The Bow Tie Pt 3: Tying the Knot

On an early morning it takes forever to tie a bow tie. While this is hyperbole, it does take me fully twenty minutes, as opposed to the negligible time spent tying a long tie. In the end, it's worth it - the finished product, after all, is a highly respectable piece of work that few people know how to do. As I was unfortunately soon to learn, that few was one fewer than I thought.

The knot is very stable. On each of my breaks I would straighten and sometimes tighten the knot, but retying was fortunately entirely unessential. After work I head to church. I serve in the children's ministry at the 5pm service, after which I attend the 7:15pm service.

Between services I see my friend Lacey. Lacey always appreciates my ties, especially as a former employee of several men's clothing stores, including Brooks Brothers. Fourteen hours into my day, the knot is still going strong. I look to Lacey's reaction with great anticipation.

"That's a very nice tie."

"Thank you."

"...you seem to be missing the bow though."

It was certainly tied in a knot. It seems this was even a semi-acceptable way to tie it. Unfortunately, it was still not correct. I took off my tie and allowed her to tie it for me. It looked and felt better, not to mention that it was a size that actually fit me. Furthermore, the shape of the untied tie itself actually made sense. Brilliant, simply brilliant.

Sitting in the foyer after church, she taught me the proper way to tie a bow tie by tying it on my leg. I then untied my leg bow and retied it. After this, I mustered my confidence and successfully tied it on my neck. Using a mirror to straighten, I was indeed wearing a bow tie, which I myself tied properly.

Like every week, I went out with group of people after church. This particular week's post-service gathering (PSG* for short) was at Romeo's Pizza. The pesto bread is delicious, and a great deal during happy hour for a mere $5. As I sat there, people repeatedly asked me to take off my bow tie and retie it. I was free entertainment. In retrospect, I should have put out a tip jar.

Repeated tyings were good practice. At one point I quipped that now that I can tie a bow tie I'm ready to get married - tux time. Time to tie the knot, if you will. True or not, it's a skill I'm glad to have in my repertoire. A gentleman can never know too many different ways to tie a tie, and I'm glad to officially be among the aforementioned bow tying few.

Writing about wearing a bow tie is almost as much fun as wearing a bow tie. Maybe someday I'll have enough bow tied adventures to fill a book, or at least a bow tie shaped coffee table book. For now though, this is the end of the bow tie blogging era. With these three nicely packaged posts, I will wrap things up and, as they say, put a bow** on it.

*For those who saw my tweet about PSG tonight and wondered, now you know.
**No, I don't mean a bird. Sorry Portland.

On an early morning it takes forever to tie a bow tie. While this is hyperbole, it does take me fully twenty minutes, as opposed to the negligible time spent tying a long tie. In the end, it's worth it - the finished product, after all, is a highly respectable piece of work that few people know how to do. As I was unfortunately soon to learn, that few was one fewer than I thought.

The knot is very stable. On each of my breaks I would straighten and sometimes tighten the knot, but retying was fortunately entirely unessential. After work I head to church. I serve in the children's ministry at the 5pm service, after which I attend the 7:15pm service.

Between services I see my friend Lacey. Lacey always appreciates my ties, especially as a former employee of several men's clothing stores, including Brooks Brothers. Fourteen hours into my day, the knot is still going strong. I look to Lacey's reaction with great anticipation.

"That's a very nice tie."

"Thank you."

"...you seem to be missing the bow though."

It was certainly tied in a knot. It seems this was even a semi-acceptable way to tie it. Unfortunately, it was still not correct. I took off my tie and allowed her to tie it for me. It looked and felt better, not to mention that it was a size that actually fit me. Furthermore, the shape of the untied tie itself actually made sense. Brilliant, simply brilliant.

Sitting in the foyer after church, she taught me the proper way to tie a bow tie by tying it on my leg. I then untied my leg bow and retied it. After this, I mustered my confidence and successfully tied it on my neck. Using a mirror to straighten, I was indeed wearing a bow tie, which I myself tied properly.

Like every week, I went out with group of people after church. This particular week's post-service gathering (PSG* for short) was at Romeo's Pizza. The pesto bread is delicious, and a great deal during happy hour for a mere $5. As I sat there, people repeatedly asked me to take off my bow tie and retie it. I was free entertainment. In retrospect, I should have put out a tip jar.

Repeated tyings were good practice. At one point I quipped that now that I can tie a bow tie I'm ready to get married - tux time. Time to tie the knot, if you will. True or not, it's a skill I'm glad to have in my repertoire. A gentleman can never know too many different ways to tie a tie, and I'm glad to officially be among the aforementioned bow tying few.

Writing about wearing a bow tie is almost as much fun as wearing a bow tie. Maybe someday I'll have enough bow tied adventures to fill a book, or at least a bow tie shaped coffee table book. For now though, this is the end of the bow tie blogging era. With these three nicely packaged posts, I will wrap things up and, as they say, put a bow** on it.

*For those who saw my tweet about PSG tonight and wondered, now you know.
**No, I don't mean a bird. Sorry Portland.

The Bow Tie Pt 3: Tying the Knot

The Bow Tie Pt 2: I Gotta Learn How to Tie a Bow

"This kinda thing happens every show. I gotta learn how to tie a bow." I said it over and over again as I was learning to tie the bow tie. It was a reference to the video below. Love this video.

"This kinda thing happens every show. I gotta learn how to tie a bow." I said it over and over again as I was learning to tie the bow tie. It was a reference to the video below. Love this video.

The Bow Tie Pt 2: I Gotta Learn How to Tie a Bow

The Bow Tie Pt 1: No Respect

I enjoy wearing ties. As such, I do so nearly every day, generally at least five days per week. When working I feel naked without one, and my friend Ben recently gave me a hard time for not wearing one. My collection is about fifteen, some of which I like far more than others. I also know about ten different knots, most of which look very similar. I've never owned a bow tie. Never, that is, until Saturday evening.

Saturday was a rather crazy day: I worked from 7:30am until 8pm*, with approximately 8:30am to 6pm being very busy, and the remainder of the time being by no means slow. At the end of the day, I decided to reward myself.

Shopping at Nordstrom Rack is always a bit overwhelming to me: so many things I want that I know are being sold at a discount, yet I still can't really afford them. I walk past cologne, scarves, socks, sweaters - I can't allow myself to be distracted - watches, hats, shirts. I'm a man on a mission.

Ties, ties, ties. Shelves and arms and tables hold hundreds if not thousands of ties at drastically varied price points. Some were over $100, but I felt they should have paid someone to wear something so wretched. Finally I see what I've been looking for, hanging disregarded on four or five arms near the floor: bow ties. Like the great Rodney Dangerfield, bow ties get no respect at all.

I don't own a yellow tie. Bow tie, yellow tie: I'll kill two birds with one stone (though that white bow tie is mighty tempting). I find a lovely yellow tie with blue and white stripes. Vaguely nautical for my taste, but quite nice. Wait, navy stripes? Can I wear that with my black work shirts?

An employee walks past thrice before I finally ask her. She is appalled. This tie has navy stripes. How could I even consider wearing it with a black shirt? She points to another yellow tie, which I somehow missed. Yellow, with charcoal and gold crossing stripes? Heavenly. $15? Yes please!

Checking out, I come home. I look at the tying instructions that came with the tie...what? My How to Tie a Tie app doesn't tell me how to tie a bow tie - that is only available in the full version of the app**. YouTube is my best friend. Ironically enough, the best how to tie a bow tie video on YouTube is by a woman, not a gentleman. After watching seemingly myriadical videos, I almost have it. Time to bust out the book: How to Be a Gentleman. As a supplement to the videos, this book provides the perfect instructions.

The tie has been tied. It took thirty minutes, but I did it. Re-tying the next morning only took twenty. I'm getting better. Fortunately, it made it through the day quite well. No need to re-tie. I wore a bow tie, and it was wonderful.

There are three types of men who wear bow ties: men in tuxedos, nerds, and...fine, there are two types of men. So I'm a nerd. And my bow tie is my badge of pride.

*To be fair, I worked at two different stores, so I did have an hour off in between.
**Frankly, I'm rather shocked I haven't yet paid for the full version of this app.

I enjoy wearing ties. As such, I do so nearly every day, generally at least five days per week. When working I feel naked without one, and my friend Ben recently gave me a hard time for not wearing one. My collection is about fifteen, some of which I like far more than others. I also know about ten different knots, most of which look very similar. I've never owned a bow tie. Never, that is, until Saturday evening.

Saturday was a rather crazy day: I worked from 7:30am until 8pm*, with approximately 8:30am to 6pm being very busy, and the remainder of the time being by no means slow. At the end of the day, I decided to reward myself.

Shopping at Nordstrom Rack is always a bit overwhelming to me: so many things I want that I know are being sold at a discount, yet I still can't really afford them. I walk past cologne, scarves, socks, sweaters - I can't allow myself to be distracted - watches, hats, shirts. I'm a man on a mission.

Ties, ties, ties. Shelves and arms and tables hold hundreds if not thousands of ties at drastically varied price points. Some were over $100, but I felt they should have paid someone to wear something so wretched. Finally I see what I've been looking for, hanging disregarded on four or five arms near the floor: bow ties. Like the great Rodney Dangerfield, bow ties get no respect at all.

I don't own a yellow tie. Bow tie, yellow tie: I'll kill two birds with one stone (though that white bow tie is mighty tempting). I find a lovely yellow tie with blue and white stripes. Vaguely nautical for my taste, but quite nice. Wait, navy stripes? Can I wear that with my black work shirts?

An employee walks past thrice before I finally ask her. She is appalled. This tie has navy stripes. How could I even consider wearing it with a black shirt? She points to another yellow tie, which I somehow missed. Yellow, with charcoal and gold crossing stripes? Heavenly. $15? Yes please!

Checking out, I come home. I look at the tying instructions that came with the tie...what? My How to Tie a Tie app doesn't tell me how to tie a bow tie - that is only available in the full version of the app**. YouTube is my best friend. Ironically enough, the best how to tie a bow tie video on YouTube is by a woman, not a gentleman. After watching seemingly myriadical videos, I almost have it. Time to bust out the book: How to Be a Gentleman. As a supplement to the videos, this book provides the perfect instructions.

The tie has been tied. It took thirty minutes, but I did it. Re-tying the next morning only took twenty. I'm getting better. Fortunately, it made it through the day quite well. No need to re-tie. I wore a bow tie, and it was wonderful.

There are three types of men who wear bow ties: men in tuxedos, nerds, and...fine, there are two types of men. So I'm a nerd. And my bow tie is my badge of pride.

*To be fair, I worked at two different stores, so I did have an hour off in between.
**Frankly, I'm rather shocked I haven't yet paid for the full version of this app.

The Bow Tie Pt 1: No Respect

She Lives in a Shoe

In customer service, you interact with a lot of people, obviously. We all have one group of people who seems to react most favorably toward is. For me, I think that group is women who are at least 25 years older than me.

That puts them at 55+, older than my mom*. Sometimes they are in the 55-60 category. Other times they are more in the 75-85 category, old enough to be my grandmother. Sometimes, even older. Recently I've had two non-work experiences with women in or nearing this group which I found to be particularly interesting.

A few days ago while waiting on the light rail I noticed a group of three or four quite trendy ladies in their early to mid-50s and a gentleman about the same age. They were talking and being rambunctious, with him contributing nothing. "I still think you should make out on the second date," I heard one of them say. She was clearly the leader of the pack.

We got on the train, and they sat in the seats directly behind mine. One of the other ladies complained about a recent date. She felt it went well, but he never called her after. Ringleader, a mutual friend consoled her that he did like her. No one seemed to understand quite why he didn't call.

The complaining woman dejectedly lamented her inability to find a man who is mature. Indeed, this does seem to be a common problem, so I thought nothing of it until Ringleader once again contributed: "you will have to get used to the maturity difference. After all, you're 53. 28-year-old guys are all like that!" Yes, the guy who was not mature enough to date a 53-year-old woman was younger than me.

Second story. This one occurred today. I was at the library, as I often am. As I was walking in, I noticed that right behind me there was a woman old enough to be my grandmother. I held the door for her. Shocked, she smiled and thanked me as she entered. We both crossed the library foyer and came to the second set of doors. She opens the door. Instead of walking in she holds the door for me. She gestures for me to go through, saying with a smile, "Women's lib." Wow.

I have some strange interactions with people, but these women stood out. I'm not sure why, but they did. Do you know why?

*I should note here that my mom, a faithful reader is only 37, though it seems she has been 37 for a number of years. I will not tell you what that number is.

In customer service, you interact with a lot of people, obviously. We all have one group of people who seems to react most favorably toward is. For me, I think that group is women who are at least 25 years older than me.

That puts them at 55+, older than my mom*. Sometimes they are in the 55-60 category. Other times they are more in the 75-85 category, old enough to be my grandmother. Sometimes, even older. Recently I've had two non-work experiences with women in or nearing this group which I found to be particularly interesting.

A few days ago while waiting on the light rail I noticed a group of three or four quite trendy ladies in their early to mid-50s and a gentleman about the same age. They were talking and being rambunctious, with him contributing nothing. "I still think you should make out on the second date," I heard one of them say. She was clearly the leader of the pack.

We got on the train, and they sat in the seats directly behind mine. One of the other ladies complained about a recent date. She felt it went well, but he never called her after. Ringleader, a mutual friend consoled her that he did like her. No one seemed to understand quite why he didn't call.

The complaining woman dejectedly lamented her inability to find a man who is mature. Indeed, this does seem to be a common problem, so I thought nothing of it until Ringleader once again contributed: "you will have to get used to the maturity difference. After all, you're 53. 28-year-old guys are all like that!" Yes, the guy who was not mature enough to date a 53-year-old woman was younger than me.

Second story. This one occurred today. I was at the library, as I often am. As I was walking in, I noticed that right behind me there was a woman old enough to be my grandmother. I held the door for her. Shocked, she smiled and thanked me as she entered. We both crossed the library foyer and came to the second set of doors. She opens the door. Instead of walking in she holds the door for me. She gestures for me to go through, saying with a smile, "Women's lib." Wow.

I have some strange interactions with people, but these women stood out. I'm not sure why, but they did. Do you know why?

*I should note here that my mom, a faithful reader is only 37, though it seems she has been 37 for a number of years. I will not tell you what that number is.

She Lives in a Shoe

I'm Back

It's true: the sabbatical is over, and I'm back to the blog. It's been a crazy two or so weeks, and I really want to spend my first post talking about that.

Work. Oh man. I've been doing this a lot. At one point I worked 12 days in a row. In this, I worked 13 shifts doing 2 jobs at 5 locations. Yikes. But when you have a job that is driven by tourism (i.e. any job in downtown Seattle), this is the hardest time of year. You take the hours when you can get them.

I ran the Gladiator Rock and Run. 43 minutes, 54 seconds. I think this is a pretty good time, especially considering that my goal was simply to be under 1 hour. 5k+16 obstacles to raise money to fight autism. Next month I might do a standard 5k to fight arthritis.

The weather got into the 30s last night. Way too cold for early November. I still have a lot of lima beans not ready to be picked, so I'm hoping the first frost is not too soon.

Someone pointed out to me that I don't have a life plan. I've been working on putting that together. I have more of it than I thought I did, and I've filled in some of the missing pieces, but there is still a lot to do on that. Also, I have several goals that I have no idea where to begin on. But knowing where you are going comes before figuring out how to get there.

Life is busy and seems to be getting moreso every day. It's complicated, especially now that I'm no longer a 20-something. But it's good to be back to Qoheleth. I've missed you.

It's true: the sabbatical is over, and I'm back to the blog. It's been a crazy two or so weeks, and I really want to spend my first post talking about that.

Work. Oh man. I've been doing this a lot. At one point I worked 12 days in a row. In this, I worked 13 shifts doing 2 jobs at 5 locations. Yikes. But when you have a job that is driven by tourism (i.e. any job in downtown Seattle), this is the hardest time of year. You take the hours when you can get them.

I ran the Gladiator Rock and Run. 43 minutes, 54 seconds. I think this is a pretty good time, especially considering that my goal was simply to be under 1 hour. 5k+16 obstacles to raise money to fight autism. Next month I might do a standard 5k to fight arthritis.

The weather got into the 30s last night. Way too cold for early November. I still have a lot of lima beans not ready to be picked, so I'm hoping the first frost is not too soon.

Someone pointed out to me that I don't have a life plan. I've been working on putting that together. I have more of it than I thought I did, and I've filled in some of the missing pieces, but there is still a lot to do on that. Also, I have several goals that I have no idea where to begin on. But knowing where you are going comes before figuring out how to get there.

Life is busy and seems to be getting moreso every day. It's complicated, especially now that I'm no longer a 20-something. But it's good to be back to Qoheleth. I've missed you.

I'm Back

The Sabbatical

Without going into detail, I have too many things going on to do my usual (using the word loosely of late) two updates per week. As such, I've decided to take a sabbatical from my blog.

There will possibly be one update (something I've been working on a bit) over the next two weeks, but other than that I'm taking a two week sabbatical. I really enjoy writing for you all to read, but I just can't do it right now. I hope you understand.

Without going into detail, I have too many things going on to do my usual (using the word loosely of late) two updates per week. As such, I've decided to take a sabbatical from my blog.

There will possibly be one update (something I've been working on a bit) over the next two weeks, but other than that I'm taking a two week sabbatical. I really enjoy writing for you all to read, but I just can't do it right now. I hope you understand.

The Sabbatical

Love in the Fall

It is October, and the weather has clearly turned to Fall. I cannot stress enough my love for this season. Pumpkin and falling leaves are perpetually on my mind this time of year. Also, per usual, I've been thinking a lot about love, both in the romantic (for lack of a better word) sense and otherwise. This being the case, I wanted to post a poem I wrote in college about the Fall and love.

This poem is in a highly fixed form called a Sestina. A Sestina consists of six sextets and a triplet, totaling to thirty-nine lines. Each line of the sextets is ten words long. The six words that end each line of the sextets are repeated throughout using a system called retrogradatio cruciata, Latin for "retrograde cross." The pattern is as follows:
123456
615243
364125
532614
451362
246531
The triplet then contains all six end words.

I took some liberties in the nature of these words, specifically focusing more on the sound of the words, as language was ultimately spoken first, with writing developed later only as a way to record what was being spoken. My poetry teacher did not appreciate this, though it made for what I look back on eight years later as one of my favorite poems I've ever written. The cheesiness is intentional, conveying the shallow and vapid nature of the "love," which is of course only seasonal. Without further ado, Love in the Fall.

Love in the Fall is the best love of all.
I sit beneath the trees, thinking gladly of us two
sitting in dying grass amidst a pile of fallen leaves.
The breeze reminds me of you, soft and sweet.
At night, I look at stars. Is anything more beautiful?
But when I see your eyes, I think I know...

And then comes winter, with the cold and the snow,
and April really is the cruelest month of them all.
But soon comes summer, when the weather is too beautiful.
Then it's autumn again in just a month or two,
and we move like the seasons with movements so soft,
as one person cries while the other person simply leaves.

But I think we should dance, like falling golden leaves,
and I would ask, but I'm afraid you'd say no.
I touch your hand, and your hand touches back: soft
pulses of electricity fill my body...I'm left in awe.
It's like the whole world is gone but us two.
But I don't deserve this moment - you're just too beautiful.

And I guess that I can't truly comprehend beauty fully:
it's something deep inside of you that will never leave.
And though I want to I don't know how to
love. And I want to learn, but I don't know
how to. And when I try, I know I'll fall
flat on my face (it's expected, having happened quite oft).

Sometimes love is hard, not always so easy and soft;
and looks fade, but love brings out inner beauty, full
of character, not like what our society preaches at all.
Love never crumbles like a pile of dries up leaves.
When it comes to love, this is all I know,
and soon I hope to learn another thing or two.

I hope you're learning all about what love is too
so that, as I cry my tears that flow softly,
I'll still have a reminder (something to let me know
without the slightest hint of doubt) that you're stunningly beautiful.
But when what I can see on the outside leaves,
it's still there to remind me you have it all.

Love is patient. Love that leaves is no love at all.
And I know you're soft and beautiful,
but if I concentrate too much on that I'll fall.

It is October, and the weather has clearly turned to Fall. I cannot stress enough my love for this season. Pumpkin and falling leaves are perpetually on my mind this time of year. Also, per usual, I've been thinking a lot about love, both in the romantic (for lack of a better word) sense and otherwise. This being the case, I wanted to post a poem I wrote in college about the Fall and love.

This poem is in a highly fixed form called a Sestina. A Sestina consists of six sextets and a triplet, totaling to thirty-nine lines. Each line of the sextets is ten words long. The six words that end each line of the sextets are repeated throughout using a system called retrogradatio cruciata, Latin for "retrograde cross." The pattern is as follows:
123456
615243
364125
532614
451362
246531
The triplet then contains all six end words.

I took some liberties in the nature of these words, specifically focusing more on the sound of the words, as language was ultimately spoken first, with writing developed later only as a way to record what was being spoken. My poetry teacher did not appreciate this, though it made for what I look back on eight years later as one of my favorite poems I've ever written. The cheesiness is intentional, conveying the shallow and vapid nature of the "love," which is of course only seasonal. Without further ado, Love in the Fall.

Love in the Fall is the best love of all.
I sit beneath the trees, thinking gladly of us two
sitting in dying grass amidst a pile of fallen leaves.
The breeze reminds me of you, soft and sweet.
At night, I look at stars. Is anything more beautiful?
But when I see your eyes, I think I know...

And then comes winter, with the cold and the snow,
and April really is the cruelest month of them all.
But soon comes summer, when the weather is too beautiful.
Then it's autumn again in just a month or two,
and we move like the seasons with movements so soft,
as one person cries while the other person simply leaves.

But I think we should dance, like falling golden leaves,
and I would ask, but I'm afraid you'd say no.
I touch your hand, and your hand touches back: soft
pulses of electricity fill my body...I'm left in awe.
It's like the whole world is gone but us two.
But I don't deserve this moment - you're just too beautiful.

And I guess that I can't truly comprehend beauty fully:
it's something deep inside of you that will never leave.
And though I want to I don't know how to
love. And I want to learn, but I don't know
how to. And when I try, I know I'll fall
flat on my face (it's expected, having happened quite oft).

Sometimes love is hard, not always so easy and soft;
and looks fade, but love brings out inner beauty, full
of character, not like what our society preaches at all.
Love never crumbles like a pile of dries up leaves.
When it comes to love, this is all I know,
and soon I hope to learn another thing or two.

I hope you're learning all about what love is too
so that, as I cry my tears that flow softly,
I'll still have a reminder (something to let me know
without the slightest hint of doubt) that you're stunningly beautiful.
But when what I can see on the outside leaves,
it's still there to remind me you have it all.

Love is patient. Love that leaves is no love at all.
And I know you're soft and beautiful,
but if I concentrate too much on that I'll fall.

Love in the Fall

How Does Your Garden Grow?

As you may know, though many of you probably don't as I don't think I've ever written about it, I am an avid gardener. Though I hated helping in the garden while growing up, I have over the last three years developed a passion for it. It's a great way to get food while actually knowing where it comes from, what it has (and more importantly hasn't) been treated with*, and the like. Unfortunately the weather in Seattle this year has been such that the harvest was generally disappointing.

Until the month of August, we had broken 80 degrees for a total of just 84 minutes. Despite the complaints of a lot of people, I loved this, except for the implications on my garden. Everything seemed slightly drier than usual, and even the sunniest days were mildly overcast. In August it got hot. Too little too late for struggling plants.

On to plants. This was my first year growing lima beans. My mom** sent me three different kinds of lima bean seeds, which are themselves just lima beans. Two of the three grew and did better than most of my other crops. I'm still getting beans: they're hanging in the pods on the plant, slowly drying. Hopefully this will be done before our first frost.

Near my beans are tomatoes, which despise the lack of sun almost as much as the low high temperatures. Of the forty or so seeds I planted, three have survived and actually grown. I've gotten a few tomatoes, but for the most part they still hang full of green fruit.

Blueberries did rather well this year and were quite delicious. Raspberries did less well, though they were equally delightful. No one plants blackberries, because, as I've previously stated, they grow as weeds here. Unfortunately, most of them never ripened, though the ripe berries were quite possibly the best I've ever tasted.


Spinach, chard, and lettuce performed quite well. They are generally easy to grow here, as are root vegetables, exemplified by my onions and garlic. I chose not to plant carrots this year. I will not make that mistake again next year.

Snow peas, one of my best crops year after year, were full again this year. Unfortunately, the lack of sun in late spring meant white, flavorless pods with little to no nutritional value.

I say all this to talk about my neighbor. I've learned from talking to her daughter on her occasional visits that my neighbor moved here from China in the 1950s. I've also unfortunately learned that she speaks no English. She is growing squash, which are growing out of her yard into mine, climbing the ledge of approximately eight feet that is the result of our living on the side of a hill. More importantly, she has two plum trees.

Every other year her trees bear a bumper crop of plums. This is that year. The last two years she has simply let the plums fall to the ground and rot, which kills me. I would gladly pick them and give them to her, or eat them myself. But she doesn't speak English, and I don't speak Chinese. Suggestions?

*Yes, I did just end both of those phrases with prepositions. The MLA ain't (gasp) the boss of me!
**I found out recently that my mom reads my blog. Highlight of my week.

As you may know, though many of you probably don't as I don't think I've ever written about it, I am an avid gardener. Though I hated helping in the garden while growing up, I have over the last three years developed a passion for it. It's a great way to get food while actually knowing where it comes from, what it has (and more importantly hasn't) been treated with*, and the like. Unfortunately the weather in Seattle this year has been such that the harvest was generally disappointing.

Until the month of August, we had broken 80 degrees for a total of just 84 minutes. Despite the complaints of a lot of people, I loved this, except for the implications on my garden. Everything seemed slightly drier than usual, and even the sunniest days were mildly overcast. In August it got hot. Too little too late for struggling plants.

On to plants. This was my first year growing lima beans. My mom** sent me three different kinds of lima bean seeds, which are themselves just lima beans. Two of the three grew and did better than most of my other crops. I'm still getting beans: they're hanging in the pods on the plant, slowly drying. Hopefully this will be done before our first frost.

Near my beans are tomatoes, which despise the lack of sun almost as much as the low high temperatures. Of the forty or so seeds I planted, three have survived and actually grown. I've gotten a few tomatoes, but for the most part they still hang full of green fruit.

Blueberries did rather well this year and were quite delicious. Raspberries did less well, though they were equally delightful. No one plants blackberries, because, as I've previously stated, they grow as weeds here. Unfortunately, most of them never ripened, though the ripe berries were quite possibly the best I've ever tasted.


Spinach, chard, and lettuce performed quite well. They are generally easy to grow here, as are root vegetables, exemplified by my onions and garlic. I chose not to plant carrots this year. I will not make that mistake again next year.

Snow peas, one of my best crops year after year, were full again this year. Unfortunately, the lack of sun in late spring meant white, flavorless pods with little to no nutritional value.

I say all this to talk about my neighbor. I've learned from talking to her daughter on her occasional visits that my neighbor moved here from China in the 1950s. I've also unfortunately learned that she speaks no English. She is growing squash, which are growing out of her yard into mine, climbing the ledge of approximately eight feet that is the result of our living on the side of a hill. More importantly, she has two plum trees.

Every other year her trees bear a bumper crop of plums. This is that year. The last two years she has simply let the plums fall to the ground and rot, which kills me. I would gladly pick them and give them to her, or eat them myself. But she doesn't speak English, and I don't speak Chinese. Suggestions?

*Yes, I did just end both of those phrases with prepositions. The MLA ain't (gasp) the boss of me!
**I found out recently that my mom reads my blog. Highlight of my week.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

Think Different, in the Same Way

Yesterday started just like any other day: I woke up complaining about having to get up early. I went to work, then to the gym. After working out I ran into my friend David, with whom I walked around the Pike Place Market and ate most of a jar of pickles*. When I got home, I logged onto Twitter.

First tweet:
@danlesac I'm honestly stunned http://www.apple.com/stevejobs/
[Still unsure what's going on, I assume Jobs has retired. I keep reading.]
@seattletimes What do you remember most about Steve Jobs or his impact on the tech world?
@derekwebb devastated by the news of steve jobs' passing
[I'm sorry? Passing???]
@nytimes Developing: Steve Jobs, visionary co-founder and former CEO of Apple, has died at 56. http://nyti.ms/plZYSJ #stevejobs
[These were four of my first five tweets]

Wow. I'm dumbstruck, speechless. Just the evening before I had been joking about how the only thing on Twitter was the election and new iPhone, so iPhone must be running for president. And now, Steve Jobs is dead. I keep reading. Everyone is weighing in - personal friends, President Obama, Bill Gates, Pee Wee Herman - the full gambit. While there are several tweets about his death, I'm struck by the quantity of tweets about his life. This is legacy.

The Steve Jobs cult is in full effect. Let us not forget, by way of example, this article, which compares Steve Jobs to Jesus. Jobs is often compared to men like Edison, which is still not a fair comparison as Jobs is more a leader of a group of engineers developing products, as opposed to the primary developer himself. While Jobs has done a great deal of development, he moved out of that role and achieved the preponderance of his notoriety in a leadership capacity.
Jobs was an interesting character: those who worked most closely with him consistently said that working under Jobs inspired one of the most amazing and groundbreaking creative periods of their lives and they were pushed in ways they have never been before or since, but also that they hope to never have to work with the man again. We've all worked with people who fall into either of these categories, while most people fall in the middle, but I can't even grasp the concept of someone falling so heavily into both. Though erratic and temperamental, Jobs led a team off and on for 35 years that developed things previous generations had never dreamt of. But what he did next was even more amazing, as he convinced us all we wanted these things, using what has been referred to as his Reality Distortion Field**.

Five years ago no one was saying, "Man, I wish I had a cell phone on which I could check my email, shop on Amazon, find a recipe, and play video games." Companies like Blackberry, Motorola, and Palm were already making products with these very features, though they were appealing only to a small segment of the market. And then came the iPhone. Suddenly, these were the very things that I'd always wished I could do while riding the bus, though I had never realized it. And a keyboard? We don't want that - an on-screen keyboard is much better. Yes, now that you tell me I have, I do recall always hating physical keyboards.

Because we all suddenly wanted (or maybe even needed) it, sales of all smartphones jumped, but Apple's iPhone had a huge market share straight out of the gate because that was exactly what we had always wanted without realizing it. Everything else fell into the category of good enough, for now. And when Jobs made you want something, it was contagious: I needed an iPhone, and so did everyone I talked to.

Steve Jobs understood humanity in a way that few of us ever will, and he knew exactly how to appeal to us. He was more than just a CEO: he was a pied piper. He would play his flute as we listened through white earbuds, and we would buy whatever he led us to. We all were thinking different(ly) in the same way, the way of a perfect Keynote speech made in a black turtleneck.





*I don't know whether it's a good or bad thing that this sentence doesn't strike me as a strange part of my day.
**There are some interesting parodies of this, including a Dilbert strip that I cannot find and this episode of The Simpsons (which is unfortunately no longer available on Hulu).

Yesterday started just like any other day: I woke up complaining about having to get up early. I went to work, then to the gym. After working out I ran into my friend David, with whom I walked around the Pike Place Market and ate most of a jar of pickles*. When I got home, I logged onto Twitter.

First tweet:
@danlesac I'm honestly stunned http://www.apple.com/stevejobs/
[Still unsure what's going on, I assume Jobs has retired. I keep reading.]
@seattletimes What do you remember most about Steve Jobs or his impact on the tech world?
@derekwebb devastated by the news of steve jobs' passing
[I'm sorry? Passing???]
@nytimes Developing: Steve Jobs, visionary co-founder and former CEO of Apple, has died at 56. http://nyti.ms/plZYSJ #stevejobs
[These were four of my first five tweets]

Wow. I'm dumbstruck, speechless. Just the evening before I had been joking about how the only thing on Twitter was the election and new iPhone, so iPhone must be running for president. And now, Steve Jobs is dead. I keep reading. Everyone is weighing in - personal friends, President Obama, Bill Gates, Pee Wee Herman - the full gambit. While there are several tweets about his death, I'm struck by the quantity of tweets about his life. This is legacy.

The Steve Jobs cult is in full effect. Let us not forget, by way of example, this article, which compares Steve Jobs to Jesus. Jobs is often compared to men like Edison, which is still not a fair comparison as Jobs is more a leader of a group of engineers developing products, as opposed to the primary developer himself. While Jobs has done a great deal of development, he moved out of that role and achieved the preponderance of his notoriety in a leadership capacity.
Jobs was an interesting character: those who worked most closely with him consistently said that working under Jobs inspired one of the most amazing and groundbreaking creative periods of their lives and they were pushed in ways they have never been before or since, but also that they hope to never have to work with the man again. We've all worked with people who fall into either of these categories, while most people fall in the middle, but I can't even grasp the concept of someone falling so heavily into both. Though erratic and temperamental, Jobs led a team off and on for 35 years that developed things previous generations had never dreamt of. But what he did next was even more amazing, as he convinced us all we wanted these things, using what has been referred to as his Reality Distortion Field**.

Five years ago no one was saying, "Man, I wish I had a cell phone on which I could check my email, shop on Amazon, find a recipe, and play video games." Companies like Blackberry, Motorola, and Palm were already making products with these very features, though they were appealing only to a small segment of the market. And then came the iPhone. Suddenly, these were the very things that I'd always wished I could do while riding the bus, though I had never realized it. And a keyboard? We don't want that - an on-screen keyboard is much better. Yes, now that you tell me I have, I do recall always hating physical keyboards.

Because we all suddenly wanted (or maybe even needed) it, sales of all smartphones jumped, but Apple's iPhone had a huge market share straight out of the gate because that was exactly what we had always wanted without realizing it. Everything else fell into the category of good enough, for now. And when Jobs made you want something, it was contagious: I needed an iPhone, and so did everyone I talked to.

Steve Jobs understood humanity in a way that few of us ever will, and he knew exactly how to appeal to us. He was more than just a CEO: he was a pied piper. He would play his flute as we listened through white earbuds, and we would buy whatever he led us to. We all were thinking different(ly) in the same way, the way of a perfect Keynote speech made in a black turtleneck.





*I don't know whether it's a good or bad thing that this sentence doesn't strike me as a strange part of my day.
**There are some interesting parodies of this, including a Dilbert strip that I cannot find and this episode of The Simpsons (which is unfortunately no longer available on Hulu).

Think Different, in the Same Way

Havioli Some Ravioli

On Tuesday I made ravioli for some friends. When I say this, I don't mean that I heated the contents of a can or even dumped a frozen package into boiling water for eleven minutes. I mean I made ravioli from scratch.

They were filled with crimini mushrooms and acorn squash. I had an idea of what this juxtaposition would taste like, which I found to be quite wrong (though the actual flavor was quite good). Also, I used ricotta salata instead of traditional ricotta. Salata is dry, preventing excessive moisture from the combination of ricotta and squash. Further, the consistency of the squash eliminated the need for an egg in the filling, generally essential for it's binding properties.

I made the dough using an old family recipe. I departed from the recipe by using a bowl, as opposed to mixing it directly on the countertop, which my great grandmother insisted was the only way. It's a very technical recipe, featuring half an eggshell of water, a pinch of salt, and a splash of olive oil. These ingredients are added to one egg and one cup of flour, though really you gradually add flour until the correct texture is reached.

The amount of flour varies inexplicably. This particular time I needed a lot of flour, resulting in my having a lot of extra dough. Using said dough, I baked two olive oil and basil flat breads. I very much enjoy both baking and eating bread, so these were a welcome surprise.

People will debate sauce until they are blue in the face, and I will let them do so. For me, there is no reasonably-priced sauce that compares to Prego Traditional. It's simple, good if used straight from the jar, and easy to adapt for a lot if different recipes. Further, it was on sale.

People use a wide variety of tools when making ravioli and other fresh pasta. Personally, I use a rolling pin, a teaspoon, and a knife. Roll thin, fill, cut, fold. It's that simple. I find the tools entirely unnecessary, with the possible exception of a pasta roller. In the near future, I hope to move into a better apartment with a bigger kitchen, at which point I plan to buy a pasta roller. A rolling pin simply consumes too much time to achieve a not-entirely-consistent result.

In the end, making ravioli is more expensive and more difficult than buying it. You do know exactly what goes into it, which is always nice. But more importantly, it's as much fun to make it as it is to eat it. At the end of the day, it's all worth it.

On Tuesday I made ravioli for some friends. When I say this, I don't mean that I heated the contents of a can or even dumped a frozen package into boiling water for eleven minutes. I mean I made ravioli from scratch.

They were filled with crimini mushrooms and acorn squash. I had an idea of what this juxtaposition would taste like, which I found to be quite wrong (though the actual flavor was quite good). Also, I used ricotta salata instead of traditional ricotta. Salata is dry, preventing excessive moisture from the combination of ricotta and squash. Further, the consistency of the squash eliminated the need for an egg in the filling, generally essential for it's binding properties.

I made the dough using an old family recipe. I departed from the recipe by using a bowl, as opposed to mixing it directly on the countertop, which my great grandmother insisted was the only way. It's a very technical recipe, featuring half an eggshell of water, a pinch of salt, and a splash of olive oil. These ingredients are added to one egg and one cup of flour, though really you gradually add flour until the correct texture is reached.

The amount of flour varies inexplicably. This particular time I needed a lot of flour, resulting in my having a lot of extra dough. Using said dough, I baked two olive oil and basil flat breads. I very much enjoy both baking and eating bread, so these were a welcome surprise.

People will debate sauce until they are blue in the face, and I will let them do so. For me, there is no reasonably-priced sauce that compares to Prego Traditional. It's simple, good if used straight from the jar, and easy to adapt for a lot if different recipes. Further, it was on sale.

People use a wide variety of tools when making ravioli and other fresh pasta. Personally, I use a rolling pin, a teaspoon, and a knife. Roll thin, fill, cut, fold. It's that simple. I find the tools entirely unnecessary, with the possible exception of a pasta roller. In the near future, I hope to move into a better apartment with a bigger kitchen, at which point I plan to buy a pasta roller. A rolling pin simply consumes too much time to achieve a not-entirely-consistent result.

In the end, making ravioli is more expensive and more difficult than buying it. You do know exactly what goes into it, which is always nice. But more importantly, it's as much fun to make it as it is to eat it. At the end of the day, it's all worth it.

Havioli Some Ravioli

One Update

Apologies that last week was only a one update week. Unfortunately it looks like this week will be as well. I could give you excuses, but no one wants that. I'm still writing this week, though not necessarily things to post in the blog. Fall has finally arrived, so hopefully that will provide a bit more muse.

Don't worry - this is not the update for this week.

Apologies that last week was only a one update week. Unfortunately it looks like this week will be as well. I could give you excuses, but no one wants that. I'm still writing this week, though not necessarily things to post in the blog. Fall has finally arrived, so hopefully that will provide a bit more muse.

Don't worry - this is not the update for this week.

One Update

R.E.M.ageddon

If asked to name my favorite band, my friends would give you a wide variety of answers. Many would wisely say Pavement or Meat Loaf, while a slightly smaller group would proffer The Police or Cursive. A small group would suggest Elliot Smith, while a few stragglers would suggest more familialy The Smiths. However, the correct response would be R.E.M.

Either the editor or founder (and really, these two could be the same person) of Spin wrote an amazing piece a few years back about the first time he heard R.E.M. Unfortunately, a search of the internet has revealed no evidence of this work. I can tell you though that I first heard them when I was in junior high, 1993, age 12. We had to take a music class, at which my teacher would play songs about which we would note the mood, tempo, and so forth. We turned in our discussions, though he probably rarely if at all read it.

At some point he played an R.E.M. song, possibly Losing My Religion. My mind was blown. I had no idea what I was hearing, but I knew I needed to hear more of it. The rest of the fall I spent a great deal of time telling anyone who would listen to a 12 year old discuss music preaching my love for R.E.M., based on this single hearing and sparse radio play.

Fast forward to Christmas morning. I have no idea what I got, save one tiny package. I picked it up, completely unsure what such a tiny rectangle could be. It's certainly not a sweater, book, or video game. Perhaps a deck of cards? I have plenty of those. Opening said package, I found a cassette and three words that permanently changed the way I view music: "Out of Time."

Oh man, this first song is awesome! Wait, is this guy rapping? Who is this KRS-One guy anyway? Who is this Kate Pierson girl? I'm madly in love with her based solely on her voice*. We'll ignore the fact that she's significantly older than my mom. Every song blows my mind.

Fast forward nearly 15 years. I'm at CD/Game Exchange in Silver Spring, MD, where I'm living at the time. I'm browsing to fill my addiction for buying 90s indie rock albums - Pavement, Neutral Milk Hotel, Cap'n Jazz, Mineral, whatever. Suddenly I'm struck by three familiar letters that I haven't considered in years - R.E.M. I shelled out $5 for Automatic for the People. For the second time in my life, R.E.M. blew my mind.

I still listen to R.E.M. I was actually listening to Out of Time when I drafted this post last night. However, last week something unfortunate and ultimately inevitable happened: R.E.M. announced that they are breaking up. R.E.M. has been a band for 31 years, longer than I have been alive. I've been a fan for well over half my life. It's the end of the band, as we know it and otherwise. I for one feel far less than fine.

*To be completely honest, this is still rather true.

If asked to name my favorite band, my friends would give you a wide variety of answers. Many would wisely say Pavement or Meat Loaf, while a slightly smaller group would proffer The Police or Cursive. A small group would suggest Elliot Smith, while a few stragglers would suggest more familialy The Smiths. However, the correct response would be R.E.M.

Either the editor or founder (and really, these two could be the same person) of Spin wrote an amazing piece a few years back about the first time he heard R.E.M. Unfortunately, a search of the internet has revealed no evidence of this work. I can tell you though that I first heard them when I was in junior high, 1993, age 12. We had to take a music class, at which my teacher would play songs about which we would note the mood, tempo, and so forth. We turned in our discussions, though he probably rarely if at all read it.

At some point he played an R.E.M. song, possibly Losing My Religion. My mind was blown. I had no idea what I was hearing, but I knew I needed to hear more of it. The rest of the fall I spent a great deal of time telling anyone who would listen to a 12 year old discuss music preaching my love for R.E.M., based on this single hearing and sparse radio play.

Fast forward to Christmas morning. I have no idea what I got, save one tiny package. I picked it up, completely unsure what such a tiny rectangle could be. It's certainly not a sweater, book, or video game. Perhaps a deck of cards? I have plenty of those. Opening said package, I found a cassette and three words that permanently changed the way I view music: "Out of Time."

Oh man, this first song is awesome! Wait, is this guy rapping? Who is this KRS-One guy anyway? Who is this Kate Pierson girl? I'm madly in love with her based solely on her voice*. We'll ignore the fact that she's significantly older than my mom. Every song blows my mind.

Fast forward nearly 15 years. I'm at CD/Game Exchange in Silver Spring, MD, where I'm living at the time. I'm browsing to fill my addiction for buying 90s indie rock albums - Pavement, Neutral Milk Hotel, Cap'n Jazz, Mineral, whatever. Suddenly I'm struck by three familiar letters that I haven't considered in years - R.E.M. I shelled out $5 for Automatic for the People. For the second time in my life, R.E.M. blew my mind.

I still listen to R.E.M. I was actually listening to Out of Time when I drafted this post last night. However, last week something unfortunate and ultimately inevitable happened: R.E.M. announced that they are breaking up. R.E.M. has been a band for 31 years, longer than I have been alive. I've been a fan for well over half my life. It's the end of the band, as we know it and otherwise. I for one feel far less than fine.

*To be completely honest, this is still rather true.

R.E.M.ageddon

Why the Looks?

Tie? Check
Polished shoes? Check
Nice watch? Check
Sitting on the street writing? Check

Everyone is giving me strange looks. I love it.

Tie? Check
Polished shoes? Check
Nice watch? Check
Sitting on the street writing? Check

Everyone is giving me strange looks. I love it.

Why the Looks?

Showers? Babies Take Baths!

Yesterday I went to my first baby shower ever. Don't be alarmed - I'm not having children yet. You have more time to prepare. But I have friends who are, and they had a co-ed baby shower. I was very unsure what to expect, but I had a lot of fun.

One interesting thing is that we do not yet know the baby's gender. The parents have chosen not to find out until said baby is born. While I know this used to be commonplace, it seems to be pretty rare these days. If it were me, I wouldn't be able to handle the suspense, buy I'm glad someone is doing it. Babies of unknown gender get green and yellow clothing. I bought them a green shirt that reads, "Diaper Loading. Please Wait."

Since we weren't doing the standard baby colors of blue or pink, why not tie dye? It was my first time ever doing so, but it was a lot of fun. I haven't seen the finished product yet, but I'm excited to see the baby wearing the multicolored spiral tshirt I dyed.

While the tie dying was being set up, some of us threw a frisbee around. I haven't thrown a frisbee in quite some time, whereas one of my friends coaches an intramural ultimate frisbee team at the high school where he teaches. I'm not good at frisbee. We had a two-year-old playing. With his mom's help, he actually threw it a few times, possibly better than some of my throws.

Gift time showed the difference between parents and non-parents. As gifts from parents were opened, they would explain the purpose of items to the parents-to-be. On the other hand, I picked something off the Amazon registry, not sure what it was. It said something about bathing a baby. I figure bathing is pretty important.

Per the father's request, I stopped on my way there to pick up a few cigars. Unfortunately, between the dying (tie, not death) and frisbee and delicious cake, we did not end up smoking said cigars.

It's an interesting and beautiful experience to step back and take in the fact that God is blessing my friends with a baby. A new life is coming into the world, one more little tiny human, into their care. If there be anything in all of humanity worth celebrating, this is it.

Yesterday I went to my first baby shower ever. Don't be alarmed - I'm not having children yet. You have more time to prepare. But I have friends who are, and they had a co-ed baby shower. I was very unsure what to expect, but I had a lot of fun.

One interesting thing is that we do not yet know the baby's gender. The parents have chosen not to find out until said baby is born. While I know this used to be commonplace, it seems to be pretty rare these days. If it were me, I wouldn't be able to handle the suspense, buy I'm glad someone is doing it. Babies of unknown gender get green and yellow clothing. I bought them a green shirt that reads, "Diaper Loading. Please Wait."

Since we weren't doing the standard baby colors of blue or pink, why not tie dye? It was my first time ever doing so, but it was a lot of fun. I haven't seen the finished product yet, but I'm excited to see the baby wearing the multicolored spiral tshirt I dyed.

While the tie dying was being set up, some of us threw a frisbee around. I haven't thrown a frisbee in quite some time, whereas one of my friends coaches an intramural ultimate frisbee team at the high school where he teaches. I'm not good at frisbee. We had a two-year-old playing. With his mom's help, he actually threw it a few times, possibly better than some of my throws.

Gift time showed the difference between parents and non-parents. As gifts from parents were opened, they would explain the purpose of items to the parents-to-be. On the other hand, I picked something off the Amazon registry, not sure what it was. It said something about bathing a baby. I figure bathing is pretty important.

Per the father's request, I stopped on my way there to pick up a few cigars. Unfortunately, between the dying (tie, not death) and frisbee and delicious cake, we did not end up smoking said cigars.

It's an interesting and beautiful experience to step back and take in the fact that God is blessing my friends with a baby. A new life is coming into the world, one more little tiny human, into their care. If there be anything in all of humanity worth celebrating, this is it.

Showers? Babies Take Baths!

"Welcome Aboard," or What's the Mat-ter?

My friend Amiee* works at a hotel about two blocks away from the church that I am a part of. She works Sundays. As such, I sometimes hang out with her after church. This was the case this Sunday. We sat there drinking cucumber water** and laughing, catching up on life and playing mancala. Suddenly we heard a strange sound in the street.

It reminded me of a street sweeper, though it was not moving. I've never seen a street sweeper park and continue sweeping, so this was probably not what it actually was. Eventually Amiee went to check what this strange noise was. I don't know why it sounded this way, because it was a short tour bus. Said tour bus rolled out the red carpet, which in this case was a mat. People boarded the bus, and they pulled out.

Shortly after they pulled out, Amiee went back over to the front desk to answer the phone. Suddenly she started laughing. "They left their mat!" she said.

Down the stairs I go, to street level. Back up the stairs I come, mat in hand. "Welcome Aboard," is emblazoned on the mat. The mat had been abandoned, but now it had a new owner. What will I do with this mat? I don't know. But it's going to be awesome.

I can't put this mat in front of my door for two reasons. Firstly, I already have a door mat. Having a second would require me to figure out what to do with the first. I don't have two doors, so I have no use for a second mat. Secondly, it's gigantic. I would need a double door to use this. I have no use for this mat. I should take a picture with it, then take it back down.

Suddenly I hear the street sweeper again. I hear yelling. "The mat's gone! Does anybody know what happened to my mat? I can't believe they (^&*ing forgot the mat!"

"He's going to get shot if he keeps that up," Amiee says. I grab the mat and run downstairs. "What are you going to tell him? That you wanted it, but he can have it back?"

I get to the bottom and hand him the mat as he is about to leave. "Um, I think you forgot this. We picked it up because we didn't want anyone to steal it. You need to be careful with things in this part of town."

"You're a good person," he says to me. "You're a good person, and you will be repaid for this. Thank you."

I felt so bad. He has no idea how wrong he is. None of us are good, and we are not repaid in some cosmic karmic balance system, thankfully. Further, I wasn't even acting magnanimously toward him, no matter what I told him.

I still have one doormat. I think it says "Wipe Your Paws," or something like that, though I haven't really looked at it in a long time. It's my roommate's. It sits in front of our only door. When you cross our threshold, you are coming in, not aboard, through a single door. And that's the way it should be.

*I wish Amiee had a blog I could link to from here. She has the most amazing stories about her job, and they are nowhere recorded. Blog, Amiee.
**For some reason, the water in the dispenser there has cucumbers in it. I suppose it adds something good for you to the water. It tastes a bit unusual, but I like it. I always feel trendy when I drink it.

My friend Amiee* works at a hotel about two blocks away from the church that I am a part of. She works Sundays. As such, I sometimes hang out with her after church. This was the case this Sunday. We sat there drinking cucumber water** and laughing, catching up on life and playing mancala. Suddenly we heard a strange sound in the street.

It reminded me of a street sweeper, though it was not moving. I've never seen a street sweeper park and continue sweeping, so this was probably not what it actually was. Eventually Amiee went to check what this strange noise was. I don't know why it sounded this way, because it was a short tour bus. Said tour bus rolled out the red carpet, which in this case was a mat. People boarded the bus, and they pulled out.

Shortly after they pulled out, Amiee went back over to the front desk to answer the phone. Suddenly she started laughing. "They left their mat!" she said.

Down the stairs I go, to street level. Back up the stairs I come, mat in hand. "Welcome Aboard," is emblazoned on the mat. The mat had been abandoned, but now it had a new owner. What will I do with this mat? I don't know. But it's going to be awesome.

I can't put this mat in front of my door for two reasons. Firstly, I already have a door mat. Having a second would require me to figure out what to do with the first. I don't have two doors, so I have no use for a second mat. Secondly, it's gigantic. I would need a double door to use this. I have no use for this mat. I should take a picture with it, then take it back down.

Suddenly I hear the street sweeper again. I hear yelling. "The mat's gone! Does anybody know what happened to my mat? I can't believe they (^&*ing forgot the mat!"

"He's going to get shot if he keeps that up," Amiee says. I grab the mat and run downstairs. "What are you going to tell him? That you wanted it, but he can have it back?"

I get to the bottom and hand him the mat as he is about to leave. "Um, I think you forgot this. We picked it up because we didn't want anyone to steal it. You need to be careful with things in this part of town."

"You're a good person," he says to me. "You're a good person, and you will be repaid for this. Thank you."

I felt so bad. He has no idea how wrong he is. None of us are good, and we are not repaid in some cosmic karmic balance system, thankfully. Further, I wasn't even acting magnanimously toward him, no matter what I told him.

I still have one doormat. I think it says "Wipe Your Paws," or something like that, though I haven't really looked at it in a long time. It's my roommate's. It sits in front of our only door. When you cross our threshold, you are coming in, not aboard, through a single door. And that's the way it should be.

*I wish Amiee had a blog I could link to from here. She has the most amazing stories about her job, and they are nowhere recorded. Blog, Amiee.
**For some reason, the water in the dispenser there has cucumbers in it. I suppose it adds something good for you to the water. It tastes a bit unusual, but I like it. I always feel trendy when I drink it.

"Welcome Aboard," or What's the Mat-ter?

9/11, Ten Years in Retrospect

They say you never forget where you were or what you were doing. Seeing as Kennedy was shot years before my parents met, I don't remember that. Strangely, I remember exactly where I was when I heard that the Gulf War had begun. More importantly, I remember where I was on 11 September, 2011.

I was a junior in college, 19 years old. I had a 9:25 class, but I liked to push it, squeezing every moment of sleep out that I could. As such, I was in bed. Suddenly I awoke to someone banging at my door. Jason, my roommate at the time, opened the door to find Mark, another resident of our dorm, distraught.

"A plane just crashed into one of the towers!" he shouted, having himself just awakened to learn of the news.

Jason and I looked at each other, thoroughly confused as to what was going on. What towers, the radio towers on the nearby mountain? How did this happen? Some kind of a guidance system error? An error in the plane itself? Could my now-local Boeing be responsible for what happened while I lived across the country?

Suddenly we heard several people shouting. A second plane. I began to hear talk of terrorism, a concept which previously had little meaning in our country. We'd seen a few car bombs, but otherwise nothing. It was a matter of children's television: COBRA - a ruthless terrorist organization bent on global domination - could only be stopped by G.I. Joe. But this - this was unlike anything I've ever seen before.

As the day unfolded, I learned of two more planes, one in an area of the Pentagon that was fortunately not currently being used, and the other in my home state of Pennsylvania, specifically in Somerset County. No one knew why or how, but we all knew what.

Being at a Christian university at the time made the whole thing that much more interesting. Thousands of people were called together to pray. Instead there seemed to be just a lot of focus on man: discussions (read "arguments") about the judgment of God; whether or not we needed to fear Muslims; whether we should go to war. Spirals of vanity that led us further from the focus on God that brought us all under one roof.

As the day continued, we still didn't get answers. Really, we just got more questions. But there hadn't been any more crashes and planes were grounded until further notice, so we all tried to go about my normal lives.

That night I went to a local show. I don't recall any of the other bands who played, but I know Xavier Slade was there. I do believe it was at Percival's Island. Daniel had booked the show, so he was there, at the time still running Burning Bush singlehandedly. Daniel had woken up and gotten dressed that morning before any of this occurred. He happened to put on his Squad Five-O Bombs over Broadway shirt (see photo below). As soon as I saw it, I got a feeling in my stomach. Suddenly I realized that we were all changed forever on that day. Normal life would never again be normal life.

Ten years ago we all realized that we are not invincible. I didn't know anyone who was directly involved, but many people died or were seriously injured, some of them while trying to help others avoid this fate.

Seven years later we got another reminder of our vulnerability: this time the towers that collapsed were the dual bars showing the housing market and the Dow Jones Industrial Average. It was just another reminder that ultimately our national and political and economic and militaristic savior will all fail. Ultimately, everything but Jesus will, though that's not what I'm talking about right now. All I'm talking about is what happened ten years ago, as I remember it ten years later. Because even today nothing is quite the same, all because of ten men, two planes, and two towers.

They say you never forget where you were or what you were doing. Seeing as Kennedy was shot years before my parents met, I don't remember that. Strangely, I remember exactly where I was when I heard that the Gulf War had begun. More importantly, I remember where I was on 11 September, 2011.

I was a junior in college, 19 years old. I had a 9:25 class, but I liked to push it, squeezing every moment of sleep out that I could. As such, I was in bed. Suddenly I awoke to someone banging at my door. Jason, my roommate at the time, opened the door to find Mark, another resident of our dorm, distraught.

"A plane just crashed into one of the towers!" he shouted, having himself just awakened to learn of the news.

Jason and I looked at each other, thoroughly confused as to what was going on. What towers, the radio towers on the nearby mountain? How did this happen? Some kind of a guidance system error? An error in the plane itself? Could my now-local Boeing be responsible for what happened while I lived across the country?

Suddenly we heard several people shouting. A second plane. I began to hear talk of terrorism, a concept which previously had little meaning in our country. We'd seen a few car bombs, but otherwise nothing. It was a matter of children's television: COBRA - a ruthless terrorist organization bent on global domination - could only be stopped by G.I. Joe. But this - this was unlike anything I've ever seen before.

As the day unfolded, I learned of two more planes, one in an area of the Pentagon that was fortunately not currently being used, and the other in my home state of Pennsylvania, specifically in Somerset County. No one knew why or how, but we all knew what.

Being at a Christian university at the time made the whole thing that much more interesting. Thousands of people were called together to pray. Instead there seemed to be just a lot of focus on man: discussions (read "arguments") about the judgment of God; whether or not we needed to fear Muslims; whether we should go to war. Spirals of vanity that led us further from the focus on God that brought us all under one roof.

As the day continued, we still didn't get answers. Really, we just got more questions. But there hadn't been any more crashes and planes were grounded until further notice, so we all tried to go about my normal lives.

That night I went to a local show. I don't recall any of the other bands who played, but I know Xavier Slade was there. I do believe it was at Percival's Island. Daniel had booked the show, so he was there, at the time still running Burning Bush singlehandedly. Daniel had woken up and gotten dressed that morning before any of this occurred. He happened to put on his Squad Five-O Bombs over Broadway shirt (see photo below). As soon as I saw it, I got a feeling in my stomach. Suddenly I realized that we were all changed forever on that day. Normal life would never again be normal life.

Ten years ago we all realized that we are not invincible. I didn't know anyone who was directly involved, but many people died or were seriously injured, some of them while trying to help others avoid this fate.

Seven years later we got another reminder of our vulnerability: this time the towers that collapsed were the dual bars showing the housing market and the Dow Jones Industrial Average. It was just another reminder that ultimately our national and political and economic and militaristic savior will all fail. Ultimately, everything but Jesus will, though that's not what I'm talking about right now. All I'm talking about is what happened ten years ago, as I remember it ten years later. Because even today nothing is quite the same, all because of ten men, two planes, and two towers.

9/11, Ten Years in Retrospect

Sharing the Secrets

Today, after taking far too long to do so, I finished The Secret Sharer. I want to talk about it, but I don't want to ruin it for anyone (i.e. the person who wins it in the contest).

Speaking of the contest, it's still going on. And I have yet to receive any entries. Quality books. I'm just saying.

Also, per my previous post, I had not read The Secret Sharer before. It did not end as I was thinking it did. I had read about half of it before.

Today, after taking far too long to do so, I finished The Secret Sharer. I want to talk about it, but I don't want to ruin it for anyone (i.e. the person who wins it in the contest).

Speaking of the contest, it's still going on. And I have yet to receive any entries. Quality books. I'm just saying.

Also, per my previous post, I had not read The Secret Sharer before. It did not end as I was thinking it did. I had read about half of it before.

Sharing the Secrets

On Reading Books, 2 of 2, or On Putting My Money Where My Proverbial Mouth Is

In my last post, I told you to read books. I also told you to buy cheap used books.

Labor Day was 2 days ago, which meant some great sales. Half Price Books, for example, offered 20% off everything.

As I mentioned in the previous post, I bought 17 books in 9 days, some of which were not for me. Specifically, 5 of them were not for me. They were for 5 of you.

The contest begins today. It ends at noon Pacific time next Monday, 12 September. Everyone who leaves me a comment will be entered to win 1 of the 5 books. Spam comments do not count. You don't need to tweet it every day to annoy your friends (though you may if you wish) or become a fan on Facebook (again, not going to stop you) or follow the blog (man, I'm full of good ideas today). All you have to do is comment. On my blog (any post), not on a link I've posted anywhere.

The 5 books each cost me less than $5. I bought old beat up copies, even when better copies were available at the same price point. Old used books are awesome. Each of the 5 winners will get to pick, beginning with the first winner, on down through the fifth, which means the fifth will actually only have one choice. Not much of a choice, but you get my point.

The five books:

• Heart of Darkness/The Secret Sharer, by Joseph Conrad
• 1984, by George Orwell
• Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger
• Pudd'nhead Wilson, by Mark Twain
• Breakfast of Champions, by Kurt Vonnegut

I've read all of these*, and I heartily endorse them all. Perhaps later this week I'll post a brief discussion of why I chouse these books. Then again, perhaps not.

If you comment and I don't have a way of getting in touch with you (Twitter, Facebook, phone, face to face, etc), be sure to email me some contact info in case you win.

Comment. Enter. Win.

*In actuallity, I have not yet finished The Secret Sharer. Seeing as it's about 60 pages, I will be well done with it by the end of the giveaway. Further, the more that I read it, the more I think I have read it before. I know I've read at least part of it, but I think I know how it ends.

In my last post, I told you to read books. I also told you to buy cheap used books.

Labor Day was 2 days ago, which meant some great sales. Half Price Books, for example, offered 20% off everything.

As I mentioned in the previous post, I bought 17 books in 9 days, some of which were not for me. Specifically, 5 of them were not for me. They were for 5 of you.

The contest begins today. It ends at noon Pacific time next Monday, 12 September. Everyone who leaves me a comment will be entered to win 1 of the 5 books. Spam comments do not count. You don't need to tweet it every day to annoy your friends (though you may if you wish) or become a fan on Facebook (again, not going to stop you) or follow the blog (man, I'm full of good ideas today). All you have to do is comment. On my blog (any post), not on a link I've posted anywhere.

The 5 books each cost me less than $5. I bought old beat up copies, even when better copies were available at the same price point. Old used books are awesome. Each of the 5 winners will get to pick, beginning with the first winner, on down through the fifth, which means the fifth will actually only have one choice. Not much of a choice, but you get my point.

The five books:

• Heart of Darkness/The Secret Sharer, by Joseph Conrad
• 1984, by George Orwell
• Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger
• Pudd'nhead Wilson, by Mark Twain
• Breakfast of Champions, by Kurt Vonnegut

I've read all of these*, and I heartily endorse them all. Perhaps later this week I'll post a brief discussion of why I chouse these books. Then again, perhaps not.

If you comment and I don't have a way of getting in touch with you (Twitter, Facebook, phone, face to face, etc), be sure to email me some contact info in case you win.

Comment. Enter. Win.

*In actuallity, I have not yet finished The Secret Sharer. Seeing as it's about 60 pages, I will be well done with it by the end of the giveaway. Further, the more that I read it, the more I think I have read it before. I know I've read at least part of it, but I think I know how it ends.

On Reading Books, 2 of 2, or On Putting My Money Where My Proverbial Mouth Is

On Reading Books, 1 of 2

I love books, often to excess. In the past nine days, I've bought seventeen. To be fair, some of these were not for myself, while others were reference. This being said, I don't just love buying books: I also love reading them.
We live in a very interesting time in history to be a reader: we have access to a lot of books for not a lot of money. I can go to Half Price Books and find shelves upon shelves of books for $1 or even $.50. I can go to Amazon and download several classics in Kindle format for free, or I can go to Barnes and Noble where they are often only $5. Even new releases are always on sale if you look hard enough.
Alexander the Great, on the other hand, owned two books. They were invaluable. Instead of keeping them locked up in his palace, he kept them in a gold chest, which was carried everywhere he went by four mounted horses. I'm quite happy books are no longer at this price point.
Furthermore, libraries keep offering more and more options. Many libraries even enable you to borrow books from other libraries. Interlibrary loans open up worlds of new possibilities for the reader.
We say we don't have time to read, but all that reveals is our priorities. I'm not saying reading should be your top priority: it certainly shouldn't. But we have time for what we make time for.
We have plenty of reasons why we don't read, but no excuses. Go read a book.

I love books, often to excess. In the past nine days, I've bought seventeen. To be fair, some of these were not for myself, while others were reference. This being said, I don't just love buying books: I also love reading them.
We live in a very interesting time in history to be a reader: we have access to a lot of books for not a lot of money. I can go to Half Price Books and find shelves upon shelves of books for $1 or even $.50. I can go to Amazon and download several classics in Kindle format for free, or I can go to Barnes and Noble where they are often only $5. Even new releases are always on sale if you look hard enough.
Alexander the Great, on the other hand, owned two books. They were invaluable. Instead of keeping them locked up in his palace, he kept them in a gold chest, which was carried everywhere he went by four mounted horses. I'm quite happy books are no longer at this price point.
Furthermore, libraries keep offering more and more options. Many libraries even enable you to borrow books from other libraries. Interlibrary loans open up worlds of new possibilities for the reader.
We say we don't have time to read, but all that reveals is our priorities. I'm not saying reading should be your top priority: it certainly shouldn't. But we have time for what we make time for.
We have plenty of reasons why we don't read, but no excuses. Go read a book.

On Reading Books, 1 of 2

From the Desk of Bozo T. Clown

I want you to imagine two scenarios with me as we begin today. 

Scenario 1: you eat your coworker's lunch. It was in the refrigerator and clearly marked, but you ate it anyway. The next day your coworker walks from person to person in your workplace, asking each person to refrain from eating other's lunches in the future. Strangely enough, they do so while wearing a clown suit. 

Scenario 2: your son's friend's dad knocks at your front door. He is going around the neighborhood, inviting children to his son's sixth birthday party. Being already in the spirit of the upcoming event, he does so wearing a clown suit. 

Obviously, these two situations are very different. As a matter of fact, the only thing they really have in common is an individual communicating while wearing a clown suit. I now want you to re-imagine both scenarios, except the communication takes place in a written (whether digital or physical) form. And the clown suit? Comic Sans. 

Don't get me wrong: your choice of words is vital. This being said, your choice of font makes a statement about you and your attitude*. Courier, for example, shows you as staunch and professional**, while Comic Sans is light-hearted and does not take the situation too seriously. Ariel, Helvetica, and Times New Roman are great fonts for every day use, while Papyrus is great if you want to let everyone know that you have strikingly bad taste. Whether consciously or subconsciously, our choice of fonts affects our message*;***. 

Looking first at scenario 2, we see what promises to be an awesome sixth birthday party. Everyone is already having fun, and it's only the invitation stage. There is a bounce house and the cake is the best you've ever tasted. The only reason you leave the petting zoo is because the magician is about to begin his performance. Even Big Bird and Cookie Monster**** have replied "Maybe attending" to the Facebook event. 

On the other hand, we have scenario 1. Our coworker is obviously not actually upset. This is more in line with a Monty Python sketch: you eat your coworker's ham sandwich, so she hits you with a ham. Office security shows up. "Office security of the yard?" They drag you both away, thus ending the sketch. While this is perhaps an exaggeration, you see my point. 

Obviously scenario 1 achieved the desired result, while scenario 2 achieved "something completely different." When typing, we need to be ever mindful of these decisions. They affect communication more than we could ever know, sending messages far beyond what we may intend, writing what will be read between the lines. As a matter of fact, there's even an I'm-too-drunk-to-type-correctly font: Wingdings. 

*This same statement goes for your choice of color and the use of capital letters, though that is not the issue at hand. 
**Alternately, Courier could mean that you are a college student struggling to write the last two pages of a twenty page term paper. 
***That's right - footnote reuse. It's called efficiency. 
****I accidentally typed Cookie Mobster. That completely changes the character. 

I want you to imagine two scenarios with me as we begin today. 

Scenario 1: you eat your coworker's lunch. It was in the refrigerator and clearly marked, but you ate it anyway. The next day your coworker walks from person to person in your workplace, asking each person to refrain from eating other's lunches in the future. Strangely enough, they do so while wearing a clown suit. 

Scenario 2: your son's friend's dad knocks at your front door. He is going around the neighborhood, inviting children to his son's sixth birthday party. Being already in the spirit of the upcoming event, he does so wearing a clown suit. 

Obviously, these two situations are very different. As a matter of fact, the only thing they really have in common is an individual communicating while wearing a clown suit. I now want you to re-imagine both scenarios, except the communication takes place in a written (whether digital or physical) form. And the clown suit? Comic Sans. 

Don't get me wrong: your choice of words is vital. This being said, your choice of font makes a statement about you and your attitude*. Courier, for example, shows you as staunch and professional**, while Comic Sans is light-hearted and does not take the situation too seriously. Ariel, Helvetica, and Times New Roman are great fonts for every day use, while Papyrus is great if you want to let everyone know that you have strikingly bad taste. Whether consciously or subconsciously, our choice of fonts affects our message*;***. 

Looking first at scenario 2, we see what promises to be an awesome sixth birthday party. Everyone is already having fun, and it's only the invitation stage. There is a bounce house and the cake is the best you've ever tasted. The only reason you leave the petting zoo is because the magician is about to begin his performance. Even Big Bird and Cookie Monster**** have replied "Maybe attending" to the Facebook event. 

On the other hand, we have scenario 1. Our coworker is obviously not actually upset. This is more in line with a Monty Python sketch: you eat your coworker's ham sandwich, so she hits you with a ham. Office security shows up. "Office security of the yard?" They drag you both away, thus ending the sketch. While this is perhaps an exaggeration, you see my point. 

Obviously scenario 1 achieved the desired result, while scenario 2 achieved "something completely different." When typing, we need to be ever mindful of these decisions. They affect communication more than we could ever know, sending messages far beyond what we may intend, writing what will be read between the lines. As a matter of fact, there's even an I'm-too-drunk-to-type-correctly font: Wingdings. 

*This same statement goes for your choice of color and the use of capital letters, though that is not the issue at hand. 
**Alternately, Courier could mean that you are a college student struggling to write the last two pages of a twenty page term paper. 
***That's right - footnote reuse. It's called efficiency. 
****I accidentally typed Cookie Mobster. That completely changes the character. 

From the Desk of Bozo T. Clown

On Not Buying Books

"When I get a little money, I buy books. When I get a little more money, I buy food." These words were penned by Deseridius* Erasmus several hundred years ago, and lived by me recently. Friday night I had to cut myself off from buying books. I did this not for monetary reasons, but as a realistic consideration of space and the pragmatics of a (hopefully near) future move.

I did make one exception: for weeks I've been looking at a book called Gourmet Vegetarian Slow Cooker, which I'm allowing myself to buy. As Border's is having their going out of business sale, I decided I would buy the book when cookbooks got down to 50% off. Unfortunately, someone else apparently made this decision about 40% off.

Obviously, it is available on Amazon. Everything is**. Further, it costs less than it did with Border's 40% markdown. The downside is that I would have to spend $12 more to get free shipping. Spending $12 extra to get something cheap defeats the purpose.

Yesterday I happened to be walking past Half Price Books. It can't hurt to check. After all, they also have a great selection (less so than Amazon) at great prices (often better than Amazon). I walk in and start looking for the cookbook section. As I wander around, I see several things I want: Immanuel Kant, CS Lewis, Kurt Vonnegut, Billy Collins, Dungeons and Dragons...no, no, NO - focus man. I don't see it. Cookbooks must be upstairs.

I head toward the stairs, a trip that takes me past the dollar paperbacks. Out of the corner of my eye, I see The Magician's Nephew; behind it, Prince Caspian, then The Final Battle. They're all here - all seven Chronicles of Narnia books. Best of all, even though they were on the dollar rack, they were actually only $.50 each.

The cookbook wasn't there, but I spent $3.83 ($3.50 plus 9.5% sales tax) on these seven books. I'm still officially cut off, but they're doing an additional 20% off the first five days of September, and I'm not one to turn down a bargain. I have 1 September off work, so I'll see you there.

*He changed his first name. I don't know what it originally was, but Desedirius is Latin for "the desirable one." Pretentious much?
**Seriously, everything. I recently purchased an orthopedic pillow there. One click shopping for that many different things is dangerous.

"When I get a little money, I buy books. When I get a little more money, I buy food." These words were penned by Deseridius* Erasmus several hundred years ago, and lived by me recently. Friday night I had to cut myself off from buying books. I did this not for monetary reasons, but as a realistic consideration of space and the pragmatics of a (hopefully near) future move.

I did make one exception: for weeks I've been looking at a book called Gourmet Vegetarian Slow Cooker, which I'm allowing myself to buy. As Border's is having their going out of business sale, I decided I would buy the book when cookbooks got down to 50% off. Unfortunately, someone else apparently made this decision about 40% off.

Obviously, it is available on Amazon. Everything is**. Further, it costs less than it did with Border's 40% markdown. The downside is that I would have to spend $12 more to get free shipping. Spending $12 extra to get something cheap defeats the purpose.

Yesterday I happened to be walking past Half Price Books. It can't hurt to check. After all, they also have a great selection (less so than Amazon) at great prices (often better than Amazon). I walk in and start looking for the cookbook section. As I wander around, I see several things I want: Immanuel Kant, CS Lewis, Kurt Vonnegut, Billy Collins, Dungeons and Dragons...no, no, NO - focus man. I don't see it. Cookbooks must be upstairs.

I head toward the stairs, a trip that takes me past the dollar paperbacks. Out of the corner of my eye, I see The Magician's Nephew; behind it, Prince Caspian, then The Final Battle. They're all here - all seven Chronicles of Narnia books. Best of all, even though they were on the dollar rack, they were actually only $.50 each.

The cookbook wasn't there, but I spent $3.83 ($3.50 plus 9.5% sales tax) on these seven books. I'm still officially cut off, but they're doing an additional 20% off the first five days of September, and I'm not one to turn down a bargain. I have 1 September off work, so I'll see you there.

*He changed his first name. I don't know what it originally was, but Desedirius is Latin for "the desirable one." Pretentious much?
**Seriously, everything. I recently purchased an orthopedic pillow there. One click shopping for that many different things is dangerous.

On Not Buying Books

There Is No Think

"Do or do not do. There is no try." Master Yoda famously said these words to Luke as he tried to lift a rock. I say this over and over again to myself. Even more often I say, "Do or do not do. There is no think."

Written on my arms, over my Washington state tattoo right now is "just paint. don't think. just paint." I did. It had been too long. It was a matter of getting out of the thought process into the doing process. So is this. It's been a very frustrating week, with work and my grandfather dying (don't worry - I'm fine, though my family could use prayer, if you pray) and being mildly sick, and I've been unable to figure out how to express it artistically, so I just didn't.

I don't have a draft, or even much of a point. I'm just writing*. Sometimes that's all you can do. I'm learning that there is a time to sit back and rest, but sometimes you just have to do something. If you fail, you know how not to do it.

There is a story about Thomas Edison, which may or may not be true. He was asked why he did not get discouraged in his repeated failures in his approximately 1000 attempts to invent the light bulb. Edison, according to the story, responded, "I never failed to invent the light bulb: I learned 1000 ways not to make a light bulb."

Do or do not do. There is no think.

*Between some poor typing and autocorrect, I initially said, "I'm just gritty."

"Do or do not do. There is no try." Master Yoda famously said these words to Luke as he tried to lift a rock. I say this over and over again to myself. Even more often I say, "Do or do not do. There is no think."

Written on my arms, over my Washington state tattoo right now is "just paint. don't think. just paint." I did. It had been too long. It was a matter of getting out of the thought process into the doing process. So is this. It's been a very frustrating week, with work and my grandfather dying (don't worry - I'm fine, though my family could use prayer, if you pray) and being mildly sick, and I've been unable to figure out how to express it artistically, so I just didn't.

I don't have a draft, or even much of a point. I'm just writing*. Sometimes that's all you can do. I'm learning that there is a time to sit back and rest, but sometimes you just have to do something. If you fail, you know how not to do it.

There is a story about Thomas Edison, which may or may not be true. He was asked why he did not get discouraged in his repeated failures in his approximately 1000 attempts to invent the light bulb. Edison, according to the story, responded, "I never failed to invent the light bulb: I learned 1000 ways not to make a light bulb."

Do or do not do. There is no think.

*Between some poor typing and autocorrect, I initially said, "I'm just gritty."

There Is No Think

With apologies...

Due to a very uncreative week, I'm afraid there will only be one post this week, as opposed to my normal two. This is that post.
Just kidding. But seriously, I'm going to post something this weekend, but that will be the only post, barring the unforseen.

Due to a very uncreative week, I'm afraid there will only be one post this week, as opposed to my normal two. This is that post.
Just kidding. But seriously, I'm going to post something this weekend, but that will be the only post, barring the unforseen.

With apologies...

Social Media for Writers

Social media (a term which I hate, though that is irrelevant to the discussion at hand) has affected me in a number of interesting ways. For example, the vast majority of my non-face-to-face communication takes place via social media. It’s a great source of news, especially for gaining a viewpoint that differs from your own (so long as you have friends with different viewpoints). It opens a number of interesting doors for artistic ventures, running the gambit from exhibition to collaboration. Recently though, I’ve been thinking about how social media has affected me as a writer. There are three specific social media outlets (all of which fall primarily under the subcategory of social networking) that have done this in large and specific ways.

Does anyone remember Xanga? I certainly do. It was the very first blogging website that I ever used. When I first started, I posted a lot. By a lot, I mean three to ten times a day. Most of my post would range from a few words to three sentences. People would read and comment, for some reason caring about what I had for dinner or the odd conversation I had in a hallway.

Fast forward a few weeks. I’m sitting outside a building talking to two friends, both of whom also use Xanga and all three of us currently wearing ripped jeans. Dr. Paul Fink*, on the north side of seventy-years-old, walks past us, referring to us as the “council of the ungodly,” a reference to Psalm 1. Each of the three of us would go back home (whether that be dorm or apartment) to write about this experience, with that night bringing us to reading all three tales of the encounter. My mind was blown by the sheer differences in the details – three entirely different stories of the same encounter, each one true in every way. Mind_blown: perspectives! People see things differently! Everyone brings different details and says things differently. Sometimes there is not a right and a wrong way to say something.

And then there was Twitter. I use Twitter a lot less than I used to. I simply found that I was spending too much time reading tweets and not enough time reading books. I stopped for a while, and have now resumed in moderation. Occasionally I search Twitter for writing related topics and tweet @people. I don’t know if anyone has ever encountered my blog because of this. I always post links to every post. I assume this is how Chris first ended up at my blog.

But this is mere authorial promotion. I’m talking about writing. And I often write rather verbosely. I had a teacher in college who said, “I can’t write my name in less than 20 pages.” I’m finding myself moving more and more toward that. Twitter, however, limits me. I have 140 characters. How can I express this thought in 140 characters? Throughout my time on Twitter I’ve had to learn to make this work – these days, 140 characters is plenty.

Finally we have the relative newcomer at the party: Google+. Google already owns every other aspect of my internet usage, so why not? G+ is interesting in that connection does not require mutual approval like a Facebook friendship. Resultantly, connections are only one-way. If I share something publicly on G+, it appears in the stream of anyone who has put me in a circle, whether I know they are looking or not. However, I place people in circles, and then I can share with only that circle. Every time that I post I have to ask, “To whom do I want this to be shown?” Perhaps it’s public. Perhaps not. I have a circle for coworkers, a circle for church friends, a circle for family, a circle for a core group of dudes (called “Dudebros”), and so on. Though this has been an option before, G+ is the first place to make this work.

Every time I write, I now ask myself the same question: to whom is this directed? I address a five-year-old differently than I address my doctor. Writing should be no different. Audience changes everything.

Social media has its share of detractors. It also has its problems. This being said, we must never forget that it also has a great deal of value.

*How does Dr. Fink not have a Wikipedia page?

Social media (a term which I hate, though that is irrelevant to the discussion at hand) has affected me in a number of interesting ways. For example, the vast majority of my non-face-to-face communication takes place via social media. It’s a great source of news, especially for gaining a viewpoint that differs from your own (so long as you have friends with different viewpoints). It opens a number of interesting doors for artistic ventures, running the gambit from exhibition to collaboration. Recently though, I’ve been thinking about how social media has affected me as a writer. There are three specific social media outlets (all of which fall primarily under the subcategory of social networking) that have done this in large and specific ways.

Does anyone remember Xanga? I certainly do. It was the very first blogging website that I ever used. When I first started, I posted a lot. By a lot, I mean three to ten times a day. Most of my post would range from a few words to three sentences. People would read and comment, for some reason caring about what I had for dinner or the odd conversation I had in a hallway.

Fast forward a few weeks. I’m sitting outside a building talking to two friends, both of whom also use Xanga and all three of us currently wearing ripped jeans. Dr. Paul Fink*, on the north side of seventy-years-old, walks past us, referring to us as the “council of the ungodly,” a reference to Psalm 1. Each of the three of us would go back home (whether that be dorm or apartment) to write about this experience, with that night bringing us to reading all three tales of the encounter. My mind was blown by the sheer differences in the details – three entirely different stories of the same encounter, each one true in every way. Mind_blown: perspectives! People see things differently! Everyone brings different details and says things differently. Sometimes there is not a right and a wrong way to say something.

And then there was Twitter. I use Twitter a lot less than I used to. I simply found that I was spending too much time reading tweets and not enough time reading books. I stopped for a while, and have now resumed in moderation. Occasionally I search Twitter for writing related topics and tweet @people. I don’t know if anyone has ever encountered my blog because of this. I always post links to every post. I assume this is how Chris first ended up at my blog.

But this is mere authorial promotion. I’m talking about writing. And I often write rather verbosely. I had a teacher in college who said, “I can’t write my name in less than 20 pages.” I’m finding myself moving more and more toward that. Twitter, however, limits me. I have 140 characters. How can I express this thought in 140 characters? Throughout my time on Twitter I’ve had to learn to make this work – these days, 140 characters is plenty.

Finally we have the relative newcomer at the party: Google+. Google already owns every other aspect of my internet usage, so why not? G+ is interesting in that connection does not require mutual approval like a Facebook friendship. Resultantly, connections are only one-way. If I share something publicly on G+, it appears in the stream of anyone who has put me in a circle, whether I know they are looking or not. However, I place people in circles, and then I can share with only that circle. Every time that I post I have to ask, “To whom do I want this to be shown?” Perhaps it’s public. Perhaps not. I have a circle for coworkers, a circle for church friends, a circle for family, a circle for a core group of dudes (called “Dudebros”), and so on. Though this has been an option before, G+ is the first place to make this work.

Every time I write, I now ask myself the same question: to whom is this directed? I address a five-year-old differently than I address my doctor. Writing should be no different. Audience changes everything.

Social media has its share of detractors. It also has its problems. This being said, we must never forget that it also has a great deal of value.

*How does Dr. Fink not have a Wikipedia page?

Social Media for Writers

Forget New York - I Love Seattle, or Grass, And the Greenness Thereof

They say the grass is always greener on the other side. As for the dividing line between sides, there is some debate. However, for those of us in the tourism industry(1), the line can be clearly defined as a counter, whether literal or metaphorical. The next question is a matter of logical progression: on which side is the grass truly greener? 

The green aspects of my side are fairly easy to identify. Let us begin with the fact that they pay me. There are certainly much higher paying jobs, but also much lower. Add to this the fact that I get free coffee, probably worth more than my paycheck somedays. Let's not forget benefits such as health insurance and 401(k), as well as being a stock holder with further options. In addition to the tangible benefits, I work with people whom I love, as well as daily making dozens of friends in the form of customers. In case you couldn't tell, I really do like my job. Few people can honestly say that. 

This all being said, the other side of the counter is also fabulous. Seattle is an excellent spot to vacation, with attractions such as Pike Place Market, the Fremont troll, and, if you're willing to travel outside the city a bit, the graves of Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain. Many tourists are about to leave for or just returning from a beautiful Alaskan cruise. Our art museum is stunning, and our aquarium is doubtless the best I've ever been to(2). You can hear better musicians busking in Seattle than you can pay to see in a lot of other cities(3). Seattle is known more than anything for outstanding restaurants, coffee shops, and bars, and it lives up to that reputation. Tourists en masse take in the best we have to offer, while locals generally avoid the crowds. 

The key word here is "generally." Today I had a friend in from out of town. We went to the space needle and various other tourist spots. We rode the monorail, though we skipped out on the S.L.U.T.(4) 

Seattle is an amazing city. As a tourist, I tend to forget this. I bet you do the same thing in your city. This weekend, drop your camera in your fanny pack and go exploring. After all, there is no fence. The grass is all your grass. Get out and discover just how green it really is. 



(1) I speak of the tourism industry in the first person, despite the fact that there is actually some debate as to whether or not the food and beverage industry belongs in this category. Seeing as the preponderance of my customers are tourists, I number myself among this group. 
(2) Seriously, you can pet a starfish. It's amazing. 
(3) For a brief taste, search YouTube for Emery Carl, Greg Paul, or Raw Corn. I'm sure there are many videos by them all. 
(4) South Lake Union Trolley. What were you thinking? In my 3+ years of living here I've yet to ride it, but know that when I do I will purchase one of the ever-popular "I Rode the S.L.U.T." t-shirts. 

They say the grass is always greener on the other side. As for the dividing line between sides, there is some debate. However, for those of us in the tourism industry(1), the line can be clearly defined as a counter, whether literal or metaphorical. The next question is a matter of logical progression: on which side is the grass truly greener? 

The green aspects of my side are fairly easy to identify. Let us begin with the fact that they pay me. There are certainly much higher paying jobs, but also much lower. Add to this the fact that I get free coffee, probably worth more than my paycheck somedays. Let's not forget benefits such as health insurance and 401(k), as well as being a stock holder with further options. In addition to the tangible benefits, I work with people whom I love, as well as daily making dozens of friends in the form of customers. In case you couldn't tell, I really do like my job. Few people can honestly say that. 

This all being said, the other side of the counter is also fabulous. Seattle is an excellent spot to vacation, with attractions such as Pike Place Market, the Fremont troll, and, if you're willing to travel outside the city a bit, the graves of Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain. Many tourists are about to leave for or just returning from a beautiful Alaskan cruise. Our art museum is stunning, and our aquarium is doubtless the best I've ever been to(2). You can hear better musicians busking in Seattle than you can pay to see in a lot of other cities(3). Seattle is known more than anything for outstanding restaurants, coffee shops, and bars, and it lives up to that reputation. Tourists en masse take in the best we have to offer, while locals generally avoid the crowds. 

The key word here is "generally." Today I had a friend in from out of town. We went to the space needle and various other tourist spots. We rode the monorail, though we skipped out on the S.L.U.T.(4) 

Seattle is an amazing city. As a tourist, I tend to forget this. I bet you do the same thing in your city. This weekend, drop your camera in your fanny pack and go exploring. After all, there is no fence. The grass is all your grass. Get out and discover just how green it really is. 



(1) I speak of the tourism industry in the first person, despite the fact that there is actually some debate as to whether or not the food and beverage industry belongs in this category. Seeing as the preponderance of my customers are tourists, I number myself among this group. 
(2) Seriously, you can pet a starfish. It's amazing. 
(3) For a brief taste, search YouTube for Emery Carl, Greg Paul, or Raw Corn. I'm sure there are many videos by them all. 
(4) South Lake Union Trolley. What were you thinking? In my 3+ years of living here I've yet to ride it, but know that when I do I will purchase one of the ever-popular "I Rode the S.L.U.T." t-shirts. 

Forget New York - I Love Seattle, or Grass, And the Greenness Thereof

Belated Birthday

Today is the internet's belated birthday, or perhaps more aptly stated anniversary: twenty years ago yesterday the internet was made public. Prior to that, the internet was only available to universities and the like. Now anyone can use it. What an adventurous twenty years it's been.

I remember fifteen or so years ago my grandmother told me she didn't think I should ever use it. Apparently she had heard a television pastor describe all the evils available on the internet. Indeed, the internet, like everything, has its share of problems. That being said, in the words of Lisa Simpson, "The internet is more than a global pornography hub."

The internet has changed nearly every aspect of our life. Commerce, communication, information - where would all these things be if it weren't for the internet? It's made the world a little bit smaller. If I want to buy something from a gentleman who lives in Florida or find out the weather in Zimbabwe*, I can do that. The days of having to search through stacks of books are over!

It's not entirely happy: I do miss letters, and nothing can compare to a real face-to-face conversation. With the rapid evolution that has been occurring, there are a lot of questions about the future of customer service, publishing, and the like. But new things necessarily change (though hopefully don't eradicate) the old.

Ultimately, age doesn't matter. I mean, next year the internet can haz beerz, but otherwise nothing changes. It's just another day, where you are sitting somewhere far or near, nigh magically reading the words I write at far more than a juvenile 56kbps.

*All four of the places currently reporting to Weather Underground are at 57 degrees.

Today is the internet's belated birthday, or perhaps more aptly stated anniversary: twenty years ago yesterday the internet was made public. Prior to that, the internet was only available to universities and the like. Now anyone can use it. What an adventurous twenty years it's been.

I remember fifteen or so years ago my grandmother told me she didn't think I should ever use it. Apparently she had heard a television pastor describe all the evils available on the internet. Indeed, the internet, like everything, has its share of problems. That being said, in the words of Lisa Simpson, "The internet is more than a global pornography hub."

The internet has changed nearly every aspect of our life. Commerce, communication, information - where would all these things be if it weren't for the internet? It's made the world a little bit smaller. If I want to buy something from a gentleman who lives in Florida or find out the weather in Zimbabwe*, I can do that. The days of having to search through stacks of books are over!

It's not entirely happy: I do miss letters, and nothing can compare to a real face-to-face conversation. With the rapid evolution that has been occurring, there are a lot of questions about the future of customer service, publishing, and the like. But new things necessarily change (though hopefully don't eradicate) the old.

Ultimately, age doesn't matter. I mean, next year the internet can haz beerz, but otherwise nothing changes. It's just another day, where you are sitting somewhere far or near, nigh magically reading the words I write at far more than a juvenile 56kbps.

*All four of the places currently reporting to Weather Underground are at 57 degrees.

Belated Birthday

Back in Blackberry

Growing up in Pennsylvania, yards, fields, and other open spaces were overrun by dandelions and a large broad-leafed plant which we called "doc." In Seattle, we have far fewer dandelions. We have the equisetum, the always pernicious English ivy, and blackberries. Blackberries, unlike any of the others, are a great problem to have.

This year has been unseasonably cold. I mean, we've broken 80 a few times, but only for a matter of hours total throughout the summer. Personally I don't mind at all, though it has slowed the ripening of the blackberries. They hang green in large clusters, teasing the patient pickers.

On Friday of last week I was making a trip to Lowe's. I live at the top of the hill, and Lowe's is at the bottom, so I opted for walking over my beloved public transit. I've been keeping a list of blackberry spots and checking their progress. A Lowe's trip has me walking past two of my documented locations.

As I walk past the one, I notice the residents have trimmed the bushes back. They're there, but many berries died. Though it was the responsible thing to do, it makes me sad. At the second spot, dozens of bushes growing on and hanging from trees creates a large green wall, as lush as any rain forest but well within Seattle city limits. A few berries have pink cheeks, an encouraging sign of development. Suddenly something catches my eye - could it be?

The world around me collapses, as I see a deep, nigh-black berry. It's that irresistible shade of purple. Yes, it's there. The first of the season. I can hardly keep from whimpering in my excitement.

I reach out and take hold of the berry. A bit firm still, but it's early (for this year). I need only give it a small tug to release it from it's faunal shackles, at which point it is immediately sentenced to death by mastication, followed shortly by a guttural burial.

Oh delicious berry. Being early, it was not overwhelmingly sweet, but the flavor was still remarkable. It made me want to eat more, even if that meant eating what was green. Fortunately I resisted. The berry, ironically enough, reminded me more of the blackberry tones I would expect from a Pinot Noir than an actual blackberry, which is a beautiful thing.

Yesterday, on my way to the laundromat, I again passed the blackberry barricade, which this time contained far more ripe berries. Some were spectacular, while others were merely delicious. I caught myself on a few thorns, but ultimately that was worth it.

Growing up in Pennsylvania, yards, fields, and other open spaces were overrun by dandelions and a large broad-leafed plant which we called "doc." In Seattle, we have far fewer dandelions. We have the equisetum, the always pernicious English ivy, and blackberries. Blackberries, unlike any of the others, are a great problem to have.

This year has been unseasonably cold. I mean, we've broken 80 a few times, but only for a matter of hours total throughout the summer. Personally I don't mind at all, though it has slowed the ripening of the blackberries. They hang green in large clusters, teasing the patient pickers.

On Friday of last week I was making a trip to Lowe's. I live at the top of the hill, and Lowe's is at the bottom, so I opted for walking over my beloved public transit. I've been keeping a list of blackberry spots and checking their progress. A Lowe's trip has me walking past two of my documented locations.

As I walk past the one, I notice the residents have trimmed the bushes back. They're there, but many berries died. Though it was the responsible thing to do, it makes me sad. At the second spot, dozens of bushes growing on and hanging from trees creates a large green wall, as lush as any rain forest but well within Seattle city limits. A few berries have pink cheeks, an encouraging sign of development. Suddenly something catches my eye - could it be?

The world around me collapses, as I see a deep, nigh-black berry. It's that irresistible shade of purple. Yes, it's there. The first of the season. I can hardly keep from whimpering in my excitement.

I reach out and take hold of the berry. A bit firm still, but it's early (for this year). I need only give it a small tug to release it from it's faunal shackles, at which point it is immediately sentenced to death by mastication, followed shortly by a guttural burial.

Oh delicious berry. Being early, it was not overwhelmingly sweet, but the flavor was still remarkable. It made me want to eat more, even if that meant eating what was green. Fortunately I resisted. The berry, ironically enough, reminded me more of the blackberry tones I would expect from a Pinot Noir than an actual blackberry, which is a beautiful thing.

Yesterday, on my way to the laundromat, I again passed the blackberry barricade, which this time contained far more ripe berries. Some were spectacular, while others were merely delicious. I caught myself on a few thorns, but ultimately that was worth it.

Back in Blackberry

Mad, Like Scientists

Picture it: New York, 1953*. Leonard Stern is diligently working on a script for an episode of television's The Honeymooners. He sits there, struggling to find the perfect word to describe Ralph Kramden's new boss. Kramden of course works as a bus driver, though on the show he is never seen driving the bus. As Stern struggles with this word, his friend and fellow write Roger Price enters the room.

Deciding to seek Price's help, Stern turns to him and says, "I need an adjective--"

"Clumsy. Naked," Price quickly interrupts. The duo burst into laughter. Stern then explains to Price the context of the word. Further laughter ensues.

Over the next few weeks, Price and Stern begin writing various fill-in-the-blank stories for parties and other social gatherings. They were consistently popular for simultaneously being hilarious, illogical, and bawdy. Price and Stern realized what they were onto.

Later that same year, book publishers refused to publish what was eventually termed Mad Libs. After all, Mad Libs was a game. It needed a game publisher. Unfortunately, to game publishers, Mad Libs was a book. It needed a book publisher. Each insisted that it fell under the duty of the other.

Price and Stern were not known for being discouragable. In 1958, after five years of being turned away, Price and Stern self-published 14,000 copies. Friend Ian Ballentine, president of Ballentine Books agreed to help the duo with distribution. Within days, all 14,000 copies had been sold by various bookstores. And the rest, as they say, is history.

I don't know about you, but I'm glad Price and Stern took this chance. Mad Libs were a great deal of fun in my childhood years - a fun that, like many other fun things, I rediscovered in college. But in college I discovered something entirely new about Mad Libs - I could write my own! I also discovered that a lot of people don't know what an adverb is, but that's beside the point.

Friends and enemies alike would give me parts of speech. I've performed them at open mic nights, soliciting words from the audience before the performance, generally to the laughter of everyone involved. In honor of having an awesome month at the blog, I've decided to have a little fun this week and do a Mad Lib**!

So it begins: follow me on Twitter and become a fan on Facebook***. I will take the first valid entry for each word. Also, if I get sufficient participation, each person will only be allowed to submit one word. We're going to keep it clean, but we're going to have fun. Enjoy. I know I will.

*It was 1953. I'm not actually sure where, but New York makes sense to me. It's unimportant to the story, so we're sticking with New York.
**Technically it's not, as I'm confident Mad Lib is a trademarked term. It's a fill-in-the-blank story.
***Hopefully this will get me using the fan page again. We'll see.

Picture it: New York, 1953*. Leonard Stern is diligently working on a script for an episode of television's The Honeymooners. He sits there, struggling to find the perfect word to describe Ralph Kramden's new boss. Kramden of course works as a bus driver, though on the show he is never seen driving the bus. As Stern struggles with this word, his friend and fellow write Roger Price enters the room.

Deciding to seek Price's help, Stern turns to him and says, "I need an adjective--"

"Clumsy. Naked," Price quickly interrupts. The duo burst into laughter. Stern then explains to Price the context of the word. Further laughter ensues.

Over the next few weeks, Price and Stern begin writing various fill-in-the-blank stories for parties and other social gatherings. They were consistently popular for simultaneously being hilarious, illogical, and bawdy. Price and Stern realized what they were onto.

Later that same year, book publishers refused to publish what was eventually termed Mad Libs. After all, Mad Libs was a game. It needed a game publisher. Unfortunately, to game publishers, Mad Libs was a book. It needed a book publisher. Each insisted that it fell under the duty of the other.

Price and Stern were not known for being discouragable. In 1958, after five years of being turned away, Price and Stern self-published 14,000 copies. Friend Ian Ballentine, president of Ballentine Books agreed to help the duo with distribution. Within days, all 14,000 copies had been sold by various bookstores. And the rest, as they say, is history.

I don't know about you, but I'm glad Price and Stern took this chance. Mad Libs were a great deal of fun in my childhood years - a fun that, like many other fun things, I rediscovered in college. But in college I discovered something entirely new about Mad Libs - I could write my own! I also discovered that a lot of people don't know what an adverb is, but that's beside the point.

Friends and enemies alike would give me parts of speech. I've performed them at open mic nights, soliciting words from the audience before the performance, generally to the laughter of everyone involved. In honor of having an awesome month at the blog, I've decided to have a little fun this week and do a Mad Lib**!

So it begins: follow me on Twitter and become a fan on Facebook***. I will take the first valid entry for each word. Also, if I get sufficient participation, each person will only be allowed to submit one word. We're going to keep it clean, but we're going to have fun. Enjoy. I know I will.

*It was 1953. I'm not actually sure where, but New York makes sense to me. It's unimportant to the story, so we're sticking with New York.
**Technically it's not, as I'm confident Mad Lib is a trademarked term. It's a fill-in-the-blank story.
***Hopefully this will get me using the fan page again. We'll see.

Mad, Like Scientists

You Would See the Biggest Gift Would Be from Me...

I had a file on my old (pronounced "broken") computer that was simply a list of quotes. The topics were as varied as the orators. One of the quotes was from the great Gary Vaynerchuk*. I unfortunately do not have this file any longer and cannot remember the exact wording of the quote, but it was something to the effect of, "If even one person reads what you have to say and gives a crap, you should be ridiculously happy."

For months I've been rolling this around in my head, trying to figure out how to write this post, and I've decided I just need to do it. I will never have something that I feel is good enough. I just need to say it.

Thank you.

You have no idea how much each and every one of you mean to me. I find it hard to find words to express how flattered I am that, of all the blogs on the internet, you choose to read mine. Every time you choose to read one you passively choose not to read another, and I'm flabbergasted and humbled that you're reading mine.

For a long time I found it difficult to update regularly**. I was getting single digit hits each month, so I wasn't concerned about it. One day I wrote a post and added links on Facebook and Twitter. The next morning I got out of bed and checked to see if anyone had read. I had 12 hits! I refreshed several times to ensure that I was looking at this right. Traffic had absolutely spiked! I had to do everything that I could to keep these numbers up!

These days it's no longer uncommon to break 40 hits a post, with my previous post being my first to ever break 50. Furthermore, I'm on pace to break 400 hits this month, a milestone I've yet to achieve.

All of this is great, but it's not ultimately about the numbers. I love to see that people are reading, but what I really care about is each of you individually. Every time that someone comments or mentions to me that they read a post (or even better, enjoyed a post), it makes my day.

Whether you're my sister, a friend from high school whom I've not seen in years, a friend who lives directly above me whom I talk to several times a week, a tobacconist from Milwaukee whom I've never met, or someone who falls in between, you mean more to me than you'll ever know. Thank you.



*In many ways Vaynerchuk inspired this post. He has one of the best understandings of how the internet is changing our mindset that I've ever seen. If you are unfamiliar with his work, do something about that.
**Some would say I'm still not as regular as I should be, but we will not regard that right now.

I had a file on my old (pronounced "broken") computer that was simply a list of quotes. The topics were as varied as the orators. One of the quotes was from the great Gary Vaynerchuk*. I unfortunately do not have this file any longer and cannot remember the exact wording of the quote, but it was something to the effect of, "If even one person reads what you have to say and gives a crap, you should be ridiculously happy."

For months I've been rolling this around in my head, trying to figure out how to write this post, and I've decided I just need to do it. I will never have something that I feel is good enough. I just need to say it.

Thank you.

You have no idea how much each and every one of you mean to me. I find it hard to find words to express how flattered I am that, of all the blogs on the internet, you choose to read mine. Every time you choose to read one you passively choose not to read another, and I'm flabbergasted and humbled that you're reading mine.

For a long time I found it difficult to update regularly**. I was getting single digit hits each month, so I wasn't concerned about it. One day I wrote a post and added links on Facebook and Twitter. The next morning I got out of bed and checked to see if anyone had read. I had 12 hits! I refreshed several times to ensure that I was looking at this right. Traffic had absolutely spiked! I had to do everything that I could to keep these numbers up!

These days it's no longer uncommon to break 40 hits a post, with my previous post being my first to ever break 50. Furthermore, I'm on pace to break 400 hits this month, a milestone I've yet to achieve.

All of this is great, but it's not ultimately about the numbers. I love to see that people are reading, but what I really care about is each of you individually. Every time that someone comments or mentions to me that they read a post (or even better, enjoyed a post), it makes my day.

Whether you're my sister, a friend from high school whom I've not seen in years, a friend who lives directly above me whom I talk to several times a week, a tobacconist from Milwaukee whom I've never met, or someone who falls in between, you mean more to me than you'll ever know. Thank you.



*In many ways Vaynerchuk inspired this post. He has one of the best understandings of how the internet is changing our mindset that I've ever seen. If you are unfamiliar with his work, do something about that.
**Some would say I'm still not as regular as I should be, but we will not regard that right now.

You Would See the Biggest Gift Would Be from Me...

Jesus Walks into an Apple Store

An interesting discovery was made recently in rural China: an Apple Store. The discovery was made by a blogger who had no idea that there was an Apple Store there. This happens a lot. I recently learned that there is an apothecary in the Pike Place Market. But this discovery was unique: as things go, not even Apple knew that this particular Apple Store existed.

Obviously, the store was a fake. Modeled after real stores, a perfunctory look at the store would absolutely make you think you were looking at an actual Apple Store. However, a closer examination would quickly reveal the fraudulent nature: poor paint and shoddy construction, two of the many, many things Apple CEO Steve Jobs will simply not tolerate.

The article that I read was first published yesterday, so there is no news as to what Apple is doing. This being said, one thing I know: you do not want to make Steve Jobs angry. I'm sure whoever is behind this will live to regret it, unless Steve Jobs decides to take his or her life. While this seems extreme, from everything I know about Jobs, the orator of this faux-seller will probably wish this were his fate.

Always I like to ask myself, "What is the takeaway from this?" If we look at it, nearly everything is on some level didactic. Whether we learn positively or negatively (that is, good example or bad example), we can generally glean some lesson. And as a Christian, I think that lesson is quite often centered very clearly on Jesus.

We see these people in China, who probably know very little about Apple. They see the words “Apple Store” and don't notice little inaccuracies*. They buy products that are probably stolen goods, run-of-the-mill (at best) knockoffs, or slipshod refurbishes. As far as they know, this is Apple. They've know nothing about Apple. They haven't taken any real time. They just know it's a Western status symbol, in a culture desperate to break away from many of their traditions. To further complicate things, the employees do not know that this is not a real Apple Store. They legitimately think that they work for Apple. They believe the products that they are selling to be top quality products produced by Apple.

We live in a culture in which Christianity carries a certain value-based connotation - I don't drink or smoke or chew, and I don't go with girls who do. I don't say any of the following words, and I vote straight ticket Republican, even when that clearly goes against the Bible. And some people have figured this out. They then use Christianity as a means of attaining various things, whether that be money or power or any of a seemingly endless list of things (1 Timothy 6:4b-5**). Labeling oneself as a Christian can assist in your election campaign (as long as you are in the right part of the country - this doesn't work in Seattle). You can trick people into giving you money. You can advance in a company. The possibilities are endless. For a perfect example, see this article in The Atlantic about Christianity, the prosperity “gospel,” and the financial crisis.

The Bible tells us about Jesus. As we learn what he is like, it becomes easier to know what is not like him. When people try to attach Christ to their cause, we should compare the cause to the real Jesus Christ and his character and evaluate accordingly. But until we learn about Christ, we're just pedaling a knock-off gospel (Galatians 1:6-8***).

*A photo of a far more obvious knockoff was also published in the article, lacking the Apple logo but featuring the text “Apple Stoer” beneath Chinese characters.
**He has an unhealthy craving for controversy and for quarrels about words, which produce envy, dissension, slander, evil suspicions, and constant friction among people who are depraved in mind and deprived of the truth, imagining that godliness is a means of gain. (1 Timothy 6:4b-5)
***I am astonished that you are so quickly deserting him who called you in the grace of Christ and are turning to a different gospel— not that there is another one, but there are some who trouble you and want to distort the gospel of Christ. But even if we or an angel from heaven should preach to you a gospel contrary to the one we preached to you, let him be accursed. (Galatians 1:6-8) For more, see 2 Corinthians 11.

An interesting discovery was made recently in rural China: an Apple Store. The discovery was made by a blogger who had no idea that there was an Apple Store there. This happens a lot. I recently learned that there is an apothecary in the Pike Place Market. But this discovery was unique: as things go, not even Apple knew that this particular Apple Store existed.

Obviously, the store was a fake. Modeled after real stores, a perfunctory look at the store would absolutely make you think you were looking at an actual Apple Store. However, a closer examination would quickly reveal the fraudulent nature: poor paint and shoddy construction, two of the many, many things Apple CEO Steve Jobs will simply not tolerate.

The article that I read was first published yesterday, so there is no news as to what Apple is doing. This being said, one thing I know: you do not want to make Steve Jobs angry. I'm sure whoever is behind this will live to regret it, unless Steve Jobs decides to take his or her life. While this seems extreme, from everything I know about Jobs, the orator of this faux-seller will probably wish this were his fate.

Always I like to ask myself, "What is the takeaway from this?" If we look at it, nearly everything is on some level didactic. Whether we learn positively or negatively (that is, good example or bad example), we can generally glean some lesson. And as a Christian, I think that lesson is quite often centered very clearly on Jesus.

We see these people in China, who probably know very little about Apple. They see the words “Apple Store” and don't notice little inaccuracies*. They buy products that are probably stolen goods, run-of-the-mill (at best) knockoffs, or slipshod refurbishes. As far as they know, this is Apple. They've know nothing about Apple. They haven't taken any real time. They just know it's a Western status symbol, in a culture desperate to break away from many of their traditions. To further complicate things, the employees do not know that this is not a real Apple Store. They legitimately think that they work for Apple. They believe the products that they are selling to be top quality products produced by Apple.

We live in a culture in which Christianity carries a certain value-based connotation - I don't drink or smoke or chew, and I don't go with girls who do. I don't say any of the following words, and I vote straight ticket Republican, even when that clearly goes against the Bible. And some people have figured this out. They then use Christianity as a means of attaining various things, whether that be money or power or any of a seemingly endless list of things (1 Timothy 6:4b-5**). Labeling oneself as a Christian can assist in your election campaign (as long as you are in the right part of the country - this doesn't work in Seattle). You can trick people into giving you money. You can advance in a company. The possibilities are endless. For a perfect example, see this article in The Atlantic about Christianity, the prosperity “gospel,” and the financial crisis.

The Bible tells us about Jesus. As we learn what he is like, it becomes easier to know what is not like him. When people try to attach Christ to their cause, we should compare the cause to the real Jesus Christ and his character and evaluate accordingly. But until we learn about Christ, we're just pedaling a knock-off gospel (Galatians 1:6-8***).

*A photo of a far more obvious knockoff was also published in the article, lacking the Apple logo but featuring the text “Apple Stoer” beneath Chinese characters.
**He has an unhealthy craving for controversy and for quarrels about words, which produce envy, dissension, slander, evil suspicions, and constant friction among people who are depraved in mind and deprived of the truth, imagining that godliness is a means of gain. (1 Timothy 6:4b-5)
***I am astonished that you are so quickly deserting him who called you in the grace of Christ and are turning to a different gospel— not that there is another one, but there are some who trouble you and want to distort the gospel of Christ. But even if we or an angel from heaven should preach to you a gospel contrary to the one we preached to you, let him be accursed. (Galatians 1:6-8) For more, see 2 Corinthians 11.

Jesus Walks into an Apple Store

Ironically, I Really Can Update from My Phone

Having an update schedule has been good for me: it forces a measure of discipline. I don't hold myself to certain days (though I generally seem to update on Wednesday and Sunday), but I do try to hold to the minimum bi-weekly updates* that I've promised. I think I have missed two over the last few months, one of which was posted Monday of the next week.

This being said, there have also been downsides to the schedule. For one, I don't always have something which I particularly find to be worth posting. If the time comes, I just post something, for better or worse. Secondly, and in a lot of ways this is a subpoint of the first, I feel like I've rather been phoning it in a lot lately.

Let me say from the start that I apologize for this. Furthermore, I do not wish to justify or otherwise excuse this. While several things have led me in this direction, it has entirely been my decision (whether conscious or subconscious) that has brought me here, and I have no one but myself to blame.

While I have been busy, the problem arises in a lack of diligence and an abundance of distraction: there is plenty of extra time to write, but I choose to spend it on other things. Sometimes these things are productive and important. Other times they are Facebook (or now the younger, more attractive Google+). Perhaps I'm rearranging my books and ensuring yet again that they are all catalogued, or perhaps I'm playing air guitar to ZZTop videos on YouTube. And unfortunately this problem manifests in nearly every area of my life. By way of example, I've been in the process of rearranging my tiny apartment for about a month now.

When I sit down to write, I have trouble with ideas. Many of my concepts are too personal, while others are just not interesting, and concepts are never in abundance to begin with. Eventually I pick a topic that is "good enough." I find this very designation to be questionable: as I'm partial to saying, "Good enough is never good enough."

I write, then post. There is a value to occasional rawness, but there is a much greater value to quality revision. As the mantra in Finding Forrester states, "Write with your heart. Re-write with your head." I try to combine the two, to no avail. Often the amount I look over a post is when I'm typing it. The few posts that haven't been written on paper get even less proofreading. Some people can do this. I can't. I need to write on paper and re-write (sometimes again using paper), giving myself time to evaluate and edit, after taking time away from it.

This post was black ink on paper, then red ink on black ink on paper. Now it's digital. It's taken time and effort. I've poured out my heart an striven to be honest as to my shortcomings. I've been resting on my laurels, but now I'm grabbing the laurel and turning over one of the leaves anew.

*This week there should be three updates, including this one. I drafted one earlier this evening, with the concept for another already worked out.

Having an update schedule has been good for me: it forces a measure of discipline. I don't hold myself to certain days (though I generally seem to update on Wednesday and Sunday), but I do try to hold to the minimum bi-weekly updates* that I've promised. I think I have missed two over the last few months, one of which was posted Monday of the next week.

This being said, there have also been downsides to the schedule. For one, I don't always have something which I particularly find to be worth posting. If the time comes, I just post something, for better or worse. Secondly, and in a lot of ways this is a subpoint of the first, I feel like I've rather been phoning it in a lot lately.

Let me say from the start that I apologize for this. Furthermore, I do not wish to justify or otherwise excuse this. While several things have led me in this direction, it has entirely been my decision (whether conscious or subconscious) that has brought me here, and I have no one but myself to blame.

While I have been busy, the problem arises in a lack of diligence and an abundance of distraction: there is plenty of extra time to write, but I choose to spend it on other things. Sometimes these things are productive and important. Other times they are Facebook (or now the younger, more attractive Google+). Perhaps I'm rearranging my books and ensuring yet again that they are all catalogued, or perhaps I'm playing air guitar to ZZTop videos on YouTube. And unfortunately this problem manifests in nearly every area of my life. By way of example, I've been in the process of rearranging my tiny apartment for about a month now.

When I sit down to write, I have trouble with ideas. Many of my concepts are too personal, while others are just not interesting, and concepts are never in abundance to begin with. Eventually I pick a topic that is "good enough." I find this very designation to be questionable: as I'm partial to saying, "Good enough is never good enough."

I write, then post. There is a value to occasional rawness, but there is a much greater value to quality revision. As the mantra in Finding Forrester states, "Write with your heart. Re-write with your head." I try to combine the two, to no avail. Often the amount I look over a post is when I'm typing it. The few posts that haven't been written on paper get even less proofreading. Some people can do this. I can't. I need to write on paper and re-write (sometimes again using paper), giving myself time to evaluate and edit, after taking time away from it.

This post was black ink on paper, then red ink on black ink on paper. Now it's digital. It's taken time and effort. I've poured out my heart an striven to be honest as to my shortcomings. I've been resting on my laurels, but now I'm grabbing the laurel and turning over one of the leaves anew.

*This week there should be three updates, including this one. I drafted one earlier this evening, with the concept for another already worked out.

Ironically, I Really Can Update from My Phone

Legal pad. Bachelor pad. Legal tender. Tender bachelor. Long title.

Remember when I had jury duty? I do, perhaps too well. On my lunch break the first day I bought a legal pad, in which I planned to write while waiting. The combination made sense to me: legal pad/jury duty. 

I did not have to wait nearly as much as I expected, so I left with a nearly empty pad. I've now been writing in that legal pad quite a bit - blog post drafts, poetry, mental meanderings, and the like. Now I find the legal pad filling. This is a beautiful sensation, as I haven't filled a notebook in several years. 

You see, I find a full notebook to be quite encouraging: it's a finished task, a veritable rhetorical collected-them-all of pleonasms*. An unfilled notebook, on the other hand, reminds me of my artistic shortcomings, a space to be filled with something I have been unable to create or realize. 

What I do realize is the ridiculousness of this concept: my goal in writing is to honor God, not to fill notebooks. If my goal is quantity, why not just write the ABCs repeatedly? Don't get me wrong - I want to be a prolific writer. This simply cannot be my goal, as it is only a means of achieving that goal. It's about Jesus, not word count. 

This is really just a note to self. 

*The phrase "veritable rhetorical collected-them-all of pleonasms" reveals two things: (1) I'm using a thesaurus; (2) I'm reading Tom Wolfe. Both are of course true. 

Remember when I had jury duty? I do, perhaps too well. On my lunch break the first day I bought a legal pad, in which I planned to write while waiting. The combination made sense to me: legal pad/jury duty. 

I did not have to wait nearly as much as I expected, so I left with a nearly empty pad. I've now been writing in that legal pad quite a bit - blog post drafts, poetry, mental meanderings, and the like. Now I find the legal pad filling. This is a beautiful sensation, as I haven't filled a notebook in several years. 

You see, I find a full notebook to be quite encouraging: it's a finished task, a veritable rhetorical collected-them-all of pleonasms*. An unfilled notebook, on the other hand, reminds me of my artistic shortcomings, a space to be filled with something I have been unable to create or realize. 

What I do realize is the ridiculousness of this concept: my goal in writing is to honor God, not to fill notebooks. If my goal is quantity, why not just write the ABCs repeatedly? Don't get me wrong - I want to be a prolific writer. This simply cannot be my goal, as it is only a means of achieving that goal. It's about Jesus, not word count. 

This is really just a note to self. 

*The phrase "veritable rhetorical collected-them-all of pleonasms" reveals two things: (1) I'm using a thesaurus; (2) I'm reading Tom Wolfe. Both are of course true. 

Legal pad. Bachelor pad. Legal tender. Tender bachelor. Long title.

Start from Zero

Poetry is still standing here, on the precipice of my blog, echoing The Clash: should I stay or should I go? Hopefully we will actually avoid trouble, both single and double, with today's poem, which includes commentary. Let's get straight to the poem, entitled Start from Zero, then follow with commentary at the end.

They told me
to start from
zero,
and figure it all out
myself.

From there we go
to the simple line
known as one,

followed by the
complicated curves
of two,

with each level
exponentially more complicated
than the previous.

Spiraling out of control
to visions of
one-hundred,

we see the complications
wrought in a third
figure:

a simple line,
now complicated by
a pair of
circles.

Unfortunately in our visionary
distraction,
we have turned our backs
on the lopsided
six,

which collapses,
and leaves us back
at zero.

This poem was inspired by the movement of modern architecture, in which there were frequent discussions of "starting from zero," meaning take everything you know and throw it out the window. Specifically the avenue of this inspiration was Tom Wolfe's book From Bauhaus to Our House, which I'm currently reading. I encourage you to picture Mr. Wolfe reading the poem, wearing his white suit and holding a drink.

In this movement, a goal was to be the least bourgeois. There was a great deal of discussion about what was and was not bourgeois, which is of course in and of order terribly bourgeois. I decided that seeing numbers simply as numbers, as opposed to some quantity, was bourgeois: a number is sufficient, without my assigning a meaning to it outside itself. The opposition would counter that only the bourgeois would have time or such vanity as a number apart from meaning.

Furthermore, speaking of numbers as numbers, simplicity/complexity, curves/straight lines, and symmetry/asymmetry were major considerations debated in the movement, to which the shapes of the letters lent themselves. We are of course not actually building numbers: they are only placeholders. How pretentious and bourgeois.

I hope that you see how ridiculous the whole thing is. This being said, it's something that I still see every day: look at hipsters. They're all trying to be the biggest hipster, while simultaneously denying their very status as hipsters. It's the exact same situation, sadly.

That's a short summary of what I was trying to say in this poem. I hope you enjoyed.

Poetry is still standing here, on the precipice of my blog, echoing The Clash: should I stay or should I go? Hopefully we will actually avoid trouble, both single and double, with today's poem, which includes commentary. Let's get straight to the poem, entitled Start from Zero, then follow with commentary at the end.

They told me
to start from
zero,
and figure it all out
myself.

From there we go
to the simple line
known as one,

followed by the
complicated curves
of two,

with each level
exponentially more complicated
than the previous.

Spiraling out of control
to visions of
one-hundred,

we see the complications
wrought in a third
figure:

a simple line,
now complicated by
a pair of
circles.

Unfortunately in our visionary
distraction,
we have turned our backs
on the lopsided
six,

which collapses,
and leaves us back
at zero.

This poem was inspired by the movement of modern architecture, in which there were frequent discussions of "starting from zero," meaning take everything you know and throw it out the window. Specifically the avenue of this inspiration was Tom Wolfe's book From Bauhaus to Our House, which I'm currently reading. I encourage you to picture Mr. Wolfe reading the poem, wearing his white suit and holding a drink.

In this movement, a goal was to be the least bourgeois. There was a great deal of discussion about what was and was not bourgeois, which is of course in and of order terribly bourgeois. I decided that seeing numbers simply as numbers, as opposed to some quantity, was bourgeois: a number is sufficient, without my assigning a meaning to it outside itself. The opposition would counter that only the bourgeois would have time or such vanity as a number apart from meaning.

Furthermore, speaking of numbers as numbers, simplicity/complexity, curves/straight lines, and symmetry/asymmetry were major considerations debated in the movement, to which the shapes of the letters lent themselves. We are of course not actually building numbers: they are only placeholders. How pretentious and bourgeois.

I hope that you see how ridiculous the whole thing is. This being said, it's something that I still see every day: look at hipsters. They're all trying to be the biggest hipster, while simultaneously denying their very status as hipsters. It's the exact same situation, sadly.

That's a short summary of what I was trying to say in this poem. I hope you enjoyed.

Start from Zero

Little Lady Laundry

I go to the laundromat about once a week. I pay $4, in return for which the filth and fustiness of my clothes is taken away. I sit there for an hour, generally reading, writing, or playing sudoku. 

I despise the laundromat. It is the greatest symbol of vanity in existence: no matter how many times I was my clothes, they are once again dirty. This being said, the laundromat has another interesting characteristic, which is what I wish to discuss right now: children. 

If there are any children present, there are almost always at least three. Sometimes there are as many as seven, often from one or two families. They run around, screaming and hitting each other or strangers, completely unsupervised by their parents. 

One day a while back, a girl, whom I will estimate to have been about two- or three-years-old, sat down beside me while I was reading. She gradually moved closer, until she was finally leaning against me. Her mother just happened to notice, at which point she said, "It looks like you made a friend." I'm unsure to this day which of us she was talking to. She then resumed the ignoring. 

Soon enough the girl jumped off the bench. Instead of walking away, she climbed onto my knees. I do not say my lap, as the book was blocking my lap. I put my book down, not wanting to risk her falling from the edge of my knees. She slid back into my lap and rested her head on my chest. Her parents never even seemed to notice. 

She was a sweet girl. I'm sure, given her bent toward climbing into my lap, her parents are kind and affectionate. But why aren't they protecting their daughter? I would advise against letting strange men play with your daughter, but infinitely more against letting him hold her unsupervised near the door of the laundromat. 

I get frustrated about this: children are a wonderful gift from God and need to be shepherded, not thrown amongst the wolves. I'm not a father. I'm certainly no expert in the subject of parenting. But that much I know. 

I go to the laundromat about once a week. I pay $4, in return for which the filth and fustiness of my clothes is taken away. I sit there for an hour, generally reading, writing, or playing sudoku. 

I despise the laundromat. It is the greatest symbol of vanity in existence: no matter how many times I was my clothes, they are once again dirty. This being said, the laundromat has another interesting characteristic, which is what I wish to discuss right now: children. 

If there are any children present, there are almost always at least three. Sometimes there are as many as seven, often from one or two families. They run around, screaming and hitting each other or strangers, completely unsupervised by their parents. 

One day a while back, a girl, whom I will estimate to have been about two- or three-years-old, sat down beside me while I was reading. She gradually moved closer, until she was finally leaning against me. Her mother just happened to notice, at which point she said, "It looks like you made a friend." I'm unsure to this day which of us she was talking to. She then resumed the ignoring. 

Soon enough the girl jumped off the bench. Instead of walking away, she climbed onto my knees. I do not say my lap, as the book was blocking my lap. I put my book down, not wanting to risk her falling from the edge of my knees. She slid back into my lap and rested her head on my chest. Her parents never even seemed to notice. 

She was a sweet girl. I'm sure, given her bent toward climbing into my lap, her parents are kind and affectionate. But why aren't they protecting their daughter? I would advise against letting strange men play with your daughter, but infinitely more against letting him hold her unsupervised near the door of the laundromat. 

I get frustrated about this: children are a wonderful gift from God and need to be shepherded, not thrown amongst the wolves. I'm not a father. I'm certainly no expert in the subject of parenting. But that much I know. 

Little Lady Laundry

The Rose

Based on an amalgamation of several true stories...

A handsome gentleman in a sports coat strolls leisurely through the neighborhood. He is smoking a pipe. The smoke from his pipe swirls above his head, drawing sharp contrast with the vertical pinstripes on his jacket. He wanders with no specific destination, enjoying a crisp Seattle evening the best way he knows how.

In front of a house he sees a mass of overgrown rose bushes, which somehow still manage to bear some of the most beautiful flowers he has ever seen. He stops and picks one rose from among the many, carefully removing each thorn, before continuing on his walk. The rose, like the walk, has no specific purpose except the sheer enjoyment of God's creation.

He walks, getting farther and farther from his house. Soon enough he sees a young woman walking toward him. She is beautiful, but clearly not planning to see anyone during her walk based on her disheveled hair and haphazard clothing. As they pass, he hands her the rose, continuing with his walk.

"Excuse me?" she asks.

"I didn't say anything," he replies.

"I know that, but I think you owe me an explanation."

"Well," he says, "I don't really have one. I picked it, and I saw you, so I decided to give it to you."

She looks at him confused, mumbling something about not getting flowers from anyone before calling his motives into question.

"If I had ulterior motives, I'd have stopped you to talk. You stopped yourself, and me for that matter. Perhaps I should be questioning YOUR motives." he stops and laughs awkwardly, wishing he had left off the last sentence.

She looks at him strangely and silently, obviously confused and disoriented.

"Stop selling yourself short," he says. "Have a goodnight. Maybe I'll see you around." With that, he walks away.

She never forgot him, though she never saw him again. At least, she doesn't think she ever saw him again, though to this day she cannot recall his face.

Based on an amalgamation of several true stories...

A handsome gentleman in a sports coat strolls leisurely through the neighborhood. He is smoking a pipe. The smoke from his pipe swirls above his head, drawing sharp contrast with the vertical pinstripes on his jacket. He wanders with no specific destination, enjoying a crisp Seattle evening the best way he knows how.

In front of a house he sees a mass of overgrown rose bushes, which somehow still manage to bear some of the most beautiful flowers he has ever seen. He stops and picks one rose from among the many, carefully removing each thorn, before continuing on his walk. The rose, like the walk, has no specific purpose except the sheer enjoyment of God's creation.

He walks, getting farther and farther from his house. Soon enough he sees a young woman walking toward him. She is beautiful, but clearly not planning to see anyone during her walk based on her disheveled hair and haphazard clothing. As they pass, he hands her the rose, continuing with his walk.

"Excuse me?" she asks.

"I didn't say anything," he replies.

"I know that, but I think you owe me an explanation."

"Well," he says, "I don't really have one. I picked it, and I saw you, so I decided to give it to you."

She looks at him confused, mumbling something about not getting flowers from anyone before calling his motives into question.

"If I had ulterior motives, I'd have stopped you to talk. You stopped yourself, and me for that matter. Perhaps I should be questioning YOUR motives." he stops and laughs awkwardly, wishing he had left off the last sentence.

She looks at him strangely and silently, obviously confused and disoriented.

"Stop selling yourself short," he says. "Have a goodnight. Maybe I'll see you around." With that, he walks away.

She never forgot him, though she never saw him again. At least, she doesn't think she ever saw him again, though to this day she cannot recall his face.

The Rose

Poetry

I've noticed that my few poetry posts don't seem to be as well received as my other posts, based on number of readers (my only real matrix for measuring reactions). This is interesting, as it obviously does appeal to a different audience. I'm considering starting a separate blog (or something else of the kind - open to suggestions) for poetry. Thoughts, suggestions, concerns, snide remarks, monkey sounds?

I've noticed that my few poetry posts don't seem to be as well received as my other posts, based on number of readers (my only real matrix for measuring reactions). This is interesting, as it obviously does appeal to a different audience. I'm considering starting a separate blog (or something else of the kind - open to suggestions) for poetry. Thoughts, suggestions, concerns, snide remarks, monkey sounds?

Poetry

Computers Don't Have the Power, or (Don't) Charge!

As I believe I have mentioned already,, I recently bought a computer. It is a refurbished Android netbook. It was $89. How could I not buy it?

I was unsure how long it would be until it arrived. My sister and my mom had both ordered from the website before, and their best predictions of when it would arrive ranged from six weeks to eight days respectively. I was prepared to wait a while.

Fortunately I didn't have to wait very long, as my mom was correct. I saw on the UPS tracking that it was on the truck and got very impatient waiting until about 6:30pm. I was talking to Lee (an avid Android fan) when it arrived, fittingly enough.

I web outside to meet the UPS driver. He probably thought I was being impatient, but I was just excited. Lee and I opened it up to look at it, and I went to my apartment to charge it. That's where things got interesting.

I got downstairs and plugged it in, or so I would have, had the plug fit. Perhaps I'm trying the wrong port? Nope. Check the manual to make sure...right port. Wrong AC adapter.

I send an email, but I notice that they at replies to email usually take three to four days, as thy are very busy. I have no other way of getting in touch, so email will have to do. Email sent.

Oh wait, what's this? Twitter? Let's try this twitter for customer service thing I've been hearing about. I tweet.

The next morning at 7am I'm awakened by an at tweet that was forwarded to my phone. They tell me to email. I get up a bit later (way too late) and check my email. They've sent me three emails. One is an automated reply, again telling me to wait three to four days on a reply. The next is a personal email promising a new charger. The third is a UPS tracking number for my new charger.

The moral of the story, of course, is that the potentially squeaky wheel gets the preemptive grease.

::edit::I just tracked it - Auburn, WA. I should get it tomorrow or Saturday. Sweet.::

As I believe I have mentioned already,, I recently bought a computer. It is a refurbished Android netbook. It was $89. How could I not buy it?

I was unsure how long it would be until it arrived. My sister and my mom had both ordered from the website before, and their best predictions of when it would arrive ranged from six weeks to eight days respectively. I was prepared to wait a while.

Fortunately I didn't have to wait very long, as my mom was correct. I saw on the UPS tracking that it was on the truck and got very impatient waiting until about 6:30pm. I was talking to Lee (an avid Android fan) when it arrived, fittingly enough.

I web outside to meet the UPS driver. He probably thought I was being impatient, but I was just excited. Lee and I opened it up to look at it, and I went to my apartment to charge it. That's where things got interesting.

I got downstairs and plugged it in, or so I would have, had the plug fit. Perhaps I'm trying the wrong port? Nope. Check the manual to make sure...right port. Wrong AC adapter.

I send an email, but I notice that they at replies to email usually take three to four days, as thy are very busy. I have no other way of getting in touch, so email will have to do. Email sent.

Oh wait, what's this? Twitter? Let's try this twitter for customer service thing I've been hearing about. I tweet.

The next morning at 7am I'm awakened by an at tweet that was forwarded to my phone. They tell me to email. I get up a bit later (way too late) and check my email. They've sent me three emails. One is an automated reply, again telling me to wait three to four days on a reply. The next is a personal email promising a new charger. The third is a UPS tracking number for my new charger.

The moral of the story, of course, is that the potentially squeaky wheel gets the preemptive grease.

::edit::I just tracked it - Auburn, WA. I should get it tomorrow or Saturday. Sweet.::

Computers Don't Have the Power, or (Don't) Charge!

A Summer Berry Long Ago

Picture it - summer 1987: I'm five-years-old; I've just finished kindergarten; Andy Warhol is recently dead; Kurt Vonnegut releases Bluebeard (my favorite Vonnegut book); and I'm allergic to strawberries. What a summer it was.

Yes, I was allergic to strawberries. This was the first year of this allergy. Doctors could quite explain it. "Sometimes you just develop an allergy," they told us. Develop it is exactly what I did, to the tune of hives.

It wasn't that bad: red splotches and itching. My mom would still buy strawberries, which were of course off limits to me. Like any good five-year-old, I thought I knew best, so I would eat them only when no one was looking. Somehow she always knew. No matter how much I would stand there denying the action and scratching my hives, she always knew.

No strawberries made the summer of 1987 one of the longest and most difficult summers of my life.

Fast forward - summer 1988. Again, strawberries in the refrigerator. My mom walks into the kitchen to find me eating them. This time I know not to deny: I've been caught red (literally, thanks to strawberry juice) handed. But then something very strange happened, or didn't happen: there were no hives.

Indeed, in the summer of 1988 I could eat strawberries. To this day, I've not had another problem with strawberries. This is good, because they're berry delicious.

Picture it - summer 1987: I'm five-years-old; I've just finished kindergarten; Andy Warhol is recently dead; Kurt Vonnegut releases Bluebeard (my favorite Vonnegut book); and I'm allergic to strawberries. What a summer it was.

Yes, I was allergic to strawberries. This was the first year of this allergy. Doctors could quite explain it. "Sometimes you just develop an allergy," they told us. Develop it is exactly what I did, to the tune of hives.

It wasn't that bad: red splotches and itching. My mom would still buy strawberries, which were of course off limits to me. Like any good five-year-old, I thought I knew best, so I would eat them only when no one was looking. Somehow she always knew. No matter how much I would stand there denying the action and scratching my hives, she always knew.

No strawberries made the summer of 1987 one of the longest and most difficult summers of my life.

Fast forward - summer 1988. Again, strawberries in the refrigerator. My mom walks into the kitchen to find me eating them. This time I know not to deny: I've been caught red (literally, thanks to strawberry juice) handed. But then something very strange happened, or didn't happen: there were no hives.

Indeed, in the summer of 1988 I could eat strawberries. To this day, I've not had another problem with strawberries. This is good, because they're berry delicious.

A Summer Berry Long Ago

Note to self

Strawberries.
Sorry about this, readers.

Sent from my iPod

Strawberries.
Sorry about this, readers.

Sent from my iPod

Note to self

Oblique Strategery: How Would You Have Done It?

I often struggle to make decisions. Too many options become overwhelming, and I don't like it when doors close. However, I discovered something about five years ago that made decision making much easier: Oblique Strategies.

Originally released in 1975, Oblique Strategies is a deck of cards created by Brian Eno and Peter Schmidt. Each card has a sentence or a few words, or perhaps even only one word. The statement is cryptic, but is intended to serve as a platform. By leaving us to interpret the statements, we are force to think for ourselves.

The fifth edition cards, the most recent retail for about $65, though I found a PDF of the original edition online today. I printed it and glued it to cardstock, which I will cut out tomorrow.

Right before writing this, I had my roommate pick a random number, which chose a card. Then I set a timer for six minutes, which was the time I gave myself to write a poem about that card. The card said, "How Would You Have Done It?," which is resultantly the title of the poem. It is not autobiographical, though some would disagree. Either way, enjoy.

It was never really
an option,
and no one asked
my opinion,

which is obviously why

it went wrong.

I of course foresaw the problems
and circumvented them
entirely.

And let the record show
that I voted
for the other party,

and if anyone asks,
I can tell you how to do it.

But for now,
I'll sit back and complain
about why everything is wrong,

and no one has ever
asked me.

I often struggle to make decisions. Too many options become overwhelming, and I don't like it when doors close. However, I discovered something about five years ago that made decision making much easier: Oblique Strategies.

Originally released in 1975, Oblique Strategies is a deck of cards created by Brian Eno and Peter Schmidt. Each card has a sentence or a few words, or perhaps even only one word. The statement is cryptic, but is intended to serve as a platform. By leaving us to interpret the statements, we are force to think for ourselves.

The fifth edition cards, the most recent retail for about $65, though I found a PDF of the original edition online today. I printed it and glued it to cardstock, which I will cut out tomorrow.

Right before writing this, I had my roommate pick a random number, which chose a card. Then I set a timer for six minutes, which was the time I gave myself to write a poem about that card. The card said, "How Would You Have Done It?," which is resultantly the title of the poem. It is not autobiographical, though some would disagree. Either way, enjoy.

It was never really
an option,
and no one asked
my opinion,

which is obviously why

it went wrong.

I of course foresaw the problems
and circumvented them
entirely.

And let the record show
that I voted
for the other party,

and if anyone asks,
I can tell you how to do it.

But for now,
I'll sit back and complain
about why everything is wrong,

and no one has ever
asked me.

Oblique Strategery: How Would You Have Done It?

It's Not What You Say: It's How You Say It

(Comment problems, again. I know they're trying to fix these issues, but I'm seriously contemplating changing to something a bit more stable, perhaps with an official app. Time will tell.)

This afternoon I finished a book I checked out of the library. It's called Kafka. It is, as the name would imply, about the life and works of philosopher Franz Kafka*. This is an interesting topic, at least to me, but the real beauty is in the format of the book - a juxtaposition of comics and prose. The interplay between these two formats is truly remarkable.

Prose is exactly what I would expect from a book on this topic: words, which are arranged in sentences, which are arranged in paragraphs. This is present as well as being informative. This book would not function without prose. It is the skeleton on which the meat of the book hangs.

Comics are often put down. Remember the controversy when Time Magazine placed The Watchmen on its All Time 100 Novels list? While I personally was not a big fan of The Watchmen, I absolutely believe that comics and graphic novels have a place in our literary canon. Further, I have a great deal of respect for the artist who create both the storylines and the drawings (especially men like R. Crumb, one of the men behind Kafka). In this particular case, comics hang on the prosy skeleton, providing fleshy life to what would otherwise be dead.

Perhaps this a metaphor you will better understand**: picture prose as peanut butter (it's hearty and often contains chunks of information) and comics as jelly (sweet, though not usually having a lot of sustenance). While each is good independently, they do their best work as a team - two formats working together to bring a fuller illumination to a concept.

Now, I'm not saying it should always be this way. My mind instantly jumps to Moby Dick. As you may recall, there were several shifts from prose to poetry to drama to cetology***, which also often involved a change in the narrator. This, at least in my opinion (and that of those in my former book club), was without rhyme or reason in many cases, which rendered the book exceedingly difficult. Moby Dick of course needed no help with being difficult.

This being said, I now recognize that there is indeed a place for multiple formats side by side. Poetry, prose, comics - put together everything that you have. Who knows - your white whale of a tale might sink your ship, but you might be having whale steaks for breakfast. Slice it think like bible pages.

*Not to be confused with Kefka, the main villain from Final Fantasy VI, who was much more like Franz's father. Unrelated, Final Fantasy VI was absolutely one of the best video games ever created and the best game in the Final Fantasy series. This point is not open to debate, and everyone who disagrees with me is simply wrong.

**Unsure how this will come across in reading: if it is overly pretentious or just terribly awkward wording, apologies.

***Please please please no. I understand that you know more about whales than I do. Please don't spend three chapters telling me about the main categories.

(Comment problems, again. I know they're trying to fix these issues, but I'm seriously contemplating changing to something a bit more stable, perhaps with an official app. Time will tell.)

This afternoon I finished a book I checked out of the library. It's called Kafka. It is, as the name would imply, about the life and works of philosopher Franz Kafka*. This is an interesting topic, at least to me, but the real beauty is in the format of the book - a juxtaposition of comics and prose. The interplay between these two formats is truly remarkable.

Prose is exactly what I would expect from a book on this topic: words, which are arranged in sentences, which are arranged in paragraphs. This is present as well as being informative. This book would not function without prose. It is the skeleton on which the meat of the book hangs.

Comics are often put down. Remember the controversy when Time Magazine placed The Watchmen on its All Time 100 Novels list? While I personally was not a big fan of The Watchmen, I absolutely believe that comics and graphic novels have a place in our literary canon. Further, I have a great deal of respect for the artist who create both the storylines and the drawings (especially men like R. Crumb, one of the men behind Kafka). In this particular case, comics hang on the prosy skeleton, providing fleshy life to what would otherwise be dead.

Perhaps this a metaphor you will better understand**: picture prose as peanut butter (it's hearty and often contains chunks of information) and comics as jelly (sweet, though not usually having a lot of sustenance). While each is good independently, they do their best work as a team - two formats working together to bring a fuller illumination to a concept.

Now, I'm not saying it should always be this way. My mind instantly jumps to Moby Dick. As you may recall, there were several shifts from prose to poetry to drama to cetology***, which also often involved a change in the narrator. This, at least in my opinion (and that of those in my former book club), was without rhyme or reason in many cases, which rendered the book exceedingly difficult. Moby Dick of course needed no help with being difficult.

This being said, I now recognize that there is indeed a place for multiple formats side by side. Poetry, prose, comics - put together everything that you have. Who knows - your white whale of a tale might sink your ship, but you might be having whale steaks for breakfast. Slice it think like bible pages.

*Not to be confused with Kefka, the main villain from Final Fantasy VI, who was much more like Franz's father. Unrelated, Final Fantasy VI was absolutely one of the best video games ever created and the best game in the Final Fantasy series. This point is not open to debate, and everyone who disagrees with me is simply wrong.

**Unsure how this will come across in reading: if it is overly pretentious or just terribly awkward wording, apologies.

***Please please please no. I understand that you know more about whales than I do. Please don't spend three chapters telling me about the main categories.

It's Not What You Say: It's How You Say It