I Don't Even Have a Chimney, or An Historic Account of St. Nick

It's that time of year: Christmas. We trim our trees and hang the lights, knowing that soon St. Nick will arrive, fat and jolly. But who is this cookie-eating, reindeer-driving breaker-and-enterer? How did he become such a cultural institution, while St. Augustine has never visited my house?

Let's look at who St. Nicholas was. He was born in 270AD in Greece, modern day Turkey. His parents died when he was young, so he was taken in by his uncle, himself a bishop. When Nicholas came of age his uncle ordained him as a priest because of upstanding character.

Nicholas was born into a rich family, but his parents associated frequently with the commoners as opposed to the wealthy and bourgeois. By virtue of growing up rich but being among the commoners, Nicholas learned the importance of generosity, earning him a reputation that followed him for his entire life and well beyond.

The most famous tale of his generosity involves three young ladies and their father. He was a single father and poor. He could not afford to pay the dowries for his three daughters. As such, he would have to sell them into prostitution so that they could provide for their own needs. Two consecutive nights Nicholas threw money through the open windows of their house sufficient to cover the dowry of the older two sisters. The father, wanting to know who did this, waited in hiding by the window on the third night. Suspecting this, Nicholas climbed up onto the roof and dropped the money down the chimney.

There are numerous variants of this tale, though it is unlikely that this exact situation occurred more than once. This is to be expected with oral tradition. There is debate about whether he threw purses of currency or lumps of gold. Further, some say he left the money in recently laundered socks hung to dry. Still others say he did this over the course of three years, not days. Whatever the case, it's a beautiful example of Nicholas' generosity, not to mention the generosity of God.

Another story, this one of miraculous nature, involves three children who stayed a night at a butcher's house during a famine. The butcher killed the boys and prepared them to use in a dish. Nicholas showed up and resurrected the boys. It is not uncommon to see these kinds of miraculous deeds accredited to the saints.

This season Nicholas has been gaining a lot of attention for his participation in the council of Nicaea and particularly his opposition to Arius. Arius was teaching that Christ was not divine but instead a created being who became a god. This heresy became known as Arianism (for obvious reasons), the primary proponents of which today are Jehovah's Witnesses. At one point Nicholas became so frustrated with Arius and his ignoring of scripture that he stood up, walked across the room, and slapped Arius in the face. The other attendees persuaded him to apologize, but he certainly made an impact (both literally and physically).

So this leaves one question: where do we get Santa Claus? Well, his name is derived from the Dutch Sinterklaas. The highest rank Saint Nicholas reached was bishop, for which he wore red. He was known for giving gifts, and in the tale of the three women he even gave a gift through he chimney. I do find it funny that the patron saint of thieves becomes the man who breaks in to your house, albeit to leave things behind. And the reindeer and all the fat? It just makes for a good story.

It's that time of year: Christmas. We trim our trees and hang the lights, knowing that soon St. Nick will arrive, fat and jolly. But who is this cookie-eating, reindeer-driving breaker-and-enterer? How did he become such a cultural institution, while St. Augustine has never visited my house?

Let's look at who St. Nicholas was. He was born in 270AD in Greece, modern day Turkey. His parents died when he was young, so he was taken in by his uncle, himself a bishop. When Nicholas came of age his uncle ordained him as a priest because of upstanding character.

Nicholas was born into a rich family, but his parents associated frequently with the commoners as opposed to the wealthy and bourgeois. By virtue of growing up rich but being among the commoners, Nicholas learned the importance of generosity, earning him a reputation that followed him for his entire life and well beyond.

The most famous tale of his generosity involves three young ladies and their father. He was a single father and poor. He could not afford to pay the dowries for his three daughters. As such, he would have to sell them into prostitution so that they could provide for their own needs. Two consecutive nights Nicholas threw money through the open windows of their house sufficient to cover the dowry of the older two sisters. The father, wanting to know who did this, waited in hiding by the window on the third night. Suspecting this, Nicholas climbed up onto the roof and dropped the money down the chimney.

There are numerous variants of this tale, though it is unlikely that this exact situation occurred more than once. This is to be expected with oral tradition. There is debate about whether he threw purses of currency or lumps of gold. Further, some say he left the money in recently laundered socks hung to dry. Still others say he did this over the course of three years, not days. Whatever the case, it's a beautiful example of Nicholas' generosity, not to mention the generosity of God.

Another story, this one of miraculous nature, involves three children who stayed a night at a butcher's house during a famine. The butcher killed the boys and prepared them to use in a dish. Nicholas showed up and resurrected the boys. It is not uncommon to see these kinds of miraculous deeds accredited to the saints.

This season Nicholas has been gaining a lot of attention for his participation in the council of Nicaea and particularly his opposition to Arius. Arius was teaching that Christ was not divine but instead a created being who became a god. This heresy became known as Arianism (for obvious reasons), the primary proponents of which today are Jehovah's Witnesses. At one point Nicholas became so frustrated with Arius and his ignoring of scripture that he stood up, walked across the room, and slapped Arius in the face. The other attendees persuaded him to apologize, but he certainly made an impact (both literally and physically).

So this leaves one question: where do we get Santa Claus? Well, his name is derived from the Dutch Sinterklaas. The highest rank Saint Nicholas reached was bishop, for which he wore red. He was known for giving gifts, and in the tale of the three women he even gave a gift through he chimney. I do find it funny that the patron saint of thieves becomes the man who breaks in to your house, albeit to leave things behind. And the reindeer and all the fat? It just makes for a good story.

I Don't Even Have a Chimney, or An Historic Account of St. Nick

They Call Me Mr. Tea

I like tea. This, as you may know, is a huge understatement. I drink it frequently, whether black, green, oolong, or herbal*. While most people know me as a coffee addict, I drink nearly twice as much tea as I do coffee.

Recently, in an unfortunate turn of events, I got a stomach ulcer**. This is my second ulcer, and it will probably not be my last, seeing as they are caused by a virus. Even a sip of coffee resulted in stabbing pain just beneath my ribs and slightly off center to the right – the exact location of my ulcer. Tea it is.

English breakfast tea is a life saver, or at least a headache preventer and zombie cure. It's a delicious source of caffeine, albeit in a lower quantity than coffee. However, herbal teas have a lot of health benefits, and particularly many that are good when you have an ulcer. As such, I bought an herbal tea sampler.

The teas varied in quality, but one was head and shoulders above the others. Oh the cinnamon and apple goodness, chock full of chamomile and hibiscus…you are the most perfect tea an evening could ask for. Yes, you are the reason this box of tea exists.

I immediately head back to Red Apple to pick up a box of this tea. Much to my chagrin, it is not there. Come on Red Apple – all you are good for is items I need last minute, expired food, and this, and now you fail at one of the three. Disappointing.

A few days later I’m at Safeway buying bagels***. I wander aimlessly around the store looking for sales and deals, as I generally do when I’m in no hurry. I notice that Celestial Seasonings is on sale, 2/$5. What was that one I liked so much? I’ll know it when I see it. Something with chamomile…honey vanilla chamomile? That sounds right. I buy two boxes. After all, it’s on sale. I head home, excited to enjoy another cup of this tea. I impatiently heat the water and brew. It’s delicious, but disappointingly not the right one.

Days later I find myself once again at Safeway, having just discovered the Just4U deals on their app. Once again I find myself in the tea aisle with the sale still going on. I notice a box – Apple Cinnamon Spice. I check the ingredients, finding exactly what I expected to find. It’s on.

Back home, I tap my fingers on the counter as water heats. After what seems like an eternity, I sip the tea, allowing the warm and naturally sweet tea to glide lazily across my palate. Enraptured, I still realize it doesn’t taste quite like what I had before. Wait, I still have half of that sampler! I can look at the box and see exactly what it was. STASH TEA? It wasn’t even Celestial Seasonings? I bought the correct tea, but in a completely different brand! Everything makes sense. Different or not, it’s every bit as wonderful, being quite possibly the most perfect chamomile tea I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting.

At the beginning of the week I had one box of chamomile-based tea. I now have four. Honey vanilla chamomile was a delicious mistake to make, not to mention begin helpful to my insomnia. At this rate, they will call me Mr. Tea. And let me tell you, I pity the fool who doesn’t enjoy this hot and delicious infusion.


*I realize herbal teas are not actually tea at all. I rightly include rooibos and yerba mate in the herbal category. I've never gotten very into white tea.
**I had recorded a video about this. However, the video sucked so I didn't upload it. Even with editing, there was not enough quality material to make an entertaining video.
***Until recently bagels were generally all I bought at Safeway. However, their app has offered me some good deals recently, so I've been shopping there a bit more. It is probably the best balance of price and quality in a convenient location at this point in my life.

I like tea. This, as you may know, is a huge understatement. I drink it frequently, whether black, green, oolong, or herbal*. While most people know me as a coffee addict, I drink nearly twice as much tea as I do coffee.

Recently, in an unfortunate turn of events, I got a stomach ulcer**. This is my second ulcer, and it will probably not be my last, seeing as they are caused by a virus. Even a sip of coffee resulted in stabbing pain just beneath my ribs and slightly off center to the right – the exact location of my ulcer. Tea it is.

English breakfast tea is a life saver, or at least a headache preventer and zombie cure. It's a delicious source of caffeine, albeit in a lower quantity than coffee. However, herbal teas have a lot of health benefits, and particularly many that are good when you have an ulcer. As such, I bought an herbal tea sampler.

The teas varied in quality, but one was head and shoulders above the others. Oh the cinnamon and apple goodness, chock full of chamomile and hibiscus…you are the most perfect tea an evening could ask for. Yes, you are the reason this box of tea exists.

I immediately head back to Red Apple to pick up a box of this tea. Much to my chagrin, it is not there. Come on Red Apple – all you are good for is items I need last minute, expired food, and this, and now you fail at one of the three. Disappointing.

A few days later I’m at Safeway buying bagels***. I wander aimlessly around the store looking for sales and deals, as I generally do when I’m in no hurry. I notice that Celestial Seasonings is on sale, 2/$5. What was that one I liked so much? I’ll know it when I see it. Something with chamomile…honey vanilla chamomile? That sounds right. I buy two boxes. After all, it’s on sale. I head home, excited to enjoy another cup of this tea. I impatiently heat the water and brew. It’s delicious, but disappointingly not the right one.

Days later I find myself once again at Safeway, having just discovered the Just4U deals on their app. Once again I find myself in the tea aisle with the sale still going on. I notice a box – Apple Cinnamon Spice. I check the ingredients, finding exactly what I expected to find. It’s on.

Back home, I tap my fingers on the counter as water heats. After what seems like an eternity, I sip the tea, allowing the warm and naturally sweet tea to glide lazily across my palate. Enraptured, I still realize it doesn’t taste quite like what I had before. Wait, I still have half of that sampler! I can look at the box and see exactly what it was. STASH TEA? It wasn’t even Celestial Seasonings? I bought the correct tea, but in a completely different brand! Everything makes sense. Different or not, it’s every bit as wonderful, being quite possibly the most perfect chamomile tea I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting.

At the beginning of the week I had one box of chamomile-based tea. I now have four. Honey vanilla chamomile was a delicious mistake to make, not to mention begin helpful to my insomnia. At this rate, they will call me Mr. Tea. And let me tell you, I pity the fool who doesn’t enjoy this hot and delicious infusion.


*I realize herbal teas are not actually tea at all. I rightly include rooibos and yerba mate in the herbal category. I've never gotten very into white tea.
**I had recorded a video about this. However, the video sucked so I didn't upload it. Even with editing, there was not enough quality material to make an entertaining video.
***Until recently bagels were generally all I bought at Safeway. However, their app has offered me some good deals recently, so I've been shopping there a bit more. It is probably the best balance of price and quality in a convenient location at this point in my life.

They Call Me Mr. Tea

The Beginning of the Ender

[Earlier in the week I posted a video on YouTube in order to motivate myself to write. In it I stated that anyone could punch me in the arm should I not update my blog once and upload three videos to YouTube. This is said blog post. Want to watch the videos? (1) (2) (3)]

About two weeks ago I finished a book and couldn't decide what to read next. I had been meaning for a while to read Michael Crichton's final book, Micro, but it is still rather pricy as it is only available in hardcover. When it is released paperback or I find it used, I will buy it. I walk into the library, trying to decide what to read. There it sits, highlighted on the shelf: Micro. I check it out.

Getting home, I immediately begin reading it. Mystery and intrigue fill the first chapter. From there it steadily goes downhill. I have no attachment whatsoever to the characters. I know they are going to die, and I don't care. A storyline with a great deal of potential is boring. A far-out, non-scientific event is given a shallow, illogical scientific explanation. I give it about 150 pages before returning it to the library.

The time has come. I have put it off for too long. I will read Ender's Game.

Frankly, I have been afraid to read this book for a considerable amount of time. It is too culturally entrenched. I already hate Lord of the Rings. If I don't love Ender's Game, it's over. I find this to be the favorite book of a lot of nerdy girls, a group I certainly don't want to alienate. "I've never read it," is much better than, "I don't like it." But the time has come. It's being released as a movie next year, and I have to read it before I see the movie.

I shouldn't be afraid of this: this is Orson Scott Card. Don't get me wrong - he has written some crap. This being said, he has also written some amazing stuff. What with the general sense of agreement on which is which, I should not be concerned. Further, I've been told that some of his Seventh Day Adventist themes that seem to be crowbarred into some of his other books (i.e. the later books in the Legends of Alvin Maker series) are absent from this series. Okay, fine, I'll do it. Here we go.

After work on Tuesday I walk up the hill to Half Price Books. I head straight to the sci-fi section. I pick up Ender's Game. I consider buying the rest of the series (or at least the four they have on the shelf), but I'm trying not to spend very much money, so I only buy the first. I check the board games section, but decide not to pick anything up*. Discipline. I do need to remember that they have a deal going next month - buy $25 in gift cards, get a $5 card free.

I brought it home and immediately began reading. Card does not waste our time with background or description of characters. After all, those will be interspersed throughout the story and are not as such necessary at the beginning. The character interactions reveal everything we need to know. We can be thrown straight into the story with little difficulty. And he's got me. We all know what will happen, but how? Oh how?

As of yet, I don't know how. But I'm finding out, and thus far I'm loving it. I will soon go back and buy the rest. I look forward to seeing the movie. And, much like the episode of Seinfeld in which George pretends to be a socialist leader, "the future of the world depends on the outcome of this 'game.'"

*It was very hard not to buy Sid Meier's Civilization: The Boardgame.

[Earlier in the week I posted a video on YouTube in order to motivate myself to write. In it I stated that anyone could punch me in the arm should I not update my blog once and upload three videos to YouTube. This is said blog post. Want to watch the videos? (1) (2) (3)]

About two weeks ago I finished a book and couldn't decide what to read next. I had been meaning for a while to read Michael Crichton's final book, Micro, but it is still rather pricy as it is only available in hardcover. When it is released paperback or I find it used, I will buy it. I walk into the library, trying to decide what to read. There it sits, highlighted on the shelf: Micro. I check it out.

Getting home, I immediately begin reading it. Mystery and intrigue fill the first chapter. From there it steadily goes downhill. I have no attachment whatsoever to the characters. I know they are going to die, and I don't care. A storyline with a great deal of potential is boring. A far-out, non-scientific event is given a shallow, illogical scientific explanation. I give it about 150 pages before returning it to the library.

The time has come. I have put it off for too long. I will read Ender's Game.

Frankly, I have been afraid to read this book for a considerable amount of time. It is too culturally entrenched. I already hate Lord of the Rings. If I don't love Ender's Game, it's over. I find this to be the favorite book of a lot of nerdy girls, a group I certainly don't want to alienate. "I've never read it," is much better than, "I don't like it." But the time has come. It's being released as a movie next year, and I have to read it before I see the movie.

I shouldn't be afraid of this: this is Orson Scott Card. Don't get me wrong - he has written some crap. This being said, he has also written some amazing stuff. What with the general sense of agreement on which is which, I should not be concerned. Further, I've been told that some of his Seventh Day Adventist themes that seem to be crowbarred into some of his other books (i.e. the later books in the Legends of Alvin Maker series) are absent from this series. Okay, fine, I'll do it. Here we go.

After work on Tuesday I walk up the hill to Half Price Books. I head straight to the sci-fi section. I pick up Ender's Game. I consider buying the rest of the series (or at least the four they have on the shelf), but I'm trying not to spend very much money, so I only buy the first. I check the board games section, but decide not to pick anything up*. Discipline. I do need to remember that they have a deal going next month - buy $25 in gift cards, get a $5 card free.

I brought it home and immediately began reading. Card does not waste our time with background or description of characters. After all, those will be interspersed throughout the story and are not as such necessary at the beginning. The character interactions reveal everything we need to know. We can be thrown straight into the story with little difficulty. And he's got me. We all know what will happen, but how? Oh how?

As of yet, I don't know how. But I'm finding out, and thus far I'm loving it. I will soon go back and buy the rest. I look forward to seeing the movie. And, much like the episode of Seinfeld in which George pretends to be a socialist leader, "the future of the world depends on the outcome of this 'game.'"

*It was very hard not to buy Sid Meier's Civilization: The Boardgame.

The Beginning of the Ender

The Business of Busyness

Sorry I haven't updated in a while. Things have been crazy since I've gotten back from vacation. I've been writing, but nothing for here. I have been updating my list of concepts, so that's a good start.

Expect a post Thursday, then maybe another this weekend. A lot of stuff coming down the line, here and in general. But that's all you get for now: it's 4:38am, and I would still be asleep if I didn't need to work in less than an hour.

Sorry I haven't updated in a while. Things have been crazy since I've gotten back from vacation. I've been writing, but nothing for here. I have been updating my list of concepts, so that's a good start.

Expect a post Thursday, then maybe another this weekend. A lot of stuff coming down the line, here and in general. But that's all you get for now: it's 4:38am, and I would still be asleep if I didn't need to work in less than an hour.

The Business of Busyness

How Did I Get Here?

[This was written nearly 24 hrs ago. It includes a photo Blogger isn't currently allowing me to upload.]

This is at least the fourth post in which I've mentioned it: I'm on vacation. Right now I'm in the air, flying from Pittsburg to Manchester, via Baltimore-Washington. This, you might know, was not exactly the plan. Indeed, it was not my plan at all. 

Don't get me wrong: New Hampshire has been on the agenda for months. I bought a Greyhound ticket almost three weeks ago, narrowly missing the most discounted rate. My ticket was to leave last night and arrive this morning. This put me there in time for my friend's birthday party, the pretext for us finally getting to see each other after so many years. 

But wait - remember my previous post? Oh yes, Hurricane Sandy. While what's saw was minor, my bus went through Philadelphia, New York City, and Boston. None of these three are pleasant places to pass through right now. Greyhound? Not happening. 

Greyhound customer service is deplorable. I called customer service to find out if trains would be running. "I don't know. Call the stations." That was the most helpful thing I got. Since the stations were completely closed down with zero employees, phones rang and rang. I left a message for one station, the hung up after enough rings to determine a second to not have voicemail. 

I then called Delta Air. I need to change the city of origin on my return trip, since I won't be able to get to Manchester to fly out. To be fair, Delta had nothing to do with my being unable to get there. When I called, they told me that changing my ticket would result in a $200 penalty. Unfortunately my ticket was only $173.98*. So how much credit does this leave me for a new ticket? $26.02. Negative. Yes, they wanted me to pay the price of a new ticket PLUS $26.02. Had I not been able to get there, I'd have just not shown up. This belongs on Anderson Cooper's Ridiculist**. 

Amtrak was as awesome as Greyhound was horrible. They sold me a ticket, offering me a full refund should I not be able to use it. I have barely begun the process of getting my Greyhound refund. Harrisburg to Philthadelphia to Boston to Concord. Complete avoision of New York. This is Tuesday. I had decided the trip wasn't happening, but thanks to Amtrak it's back on. 

I make arrangements to get to the stations such***. All I need to do is pack my bags. Suddenly I get an email:

That schedule has been cancelled due to a-service-disruption. There is no alternate service available. To speak to a customer service representative about travel options such as selecting another date or destination call us at 8772319448 at your earliest convenience. 

This is not happening. It was off, then back on, now off again. We look at plane tickets, but everything is upwards of $500, and some of them may still be cancelled. My brother-in-law Tony (which is weird to say, because I've known the guy for years and he's been my BiL for less than a week) offers to give me a ride halfway. My friend Jared (the one I'm visiting) calls me to tell me that Southwest is offering flights from Pittsburg to Manchester for around $100. I call Tony and ask him for a ride. It's on. Ticket bought, ride secured. 

We get a later start than planned, but we still have plenty of time for the road trip to Pittsburg. Until the rain. And the wind. And the GPS gives us wrong directions. Let's just say I got to the airport about 45 minutes before my flight, when realistically we left plenty of time to have at least an hour and a half. 

Check in was simple. TSA was amazing. I actually stopped to commend TSA for providing the smoothest TSA experience I've ever had, even before the latest round of changes****. I was to the airport with sufficient time to get a soft pretzel in the terminal. 

I'm now in the air. It's happening. After all this thinking it wasn't happening, it's happening!

I had it planned. This is the responsible thing to do. But in the end, my plan means nothing. Ultimately God is in control. His plan is often not the same as my plan. But when I don't get too upset about my plan not happening, I'm always amazed at how much better his plan is than mine. 

*For those of you who have heard me cite my ticket price as $191.xx, I was wrong. I checked on it to get an exact number for this. Sorry for the confusion. 

**Dear Apple, in the future, please build your iOS devices already knowing the word Ridiculist. Also, while we are discussing the great men of CNN, if you could add a voice option that sounds like Wolff Blitzer, that would be awesome. Thank you in advance. 

***This just means I asked my mom for a ride, but it makes me sound like I'm still in high school if I say that. 

****To be fair, I'd never flown pre-September 11, 2001. 

[This was written nearly 24 hrs ago. It includes a photo Blogger isn't currently allowing me to upload.]

This is at least the fourth post in which I've mentioned it: I'm on vacation. Right now I'm in the air, flying from Pittsburg to Manchester, via Baltimore-Washington. This, you might know, was not exactly the plan. Indeed, it was not my plan at all. 

Don't get me wrong: New Hampshire has been on the agenda for months. I bought a Greyhound ticket almost three weeks ago, narrowly missing the most discounted rate. My ticket was to leave last night and arrive this morning. This put me there in time for my friend's birthday party, the pretext for us finally getting to see each other after so many years. 

But wait - remember my previous post? Oh yes, Hurricane Sandy. While what's saw was minor, my bus went through Philadelphia, New York City, and Boston. None of these three are pleasant places to pass through right now. Greyhound? Not happening. 

Greyhound customer service is deplorable. I called customer service to find out if trains would be running. "I don't know. Call the stations." That was the most helpful thing I got. Since the stations were completely closed down with zero employees, phones rang and rang. I left a message for one station, the hung up after enough rings to determine a second to not have voicemail. 

I then called Delta Air. I need to change the city of origin on my return trip, since I won't be able to get to Manchester to fly out. To be fair, Delta had nothing to do with my being unable to get there. When I called, they told me that changing my ticket would result in a $200 penalty. Unfortunately my ticket was only $173.98*. So how much credit does this leave me for a new ticket? $26.02. Negative. Yes, they wanted me to pay the price of a new ticket PLUS $26.02. Had I not been able to get there, I'd have just not shown up. This belongs on Anderson Cooper's Ridiculist**. 

Amtrak was as awesome as Greyhound was horrible. They sold me a ticket, offering me a full refund should I not be able to use it. I have barely begun the process of getting my Greyhound refund. Harrisburg to Philthadelphia to Boston to Concord. Complete avoision of New York. This is Tuesday. I had decided the trip wasn't happening, but thanks to Amtrak it's back on. 

I make arrangements to get to the stations such***. All I need to do is pack my bags. Suddenly I get an email:

That schedule has been cancelled due to a-service-disruption. There is no alternate service available. To speak to a customer service representative about travel options such as selecting another date or destination call us at 8772319448 at your earliest convenience. 

This is not happening. It was off, then back on, now off again. We look at plane tickets, but everything is upwards of $500, and some of them may still be cancelled. My brother-in-law Tony (which is weird to say, because I've known the guy for years and he's been my BiL for less than a week) offers to give me a ride halfway. My friend Jared (the one I'm visiting) calls me to tell me that Southwest is offering flights from Pittsburg to Manchester for around $100. I call Tony and ask him for a ride. It's on. Ticket bought, ride secured. 

We get a later start than planned, but we still have plenty of time for the road trip to Pittsburg. Until the rain. And the wind. And the GPS gives us wrong directions. Let's just say I got to the airport about 45 minutes before my flight, when realistically we left plenty of time to have at least an hour and a half. 

Check in was simple. TSA was amazing. I actually stopped to commend TSA for providing the smoothest TSA experience I've ever had, even before the latest round of changes****. I was to the airport with sufficient time to get a soft pretzel in the terminal. 

I'm now in the air. It's happening. After all this thinking it wasn't happening, it's happening!

I had it planned. This is the responsible thing to do. But in the end, my plan means nothing. Ultimately God is in control. His plan is often not the same as my plan. But when I don't get too upset about my plan not happening, I'm always amazed at how much better his plan is than mine. 

*For those of you who have heard me cite my ticket price as $191.xx, I was wrong. I checked on it to get an exact number for this. Sorry for the confusion. 

**Dear Apple, in the future, please build your iOS devices already knowing the word Ridiculist. Also, while we are discussing the great men of CNN, if you could add a voice option that sounds like Wolff Blitzer, that would be awesome. Thank you in advance. 

***This just means I asked my mom for a ride, but it makes me sound like I'm still in high school if I say that. 

****To be fair, I'd never flown pre-September 11, 2001. 

How Did I Get Here?

A Wedding Crasher Named Sandy, or Don't Believe the Frankenhype

As you know from my last past, I'm currently in Pennsylvania. Or perhaps I only mentioned that I was flying without mentioning my destination, in which case this could be the first time you knew where I was going. Either way, I'm in Pennsylvania until Thursday.

On Friday, shortly after my arrival, I began hearing about Frankenstorm: Hurricane Sandy joining forces with another large front, coming off water and over land in the mid-Atlantic.
On Saturday my sister got married. The wedding was great. I managed to not cry until my other sister gave a toast at the reception. That being said, I'm no wedding writer. Moving along.

Saturday evening after the wedding I headed back to my mom's house, obviously exhausted. Sunday we did a bit of preparation, acquiring supplies and such. Fortunately my mom keeps her house, and doubly so her kitchen, quite well stocked, so disaster preparation is a minimal task. This meant that we could spend time resting up from the wedding. Monday I spent some time on tasks like filling buckets and pots with water, just in case the power went out and we were unable to draw water. My mom and I found a few extra candles in a box of stuff, certain to be useful later.
And then the storm came.

Wind. Heavy rain. It was all there, but not yet to the extent we were expecting. However, for early in the storm, this was bad. If this is only a foreshadow, we are in trouble.

Prior to the storm, this
tree was full of leaves.

The ditch in front of the house was beginning to clog, so I used a hoe to dig a pile of leaves out of it, along with a few rocks and the occasional stick (the originating causes of the damming effect). Trees had been full of leaves only a few hours ago. Now the leaves are gone, though in some cases they are still attached to branches, which are themselves grounded.

After getting leaves unjammed several places, I noticed a bush in the ditch. It looked dead, but had formerly been growing in the side of the ditch where roots kept hold. It was blocking leaves and creating a dam, with water backed up about 8 inches deep behind it. I went back to the house to confirm with my mom that the bush was dead, then headed back to the bush with the two-handed pruning shears.

I jump into the ditch, quite glad to be wearing boots to keep my feet dry. I cut away at the bush, throwing the scraps into the yard. I fall, using the remainder of the bush to catch myself and not end up face down in a puddle of filthy water. With each passing car I jump out of the ditch, just in case*. It falls under this new thing I was trying: safety first. I finally get the dead bush out, followed by most of the leaves. Those I don't remove are still dislodged by their lack of support and float away.

As I am getting out of the ditch, a far more complicated task than normal given this weather, a gust of wind nearly knocks me over. A leaf hits my face, instantly leaving it numb. When I arrive inside, I ask my mom the question she always hates to hear: "Am I bleeding?" Fortunately, this time the answer is no.

Hours later the power outage begins. I spend my time mostly reading Freakenomics by candlelight and eating salt water taffy left over from the wedding reception. Quite pleasingly, the power comes on after about two hours, not the several days we'd been told to anticipate.

The heaviest part of the storm was over by about 10 PM, only hours after the meteorologists had anticipated the peak period to begin. Today I once again cleaned leaves and rocks out of the ditch, as well as picking up broken limbs and the pieces of the aforementioned bush. Flooding throughout the area was minimal, and most people here have regained power. I've slept through bigger storms than this. I understand the storm was much worse other places, but here in central Pennsylvania, Frankenstorm was a whole lot of Frankenhype.

*There was a car accident across the street Sunday evening. No one was injured as far as I know, which was no small miracle as it was a car overturned, then hit by a truck. At least twice we've had cars in our ditch. There have been others. This area has a much higher-than-average rate of car accidents. Conditions were also bad. I was not being irrational.

As you know from my last past, I'm currently in Pennsylvania. Or perhaps I only mentioned that I was flying without mentioning my destination, in which case this could be the first time you knew where I was going. Either way, I'm in Pennsylvania until Thursday.

On Friday, shortly after my arrival, I began hearing about Frankenstorm: Hurricane Sandy joining forces with another large front, coming off water and over land in the mid-Atlantic.
On Saturday my sister got married. The wedding was great. I managed to not cry until my other sister gave a toast at the reception. That being said, I'm no wedding writer. Moving along.

Saturday evening after the wedding I headed back to my mom's house, obviously exhausted. Sunday we did a bit of preparation, acquiring supplies and such. Fortunately my mom keeps her house, and doubly so her kitchen, quite well stocked, so disaster preparation is a minimal task. This meant that we could spend time resting up from the wedding. Monday I spent some time on tasks like filling buckets and pots with water, just in case the power went out and we were unable to draw water. My mom and I found a few extra candles in a box of stuff, certain to be useful later.
And then the storm came.

Wind. Heavy rain. It was all there, but not yet to the extent we were expecting. However, for early in the storm, this was bad. If this is only a foreshadow, we are in trouble.

Prior to the storm, this
tree was full of leaves.

The ditch in front of the house was beginning to clog, so I used a hoe to dig a pile of leaves out of it, along with a few rocks and the occasional stick (the originating causes of the damming effect). Trees had been full of leaves only a few hours ago. Now the leaves are gone, though in some cases they are still attached to branches, which are themselves grounded.

After getting leaves unjammed several places, I noticed a bush in the ditch. It looked dead, but had formerly been growing in the side of the ditch where roots kept hold. It was blocking leaves and creating a dam, with water backed up about 8 inches deep behind it. I went back to the house to confirm with my mom that the bush was dead, then headed back to the bush with the two-handed pruning shears.

I jump into the ditch, quite glad to be wearing boots to keep my feet dry. I cut away at the bush, throwing the scraps into the yard. I fall, using the remainder of the bush to catch myself and not end up face down in a puddle of filthy water. With each passing car I jump out of the ditch, just in case*. It falls under this new thing I was trying: safety first. I finally get the dead bush out, followed by most of the leaves. Those I don't remove are still dislodged by their lack of support and float away.

As I am getting out of the ditch, a far more complicated task than normal given this weather, a gust of wind nearly knocks me over. A leaf hits my face, instantly leaving it numb. When I arrive inside, I ask my mom the question she always hates to hear: "Am I bleeding?" Fortunately, this time the answer is no.

Hours later the power outage begins. I spend my time mostly reading Freakenomics by candlelight and eating salt water taffy left over from the wedding reception. Quite pleasingly, the power comes on after about two hours, not the several days we'd been told to anticipate.

The heaviest part of the storm was over by about 10 PM, only hours after the meteorologists had anticipated the peak period to begin. Today I once again cleaned leaves and rocks out of the ditch, as well as picking up broken limbs and the pieces of the aforementioned bush. Flooding throughout the area was minimal, and most people here have regained power. I've slept through bigger storms than this. I understand the storm was much worse other places, but here in central Pennsylvania, Frankenstorm was a whole lot of Frankenhype.

*There was a car accident across the street Sunday evening. No one was injured as far as I know, which was no small miracle as it was a car overturned, then hit by a truck. At least twice we've had cars in our ditch. There have been others. This area has a much higher-than-average rate of car accidents. Conditions were also bad. I was not being irrational.

A Wedding Crasher Named Sandy, or Don't Believe the Frankenhype

What's Done in the Dark Will Come to the Flight

It's 2am PDT. I don't know about local time, as I have no idea where I am.

Sometime between the last time I flew and now I developed a fear of flying. Really, it's likely just the fact that I've slept at most 30 mins since 4:10am yesterday. And I slept only a matter of about 4 hours last night.

Coca Cola is helping to calm my nerves. So is writing. And really, it's all Jesus' doing. He's just using two of my favorite tools.

I think I land in Minneapolis in two hours, but I'm not sure thanks to time zones. Local time will be 6:05am I think. I have a one hour layover, during which I plan to post this. Part of me wishes I had longer: I think this is the airport at which I had both of my layovers last time, in which case they have a pretty cool bookstore in the airport. Not that I need to buy even more books right now.

On my way back my layover is in Atlanta. Never been to the city or airport before, so this will cross one of those off the list, even if it is brief. Maybe someday I will return for the city itself.

I don't fly very much at all. I don't drink Coke all that much. Frankly, I'm probably scared of the wrong one of those two. But I think maybe, just maybe, I can get some sleep now. Goodnight.

[update: slept roughly 1.5 hrs. That's also the 24 hr total. 48 hr total will in a few minutes be about 5.5. Also just recorded a video about Burger King. Didn't their breakfast used to be bigger?]

It's 2am PDT. I don't know about local time, as I have no idea where I am.

Sometime between the last time I flew and now I developed a fear of flying. Really, it's likely just the fact that I've slept at most 30 mins since 4:10am yesterday. And I slept only a matter of about 4 hours last night.

Coca Cola is helping to calm my nerves. So is writing. And really, it's all Jesus' doing. He's just using two of my favorite tools.

I think I land in Minneapolis in two hours, but I'm not sure thanks to time zones. Local time will be 6:05am I think. I have a one hour layover, during which I plan to post this. Part of me wishes I had longer: I think this is the airport at which I had both of my layovers last time, in which case they have a pretty cool bookstore in the airport. Not that I need to buy even more books right now.

On my way back my layover is in Atlanta. Never been to the city or airport before, so this will cross one of those off the list, even if it is brief. Maybe someday I will return for the city itself.

I don't fly very much at all. I don't drink Coke all that much. Frankly, I'm probably scared of the wrong one of those two. But I think maybe, just maybe, I can get some sleep now. Goodnight.

[update: slept roughly 1.5 hrs. That's also the 24 hr total. 48 hr total will in a few minutes be about 5.5. Also just recorded a video about Burger King. Didn't their breakfast used to be bigger?]

What's Done in the Dark Will Come to the Flight

How To Pack for a Trip

I'm packing right now for my upcoming trip. Tomorrow (technically Friday morning, as it's 12:55am, but we will say tomorrow) I leave for vacation. My sister gets married on Saturday, followed by my visiting my mom for a few days before heading to New Hampshire for a friend's birthday. So today is a day full of packing.

That is to say, today is supposed to be a day full of packing. I've been off work for more than four hours, and my duffle bag is still empty. I'm really just procrastinating. I figure, what better way to procrastinate than to blog? I couldn't think of an answer either. So here I am, blogging at the library. That's right, I'm such a good procrastinator that I'm not even at home.

Here is a picture of me walking to the library:

So I'm thinking, because that's what I do...why do I procrastinate? Honestly, I don't know. I guess this will give me another thing to think about on my trip. I have a pretty good list of those. Here are some of the things on that list, most (if not all) of which will continue to need thought after the trip.

-servant leadership - leading from the back (negative) vs serving from the front (positive)
-the future - what do I want to do with my life? Goals, priorities, etc
-sabbath/rest - what is the purpose/benefit of this?
-cookies - how can I make better ones?
-gardening - what is th best use of my limited space? This is particularly relevant as I move toward doing more canning and other preservation
-future of blog, etc - it looks like the near future will include some shakeups, including but not limited to more video content, a new location (seriously Google, where are all thes improvements you keep promising?), and possibly even a domain (TheJRMY.com)
-a wife - seriously. I'm not getting any younger here.
-dinosaurs - there isn't anything I need to figure out about dinosaurs. They're just awesome, so I think about them a lot. I'm not kidding.

Yeah, that's a lengthy list. I realize that. But even getting it out of my head and onto paper (albeit not real paper) helps. I always am thinking about a lot of things. It's vital.

Ok time to end this post. I leave you with a YouTube video not of my creation. Speaking of finding a wife...

I'm packing right now for my upcoming trip. Tomorrow (technically Friday morning, as it's 12:55am, but we will say tomorrow) I leave for vacation. My sister gets married on Saturday, followed by my visiting my mom for a few days before heading to New Hampshire for a friend's birthday. So today is a day full of packing.

That is to say, today is supposed to be a day full of packing. I've been off work for more than four hours, and my duffle bag is still empty. I'm really just procrastinating. I figure, what better way to procrastinate than to blog? I couldn't think of an answer either. So here I am, blogging at the library. That's right, I'm such a good procrastinator that I'm not even at home.

Here is a picture of me walking to the library:

So I'm thinking, because that's what I do...why do I procrastinate? Honestly, I don't know. I guess this will give me another thing to think about on my trip. I have a pretty good list of those. Here are some of the things on that list, most (if not all) of which will continue to need thought after the trip.

-servant leadership - leading from the back (negative) vs serving from the front (positive)
-the future - what do I want to do with my life? Goals, priorities, etc
-sabbath/rest - what is the purpose/benefit of this?
-cookies - how can I make better ones?
-gardening - what is th best use of my limited space? This is particularly relevant as I move toward doing more canning and other preservation
-future of blog, etc - it looks like the near future will include some shakeups, including but not limited to more video content, a new location (seriously Google, where are all thes improvements you keep promising?), and possibly even a domain (TheJRMY.com)
-a wife - seriously. I'm not getting any younger here.
-dinosaurs - there isn't anything I need to figure out about dinosaurs. They're just awesome, so I think about them a lot. I'm not kidding.

Yeah, that's a lengthy list. I realize that. But even getting it out of my head and onto paper (albeit not real paper) helps. I always am thinking about a lot of things. It's vital.

Ok time to end this post. I leave you with a YouTube video not of my creation. Speaking of finding a wife...

How To Pack for a Trip

Two Weaks

I know it's been two weeks since my last post. My last post was my most viewed post ever. And it was a pretty heavy post. My next post is another that is very special to me, though not so sad. Anyway, since it's an important post, I really want to do it right.

It's been a busy two weeks, especially as I prepare to go on vacation. One week from today my sister is getting married. Crazy. And really, on the East coast (where she is) it's already Sunday, so one week from yesterday. Point: I haven't had time to write this post properly.

I'll say it again: this upcoming post is very important to me. I don't want to just throw it together. And I could throw together something else to take up space and make my posts more frequent, but I don't feel like that's fair to you. It's a waste of your time if I throw it together just to make my posts look frequent. I have more respect for you than that.

I promise it's coming. For now, this is all you get. I'm sorry, and thank you for your patience.

I know it's been two weeks since my last post. My last post was my most viewed post ever. And it was a pretty heavy post. My next post is another that is very special to me, though not so sad. Anyway, since it's an important post, I really want to do it right.

It's been a busy two weeks, especially as I prepare to go on vacation. One week from today my sister is getting married. Crazy. And really, on the East coast (where she is) it's already Sunday, so one week from yesterday. Point: I haven't had time to write this post properly.

I'll say it again: this upcoming post is very important to me. I don't want to just throw it together. And I could throw together something else to take up space and make my posts more frequent, but I don't feel like that's fair to you. It's a waste of your time if I throw it together just to make my posts look frequent. I have more respect for you than that.

I promise it's coming. For now, this is all you get. I'm sorry, and thank you for your patience.

Two Weaks

What a Difference a Year Makes, or Fuck Cancer

[For the most part, I keep my blog very clean. Some things simply cannot be expressed in this way.]

On Friday it was one year since the day Steve Jobs died. None of us will ever forget his long struggle with pancreatic cancer. It sucked. This being said, I don't know Steve Jobs. If he had lived one hundred years or more, I probably would have still never met him. I have a lot of respect for him as an innovator and a leader in an industry. Give it a few years. Someone else will come along and revolutionize the way we compute. People will begin calling him or her "the new Steve Jobs" or "Steve Jobs of the East" or something like that. 

Jeff's shirt says it all.
Photo cred to Sarah Murphy

About two weeks ago one of my regular customers came in, obviously shaken up: that morning the doctors told him he had pancreatic cancer. Worse, they gave him six months to a year to live. He never did anything to get famous. When he dies, not that many people will know. But I will know.

Who will sit there at my bar and drink a decaf nonfat light whip latte? Who will look out for Jimmy? Who will offer me free guitar lessons repeatedly despite my not taking them?

Every time that I hear about cancer, there is a pain in my soul. As C.S. Lewis says it in Perelandra, "Even Maleldil weeps at the thought of death."* This is not how God intended it.

This evening while talking to my roommate, he reminded me that someday this is where we are all headed. To quote Fight Club, "With a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero." I hope I don't go this way. I hope it is quick and painless. Whatever the case, it will happen. Then he asked me the question: when it happens, how many people will truly be upset? Am I impacting and influencing people or just getting by? Think about it. It's worth the time.

*That is quoted from memory. It is as I remember. I cannot look it up as I loaned my copy to a friend, and a quick search of the internet did not turn up that particular quote. 

[For the most part, I keep my blog very clean. Some things simply cannot be expressed in this way.]

On Friday it was one year since the day Steve Jobs died. None of us will ever forget his long struggle with pancreatic cancer. It sucked. This being said, I don't know Steve Jobs. If he had lived one hundred years or more, I probably would have still never met him. I have a lot of respect for him as an innovator and a leader in an industry. Give it a few years. Someone else will come along and revolutionize the way we compute. People will begin calling him or her "the new Steve Jobs" or "Steve Jobs of the East" or something like that. 

Jeff's shirt says it all.
Photo cred to Sarah Murphy

About two weeks ago one of my regular customers came in, obviously shaken up: that morning the doctors told him he had pancreatic cancer. Worse, they gave him six months to a year to live. He never did anything to get famous. When he dies, not that many people will know. But I will know.

Who will sit there at my bar and drink a decaf nonfat light whip latte? Who will look out for Jimmy? Who will offer me free guitar lessons repeatedly despite my not taking them?

Every time that I hear about cancer, there is a pain in my soul. As C.S. Lewis says it in Perelandra, "Even Maleldil weeps at the thought of death."* This is not how God intended it.

This evening while talking to my roommate, he reminded me that someday this is where we are all headed. To quote Fight Club, "With a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero." I hope I don't go this way. I hope it is quick and painless. Whatever the case, it will happen. Then he asked me the question: when it happens, how many people will truly be upset? Am I impacting and influencing people or just getting by? Think about it. It's worth the time.

*That is quoted from memory. It is as I remember. I cannot look it up as I loaned my copy to a friend, and a quick search of the internet did not turn up that particular quote. 

What a Difference a Year Makes, or Fuck Cancer

Crazy How-the-Teeth Face - That Guy!

(the title is a typo I made in a note to myself about this guy)

Getting on the light rail to head downtown, I immediately realize there is a Mariners game. Not only is the train packed, but if I time the trip wrong I will have to deal with it again on the way home, this time with them all drunk. Jerseys stand shoulder to shoulder, except one man who sticks out like a sore thumb. My friend, that guy, is certainly not heading to the game.

He actually had crazier eyes, less of a smile, and wasn't on his side.

He sits there in the side facing seat, roughly sixty-five- to senenty-years old. His green, high-water corduroy pants lie in stark contrast to his purple UW sweatshirt. His face is reminiscent of an older, bearded Mr. Timn. In his lap is a cat carrier. The handle is still very much intact, but he is carrying this by a measure of rope, which is wrapped around his wrist.

I suddenly catch a whiff of a horrific fart. I'm blaming the cat, who is freaking out in its carrier. Eventually the smell fades. We go back to the smell of shoulder-to-shoulder dudes, which is somehow a relief versus the aroma of rotten flatulence.The cat's panic continues.

Our friend begins turning the carrier every way, trying to calm the cat. It's looking every direction as its miniature world turns, falling against the sides and back as the down-orientation repeatedly changes. He then presses the carrier against the window. This brings some much-craved stability to the cat's life, allowing it to calm down a bit.

The man coughs. I once again smell the fart smell. Yes, the same fart smell. Could it be his breath? Is that even possible? As I think this, he kisses the cat carrier. Mumbling unintelligibly to his feline friend, he coughs a few more times confirming that it is indeed his breath.

Life is full of interesting characters. Whether it's someone on the bus, someone at the grocery store, or someone writing this blog, pause for a moment to take it all in. If you think life is boring, you aren't paying attention.

(the title is a typo I made in a note to myself about this guy)

Getting on the light rail to head downtown, I immediately realize there is a Mariners game. Not only is the train packed, but if I time the trip wrong I will have to deal with it again on the way home, this time with them all drunk. Jerseys stand shoulder to shoulder, except one man who sticks out like a sore thumb. My friend, that guy, is certainly not heading to the game.

He actually had crazier eyes, less of a smile, and wasn't on his side.

He sits there in the side facing seat, roughly sixty-five- to senenty-years old. His green, high-water corduroy pants lie in stark contrast to his purple UW sweatshirt. His face is reminiscent of an older, bearded Mr. Timn. In his lap is a cat carrier. The handle is still very much intact, but he is carrying this by a measure of rope, which is wrapped around his wrist.

I suddenly catch a whiff of a horrific fart. I'm blaming the cat, who is freaking out in its carrier. Eventually the smell fades. We go back to the smell of shoulder-to-shoulder dudes, which is somehow a relief versus the aroma of rotten flatulence.The cat's panic continues.

Our friend begins turning the carrier every way, trying to calm the cat. It's looking every direction as its miniature world turns, falling against the sides and back as the down-orientation repeatedly changes. He then presses the carrier against the window. This brings some much-craved stability to the cat's life, allowing it to calm down a bit.

The man coughs. I once again smell the fart smell. Yes, the same fart smell. Could it be his breath? Is that even possible? As I think this, he kisses the cat carrier. Mumbling unintelligibly to his feline friend, he coughs a few more times confirming that it is indeed his breath.

Life is full of interesting characters. Whether it's someone on the bus, someone at the grocery store, or someone writing this blog, pause for a moment to take it all in. If you think life is boring, you aren't paying attention.

Crazy How-the-Teeth Face - That Guy!

Love in the Fall

Today is the first day of fall, or autumn if you will. Whatever you call it, it begins today. As such, here is a poem about it that I wrote in college. Either Fall semester 2003 or Spring semester 2004. Also included, videos of me reading the poem and discussing it. Enjoy!

"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 the piles of fallen leaves.
The breeze reminds me of you, so sweet and soft.
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 on like seasons with moments 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 dried 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 that you're soft and beautiful,
but if I concentrate too much on that, I'll just fall.

Video or the about video.

Today is the first day of fall, or autumn if you will. Whatever you call it, it begins today. As such, here is a poem about it that I wrote in college. Either Fall semester 2003 or Spring semester 2004. Also included, videos of me reading the poem and discussing it. Enjoy!

"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 the piles of fallen leaves.
The breeze reminds me of you, so sweet and soft.
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 on like seasons with moments 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 dried 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 that you're soft and beautiful,
but if I concentrate too much on that, I'll just fall.

Video or the about video.

Love in the Fall

I Hate Vicodin

Vicoden makes me shake and feel like crying. Everything is overwhelming. I'm going to try to sleep without it tonight. I'm going to try to never have to take it again.

Vicodin in itself is overwhelming. With the financial stress that this month has been with my surgery and buying some plane tickets and several other things, I don't need that. I'm glad Jesus is there. More than I can say.

I got a receipt today from the oral surgeon. $129. I have no idea what it's for. I didn't authorize it.

Vicoden makes me shake and feel like crying. Everything is overwhelming. I'm going to try to sleep without it tonight. I'm going to try to never have to take it again.

Vicodin in itself is overwhelming. With the financial stress that this month has been with my surgery and buying some plane tickets and several other things, I don't need that. I'm glad Jesus is there. More than I can say.

I got a receipt today from the oral surgeon. $129. I have no idea what it's for. I didn't authorize it.

I Hate Vicodin

Ibuprophen vs Vicodin

I didn't want to be on Vicodin when I was with the little kids at church. I bought ibuprofen. It worked great, for a while. But I knew when it was time to take Vicodin again. I hate the way it makes me feel. I sat there in the transit tunnel, shaking.

When I walk around or am just in general active, Vicodin makes me less nervous and shaky. But I'm supposed to be less active to encourage faster healing. Catch 22.

I didn't want to be on Vicodin when I was with the little kids at church. I bought ibuprofen. It worked great, for a while. But I knew when it was time to take Vicodin again. I hate the way it makes me feel. I sat there in the transit tunnel, shaking.

When I walk around or am just in general active, Vicodin makes me less nervous and shaky. But I'm supposed to be less active to encourage faster healing. Catch 22.

Ibuprophen vs Vicodin

Icepack

Icepack

Overdoing It

That seems to be the theme of this whole wisdom teeth thing for me. You've seen my videos*. I look fine. But I'm pushing myself too hard, and every night it causes pain and makes sleeping difficult. I need to learn to rest. I need to be a human being, not a human doing. This is true not only as it relates to the healing process, but also with regard to real life.

*If you haven't seen the videos, like me on Facebook and/or check out the previous post.

That seems to be the theme of this whole wisdom teeth thing for me. You've seen my videos*. I look fine. But I'm pushing myself too hard, and every night it causes pain and makes sleeping difficult. I need to learn to rest. I need to be a human being, not a human doing. This is true not only as it relates to the healing process, but also with regard to real life.

*If you haven't seen the videos, like me on Facebook and/or check out the previous post.

Overdoing It

See It Here First!

If you are my fan on Facebook you've seen my first two Oratory after Oral Surgery videos. However, the third and fourth installments aren't yet posted there. While you could find them on Youtube, I'm going to post them here before anywhere else. Enjoy.

Oratory after Oral Surgery, Part III: Dr. Seuss's There's a Wocket in My Pocket


Oratory after Oral Surgery, Part IV: The Princess Bride - Vizinni's Choice

If you are my fan on Facebook you've seen my first two Oratory after Oral Surgery videos. However, the third and fourth installments aren't yet posted there. While you could find them on Youtube, I'm going to post them here before anywhere else. Enjoy.

Oratory after Oral Surgery, Part III: Dr. Seuss's There's a Wocket in My Pocket


Oratory after Oral Surgery, Part IV: The Princess Bride - Vizinni's Choice

See It Here First!

Oh, a Wise Guy, Eh?

About two years ago I had one of my wisdom teeth taken out. You see, I had to have another tooth out due to infection, and the dentist offered to have the full set of teeth out together. However, this is a large procedure, and I only had enough annual insurance benefit remaining to cover one. As such, I had one. This morning at 11AM I finished the process.

At 10AM (actually, closer to 9:45, but 10 was the target time) I took my pre-surgery medication: a tranquilizer* and a second pill so that I did not get sick from taking the tranquilizer on an empty stomach. This hit me a lot harder than I was expecting. The walk to the oral surgeon's office was tough. When someone gets shot with a tranquilizer dart in a movie or TV show, it is spot on.

At the office I met up with my friend Veronika and her son Leo, whose first birthday is today. Happy birthday Leo. You are not allowed to bus home from the oral surgeon because of possible complications of the surgery and anesthesia, so she was giving me a ride.Shortly after Veronika arrived the dentist called me into the back. They strapped me into the chair (literally), gave me oxygen, and stuck a needle into my arm.

The title is a reference after all...

"Do you want me to pump my fist a few times?" I asked.

In a manner indicative of my having just asked a stupid question, the surgeon said, "No. I'm putting something in. You aren't giving blood." This is my main experience with having a needle in my arm for longer than a vaccination, so I didn't know any better. Now I do.

I know it's sideways with an eraser mark
and a terrible pun. Do you?

The next thing I remember is waking up. They were frustrated with how long I had been out. When I looked at my watch, I realized it had been about two hours. It was supposed to take one. They had over-sedated me. I guess that's what happens when you weigh 130 lbs and aren't allowed to eat or drink for several hours. I had to keep constant eye contact, or else be told not to fall asleep.

They told Veronika that I could not be left alone due to the over-sedation. None of my housemates were home, so I went back to her house with her and tried to read today's Seattle Times. I know I was reading an article about President Obama's speech last night, but it took me about 5 minutes to read two paragraphs. I also at this point called the oral surgeon's office because they had prescribed me Percocet.  Had they looked at my chart, they would have known I am allergic to Percocet. They called in a prescription for Vicodin.

I texted both of my roommates to find out when they would be home. Shortly thereafter Ben got home and Veronika gave me a ride home. Ben picked up my prescription and I recorded a quick video, to be uploaded soon. Vicodin works miracles, and you can absolutely tell when it is wearing off.

I'm sorry this is somewhat long and probably rambly. Honestly, I'm drugged up. You might think it's boring. I just hope it isn't painful. If it is, no, you cannot have one of my Vicodin.

*No, not a muscle relaxer. Not even a sedative. They called it a tranquilizer.

About two years ago I had one of my wisdom teeth taken out. You see, I had to have another tooth out due to infection, and the dentist offered to have the full set of teeth out together. However, this is a large procedure, and I only had enough annual insurance benefit remaining to cover one. As such, I had one. This morning at 11AM I finished the process.

At 10AM (actually, closer to 9:45, but 10 was the target time) I took my pre-surgery medication: a tranquilizer* and a second pill so that I did not get sick from taking the tranquilizer on an empty stomach. This hit me a lot harder than I was expecting. The walk to the oral surgeon's office was tough. When someone gets shot with a tranquilizer dart in a movie or TV show, it is spot on.

At the office I met up with my friend Veronika and her son Leo, whose first birthday is today. Happy birthday Leo. You are not allowed to bus home from the oral surgeon because of possible complications of the surgery and anesthesia, so she was giving me a ride.Shortly after Veronika arrived the dentist called me into the back. They strapped me into the chair (literally), gave me oxygen, and stuck a needle into my arm.

The title is a reference after all...

"Do you want me to pump my fist a few times?" I asked.

In a manner indicative of my having just asked a stupid question, the surgeon said, "No. I'm putting something in. You aren't giving blood." This is my main experience with having a needle in my arm for longer than a vaccination, so I didn't know any better. Now I do.

I know it's sideways with an eraser mark
and a terrible pun. Do you?

The next thing I remember is waking up. They were frustrated with how long I had been out. When I looked at my watch, I realized it had been about two hours. It was supposed to take one. They had over-sedated me. I guess that's what happens when you weigh 130 lbs and aren't allowed to eat or drink for several hours. I had to keep constant eye contact, or else be told not to fall asleep.

They told Veronika that I could not be left alone due to the over-sedation. None of my housemates were home, so I went back to her house with her and tried to read today's Seattle Times. I know I was reading an article about President Obama's speech last night, but it took me about 5 minutes to read two paragraphs. I also at this point called the oral surgeon's office because they had prescribed me Percocet.  Had they looked at my chart, they would have known I am allergic to Percocet. They called in a prescription for Vicodin.

I texted both of my roommates to find out when they would be home. Shortly thereafter Ben got home and Veronika gave me a ride home. Ben picked up my prescription and I recorded a quick video, to be uploaded soon. Vicodin works miracles, and you can absolutely tell when it is wearing off.

I'm sorry this is somewhat long and probably rambly. Honestly, I'm drugged up. You might think it's boring. I just hope it isn't painful. If it is, no, you cannot have one of my Vicodin.

*No, not a muscle relaxer. Not even a sedative. They called it a tranquilizer.

Oh, a Wise Guy, Eh?

William Strunk, Jr.

I love William Strunk, Jr. I firmly believe that every writer should have a copy (or perhaps several copies) of his book The Elements of Style. If I have a question about comma use, italics, or the like, it's my go-to resource. Granted, it is a condensed work. I often do have to turn to the internet, finding myself on MLA related sites, Grammarly, or the like. Strunk, however,  squarely occupies my first spot.



I know I used to own at least two copies, possibly three, though I now only have one in my possession. It is the original edition, meaning it is without co-author E.B. White. I have no problem with the later editions, but I do feel the first edition handles it quite well.

This being said, I disagree with Strunk on two grammatical issues. Both deal with comma usage. Both are debatable. The first is simple. Strunk introduces parenthesis with a comma. I am completely against this. Grammarly takes my side.

The second issue is more difficult, but also more troubling to me personally: the Oxford comma. The Oxford comma is a non-negotiable in my book. Always use commas between each item in a list of three or more items, specifically between the last two.

I watched a movie with my neighbors, Tim, and Joe. Correct. 
I watched a movie with my neighbors, Tim and Joe. Incorrect.

 Why am I so picky about this? Because the latter, beyond just not looking right and not following the way one would speak said sentence, also allows for confusion regarding apposition. If I see the last sentence, I'm going to assume that Tim and Joe are your neighbors, but the sentence is technically correct if they're not. The Oxford comma simply prevents confusion. And women prefer men who use the Oxford comma*.

I realize that language exists to convey ideas. As such, language has served its purpose any time we are understood. This being said, proper grammar helps you convey concepts more clearly. You can certainly live with terrible grammar, but I don't know why you'd want to.


No one should be surprised to know that I love Weird Al.

*I made this up. I've certainly not found this to be true at all.

I love William Strunk, Jr. I firmly believe that every writer should have a copy (or perhaps several copies) of his book The Elements of Style. If I have a question about comma use, italics, or the like, it's my go-to resource. Granted, it is a condensed work. I often do have to turn to the internet, finding myself on MLA related sites, Grammarly, or the like. Strunk, however,  squarely occupies my first spot.



I know I used to own at least two copies, possibly three, though I now only have one in my possession. It is the original edition, meaning it is without co-author E.B. White. I have no problem with the later editions, but I do feel the first edition handles it quite well.

This being said, I disagree with Strunk on two grammatical issues. Both deal with comma usage. Both are debatable. The first is simple. Strunk introduces parenthesis with a comma. I am completely against this. Grammarly takes my side.

The second issue is more difficult, but also more troubling to me personally: the Oxford comma. The Oxford comma is a non-negotiable in my book. Always use commas between each item in a list of three or more items, specifically between the last two.

I watched a movie with my neighbors, Tim, and Joe. Correct. 
I watched a movie with my neighbors, Tim and Joe. Incorrect.

 Why am I so picky about this? Because the latter, beyond just not looking right and not following the way one would speak said sentence, also allows for confusion regarding apposition. If I see the last sentence, I'm going to assume that Tim and Joe are your neighbors, but the sentence is technically correct if they're not. The Oxford comma simply prevents confusion. And women prefer men who use the Oxford comma*.

I realize that language exists to convey ideas. As such, language has served its purpose any time we are understood. This being said, proper grammar helps you convey concepts more clearly. You can certainly live with terrible grammar, but I don't know why you'd want to.


No one should be surprised to know that I love Weird Al.

*I made this up. I've certainly not found this to be true at all.

William Strunk, Jr.

Tolkein vs Rand

There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year old's life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves orcs.-Rogers (http://kfmonkey.blogspot.com/2009/03/ephemera-2009-7.html)

There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year old's life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves orcs.-Rogers (http://kfmonkey.blogspot.com/2009/03/ephemera-2009-7.html)

Tolkein vs Rand

Look Back and Laugh

As you may or may not have seen, yesterday I posted that I was going to post something that I wrote years ago. I posted it on Facebook back then. Unfortunately, it's not there, as best I could see. Perhaps I didn't go back far enough, but I went pretty far. I used to post on Facebook almost every day. Those days are passed, as is the note.

Someday I will look back at this picture and laugh.
That's right - it's relevant.

The nice thing about that note is that it allowed me to remember some really great conversations and things that I posted notes about. It's fun sometimes just to look back. Here is one of the conversations that I just read.

This is a conversation I had with a customer. It was about a girl playing on the rope which formed the line at the store I used to work at. Unfortunately, it's all true, except I'm not sure how old I was.

Her: I'm just waiting for this to go poorly. When I was in first grade, I lost my 2 front teeth in an accident with a concrete floor.
Me: When I was in first grade, I lost my 2 front teeth in an accident with the dentist. 

Things like this make me laugh. While there are certainly things that should be lost to the digital void*, it's nice to recall a few things. And we are now living the moments we will look back in a few years. We can and will look back and laugh, whether at yourselves or something else. Take a moment to do it now. And remember, this isn't so bad. In a few years you'll look back on it. And what will you do? You'll laugh.

*I should mention that I stole the phrase "digital void" and this general metaphor from my friend Jess and a comment she made on my Facebook. This is what we call learning from Fareed Zakaria's mistake.

As you may or may not have seen, yesterday I posted that I was going to post something that I wrote years ago. I posted it on Facebook back then. Unfortunately, it's not there, as best I could see. Perhaps I didn't go back far enough, but I went pretty far. I used to post on Facebook almost every day. Those days are passed, as is the note.

Someday I will look back at this picture and laugh.
That's right - it's relevant.

The nice thing about that note is that it allowed me to remember some really great conversations and things that I posted notes about. It's fun sometimes just to look back. Here is one of the conversations that I just read.

This is a conversation I had with a customer. It was about a girl playing on the rope which formed the line at the store I used to work at. Unfortunately, it's all true, except I'm not sure how old I was.

Her: I'm just waiting for this to go poorly. When I was in first grade, I lost my 2 front teeth in an accident with a concrete floor.
Me: When I was in first grade, I lost my 2 front teeth in an accident with the dentist. 

Things like this make me laugh. While there are certainly things that should be lost to the digital void*, it's nice to recall a few things. And we are now living the moments we will look back in a few years. We can and will look back and laugh, whether at yourselves or something else. Take a moment to do it now. And remember, this isn't so bad. In a few years you'll look back on it. And what will you do? You'll laugh.

*I should mention that I stole the phrase "digital void" and this general metaphor from my friend Jess and a comment she made on my Facebook. This is what we call learning from Fareed Zakaria's mistake.

Look Back and Laugh

What a Weird Week

This week has been weird. There is no other way to describe it. Not overly busy, but not by any means slow. Anyway, no regular post this week. Mentally exhausted. So later today or sometime tomorrow expect (probably) a repost of something I wrote a while ago but only posted on Facebook.

This week has been weird. There is no other way to describe it. Not overly busy, but not by any means slow. Anyway, no regular post this week. Mentally exhausted. So later today or sometime tomorrow expect (probably) a repost of something I wrote a while ago but only posted on Facebook.

What a Weird Week

That's All Well and Good, or Your English Teacher Lied to You, or A Good Well? Well Good!

"I am well." I hear it hundreds of times a day in response to the question "How are you?" There is an obvious frustration with the fact that this is not the truth* but instead a glossy varnish. But on an entirely different level there is the simple frustration that, despite what your English teacher may have told you, this is not grammatically correct. Let me explain.

English contains two types of verbs: action and stative**. Most verbs are action verbs. As such, we learn the rules of action verbs from a young age: objective case, direct/indirect object, adverb.

Stative verbs walk into the room, urinate on the rules, and set them on fire***. We don't need the objective case because we have the predicate nominative. If you call my cell phone and ask for Jeremy, I (should) say, "I am he." Further, adverbs are replaced by the much belied predicate adjective.

The logic is simple but subtle: predicate adjectives do not actually describe the verb but the subject of the sentence, a noun or pronoun. To say "I am well" is to brag about the quality with which you perform the act of being, a Cartesian grandiloquence par excellence.

Are you really bragging that you exist skillfully? No one is better at that than anyone else, except possibly Chuck Norris or Santa Claus. I'm not trying to tell you how to be. All I'm saying is that if you do well and be good, it will save you a lot of linguistic trouble.

*This morning I was watching several Louis CK videos in which he talked about how good we have it but yet we constantly complain. This evening my friend Katrina mentioned this same thing. In a sense, we shouldn't ever complain. Life is wonderful for all of us.
**Action verbs convey action. Tricky. They are also called dynamic verbs. Stative verbs describe the state of something and are often called linking verbs or verbs of being.
***Stative verbs in action.

"I am well." I hear it hundreds of times a day in response to the question "How are you?" There is an obvious frustration with the fact that this is not the truth* but instead a glossy varnish. But on an entirely different level there is the simple frustration that, despite what your English teacher may have told you, this is not grammatically correct. Let me explain.

English contains two types of verbs: action and stative**. Most verbs are action verbs. As such, we learn the rules of action verbs from a young age: objective case, direct/indirect object, adverb.

Stative verbs walk into the room, urinate on the rules, and set them on fire***. We don't need the objective case because we have the predicate nominative. If you call my cell phone and ask for Jeremy, I (should) say, "I am he." Further, adverbs are replaced by the much belied predicate adjective.

The logic is simple but subtle: predicate adjectives do not actually describe the verb but the subject of the sentence, a noun or pronoun. To say "I am well" is to brag about the quality with which you perform the act of being, a Cartesian grandiloquence par excellence.

Are you really bragging that you exist skillfully? No one is better at that than anyone else, except possibly Chuck Norris or Santa Claus. I'm not trying to tell you how to be. All I'm saying is that if you do well and be good, it will save you a lot of linguistic trouble.

*This morning I was watching several Louis CK videos in which he talked about how good we have it but yet we constantly complain. This evening my friend Katrina mentioned this same thing. In a sense, we shouldn't ever complain. Life is wonderful for all of us.
**Action verbs convey action. Tricky. They are also called dynamic verbs. Stative verbs describe the state of something and are often called linking verbs or verbs of being.
***Stative verbs in action.

That's All Well and Good, or Your English Teacher Lied to You, or A Good Well? Well Good!

The Arboretum

(I wrote this on Saturday. Finally I am getting around to posting it)



Man was not born for himself alone. -Plato
A gift from a citizen of the 20th century
for the citizens of the future.

I sat on this bench to write this.



Lately I've been in a rut. When I leave my house, I'm probably heading to either church or work. Don't get me wrong: those are wonderful things. I'm very happy to have both as a part of my life. But I need to get out. On an episode of the Johnny Cash Show, which aired from 1968-1970*, Mr. Cash discusses the human need to get out and experience the beauty of creation as a part of experiencing Jesus. Such is the ache I've been having.



Unbeknownst to me, there is a woodland oasis near Madison Park - the Washington Park Arboretum. I'd never been to the Arboretum, despite many recommendations. I had several assumptions about the Arboretum**. Fortunately, all of my assumptions were wrong, as it is far more wonderful than I ever could have expected.

Today is a perfect day to take it in: sunny and warm, but not hot. There are quite a few other people here (mostly couples, families, and runners), though it is by no means crowded. And the mosquitoes...ok, so it's as close to perfect as we can get this side of Heaven.



These are red berries. Obviously,
these are not the ones I tried to eat.



I found one bush full of blue berries. They were clearly not blueberries, but I did not know what they were. Fortunately, I've read enough survival guides to know how to find out whether or not they're safe to eat. First, pick a berry. Simple enough. Crush it between your thumb and index finger. If the juice burns your finger, don't eat it. If you get any kind of a reaction, don't eat it***. Should either of these occur, you want to wipe your hand in the dirt, then rinse your hand. Otherwise, put a bit of the juice on another finger and touch it to your tongue. If this doesn't burn or make you feel sick, you can eat half a berry, then the other half 20 minutes later.

This process is designed for survival situations. In survival conditions where you would need these berries for nourishment, you would want this to take about a day. It is not foolproof. I felt a burning sensation when I touched it to my tongue, so I stopped. I washed my mouth out using my water bottle, then drank some water to dilute anything that may have made it to my stomach. As the old adage goes, "There are brave mushroom hunters, and there are old mushroom hunters. There are no brave, old mushroom hunters.

We view nature as an escape from real life, a path to get away from what's important, but it can be a reminder too that so much of what we value is entirely temporal and ultimately unimportant. God put us on this Earth not to go to work and pay our bills, but to serve him.



*If you are a fan of Walk the Line, I encourage you to look into the scene with Hank Williams and the Johnny Cash Show. You will notice that Hank had long been dead when this scene is supposed to have taken place.

**I thought the Arboretum was little more than a giant greenhouse, such as the National Botanical Garden. Total number of dates I've had at said botanical garden: 2. Total number of girls those dates were with: 1. 
***Had I exercised patience (which is really essential for this), I would have eventually noticed the mild rash on my fingers and not tasted it.

(I wrote this on Saturday. Finally I am getting around to posting it)



Man was not born for himself alone. -Plato
A gift from a citizen of the 20th century
for the citizens of the future.

I sat on this bench to write this.



Lately I've been in a rut. When I leave my house, I'm probably heading to either church or work. Don't get me wrong: those are wonderful things. I'm very happy to have both as a part of my life. But I need to get out. On an episode of the Johnny Cash Show, which aired from 1968-1970*, Mr. Cash discusses the human need to get out and experience the beauty of creation as a part of experiencing Jesus. Such is the ache I've been having.



Unbeknownst to me, there is a woodland oasis near Madison Park - the Washington Park Arboretum. I'd never been to the Arboretum, despite many recommendations. I had several assumptions about the Arboretum**. Fortunately, all of my assumptions were wrong, as it is far more wonderful than I ever could have expected.

Today is a perfect day to take it in: sunny and warm, but not hot. There are quite a few other people here (mostly couples, families, and runners), though it is by no means crowded. And the mosquitoes...ok, so it's as close to perfect as we can get this side of Heaven.



These are red berries. Obviously,
these are not the ones I tried to eat.



I found one bush full of blue berries. They were clearly not blueberries, but I did not know what they were. Fortunately, I've read enough survival guides to know how to find out whether or not they're safe to eat. First, pick a berry. Simple enough. Crush it between your thumb and index finger. If the juice burns your finger, don't eat it. If you get any kind of a reaction, don't eat it***. Should either of these occur, you want to wipe your hand in the dirt, then rinse your hand. Otherwise, put a bit of the juice on another finger and touch it to your tongue. If this doesn't burn or make you feel sick, you can eat half a berry, then the other half 20 minutes later.

This process is designed for survival situations. In survival conditions where you would need these berries for nourishment, you would want this to take about a day. It is not foolproof. I felt a burning sensation when I touched it to my tongue, so I stopped. I washed my mouth out using my water bottle, then drank some water to dilute anything that may have made it to my stomach. As the old adage goes, "There are brave mushroom hunters, and there are old mushroom hunters. There are no brave, old mushroom hunters.

We view nature as an escape from real life, a path to get away from what's important, but it can be a reminder too that so much of what we value is entirely temporal and ultimately unimportant. God put us on this Earth not to go to work and pay our bills, but to serve him.



*If you are a fan of Walk the Line, I encourage you to look into the scene with Hank Williams and the Johnny Cash Show. You will notice that Hank had long been dead when this scene is supposed to have taken place.

**I thought the Arboretum was little more than a giant greenhouse, such as the National Botanical Garden. Total number of dates I've had at said botanical garden: 2. Total number of girls those dates were with: 1. 
***Had I exercised patience (which is really essential for this), I would have eventually noticed the mild rash on my fingers and not tasted it.

The Arboretum

Maybe I'm a Bad Nerd

I will probably turn down three invitations to see The Dark Knight Rises within the next two weeks*. I’m not planning to see it in a theater. When you get right down to it, I probably won’t see it at all. Maybe this makes me a bad nerd, but it’s the truth, plain and simple.

Don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against Batman. I probably won’t see any movies in the theater this summer, or even this year. It simply lacks appeal to me. I mean, you can buy the DVD for the cost of one ticket, or you can download the movie for much less (not to mention possibilities to pir8). While you miss a lot of the audio/video spectacle, this is simply not important enough to me to merit the cost of the ticket.

This is a picture of a bird I drew on the page where I wrote this.

To be fair, even at home I don’t watch very many movies. They scarcely hold my attention, especially when I’m watching them alone. With a few exceptions, I have trouble even watching an entire thirty minute television show straight through. Books, on the other hand, can captivate me for hours. It’s something I cannot entirely explain, except to state braggadociously** that my imagination is apparently far better than most of the directing out there today.

Back to the subject of Batman, I’ve always been much more of a Marvel fan than DC. Even still, the movies are tough for me. I’ve seen only the first two X-Men, the first Spiderman, and the first Fantastic Four (which, if I had to choose, would probably be my personal favorite comic book series). I’ve not seen anything of The Incredible Hulk, The Avengers, or Iron Man. Outside the realm of comics, I’ve only seen the first Harry Potter and the second half of the second (even though I own the first six) and half of the first Lord of the Rings. I’ve never seen either Jurassic Park, despite my love for both dinosaurs and Michael Crichton. Inception? That’s a solid chunk of time wasted right there. And the list goes on and on.

People ask, “Have you seen –“

I cut them off. “Wayne’s World?”

“No…”

“Then no, I haven’t.” It’s an exaggeration, but it makes the point that I’ve seen very few movies. I’m familiar with the storyline as they’re all the same, but I’ve never seen it. I have better things to do than sit there allowing myself to be emotionally manipulated by Hollywood.

It’s probably been close to twenty years since I’ve seen a Batman movie. If you want me to watch Batman with you, bring on the best Batman: Adam West! Sure, it was campy, but I love it. Bam! Pow! Write in the Blogger!

*I am curious how my posting this will affect those numbers.

**I fully realize that braggadociously is not technically a word. It is, however, the recently coined adjective braggadocious turned into an adverb. Look out, grammar – we’re shaking things up.

I will probably turn down three invitations to see The Dark Knight Rises within the next two weeks*. I’m not planning to see it in a theater. When you get right down to it, I probably won’t see it at all. Maybe this makes me a bad nerd, but it’s the truth, plain and simple.

Don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against Batman. I probably won’t see any movies in the theater this summer, or even this year. It simply lacks appeal to me. I mean, you can buy the DVD for the cost of one ticket, or you can download the movie for much less (not to mention possibilities to pir8). While you miss a lot of the audio/video spectacle, this is simply not important enough to me to merit the cost of the ticket.

This is a picture of a bird I drew on the page where I wrote this.

To be fair, even at home I don’t watch very many movies. They scarcely hold my attention, especially when I’m watching them alone. With a few exceptions, I have trouble even watching an entire thirty minute television show straight through. Books, on the other hand, can captivate me for hours. It’s something I cannot entirely explain, except to state braggadociously** that my imagination is apparently far better than most of the directing out there today.

Back to the subject of Batman, I’ve always been much more of a Marvel fan than DC. Even still, the movies are tough for me. I’ve seen only the first two X-Men, the first Spiderman, and the first Fantastic Four (which, if I had to choose, would probably be my personal favorite comic book series). I’ve not seen anything of The Incredible Hulk, The Avengers, or Iron Man. Outside the realm of comics, I’ve only seen the first Harry Potter and the second half of the second (even though I own the first six) and half of the first Lord of the Rings. I’ve never seen either Jurassic Park, despite my love for both dinosaurs and Michael Crichton. Inception? That’s a solid chunk of time wasted right there. And the list goes on and on.

People ask, “Have you seen –“

I cut them off. “Wayne’s World?”

“No…”

“Then no, I haven’t.” It’s an exaggeration, but it makes the point that I’ve seen very few movies. I’m familiar with the storyline as they’re all the same, but I’ve never seen it. I have better things to do than sit there allowing myself to be emotionally manipulated by Hollywood.

It’s probably been close to twenty years since I’ve seen a Batman movie. If you want me to watch Batman with you, bring on the best Batman: Adam West! Sure, it was campy, but I love it. Bam! Pow! Write in the Blogger!

*I am curious how my posting this will affect those numbers.

**I fully realize that braggadociously is not technically a word. It is, however, the recently coined adjective braggadocious turned into an adverb. Look out, grammar – we’re shaking things up.

Maybe I'm a Bad Nerd

Rumors of My Demise

Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. As a matter of fact, tomorrow I update. It is written. Tomorrow I revise and post.

Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. As a matter of fact, tomorrow I update. It is written. Tomorrow I revise and post.

Rumors of My Demise

He Was Probably Not from Nantucket

Last week I was given a simple assignment at work: clean the tea area. As I was about to set to work, I was given further specifics in this. I do not recall what it was, but I heard "write something."

"I'm sorry, write something?"

Beckah, my supervisor, clarified. But then she laughed. "You know, just write something about how you feel. Maybe a poem."

Little did she know I would do exactly that. While cleaning the tea area, I wrote a limerick. I strove for the style of Geoffrey Chaucer. After all, tea is English in my mind, and England has never produced an author, and certainly not a poet, to compare to Chaucer.

Without further ado, a limerick, a Chaucerian verse, about tea.

There once was a man who drank tea,
but it always made him have to pee.
He pulled up his pants
and he shimmied a dance:
he was trying to hold it, you see.

Last week I was given a simple assignment at work: clean the tea area. As I was about to set to work, I was given further specifics in this. I do not recall what it was, but I heard "write something."

"I'm sorry, write something?"

Beckah, my supervisor, clarified. But then she laughed. "You know, just write something about how you feel. Maybe a poem."

Little did she know I would do exactly that. While cleaning the tea area, I wrote a limerick. I strove for the style of Geoffrey Chaucer. After all, tea is English in my mind, and England has never produced an author, and certainly not a poet, to compare to Chaucer.

Without further ado, a limerick, a Chaucerian verse, about tea.

There once was a man who drank tea,
but it always made him have to pee.
He pulled up his pants
and he shimmied a dance:
he was trying to hold it, you see.

He Was Probably Not from Nantucket

A Berry Strange...Oh Wait, I Already Used That Pun!

A few months ago I began to develop a rash. I initially had only a spot, which I wrote off simply as a spider bit, but soon I had to admit that I was either being bitten a lot or having an allergic reaction. I Googled bedbug bits, photos of which did not at all resemble what I had, much to my relief*. This left me with little doubt that my spots were indeed allergenic...but to what?

Laundry detergent, soap, lotion, even shampoo - I changed it all, to no avail. Dairy**, soy, even wheat*** - nothing. Rats! Drat! Nuts! Wait, nuts? Nope. I returned my normal diet (as normal as a plasma giving vegetarian's diet can be), frustrated and fearing the eternal itch...what if I'm allergic to my own sweat****?!

Several days later I'm sitting at work eating my lunch. I forget what I'm eating, but I'm enjoying it with a smoothie to the tune of orange, mango, strawberry, and banana - the usual. I quickly finish everything in the last few minutes, as I usually do as the result of spending the first half of my lunch joking around with coworkers and customers. I clock back in, immediately incredibly itchy. I'm sweating for no apparent reason. My stomach is cramping, and I have a general uncomfortable and confused feeling. Suddenly I remember that the packaging on the strawberry puree changed around the time my rash started! Did the ingredients change as well?

I check the box to find the ingredients identical. While I'm reading, I get short on breath. I feel like my throat is swelling, and I look slightly swollen (so I've been told). I have spent enough summers as a camp counselor to recognize these symptoms - anaphylaxis!

Even in this state, or perhaps as a result of the rush of adrenaline to my brain brought on by this state, I remember being five-years-old: STRAWBERRIES! How could I have been so blind? It was dormant for twenty-five years, but it has returned.

Because it so mild, my symptoms faded over the course of about an hour without my needing of an EpiPen. With strawberries removed from my diet, the rash took only a few days to fade. Everything seems to be back to normal.

About two weeks later I had French toast for breakfast. Without thinking, I started putting strawberry jam on it. Realizing almost immediately what I was doing, I didn't add any more. I knew though what I had to do: I warned my roommate that it was test time and pre-phased him on what to do should I react. I ate it. Shortness of breath; sweating; minor swelling; rash: culprit.

It's amazing to me that we sometimes overlook the most obvious things. We over-complicate things and circumvent the answer that is right in front of us, only to have to circle back around nine Dantean circles later. In the end, I thank God that I eventually figured it out. Well, that, and that I'm not allergic to my own sweat.

*Bed bugs have become a very serious problem over the past two or so years here in Seattle, to the point that I know of an entire building, containing offices and rather expensive apartments, that did a building-wide fumigation on Monday. The threat of infestation was quite valid.
**To be fair, cutting out dairy had a huge positive impact on my overall health, though it did not affect the rash, which is the germane consequence. While I have begun consuming it again, it is in very reduced quantities.
***I didn't actually eliminate wheat, but I greatly reduced it. I'm a man, not a robot!
****I remember once watching a bit of The Maury Povich Show, and a girl claimed to be allergic to her own sweat. Another claimed to be allergic to water. I have my doubts about the legitimacy of either claim.

A few months ago I began to develop a rash. I initially had only a spot, which I wrote off simply as a spider bit, but soon I had to admit that I was either being bitten a lot or having an allergic reaction. I Googled bedbug bits, photos of which did not at all resemble what I had, much to my relief*. This left me with little doubt that my spots were indeed allergenic...but to what?

Laundry detergent, soap, lotion, even shampoo - I changed it all, to no avail. Dairy**, soy, even wheat*** - nothing. Rats! Drat! Nuts! Wait, nuts? Nope. I returned my normal diet (as normal as a plasma giving vegetarian's diet can be), frustrated and fearing the eternal itch...what if I'm allergic to my own sweat****?!

Several days later I'm sitting at work eating my lunch. I forget what I'm eating, but I'm enjoying it with a smoothie to the tune of orange, mango, strawberry, and banana - the usual. I quickly finish everything in the last few minutes, as I usually do as the result of spending the first half of my lunch joking around with coworkers and customers. I clock back in, immediately incredibly itchy. I'm sweating for no apparent reason. My stomach is cramping, and I have a general uncomfortable and confused feeling. Suddenly I remember that the packaging on the strawberry puree changed around the time my rash started! Did the ingredients change as well?

I check the box to find the ingredients identical. While I'm reading, I get short on breath. I feel like my throat is swelling, and I look slightly swollen (so I've been told). I have spent enough summers as a camp counselor to recognize these symptoms - anaphylaxis!

Even in this state, or perhaps as a result of the rush of adrenaline to my brain brought on by this state, I remember being five-years-old: STRAWBERRIES! How could I have been so blind? It was dormant for twenty-five years, but it has returned.

Because it so mild, my symptoms faded over the course of about an hour without my needing of an EpiPen. With strawberries removed from my diet, the rash took only a few days to fade. Everything seems to be back to normal.

About two weeks later I had French toast for breakfast. Without thinking, I started putting strawberry jam on it. Realizing almost immediately what I was doing, I didn't add any more. I knew though what I had to do: I warned my roommate that it was test time and pre-phased him on what to do should I react. I ate it. Shortness of breath; sweating; minor swelling; rash: culprit.

It's amazing to me that we sometimes overlook the most obvious things. We over-complicate things and circumvent the answer that is right in front of us, only to have to circle back around nine Dantean circles later. In the end, I thank God that I eventually figured it out. Well, that, and that I'm not allergic to my own sweat.

*Bed bugs have become a very serious problem over the past two or so years here in Seattle, to the point that I know of an entire building, containing offices and rather expensive apartments, that did a building-wide fumigation on Monday. The threat of infestation was quite valid.
**To be fair, cutting out dairy had a huge positive impact on my overall health, though it did not affect the rash, which is the germane consequence. While I have begun consuming it again, it is in very reduced quantities.
***I didn't actually eliminate wheat, but I greatly reduced it. I'm a man, not a robot!
****I remember once watching a bit of The Maury Povich Show, and a girl claimed to be allergic to her own sweat. Another claimed to be allergic to water. I have my doubts about the legitimacy of either claim.

A Berry Strange...Oh Wait, I Already Used That Pun!

Thank You for Riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

I've heard it repeatedly. It seems every five minutes I have to go somewhere. I don't sleep. I don't eat. I don't do anything. I just go. Never stop can't stop.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

The to do list is long. It grows grows is growing. Progress is not being made.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

Work work work. Twelve days this week, eight days the week before that. Never getting further ahead, hardly not getting further behind.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

Need rest. Must rest. Can't rest. Will rest eventually. Need rest. No seriously, need rest. Not want rest. Need rest.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

And then, today. It's Saturday night, and I don't work again until Monday morning. I lose one hour for DST (pointless), but it's still many hours. Rest. Rest. Rest. No doing, only being. Rest. Jesus Jesus Jesus! Rest in him.

I will stand clear of the doors. I will allow passengers to exit the train before boarding.

[Sorry about this - it's just what's been in my head recently. Hopefully I'll be back to my "normal" posting next week, as in back to the old schedule.]

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

I've heard it repeatedly. It seems every five minutes I have to go somewhere. I don't sleep. I don't eat. I don't do anything. I just go. Never stop can't stop.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

The to do list is long. It grows grows is growing. Progress is not being made.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

Work work work. Twelve days this week, eight days the week before that. Never getting further ahead, hardly not getting further behind.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

Need rest. Must rest. Can't rest. Will rest eventually. Need rest. No seriously, need rest. Not want rest. Need rest.

Please stand clear of the doors and allow passengers to exit the train before boarding. Thank you for riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail.

And then, today. It's Saturday night, and I don't work again until Monday morning. I lose one hour for DST (pointless), but it's still many hours. Rest. Rest. Rest. No doing, only being. Rest. Jesus Jesus Jesus! Rest in him.

I will stand clear of the doors. I will allow passengers to exit the train before boarding.

[Sorry about this - it's just what's been in my head recently. Hopefully I'll be back to my "normal" posting next week, as in back to the old schedule.]

Thank You for Riding Sound Transit's Link Light Rail

Eulogy Pt 3: The Day the Music Died

On any given day, a number of things have happened throughout history. On this particular day, 3 February, one such thing is that my mom was born. It was 1958, which leaves me wondering how she is once again turning 37. Perhaps someday I will understand. My mom, like me, does not particularly like to celebrate her birthday. It is, after all, just another day. As such, this is not what I'm writing about (which is good, given the title).

On this day in 1959, my mom turned 1. On this very same day, in a fiery plane crash*, the music died. At least, so states the song describing it. Charles Hardin Holley, known to kids everywhere as Buddy Holly, lay in a cornfield somewhere in Iowa. At the age of 22, he was dead. In his short career he recorded some of the greatest music ever heard by man**, directly influencing such mainstay artists as The Beatles, Eric Clapton, and the Rolling Stones, while indirectly affecting nearly every Western artist. Also on the plane were Richie Valens and The Big Bopper, along with two members of Buddy's band, The Crickets.

Interestingly enough, country music legend Waylon Jennings*** was supposed to have been on the plane as well. However, the heat on the tour bus had went out. Waylon was asked by a sick bandmate to trade places. After all, it was roughly -25°, not weather for the sick. Holly had been particularly looking forward to talking to Jennings on the flight. As such, he was not happy.

"I hope you freeze your ass off in the bus," Holly joked.

Jennings responded in kind: "I hope your plane crashes." They both laughed, but he was haunted by those words for years. As a matter of fact, he refused to play music for years. When he returned to playing music, he no longer played bass as he had in The Crickets, but instead switched to guitar.

One of Jennings first shows after the hiatus was at an art bar in New York. Andy Warhol was there. Jennings got up to play and said, "I'm here to play some country music. If you don't like that, you can kiss my ass."

"Who are you?" someone from the crowd shouted back.

"I'm Waylon God Damn Jennings." Several years later Jennings actually did an album with the surviving members of The Crickets, which featured several of the songs they had done with Holly.

No one ever forgets Buddy Holly, but his memory inspires many of us, not just Waylon Jennings. Let us not forget such songs as American Pie by Don McLean, Three Stars by Eddie Cochran, or even Buddy Holly by Weezer. Holly was a pioneer in the two guitars/bass/drums sound, as well as one of the first to really bridge the gap between rock and blues. He was one of the few white musicians in this era who were willing to play with black musicians like Little Richie and Chuck Berry. Even Elton John said that in his teens he began wearing his glasses (then much less iconic) as a tribute to Buddy Holly.

Buddy Holly, we miss you. If we must find a good thing, you didn't live long enough to record a single bad song.

Bye bye, Miss American Pie. Drove the chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry. And good ole boys drinking whiskey and rye singing "This'll be the day that I die. Oh, this'll be the day that I die."

*Is there such a thing as a fireless plane crash? I don't know why we always mention that a plane crash is fiery. That is, after all, the nature of a plane crash.
**I can neither confirm nor deny that this is hyperbole.
***If you, like me, live in Beacon Hill, you've doubtless been to The Station. Waylon, the usual morning barista, is named after Waylon Jennings. If you've never seen the picture of Luis, the owner/evening barista with President Obama, ask him to see it.

On any given day, a number of things have happened throughout history. On this particular day, 3 February, one such thing is that my mom was born. It was 1958, which leaves me wondering how she is once again turning 37. Perhaps someday I will understand. My mom, like me, does not particularly like to celebrate her birthday. It is, after all, just another day. As such, this is not what I'm writing about (which is good, given the title).

On this day in 1959, my mom turned 1. On this very same day, in a fiery plane crash*, the music died. At least, so states the song describing it. Charles Hardin Holley, known to kids everywhere as Buddy Holly, lay in a cornfield somewhere in Iowa. At the age of 22, he was dead. In his short career he recorded some of the greatest music ever heard by man**, directly influencing such mainstay artists as The Beatles, Eric Clapton, and the Rolling Stones, while indirectly affecting nearly every Western artist. Also on the plane were Richie Valens and The Big Bopper, along with two members of Buddy's band, The Crickets.

Interestingly enough, country music legend Waylon Jennings*** was supposed to have been on the plane as well. However, the heat on the tour bus had went out. Waylon was asked by a sick bandmate to trade places. After all, it was roughly -25°, not weather for the sick. Holly had been particularly looking forward to talking to Jennings on the flight. As such, he was not happy.

"I hope you freeze your ass off in the bus," Holly joked.

Jennings responded in kind: "I hope your plane crashes." They both laughed, but he was haunted by those words for years. As a matter of fact, he refused to play music for years. When he returned to playing music, he no longer played bass as he had in The Crickets, but instead switched to guitar.

One of Jennings first shows after the hiatus was at an art bar in New York. Andy Warhol was there. Jennings got up to play and said, "I'm here to play some country music. If you don't like that, you can kiss my ass."

"Who are you?" someone from the crowd shouted back.

"I'm Waylon God Damn Jennings." Several years later Jennings actually did an album with the surviving members of The Crickets, which featured several of the songs they had done with Holly.

No one ever forgets Buddy Holly, but his memory inspires many of us, not just Waylon Jennings. Let us not forget such songs as American Pie by Don McLean, Three Stars by Eddie Cochran, or even Buddy Holly by Weezer. Holly was a pioneer in the two guitars/bass/drums sound, as well as one of the first to really bridge the gap between rock and blues. He was one of the few white musicians in this era who were willing to play with black musicians like Little Richie and Chuck Berry. Even Elton John said that in his teens he began wearing his glasses (then much less iconic) as a tribute to Buddy Holly.

Buddy Holly, we miss you. If we must find a good thing, you didn't live long enough to record a single bad song.

Bye bye, Miss American Pie. Drove the chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry. And good ole boys drinking whiskey and rye singing "This'll be the day that I die. Oh, this'll be the day that I die."

*Is there such a thing as a fireless plane crash? I don't know why we always mention that a plane crash is fiery. That is, after all, the nature of a plane crash.
**I can neither confirm nor deny that this is hyperbole.
***If you, like me, live in Beacon Hill, you've doubtless been to The Station. Waylon, the usual morning barista, is named after Waylon Jennings. If you've never seen the picture of Luis, the owner/evening barista with President Obama, ask him to see it.

Eulogy Pt 3: The Day the Music Died

Eulogy Pt 2: Papergirl

[I've sucked pretty bad at updating recently. Hopefully this will be me getting back on track, but I can't guarantee anything]

About sixty years ago the Harrisburg Patriot prided themselves on being the most liberal local newspaper in central Pennsylvania. They were ahead of the curve on all the social issues of the time, as they believed the paper in the state capital should be. But then the unthinkable happened: the Philadelphia Inquirer suddenly became completely unreasonable and hired a woman to write for their paper. Sure it was a figurehead post, but still, a woman on staff? How forward thinking! The Patriot had to respond: not to be outdone, they hired two women.

One of these women indeed stayed in her writer position, submitting her weekly column that no one, not even her fellow women, would read. The other was not so content. She made it very clear that she was here to work, not to be shown off. She submitted her column, followed by badgering the editor for bigger and better assignments, which she eventually received. When the novelty wore off and the smoke cleared, she was still there. And Joan was ready to work.

This is how I remember the story, as Joan told it to me about four years ago. Granted, I editorialized a few details. It's entirely possible that I remember things incorrectly, and very probable that she exaggerated a few details. However, as I knew Joan, she probably exaggerated the story to make herself look less, well, let's be nice and say feisty*. I would not be the least surprised if all of these details were true.

By way of example, the Starbucks that I worked at in Pennsylvania sold the Patriot. Joan was at this point long retired, as I would estimate her age to have been 80. Like nearly everyone who sold the Patriot, our deliveries were inconsistent, leading to us often not having the paper simply because we didn't get it. On one such occasion Joan wanted to buy it. She asked us if we often sold out, at which point we explained that we almost never sell out but had simply not gotten the delivery. "I'll go talk to them," she told us. We all chuckled. We had no idea.

We never again received so much as a late delivery, let alone a missed delivery. Further, several weeks later when I met the editor, he actually apologized that we had been missing deliveries. Missed deliveries remained common everywhere else. We were the only business getting reliable delivery. The newspapers would sometimes sit in the boxes on the street for several days, but we'd have the new edition at Starbucks, all because Joan took care of it.

In her old age Joan was rather lonely. She, after all, lived alone, and most of her friends had already passed away. She would come into Starbucks to buy things for her "friends," though I do have my doubts about the existence of some of the friends for whom she would buy pastries and drinks. Don't get me wrong - I'm sure some of them were real, but not all. She would let us know that our pastries were stale, but she would still buy them. And she would start talking to you while you were cleaning the lobby. And when she started talking, you were not getting away - let's hope there's no line, because she has you for twenty minutes.

About fifty percent of the time Joan carried all her things in a Kate Spade purse - I do believe she was quite a fashionista in her day. Otherwise she kept everything in a grocery bag - every fashionista eventually becomes a crazy old lady, as Joan was proving. And when you spend that much money on one purse, you can't really afford a second.

Joan and I had a very special bond, like a cantankerous old woman and oh-so-handsome grandson. I really did care about her. Joan never discussed anything too serious or personal, so I never knew that much about her, but I always felt like we were close. She apparently felt the same toward me - even when I moved to Seattle, she would frequently ask how I was doing.

Though I don't know any of the details surrounding it, Joan passed away on a Monday in late December of last year. It's amazing how much the death of someone we hardly know can impact us. It's not at all similar to the death of someone we care about. But at our core we know that death was not part of God's original design. Death is scary and ugly and unsettling, but unfortunately inevitable.

*Not many people get the opportunity to text message their sister saying, "What's a good synonym for bitchy?" I got that opportunity today, and she returned an excellent list. Thank you for your help, Hannah.

[I've sucked pretty bad at updating recently. Hopefully this will be me getting back on track, but I can't guarantee anything]

About sixty years ago the Harrisburg Patriot prided themselves on being the most liberal local newspaper in central Pennsylvania. They were ahead of the curve on all the social issues of the time, as they believed the paper in the state capital should be. But then the unthinkable happened: the Philadelphia Inquirer suddenly became completely unreasonable and hired a woman to write for their paper. Sure it was a figurehead post, but still, a woman on staff? How forward thinking! The Patriot had to respond: not to be outdone, they hired two women.

One of these women indeed stayed in her writer position, submitting her weekly column that no one, not even her fellow women, would read. The other was not so content. She made it very clear that she was here to work, not to be shown off. She submitted her column, followed by badgering the editor for bigger and better assignments, which she eventually received. When the novelty wore off and the smoke cleared, she was still there. And Joan was ready to work.

This is how I remember the story, as Joan told it to me about four years ago. Granted, I editorialized a few details. It's entirely possible that I remember things incorrectly, and very probable that she exaggerated a few details. However, as I knew Joan, she probably exaggerated the story to make herself look less, well, let's be nice and say feisty*. I would not be the least surprised if all of these details were true.

By way of example, the Starbucks that I worked at in Pennsylvania sold the Patriot. Joan was at this point long retired, as I would estimate her age to have been 80. Like nearly everyone who sold the Patriot, our deliveries were inconsistent, leading to us often not having the paper simply because we didn't get it. On one such occasion Joan wanted to buy it. She asked us if we often sold out, at which point we explained that we almost never sell out but had simply not gotten the delivery. "I'll go talk to them," she told us. We all chuckled. We had no idea.

We never again received so much as a late delivery, let alone a missed delivery. Further, several weeks later when I met the editor, he actually apologized that we had been missing deliveries. Missed deliveries remained common everywhere else. We were the only business getting reliable delivery. The newspapers would sometimes sit in the boxes on the street for several days, but we'd have the new edition at Starbucks, all because Joan took care of it.

In her old age Joan was rather lonely. She, after all, lived alone, and most of her friends had already passed away. She would come into Starbucks to buy things for her "friends," though I do have my doubts about the existence of some of the friends for whom she would buy pastries and drinks. Don't get me wrong - I'm sure some of them were real, but not all. She would let us know that our pastries were stale, but she would still buy them. And she would start talking to you while you were cleaning the lobby. And when she started talking, you were not getting away - let's hope there's no line, because she has you for twenty minutes.

About fifty percent of the time Joan carried all her things in a Kate Spade purse - I do believe she was quite a fashionista in her day. Otherwise she kept everything in a grocery bag - every fashionista eventually becomes a crazy old lady, as Joan was proving. And when you spend that much money on one purse, you can't really afford a second.

Joan and I had a very special bond, like a cantankerous old woman and oh-so-handsome grandson. I really did care about her. Joan never discussed anything too serious or personal, so I never knew that much about her, but I always felt like we were close. She apparently felt the same toward me - even when I moved to Seattle, she would frequently ask how I was doing.

Though I don't know any of the details surrounding it, Joan passed away on a Monday in late December of last year. It's amazing how much the death of someone we hardly know can impact us. It's not at all similar to the death of someone we care about. But at our core we know that death was not part of God's original design. Death is scary and ugly and unsettling, but unfortunately inevitable.

*Not many people get the opportunity to text message their sister saying, "What's a good synonym for bitchy?" I got that opportunity today, and she returned an excellent list. Thank you for your help, Hannah.

Eulogy Pt 2: Papergirl

Eulogy Pt 1: I Still Believe in Santa Claus

I can never remember being told explicitly about Santa Claus as myth or reality. I always had questions about things like how he is everywhere at the exact same time (midnight) and why when they would show his location on the weather radar he was obviously planning his entire trip around central PA. This being said, I still believed, seeing as he was culturally everywhere: TV, malls, the local community center...and my living room.

Every year Santa would visit me on Christmas Eve. I would sit on his lap, and he would give me one gift a day early - not from a giant, mythical black bag, but from a standard plastic grocery bag. Minutes after he left my Uncle Bud would show up, consistently JUST missing him, a la Clark Kent and Superman.

When I was 13-years-old* we moved to a house a few miles away from where we had previously been living. Uncle Bud always lived nest door, but now he was about five miles away. Every year on Christmas Eve my two oldest (though still younger than me) sisters, my brother, and I would less-than-patiently wait for his car to pull up, then scamper away from the front door. Two minutes later Santa would knock at the door. Santa was obviously not a frequent visitor, or else he would know that no one uses that door. My sister, nine years younger than me, would answer the door. She would get excited, and I would sit on his lap to get my early gift. Uncle Bud would come through the back door, as everyone did, still just missing Santa Claus. Why did he sit in his car in the driveway for so long before coming inside, we would always joke.

On paper his name was Stanley, but I never once heard anyone call him that. He was certainly no Stanley. To absolutely everyone he was Bud. And Bud lived up to his name: he was one of the most compassionate and giving men I've ever met. If you needed help, Bud was there. I have never heard anyone say anything bad about him - good thing, because if you did someone would be ready to fight you.

I wore his Santa costume once, I believe in fourth grade. I was playing Santa Claus in a school play. After a few years, my mom told me it was his costume. She then told me never to tell my grandma - though she knew, she could never know that I knew. I can't help wondering these days why he owned a Santa costume.

On the morning of 31 August, 2000, Bud slept in. My grandma, his mom, with whom he was living, went in to wake him for breakfast. There she found him cold, dead. During the night he had a fatal heart attack at the age of 43.

I miss him often, but especially this time of year. Every time I see Santa Claus I feel like Buddy the Elf: that's not the real Santa Claus! Santa does have a giant beard, but 364 days a year he's wearing blue jeans and a brown flannel** that smells of hand-rolled cigarettes, dancing around the living room, holding his dog's front paws and singing La Cucuracha. And we all miss him every day.

*More correctly, I was only 12-years-old when we moved, but I had had my thirteenth birthday by Christmas.
**I realize this description of his appearance is reminiscent of my own. Every time I go back to Pennsylvania I hear how much I look like him from people I can't even recall ever meeting. Usually they know I'm his nephew. The last time I was there I had a fear my grandfather (rather senile at times) would call me Bud. I had a constant debate whether or not to correct him if he did. Fortunately he didn't.

I can never remember being told explicitly about Santa Claus as myth or reality. I always had questions about things like how he is everywhere at the exact same time (midnight) and why when they would show his location on the weather radar he was obviously planning his entire trip around central PA. This being said, I still believed, seeing as he was culturally everywhere: TV, malls, the local community center...and my living room.

Every year Santa would visit me on Christmas Eve. I would sit on his lap, and he would give me one gift a day early - not from a giant, mythical black bag, but from a standard plastic grocery bag. Minutes after he left my Uncle Bud would show up, consistently JUST missing him, a la Clark Kent and Superman.

When I was 13-years-old* we moved to a house a few miles away from where we had previously been living. Uncle Bud always lived nest door, but now he was about five miles away. Every year on Christmas Eve my two oldest (though still younger than me) sisters, my brother, and I would less-than-patiently wait for his car to pull up, then scamper away from the front door. Two minutes later Santa would knock at the door. Santa was obviously not a frequent visitor, or else he would know that no one uses that door. My sister, nine years younger than me, would answer the door. She would get excited, and I would sit on his lap to get my early gift. Uncle Bud would come through the back door, as everyone did, still just missing Santa Claus. Why did he sit in his car in the driveway for so long before coming inside, we would always joke.

On paper his name was Stanley, but I never once heard anyone call him that. He was certainly no Stanley. To absolutely everyone he was Bud. And Bud lived up to his name: he was one of the most compassionate and giving men I've ever met. If you needed help, Bud was there. I have never heard anyone say anything bad about him - good thing, because if you did someone would be ready to fight you.

I wore his Santa costume once, I believe in fourth grade. I was playing Santa Claus in a school play. After a few years, my mom told me it was his costume. She then told me never to tell my grandma - though she knew, she could never know that I knew. I can't help wondering these days why he owned a Santa costume.

On the morning of 31 August, 2000, Bud slept in. My grandma, his mom, with whom he was living, went in to wake him for breakfast. There she found him cold, dead. During the night he had a fatal heart attack at the age of 43.

I miss him often, but especially this time of year. Every time I see Santa Claus I feel like Buddy the Elf: that's not the real Santa Claus! Santa does have a giant beard, but 364 days a year he's wearing blue jeans and a brown flannel** that smells of hand-rolled cigarettes, dancing around the living room, holding his dog's front paws and singing La Cucuracha. And we all miss him every day.

*More correctly, I was only 12-years-old when we moved, but I had had my thirteenth birthday by Christmas.
**I realize this description of his appearance is reminiscent of my own. Every time I go back to Pennsylvania I hear how much I look like him from people I can't even recall ever meeting. Usually they know I'm his nephew. The last time I was there I had a fear my grandfather (rather senile at times) would call me Bud. I had a constant debate whether or not to correct him if he did. Fortunately he didn't.

Eulogy Pt 1: I Still Believe in Santa Claus

I Haven't Forgotten

I can't stop thinking about how much I need to update. I have a post written an mostly typed to be posted very very soon. But I am sorry.

I can't stop thinking about how much I need to update. I have a post written an mostly typed to be posted very very soon. But I am sorry.

I Haven't Forgotten