope. U Haul was not picking up. Cell phone batteries were running low. I had no idea where to go, who to call, what to do. It was not a good moment for me.

After a half hour (Kathryn still was on hold) I cranked up the engine again and miraculously it started. I put it in park and hit the gas and it slowly eased its way onto the highway. I got it up to 30 and then 40 and then 50 and then 60. She came back to life. Like a spiritual regeneration, Ol' I-Hate-This-Truck was born again. Kathryn hopped back in my car and we were again on the road. For the remainder on my 40 minute drive into Charlotte I was praying that God would sustain the life of the worn out, rusty, old shell of what used to be a truck. And He did.

But never again will I use U Haul and I recommend you do the same. You might think like I did - hey, U Haul has the name you know. You just sort of call all sorts of moving trucks and trailers 'u hauls.' But be not fooled. There is more to this company than meets the ears. Screw yall, U Haul. You should change your name to We Suck. I can hear it now, "Hey, man will you help me move this Saturday? All I got is one car load and a We Suck."

Baby Teeth (And All That Jazz)

It has been a long time since I found myself tongue-ing a loose cuspid or molar. But some neighbor children here in BR find themselves with wiggling and loose teeth, only to wiggle them long enough to pop them out. And of course there is a bit of a reward for this feat in our culture. Why there is a reward for losing teeth will perhaps be the topic of another post, but not here. I wish to explore something different. I do.

What is the point of baby teeth? What purpose do they serve? Why don't we just grow in a layer of teeth and...you know....keep them? I don't know, but are humans the only things that lose teeth?

It is so bizarre to me. We don't have baby arms that we shed off only to grow 'adult' arms. Or baby livers. Or baby eyes. Why the teeth? Here we have a whole set of perfectly good teeth that just...eventually fall out. And new ones that are bigger and stronger somehow emerge right beneath them. Why didn't the first set just come bigger and stronger? Or better yet, why do they stop growing when they hit a certain size? Surely they could grow up with you and grow into the adult, bigger, stronger sort of teeth. Surely. But no.

Chew on that for a bit.

Today is the Day

I am quite familiar with Coffee Shop Culture. There's no pride in that sentence, I simply live in coffee shops. I understand what the clientele will look like. I know what 'cool' people order. I know what sorority girls order. I can tell a great deal about somebody by whether or not they put sugar and cream in their coffee. I know where to sit. I can tell who is there to study and work and who is there to be seen. There is a whole new culture surrounding these little coffee houses. And with culture comes etiquette.

One of the things I have come to sadly expect in coffee shops are those who don't understand the rules. Rule number one: Don't make/answer phone calls within the walls of the coffee shop. You take that trash outside. If somebody calls and you desperately need to take it, walk outside. No one wants to hear your isolated, loud, terribly selfish conversation 2 feet away. And yet people do it. They do it consistently.

I have come to expect the etiquette to be broken simply because IT ALWAYS HAPPENS. Even this morning, while I found myself in a local coffee house, someone picked up a phone call and carried on an entire conversation in the seat next to me. How in the world am I expected to concentrate in these conditions? And here’s the thing, when the phone call ended, this guy got up and left. That was his sole purpose of being in the coffee shop – to take the phone call. Unbelievable. Take that trash to the streets.

Today was the day where I almost made a phone call and talked on it as obnoxiously loud as I could to teach everyone in there a lesson. “Hey, what’s up?….oh, I’m just hanging out in a coffee shop….nothing…..ha! ha! ha!…..sure……no, what time are you going to the thing?.....no, nobody else is here but me......ha! ha! ha!.....oh, that's a riot!!!"

You people with cell phones are ruining the coffee shop culture because you are breaking the coffee shop etiquette. Put down the phone. Take it to the streets if you must.

It's Getting Hot in Here

Why is Louisiana so freakin humid? I'm sweating right now. I was sweating in January. I wore a sweater twice this year. When will it ever be cool again? When will it stop? Why must it be so hot?

Plan "It" Earth

An interesting play on words was the title of a speech recently delivered by Tupac Shakur's mother at McKinnley High School here in Baton Rouge a few days ago. Though I only heard about this event after the fact, I have heard enough about it to feel as though I actually was there. And I have decided to take up the call to Plan "It."

What 'it' is, I have no idea. But here speech was basically about teenagers and their problems today, how everything is all about the upcoming kids (makes me think of - "I believe the children are our future..."), etc. She said that the suicide rate is higher today than...I don't know...I guess yesterday. And she noted that racism isn't the problem, it's that people aren't living long enough to actually deal with racism.

That's about all I know. Perhaps I am not qualified to report on the speech because I have no idea what it was about, what 'it' is, and why she thinks people aren't living that long today (perhaps she is using OT figures as her standard for life span. Noah did live 950 years). Regardless, I think Mrs. Shakur had a point. We must join forces and Plan "It." Earth, there is this thing we need to plan. In other words, we need to Plan "It," Earth!

Her poetry, her sense of vocabulary, her unparalleled wit in playing with words is evidenced in the legacy she has left behind in her son/rap artist/social hero/martyr/general Tupac. Racism isn't the problem. It's life span. The children are our future. Don't do drugs. True love waits. Click it or ticket. He who smelt it dealt it. Don't drink and drive. Plan "It" Earth.

The Beetle's Purpose

In my overly reflective and pensive moments, I tend to read much into what I observe around me. Meaning becomes robust in the little things. Illustrations abound all around me. Parables envelop me.

Tonight I was sitting on the back porch with a friend and my attention was fixated on a small, June-bug like beetle. The porch light was on, which was what I assumed was the catalyst to drive this beetle into a reckless frenzy. Time after time it would fly through the air and smack head on with full force into the wall. And like one of those paddles with the rubber ball connected to it by an elastic string, it bounced back again. Over and over driving itself against the wall. I couldn't help but laugh at the poor bug. What in the world was it doing? Why did it not learn the first few times that it couldn't/shouldn't fly in that direction? His suicide piloting ended in just that. He doubled up his efforts and collided with all its strength into the wall, falling to its demise, never to be heard from again. It actually killed itself.

And in a strange way, that poor, ridiculous beetle demonstrated to me my poor, ridiculous life. Over and over again I smash my head against the metaphorical wall, promising myself that I had learned my lesson and that that would in fact be the last time I ever did that again. And without fail I find myself rubbing out another welt, wiping away a bloody mess. With reckless abandon I careen through my life knowing full well I should have learned by now what is destructive and what is helpful. I hope for progress and yet sadly discover it comes much slower than expected. I hope for change and yet at times wonder if it will ever come. Will I struggle with these things forever? I wonder. Am I simply hopeless? Am I beyond repair?

It's funny how God uses silly things like beetle's smashing themselves to death to teach us lessons. He gives us little pictures into our lives. He uses beetles. Dead theolgians call this General Revelation. I am just like the beetle. Perhaps Kafka was on to something.

Excellentlymagnificentitious

There is nothing worse than selecting groomsmen. What a terrible, terrible thing we have made it. It has been twisted into one big friendship competition where the Best Man wins and takes all. It is a self-created fraternity of the elite. Only the upper echelon are included. It creates a visible divide between the insiders and the outsiders. A mere "usher" is almost an insult. At least in our society, to be an usher is to 'almost make it' into the fraternity. But you didn't make it. No, you got beat out.

The whole thing is just so awkward. Selecting the groomsmen puts the groom in a terrible position. He has to look at his friends and actually pick which ones he's closest to. Think through your own friends. Obvious ones come to mind. But then down at the bottom of the list it gets trickier and fuzzier and people must be selected over others. People must be discarded. Elitism reigns.

Now if you happen to be one of the privileged, selected groomsmen, life is alright. You were chosen. You are one of the elite. You are one of the insiders. Perhaps that is how some people think about God's election and why they are so angry at it. Their assumption is that God picks the good ones and throws out all the "ushers."

I wish groomsmen and ushers didn't exist. Don't get me wrong, it's a great idea and I very much look forward to having my dearest friends up there with me when I get married, but count on us to make it into a pick and choose game of matrimonial elitism. If I had to do it over, I'd gather a group of homeless people from off the streets, dress them up in tuxes and have them be my groomsmen. I'd make a grand theological statement. "This is what God does. All of those people you marginalize and write off, those are the ones I'm closest to. They are the elite, not those who think they are the elite. The last will be first." I should have done that.

And all my real friends would have been sitting there pissed at me.

Galactic Real Estate

While bouncing around the world wide web in search of groomsmen gifts, I stumbled across something quite peculiar. As a gift, you can purchase real estate on the surface of the moon. And it is not a joke. Right now, one acre of moon land is going for $29.99. Here is the add:

It is true. You can purchase land on the Moon. 100% legal and real! Moon property is: a great gift, potential prudent investment and an interesting conversation piece. Attractive gift pack.

Now what in the world is going on?? "Potential prudent investment????" Sure, it is stuffed with potential. Maybe in 800 years when civilizations are forming on the moon and some huge corporation needs your acre to expand their office space, then you can hold out and raise the stakes and cash in on that investment you made 800 years ago. That $29.99 would bring back like a million fold.

Who even owns the moon in the first place? Who would I be buying this acre from? The government? Would I get a picture to know what my plot of land looks like? Do they have coordinates where exactly it is or is it just "somewhere up there on the moon."

What a complete joke.

Tuesday is Fat!!

It is Mardi Gras here in Louisiana. Fat!! Yep. You can't really miss it here. You know why? Because the school is shut down for 3 days. That's right. LSU is not in session Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. You know what I have to say to that? Fat!!

Kathryn was here this past weekend and on Sunday we dipped down to New Orleans before her flight that evening. While Mardi Gras is a little depleted this year, given the current events, it was still a Fat!! time. Bourbon Street was a carnival of sorts with the ever-present street preachers. They help up big signs that read, "Homosexuals, Fornicators, Drunkards, Theives, Burn in Hell." The preacher had a Fat!! megaphone and was shouting to people, "You must have lost your mind!!!!" There was a huge crowd surrounding him shouting back at him. I think they were throwing beads at him. Now that's Fat!!

We were only there for about 15 minutes but I had this recurring nag to want to buy a Hand Grenade, the New Orleans famous, enormous, plastic green test tube filled up with who-knows-what combination of hard liquor. I just felt like I needed one amidst the Fat!! insanity. I didn't get one though. Looking back, I should have. Drat!!

Today is Ash Wednesday and I have already seen several people with the black, ashy cross on their forehead. I go back and forth on this one. At times I think this is silly and embarrasing and I wouldn't want that blemish on my forehead. And at other times I think it is a great way to participate in a tradition that announces, "Yes, I am sealed and branded by Christ." Either way you look at it, you have to admit it's Fat!! Any one can see that.

I'm thinking about giving up my cell phone for Lent. Or toilet paper. Maybe belly lint. That would be Fat!! I could tell people I'm giving up lint for Lent. Maybe I should give up Fat!!

Pride and Pies

The fact that Eating Contests exist is the ultimate proof that humans are saturated to their core with sinful pride. We compete at everything. There is not one area of life that is not transformed into some sort of competition to provide a platform for people to step on each other while all simultaneously groping for a trophy or some form of recognition that they are in fact "the greatest." This seems to be the driving questions behind the disciples who hung around with Jesus. (Mark 9:34). I wonder if they ever had eating contests.

When I was younger and would hang out with my friends there were no doubt days that were fraught with mind-numbing boredom. "What do you want to do?" was the only question that always got answered by the other person repeating the same question. And so we would be laying there on our backs watching the ceiling fan and one of us would get the idea to raise our legs up and try to connect our exposed toes to the spinning fan blades above. The other one would see this happening and try to accomplish it as well, only with more expertise, which meant reaching up higher, or balancing on only one hand or something. And suddenly both people are entertained for they are now in the midst of a competition, albeit over something ridiculous, but nevertheless they were competing. And this still happens all the time. Our driving competitive nature just gets more subtle and sophisticated as we grow up.

Adults try to 'one up' each other by telling a more impressive story about their children or droping a better joke or funnier anecdote. Guys in college try to out-do each other at the sushi bar by seeing who can load up the most wasabi on their dinner. Girls compete with each other for attention - both from each other and from men. Students eagerly compare test scores. Drivers fight for the "best" lane. Businesses compete for patrons.

And in light of the ongoing Olympics, it is obvious that we still have that distant disease of the disciples - the fighting for who is indeed "the greatest." And all of the ways we do this are...well...sometimes simply embarrassing. My point: Eating Contests. I think we have hit rock bottom with this one. Have we simply run out of things to compete in? We've taken care of running, swimming, jumping, throwing, walking, skating, and skiing. It was only a matter of time before someone said, "Hey, I bet you I can eat more than you." And it will only be a matter of time before this contest makes its way into the Olympics as an official event.

Just picture it. By the way, I can eat more than you.

Metaphysics and Sushi

I'm not sure how one would actually define sushi, but I'm sure the word "fresh" would have to be included somewhere in it. For what makes sushi sushi - at the least, it is a fresh piece of edible raw fish. See this got me thinking. What if you went to a sushi place and didn't finish it all (maybe you filled up on doritos earlier or something) and so you stuffed up a doggie bag with leftovers? You go home and put them in the fridge. But the next day you couldn't get around to eating it because you had plans with Johnny Handshake or something.

So there it sits in your fridge for a day or two. When does it cease to be sushi? When does it simply become rotting slabs of raw fish? How long does sushi "keep?"

See at conception, sushi is edible and fresh, stripped straight from the fish. If that isn't eaten somewhat quickly, it becomes...well...not sushi anymore. It is then simply disgusting. But when does this change take place? How long will sushi keep? How long will sushi remain sushi?

Shush.

Cell Phones or Hell Phones?

Cell phones have gotten worse. I hate them now. I really do. And I'm pretty sure you do too.

Is it just me, or are more calls being dropped? I certainly am asking, "Hey? You there?" a lot more. I certainly have found myself talking on and on about something, notice that I have not received any affirming 'uh huhs', and then discover that the call had been dropped five minutes ago and I had been talking to myself.

What is the deal? Have they made too many cell phones and the towers are overloading? Is the service just REALLY bad where I am? Is it my phone? Should I get a new one?

Help me out here people. Let me know I am not alone. If your cell phone sucks and you want answers raise your fist with me. I demand justice. I want my money back. I want my life back. I will not talk to myself with a plastic box up against my face any longer.

I hate cell phones. Bitter, boiling, acrid, hatred.

Hygiene, Bathrooms, and Deception

Sometimes when I use a public restroom I don't wash my hands after I'm finished. But I put on an elaborate production to make those around me THINK I am washing my hands. I run the water. Sometimes I put my hands under the stream, sometimes I don't (it depends if the others in the restroom can see me or if they are just listening). I tap the soap dispenser to make the noise like I was in fact actually pumping soap out of it. So with the water running, I stand there and wait for about how long it would take for me to actually wash my hands. Then I turn off the water, tear off a few pieces of paper towel, rub them all over my dry hands and toss the dry towels into the trash. Then I leave the bathroom confident that whoever happened to share that room with me knew that I took the time to wash my hands. They believe I'm not one of "those" people, you know, the kind that just do their business and then disgustingly walk out.

I am not joking. I actually do this. I just did in fact (that was what gave me this idea).

Here's my question: Am I alone in this sickness? Is there anyone else out there as disgusting as me and willing to admit it or am I, as I suspect, the only one who would go to such lengths to avoid having to actually wash my hands? Now is the time. You can come forward and admit it. There is no shame. Consider this an altar call. Just imagine the song "Just As I Am" playing over and over in the background.

Nightmares and Daymares

I awoke this morning with a vivid memory of a terrible nightmare I had. It was my own rehearsal dinner night. It was a grand party with tons of folks there enjoying themselves. And at the end of the dinner I finally put two and two together and say, "Wait! We didn't do any toasts or anything! Where are my groomsmen?" I brought this up to my mother who, by her reaction demonstrated that she had also failed to notice their absence. The night ended on a sour note once we realized that none of my groomsmen showed up. Well, except Russ.

In my dream I called up Blake and Clint and got no answer. Then I called Doug. He picked up. But he probably regretted that decision after the romping I gave him. The next scene of the dream was a bedroom with a bunk bed and Clint was sitting up on the top bunk and I was down below. Doug was somewhere in the room and I was continuing my said romp. I remember part of my argument was "you don't agree to be a groomsmen and not show up for the rehearsal dinner. it is part of the package. when you agree to be a groomsmen, you are making a promise to be there, not just for the wedding, but for everything involved in the weekend." This was my thought. And I let Doug know what I thought filled with aggression and hostility.

And of course, Clint has to enter the argument. In a soft, yet firm, counter action, Clint responds, "Well, I'm not so sure an agreement to be a "groomsmen" necessarily means an agreement to show up at the rehearsal dinner. That to me simply means that they agreed to stand up there and be a groosmen."

Typical Clint.

I don't remember anything else about the dream/mare other than I was very upset and Doug was very ashamed. But surprisingly enough, it did raise an interesting question - When one agrees to be a groomsmen in someone's wedding, does that obligate them to all of the activities of that given weekend? Or they confined simply to the actual wedding ceremony?

Your thoughts/opinions are welcome.

Gratuitous Gratitude

I will not names here but a "friend of mine" recently received a gift from a "friend of theirs." I'm not sure what the gift was or the occasion behind the giving of this certain gift, but whatever it was it warranted the response of a thank-you note. You are well aware of the thank-you note, the burden of writing them, and the irrelevance of receiving them. But that is beside the point. My "friend" wrote this thank-you note and sent it. Everything is normal so far.

Then my "friend" received an email from their "friend" thanking them for the thank-you note. This sounds like a joke, but it is very true. My "friend" received a thank-you note for sending a thank-you note for them sending a gift. When will it stop? Should my "friend" write a thank-you note back? When will the gratitude exchange come to an end? It has to, lest it spin out into an endless, relentless exchange of thanking them for thanking you.

I'm not a fan of the thank-you note. Any time I receive something now the question pops in the back of my head, "I wonder if I have to write a thank-you note for this." Can you receive any gift without it being connected to an obligation to write a thank-you note in return? Is there anything that bypasses the obligation? (Pez dispensers, the passing of a pencil, roommates buying toilet paper??) I don't even like receiving things anymore. I associate it now with the difficulty of trying to think of something nice to write, the difficulty of trying to think of enough things to write so I actually fill up the entire card, and the difficulty of keeping up with the given postage of the day.

Ever had someone get upset with you because they did not receive a thank-you note? Or one that arrived "on time?" That all is so silly to me. To give something with ANY expectation is to defeat the purpose of GIVING it, right? It is not a business transaction (I give you gift, you give me recognition that I gave you the gift), it is a GIFT, that is, a free, gracious, giving of something with no obligations, expectations, or strings attached. The moment you demand something after the giving of a gift, it no longer is a gift. It then becomes a business deal (see my thoughts on "tipping").

I think it is a good thing that we thank each other for things and that we remain thankful for all of our gifts and blessings and graces; however, the moment it becomes obligated and expected, it taints it and removes the sincerity of the gratitude.

Thank you for reading.