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.