Kobayashi Maru

So, we have gone ahead and arranged a marriage for the Muppet. Some of our dearest friends had a baby recently and since the dad fell for an older woman, we figured his son would too. Besides, he’s only what, 2+ years younger than the Muppet. That’s nothing.

It doesn’t really matter anyway because how cool is this kid:

I give you the Muppet’s future husband: Kilometer

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Last night Ferf and I got a babysitter to come watch the Muppet and we went out on a “little date”. I should probably define some terms here for clarity, after all that is what my debate coach always demanded of me and as far I as I know he could be a consistent reader. So, for you coach, I define terms.

“got a babysitter” - by this I mean that we fed the Muppet, bathed her, put her to bed, prayed with her, sang to her and saw that she went to sleep and THEN AND ONLY THEN did a 14 year old girl come over and sit in front of my TV and watch whatever 14 year old girls watch on a standard cable package while my daughter slept, and for this she received $5/hour. That is a serious racket. (and by racket I mean the second definition of swindle, con or scam)

“went on a little date” - by this I mean that I drove Ferf around town as she made deliveries from the last two parties she did over the weekend. (I could gripe about that, but she totally rocks at what she does and makes thick coin, so I shut up and drive). After said deliveries were handed off to the hostesses (with a lot of furtive glances and embarrassed smiles - I swear, drug deals go down with less pomp and circumstance), we took the last hour of our two hour babysitter’s time to go downtown and enjoy a warm beverage at a local coffee shop.

OK, everybody clear on what I mean here? Good, because I cannot stress enough the importance of setting the scene. So we were out on the little date driving all over K-town and talking. That is something that we do a lot. The conversation, as it is wont to do on these occasions, was winding its way around issues of marriage, and specifically the “3 pillars” that my wife preaches on: Commitment, Communication and Consummation. This only made sense as we were making deliveries from her business and that is where she has a consistent pulpit, so to speak. So at one point she was discussing the frustrating nature of relationships - namely how many marriages she sees (Christian and secular) that are collapsing in on themselves and ready to join the statistics of divorce. Literally she sees this every week. Women who are completely unsatisfied in their relationships, to the point that their marriage is ready to fail. I cannot tell you how deeply sad some of the stories she has collected are. Nor can I count how many women (and men) have called, emailed or stopped by to tell her how she helped “save their marriage” or “renew their marriage” or just “made it better”. That is what she really loves about her business. Breaking through the misconceptions and getting people to talk. It is amazing how many people really do not communicate with each other.

But I digress somewhat (though topical, it is not the actual point). Ferf and I are discussing something of major importance as we pull up to a house. We stop talking (for obvious reasons) as she exits the car and goes to make the exchange that I earlier compared to a drug deal. Once said exchange is made, the giddy housewife goes back into her suburban home and Ferf climbs back into the vehicle. We drive off and Ferf is momentarily in a silent reverie as she hides in her heart some of the things told to her by the lady there on her doorstep - maybe threshold is a better word in this instance. As in “she stood on the threshold of a new beginning in her marriage with her husband”.

Whatever, the point is, we drive off and Ferf is silent. Then she says, “what were we taling about?” And I said, with the utmost of eloquence that every women dreams of hearing from the love of their life, “Uh..I don’t know.” To which Ferf responds with a hint of exasperation, “we were right in the middle of a conversation.”

It is at this point that the following phrase comes to mind. And to be honest, I realized as I said it how very much it kicked ass and that not only would it bring tears to her eyes but would be, as they say, blog worthy. I said, “That doesn’t narrow it down much, we’ve been in the middle of a conversation for the past 15 years.”

Sometimes you just know that you have nailed something. Drove a fat hanging curve ball out into McCovey cove, out past monument park, over the green monster for a walk-off. Hit an off balance three-pointer from half court, nothing but net. Break free from behind the line on a broken play and see nothing but white lines and green grass. This was one of those times. Mostly because it’s right. That really does sum up our relationship - from friends to dating to engaged to married to parents. We have basically had a 15 year running dialogue. And, God willing, that conversation will run for a whole lotta more years and a whole lot more laughs than tears. But whatever, laughs, tears, whispers, shouts, so long as we keep talking, it’s all good.

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I have spoken about my thoughts on teaching before.  But never as eloquently as this guy.  Hence, it is with great pleasure that I give you Taylor Mali…
[youtube]RxsOVK4syxU[/youtube]

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So last night, Ferf, the Muppet and I were at the Godparent’s house for dinner - our usual Monday night tradition. Nothing remarkable about it on the surface - well, it was the first time they had seen Ferf and the Muppet in almost a month, but that was about it.

Dinner was a nice roast with gravy and mashed potatoes and all the standard fixins. We were have a nice meal with really the only difficulty being the Muppet’s time dragging refusal to actually swallow the meat that she’s been chewing on for like an hour. She’s done this before mind you with roast. She is a carnivore - let me get that out here early. She is not some weird recessive gene, questionably not my daughter, vegetarian. Muppet eats meat. Lots of meat. All kinds of meat. She is a meat eater. But for some reason, she is loathe to swallow roast. She will chew on it for hours on end, but then tuck it away in the recesses of her little mouth like some giant mutant chipmunk.

This had been going on for quite a while and the rest of us had moved onto the coffee and dessert portion of the evening. The Muppet sat there looking for ways to extend her time and take the focus off of the ever pureeing mass of what was once a nice piece of roast being continually chewed in her mouth. This included the popular, “Excuse me Mommy, can I ask you a question?” that is followed by a grin and embarrassed silence when you say yes and make eye contact with her. It covered such favorites as, “Ohh, this is spicy Mommy” - not really understanding how something you have been chewing for an hour can suddenly become spicy but then I’m not 2. And the always relevant, “May I have some water Mommy?” Which is usually followed with a yes and a small shot glass sized bit of water. And it was this time as well.

This is where the background of the story really needs to be told - it’s only fair that you have full disclosure and grasp the setting…

For the last week or so, the Muppet has been fairly consistent in her dinner behavior - and this has included spilling her water at the table every time we have dinner. Never on purpose mind you. She just doesn’t really pay attention to where her extremities are flailing all the time, or she will try to scoop up said shot-glass sized water with one hand. The one-handed grab is never good at this age…never. But none-the-less she is consistent in her desire to be a one hander when it come to drinking. (Which is good because she does have relatives who are known as two-fisters when it comes to drinking in the bars. And NO, I will not humiliate ScottyBear by naming him on here).

Ferf has been growing, understandably, bit by bit more frustrated with the spilling thing at dinner and we have had many a talk about the importance of paying attention and using two hands when we pick up our drinks when they are in “big-girl cups”. The Godparents gave the Muppet her own little A&W mug to drink out of at their place and she is insistent that this is all she will imbibe liquid from when at their house.

And this brings us back to the story. When we left off the Muppet had requested water and Ferf filled said mug half full of water. SO to be fair we are talking about MAYBE 3 ounces of water. Pure, filtered water from the Brita filter in the fridge. Now about this time the Muppet takes a drink and tried to place the mug back on the table, only her reach does not quite extend far enough and she almost hits her plate. Disaster, however,is averted through grace and dumb luck and we all exhale. Which is good because we are all kinda blowing on our freshly poured and doctored coffees anyway and they could use a little cooling off. Because really, when you get a coffee, it should be too hot to drink initially. Part of the coffee experience is taking the time to enjoy it (and by that I mean waiting for it to cool down to drinking temperature). This is not something that a trained barista nor untrained layman (or woman) should try to do “for you.” This is a very personal thing that must not be taken away from you. It is part of it. Would you let someone pre-chew your steak? Of course not. You cut it up. You put it in your mouth. You chew it. You enjoy it. It is no one elses job to chew your food or cool your coffee.

Wait…where was I? Oh yes. Disaster narrowly averted. Ferf gives the Muppet one of those looks that only Mom’s can give. The kind that you did not think your wife could make before she was a Mom. Because if you knew that she could make such a look it would weird you out because it would remind you of your mother when you did something wrong and there would be the slightest chance that this could come to mind while you were having sex and THAT IS JUST WRONG! With absolutely no apologies to Oedipus cause he was a freak. Unknowingly marries his mother…how can you unknowingly marry your mother. Dude had issues, that’s all I’m saying. Sure, he can solve the dang Riddle of the Sphinx, but can’t solve the riddle of “who’s under the wedding veil.” Seriously.

Wow. I don’t know where that came from…sorry. So, Ferf gives her one of those Mom looks that stifles any potential giggles from those seated around the table (or thoughts of sex from me for the rest of dinner). We go back to conversation amongst ourselves and have almost forgotten the almost accident (well, everyone but Ferf evidently) because while the rest of us have picked our coffee mugs back up to blow on the top and watch the surface tension make cool little wave-like motions, she has kept her on the table. SO when the Muppet tried for one of her not-so-patented one-hand grabs at her water and it goes falling over, Ferf is right there to snag it mid-fall and save it so nary a drop leaves the glass and hits the table. We are all impressed.

Ferf however is not so impressed. She’s is right to the limit on patience and long suffering with regards to the spillage thing and so with just the right amount of venom (is venom too strong?) I could use rancour instead… here we go…With just the right amount of motherly, I’ve-had-it-up-to-here angst, she seethes through her clenched (she’s gonna have a bout of TMJ tomorrow) teeth to the Muppet, “TWO HANDS!!!!!!!!” Then for emphasis (cause Lord knows she wasn’t emphatic enough the first time) she says it again.

And as the Muppet sits there wide eyed with something akin to fear, she watches (as do we all) as Ferf grabs her own coffee cup (with two hands mind you - she is nothing if not a wonderful example) and pulls it towards her - not realizing either how far she is away from the table, or how close the edge of the table is to her coffee - and makes her cup do a lovely half gainer spilling her coffee all over her pants and white shirt.

The timing could not have been more perfect if we had set it up like a sit-com. Tell your child “two-hands” to keep her from spilling a clear liquid like water on a table cloth, and then you use both of your hands to spill a staining liquid all over your pants. Amazing. Stunning really. You simply had to be there.

The Godmother immediately jumps up to get Ferf some clothes to change into and rags to wipe the table with. The Godfather graciously asks her if she would like some more coffee and re-fills her cup. So Ferf comes back completely changed and cleaned up and sits down at the table. To this point, everyone has been completely silence. Sitting in stunned silence really. Then Ferf slowly reaches for her coffee, and at that very moment with complete compassion and the utter integrity of a child, Muppet looks up at Ferf and says “Two hands Mommy.”

Out of the mouth of babes…

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So today is the universally accepted (and by that I mean North America and anywhere that the Hallmark mafia has grafted itself into the power structure of the economic system) day for celebrating dads. We all had one, some of us are one, and this is the day that we cemmorate, rejoice and otherwise observe it. I have noticed that it always falls on a Sunday. I have often wondered at the origins of this. I have come to the following few ideas, though the list is by no means exhaustive and you may add to it as you see fit:

These are in no particular order other than this is how it came to my brain as I typed (read what you will into that):

1. The chuch joined in to this “holiday” early on as a way of encouraging the males to attend church on this day because they might “get” something during the service the old door prize style bait and swtich - come to church and maybe you will get a big screen TV…OH NO, all you get is a chance to save your immortal soul from hell you beer swilling reprobate!!
2. Someone got the idea that Sunday is a day of rest, so why not give dads a chance to partake in that at least ONCE a year. So they don’t have to mow the law, wash the car, clean out the shed, pick up the dog poop off the carpet, scrub the childs poopy bum from epsiodic non-successful toilet training, fix the sink, empty the garbage, put new batteries in the “child’s favorite, mind numbing noise making toy this one freaking Sunday.
3. Baseball season, Sunday afternoon, cold beer in the fridge, BBQ weather - obviously even God was on board with this little idea
4. The whole thing is a conspiracy originally thought up by a psedo-illuminati group made up of representatives of Hallmark, Old Spice, neck-tie manufacturers and the restaurant industry.
5. The whole thing was really about doing a mother’s day, but the guilt factor of leaving out dads was just too great and eventually “they” (whoever they are) threw a father’s day into the mix to appease the masses (of males). Think I’m nuts? Why was Mother’s day first recognized in the US in 1914 by Woodrow Wilson and Father’s Day was not officially recognized until 1972 during Nixon’s presidency…I’m not sayin’ - I’m just sayin’
6. Who frickin cares, now that I’m a father I milk it for all it is worth!!!

All of this notwithstanding, this being my second time to celebrate the day as a father (at least that anyone can prove conclusively) I thought it appropriate to comment on it in some fashion.

So, first, let me say to all the fathers out there - atta boy. Dads are the most awesome thing that a man can become. I mean that. (All you sperm donors out there have no idea what you are missing) My dad was a great father. I will always be proud of the many things that he taught me. Like every dad, he could be (and was) a turd on many occasions floating in the punch bowl of my life, but more often than not he was my idol. I also had the priviledge of growing up in the very young years with a pseudo-grandfather named Paul. He was a man of immense integrity and true faith. He and his wife led my folks to the Lord when they were going through the worst thing in the world - the loss of a child. But after that, they stayed in our lives for years and years. He taught me may many things about aging well, staying faithful and being a grandfather (which was important to me since both of mine had the audacity to die either before I was born or right after that).

But I think that there are many men out there who have been fathers to young men who are not even their own child. Hell, they might not even be your kinfolk. But you are there for them like a father when they need one and don’t have theirs (for whatever reason). You are true heroes too and this day is just as much about you.

Not ever father is a good father. I know I was lucky. Not everyone is. Because to quote the movie Parenthood - one of the true fact filled documentaries on child rearing - “You know, Mrs. Buckman, you need a license to buy a dog, to drive a car - hell, you even need a license to catch a fish. But they’ll let any butt-reaming asshole be a father.”

Sorry, had to put that it. It was a moral imperative. You simply cannot do a father’s day thing without quoting Tod from the movie parenthood - honestly it can’t be done. I tried…

Anyway, where I was with this was talking about men, other than biological fathers, who play a father’s role in a man’s life. They are just as important and sometimes more so. I was “blessed” (I’m using that term somewhat loosely depending on the memory I hold at the time of usage) with 4 uncles. They all played roles in my life and development. They taught me to shoot, fish, hunt, play football better, be tough, be a man, to fight (usually with my brother), not to cry, to ride a horse, that girls are hot, and many many other useful and deeply important life skills. For the purposes of this particular post I want to single out one particular uncle who means a great deal to me. Bobby Dale. He is one of my mother’s older brothers. Was in the military. Lives in deep east Texas in the “town” (and I am REALLY using that term loosely) of Bivins. Yeah, yuk it up. It’s a real town. Has its own post office and everything. I lived there from the summer before my junior year until my senior year in high school. It has a single stop light. The population went up by 65% when my mom and I moved there - if you don’t include domesticated animals, though I am pretty sure they did when the State did a census. My house was the one on the right and my phone number was: 4. Whatever. It is a small Texas town and the people there are probably better than the people in your town. Plus they are well armed and will get right pissed if you start talking bad about them - they will shoot you and call it justifiable homicide and if you can’t get the court venue changed, they will get off.

That being said, I did live there for a while. After my folks split up I went there to live with my mom. Being in high school, being male and being in Texas, this ment that I had to get up there early before the school year so I could partake of that experience that is like no other - two-a-day football practices. This is like the Bataan Death March - except completely voluntary, done with full football gear on, is considered “sporting fun”, and is required if you want to:

a) play football

b) have friends

c) not be considered confused with regards to sexual orientation

d) have any chance in hell of getting some tongue from a cheerleader or drill team girl

So I was moved up to Bivins that summer before my mother was even able to make it up there and I lived with my Uncle and Aunt (who was jokingly referred to as my “wicked stepmother” by us all). It goes without saying that this would have been a difficult time in my life. Folks split up, move to a wee little town, whole new school, all new friends, etc. But through it all Uncle Bobby was always there. In his own ways. He is a great man and I love him dearly for all that he did and all that he was for me during that year. It was not too long ago that it dawned on me quite suddenly that I do not think I had ever really thanked him. I mean I am sure I did when I was 17, but seriouly, what the hell does a 17 year old know (if you are 17 and read my blog then obviously I don’t include you in that statement as you show immense maturity and understanding for such a tender age). I had no idea how important it was at the time. Everything is seen more clearly in retrospect I have found. But it literally struck me while I was out mowing the yard - I have no idea why. But as I was mowing, I found myself looking back with preternatural clarity at my time in Bivins. I was turning the mower off so I could empty the catchment of clippings when I realized that there were tears in my eyes. I had this sudden urge to write him a letter and tell him what I had come to understand for the first time. I went to my office and typed and sent the email that day. I have no idea if he got it. He didn’t respond - not that i would know how to respond to it either. But the important thing was that I understood, I wrote it and I sent it. But as I have continued to reflect back on it, I decided that I would post the letter on the Maru as well. Not that I think he is a loyal reader - I can imagine him saying, “aww hell boy, I don’t even know what a bog is” and he would have purposely mispronounced blog just to make a point. However, as I said before, that is not the point. The point is that we have stories to tell and we MUST tell them. Even if no one reads them - we must tell them. Our history and our memories live in the telling. So with that, here is the email:

Uncle Bobby,

I was outside mowing the yard today and suddenly this entire letter, fully composed, came into my head. As I thought about it I realized that I probably should have written it years ago, but you will have to believe me when I say that I have been thinking it for a long time (and deal with the fact that I finally got around to writing it today!).

I have no idea what made this pop into my mind on today of all days, but I have learned to go with my gut on such things – so I drove into my office and sat down to type.

Basically I wanted to tell you how much I love you and what you mean to me. Some 20 years ago when mom and dad split up and I moved up to Bivins (before mom even did) to stay with you and Aunt Joyce, you welcomed me into your life in ways that I still cannot think about with out my eyes tearing up somewhat (that part of why I came to my office to write this – there’s nothing as awkward as sitting in front of a computer typing away and crying while you do it). That summer, and the ensuing year, have meant more to me than you know. Two-a-day football practices are never really “fun” in the Texas heat…but add to that being in a new school and not knowing anyone and then add to that the timing of doing it in the aftermath of your folks splitting up and, well, it can really be the shits. But after each of those days it got a little easier – mostly because I knew that once I drove back from Queen City you would be there to talk to and just hang out with. And it seems like most nights you were already grilling 16oz steaks and half-pound baked potatoes loaded with every topping known to man. And no matter how many of those things I ate, I still kept losing weight with those football practices. You never let me lose my confidence in myself (I know that it probably never seemed like I was losing confidence, as I know that one could have considered me to be an arrogant prick back then) but that kind of upheaval in your life can be troubling on a young guy.

You never let it be for me. While I never ever for one second doubted my parents love for me (then or ever) you showed me a fathers love when mine wasn’t around. You keep in front of me a father figure who loved unconditionally and showed me for that time in my life how to continue becoming a man. You never allowed me to wallow in anything remotely resembling self-pity and constantly encouraged me – sometimes by words and all the time by your actions and just who you are. Those years of growing up between 16-17 can be very difficult and I know many men who today are shells of who they could be because they lost so much during those exact years. I am proud of who I have become as a man and a father and I owe a huge debt to you for being a large part of it. I thank you for being a dad to me when I needed one so badly. Now don’t let Aunt Joyce get pissed off about this that she’s getting left out – she was one hell of a wicked step-mother too, but you were the man I needed when I didn’t even know I needed it. So thank you and know that I love you deeply.

Happy Father’s Day to all the Uncle Bobbys out there. I hope that one day I will have the chance to be one to someone too.

And Muppet - you got me as a Dad. How’d you get so damn lucky!? I know you aren’t old enough to type yet, but that deep down you want to post a lengthy diatribe about how much you love me. Lets leave it at the fact that I am aware of it and that’s enough.

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SO I had a coffee with a friend of mine the other month and we were talking about the concept of prayer. You know, the old debate about does it do any good…prayer isn’t for God, it’s for you; prayer doesn’t change things, it changes you; and any other number of potentially ponderous and truth-laden yet both trite and pathetically sunday-school sounding one liners about the topic.

I am always amazed at our collective ability and deep seated desire to take something as mystical and conversation-birthing as prayer and “distill” it down into a bumper sticker. Like somehow anything that has to do with the maker of all creation can be summed up in 8 words or less and be witty as well as pithy. Because everyone knows that on the 8th day God didn’t really rest, he started coming up with droll little marketing slogans for Himself for t-shirts, bumper stickers and sermon illustrations. But I digress…

We were talking about prayer and as many aspects of it as we could think of. How do we do it? Why do we do it? When do we do it? How many of those little slogans about prayer are really accurate? Having been brought up in church, I am well acquainted with all (or at least most) of the past and current trendy thoughts on it. Like the book of Acts is a great little acronym Adoration Confession Thanksgiving Supplication. And that is the order and substance of how we ought to pray. Then there are those who think we should be “praying the Bible” cause God’s words are way better than ours, so lets pray His back to Him cause logically He is MUCH more inclined to even listen to, much less respond to, His own words than to ours. Of course there is also the culturally understood Are you there God? It’s me Margaret style of prayer also. I know lots of folks who lean heavily towards the “go into your prayer closet” style (which obviously means that they have way more storage space available to them in their house if they can have a closet empty and so dedicated). I know quite a few who subscribe to the early morning “quite time” or “personal devotion”. I have always been a little leery of personal devotion. I mean, I like me and all - after all, what’s not to like - but not sure that I would go so far as to say that I am devoted to myself personally. (I would always end up with that song from Grease going through my head, and I have to believe that this would somehow take away from any praying). Again, I digress…

Being the believer in all things internet that I am, I went to a source that simply cannot be denied - Wikipedia to ask about prayer. I think that this is almost too easy for us. There was a time that you had to go on a quest for knowledge. A difficult journey that required much of you. Like in those books by Piers Anthony the Xanth novels - where you could only go ask the oracle ONE question in your entire lifetime and to get to him you had to overcome 3 challenges that could end your life (thus ensuring that you did not come to ask a frivolous question). But now-a-days one can simply bring up Wikipedia and have the knowledge of all the known universes at their fingertips. That has got to piss off those guys who had the big library in Alexandria I mean seriously. Anyway, having overcome all three challenges with barely a scratch to show for it, I entered the realm of the oracle Wikipedia and asked it about prayer and this was what I got:

The great spiritual traditions offer a wide variety of devotional acts. There are morning and evening prayers, graces said over meals, and reverent physical gestures. Some Christians bow their heads and fold their hands. Native Americans dance. Some Sufis whirl. Hindus chant. Orthodox Jews sway their bodies back and forth. Quakers keep silent. Among these methodologies are a variety of approaches to understanding prayer:

• The belief that the finite can actually communicate with the infinite;
• The belief that the infinite is interested in communicating with the finite;
• The belief that the prayer is listened to and may or may not get a response;
• The belief that prayer is intended to inculcate certain attitudes in the one who prays, rather than to influence the recipient;
• The belief that prayer is intended to train a person to focus on the recipient through philosophy and intellectual contemplation;
• The belief that prayer is intended to enable a person to gain a direct experience of the recipient;
• The belief that prayer is intended to affect the very fabric of reality itself;
• The belief that the recipient expects or appreciates prayer

So I got that going for me…which is nice. We also have the trendy 24-hour house of prayer, moments of silence, meditation, chanting, prayer beads, prayer wheels, fasting, contemplation, prayer cloths, etc. (seriously, I could go on…I shite thee not)

SO, WTF is up with prayer? Don’t get me wrong my friends, I pray. I am a prayer. I encourage others to pray. I won’t go so far as to say that I pray without ceasing - because, depending on your personal take on prayer, it might be difficult if not impossible to write this post and pray at the same time; while others of you may have no problem thinking that I can do both simultaneously. In fact, some of you might be praying while you read this - and of those that are doing that, I can only assume that most of you are probably specifically praying for me. And make no mistake, I will happily receive that.

While all of that mostly likely could have gone without saying, I said it.  I figure lots of what I say could go without saying, but then this would be a really short post - in fact it would be a short blog.  But I want to make sure that when you punch your ticket on the Maru that you get your money’s worth (if valued only in a per letter basis).

So, what’s the deal with prayer?  Is it more for us that God?  Does it change things?  Does it actually change us?  Does it simply make us feel better (I am assuming that it does in fact make you feel better, cause it usually does me)?  I leave this as an opened string o’ questions and invite discussion and thoughts.  I really have no solid opinion, but I am more than willing to hear yours.  I am a practicing prayer for sure, but I know that it is often as much about obedience as it is about substance.  Sometimes it is cathartic release.  Sometimes I see real answers (at least I clock them as such).  Sometimes I feel them bouncing off the ceiling and hitting my occasionally bowed head.  Sometimes I do it aloud.  Sometimes I do it silently.  Sometimes I am very humble.  Sometimes I cuss a lot.  Sometimes I am thankful and sometimes I am pissed off.  Sometimes I think I understand and sometimes I figure I know next to nothing.

But my buddy summed it up better than I could on that day over coffee.  HE said that for him, prayer is sitting in embarrassed silence before the Lord.  Amen.

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So Sam AND AJ decided that I should be tagged. Not sure how I feel about any one person tagging me, but two within a couple of days of each other is downright scary. I am not sure that getting to know me that well is really that interesting…

But since both of them shared so much about themselves, how can I not? Well, sure there are lots of ways I can not. But I shall forgo those options and so do this cursed thing.
And, of course, they have RULES for this…I am not really a “rule guy” so much. Give me a moment as I figure out how to get around some of them, just for the fun of doing so…

Here’s how it works:

1: People who are tagged, write a blog post about their own 8 random things, and post these rules.
2: At the end of your post you need to tag 8 people and include their names.
3: You may need to leave them a comment and tell them they’re tagged, and to read your blog

SO, those are the rules and I know now put proverbial pen to virtual paper and begin:

1. If idols were allowed, William Shatner would be mine. Seriously. This man is a genius. Boston Legal might be the funniest show on television - though since we’re being so honest here, I would rather be Alan Shore than Denny Crane…mostly because of the mad cow…

2. My favorite author is Stephen King. (Just barely ahead of Anne Rice mostly because of volume of work.) He is pound for pound, the most talented story teller of the modern era. I have no idea why we would compare him on a weight basis, but I did. And the modern era is comprised of the years that I have been actively reading.

3. My wife, the lovely and talented Ferf, kicked me to the curb 3 times before I wore down her resistance and coerced her into marrying me. When I actually popped the question (after like 6 years of abuse dating) I had a sniper on a nearby rooftop with instructions to shoot one of us (either one, I didn’t care at that point) if she said no.

4. I absolutely love traveling. Not more than my family mind you - the Muppet is center of all that is good and right - but if she weren’t around, I and Ferf would still be working overseas and very rarely coming back to countries that are mis-labeled as “developed”.

5. Theology be damned - there will be Taco Bells in heaven!

6. I want to go to law school. In fact I have purchased all of the materials to take the LSAT. Always have wanted to go. Turned down offers to after I graduated with my BA for strange and wonderful reasons, and am glad that I did. But I think the time will come where it is what I do.

7. I am a strange and wonderfully convoluted mix of conservativism and liberalism. If forced to choose, I would tell you to kiss my arse and refuse. Both are wrong and yet both have some truth in them - like any two church denominations you could pick.

8. I think teaching is the single greatest thing anyone can do - whether they are a professional teacher or not. In fact, you get bonus points for doing it outside of an occupational position. There is no greater feeling in the world than seeing the light go on for someone.

9. Piss on the rules - I love debate and will engage in it ANYTIME (but when in that mode I believe in emotionally crushing the opposition - not just winning); not going to church on Sunday mornings for the last few months has been AWESOME and it is scary how much I don’t look forward to going back and yet I will cause part of me wants to; one of the most impactful (Badger, Goddess, look at the link - I know it’s not a real word and I don’t care) statements ever said to me came from a Baptist preacher who said “Sometimes you can make a bigger impact for the Kingdom of God with a beer in your hands than a Bible”; although I do have one book published, I would love to be a full-time author;

and finally, to quote Bull Durham (one of the greatest baseball movies of all time - yeah I said it and I mean it) “I believe in the Church of Baseball. I’ve tried all the major religions and most of the minor ones. And the only church that truly feeds the soul, day-in day-out, is the Church of Baseball. There are 108 beads in a catholic rosary and 108 stitches in a baseball. Knowing that, how can you not give Jesus a chance.”

There, I have finished the thing. I now have to pass this along like a venereal disease to some of my friends. Of course, those that I would tag don’t blog - or more likely, don’t read mine. Still, Badger, BMac, Goddess, Coastal, OSOK, Champagne, I CHOOSE YOU!! (wow that sounded strangely like I was in a pokemon cartoon.)

SO there you go. Sam, AJ curse you and your infernal tags!

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