Don't Be Hung Over For Church

Seriously, I work in the only profession that actually has to work on both Christmas and New Year's Day... and Easter. Someone should tell my employer that these are religious holidays and they need let me have the day off and stop persecuting me for my beliefs.

I've pretty much narrowed it down to two courses (coarses Molly) of action. Either I will begin the New Year's Day church service with a bang, or a joke in poor taste. Picture this...

I want to come out at the beginning of service with sunglasses on and pillow hair. I will then quietly say, "sssshhhhh...ssshhhh... Hey, can we bring the lights down. Okay, we are going to sing this morning, but very soft... I have a killer headache. Nobody make an sudden movements or loud noises... yeah go ahead and bring the lights down a little more."

Or

I will simply start blaring rock music and pointing at people with the headaches. The video screens will read, "I know what you did last night." What will be funny is the old people won't know what to do. Do they cover their ears and indicate that they were drinking, or do they just bare the music that drives them nuts even when they are sober?

Needless to say, New Year's Day will be extremely spiritual... or judgmental. Hey if I have to be there and tired you should too.

From Indian Lakes

I don't want to be here.

I don't want to go next year.

I don't even want to be near him.

Twas The Night Before Christmas Party...

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house.
Not a creature was stirring not even a mouse.
The stockings were all hung by the chimney with care.
Even one for Luc's girlfriend, who would not be there.

I couldn't believe it. I went to my parents house last night for our staff Christmas party. It promised to be a fun filled event with food and a gift exchange. I got there early to start dinner, because mom and dad were busy. So as I'm getting the ham in the oven, I glance over into our living room. It looked like Father Christmas threw up everywhere. Our entire living room was transformed. The tree was up and decorated with all our ornaments. (BTW: Each ornament has a story. And if you're not careful, my mom will tell you them one by one.)

But one thing particularly caught my eye. There are six stockings on the fire place. Six. Mom, Dad, Lucas, Josh (brother), Christy (sister-in-law)... We don't have any pets... Josh and Christy don't have any kids... Maybe my parents have a Christmas Gnome. So when my mother gets home I ask, "Hey mom, what's with the extra stocking?" She replies with this story.

Kathy: Well, last Christmas I bought new stockings when they went on sale. I bought six because I was hopeful... that you would have... you know... someone this Christmas.

Lucas: Okay, but why put it out?

Kathy: Well, I bought those pretty mantel hangers...

My mother hung an empty stocking to pay tribute to my singleness this holiday season. A moment of silence please. My date for the party had backed out on me, and I was too apathetic about the whole thing to get another one. Too much drama involved. This awkward situation was perpetuated throughout the evening as I knew which table I was to sit at, because it was the one with the odd numbered place setting. I was my mother's partner in the game, as my Dad was the officiate. (We won.)

I just find the whole situation ridiculous. I'm not dating any more. I give up. It sucks. Especially during the holidays. Everything is couples, but you can't get a date because nobody wants to meet the family on the first date. And no one wants to be a friend date or safety date during the holidays, they want to actually be in a romance. So I say F U dating. I'm getting married. I haven't worked out the logistics of this plan, but I think I could arrange a marriage. I may have to trade my Ipod.

These Stories Are Unrelated

First Day Back

I went snowboarding on Tuesday. I wanted to die on Wednesday. I did pretty well, I didn't fall much, but I was on black diamonds and I even did some five foot ramps in the terrain park. I was going to try a rail, but Eric fell right in front of me and I chickened out. I believe his exact words were, "Man, I actually could taste the blood on that one." But being the first day back this season... I'm so sore I can't move. Who wants to go snowboarding next Tuesday?

King Kong Wrong

I kidnapped Jason last night. His apartment was raided by pirate wenches. It was a long siege, but... sorry wrong story. Bethany (Jason's sister not ex-girl friend) won a drawing at a bridal show for a free pleasant pampering party particularly for persons of the female persuation. But it had to be in the Chicagoland area so Jason graciously gave up his apartment to his little sister. No matter how pleasant this particular pampering party was promising to be, Jason did not plan to partake in the peculiar pastes perpetuated by the person preparing the pleasureable pampering party. So he called me to rescue him. So I braved the two feet of slush (gross) and we went to AMC to see King Kong. We sat through at least twenty minutes of "pre-show entertainment" and four previews before the screen went blank and you heard the sound the jukebox makes when it goes down in movies. (that slow, power down noise). Everyone was trying to keep their cool, but inside we were all thinking the same thing, "I better get some free popcorn out of this." Then twenty minutes when by.... things started to get tense. I'm pretty sure at one point the guy in the projector room was mummified in the actual film. So they sent this poor guy to tell us they almost had it fixed, but it wasn't really. They started trying to show the movie and it was like watching someone try to start a car that hasn't run in years. The movie would start and then die, start and die. "Give it some gas!! No you're flooding it!!" So after waiting an hour (that I'll never get back) they just gave us a free ticket and sent us on our way. I wanted to beat someone senseless. Instead we got a milkshake. Not as satisfying as the beating.

Yellow Snow

I like to poor out Mountain Dew in strange places... like in front of people's cars in my apartment complex.

Spectacles, Testicles, Watch, and Wallet

5643

I went to St. Mary's Catholic Church last night.

In relation to Big Church vs. Small Church thinking, there are still some parts of small church that I really enjoy. In enjoy them half because I find them ridiculously funny, and half because I just really like them. In our town the churches get together at Christmas time to have a choral service. Basically, each church has a pastor read a portion of the Christmas story and then the choir from that church sings a piece. This is one of those events that you would never go to unless you HAD to be there, but once you're there it turns out to be really good.

Now when I say "good", I don't mean that the music is good. Or that the choirs are good. Or that the service order is good. I mean it's "good" to have someone sit next to you that you can crack jokes with and then try to muffle your laughter as to not disturb the entire service. It was hilarious to watch our choir try to keep it together as the CD kept skipping and jumping around. I wanted to stand up and say, "And now our choir will be singing Celebrate, a piece written in B flat by Clydesdale & Johnson, part of the musical A Time For Christmas..... The Remix." The United Methodist Church did a happenin' number that everyone desperately wanted to clap to, but didn't because we were at the Catholic Church. And of coarse the Mormon "Community" church had one family come up and do a Christmas carol. I'm pretty sure they had the loudest applause, in a good effort, Gold Star kind of way. (But I can't say anything, at least their piano player didn't skip.)

On the flip side of this fiasco... I really enjoyed it. It was interesting to watch. In one way it was cool to watch like car accidents are, but in another way I enjoyed seeing seven churches with very little in common come together to celebrate the birth of our Savior. Different people, different styles, different Bible translations... I listened to the Christmas story in NIV, NLT, NASB, NKJ, KJ, the Message, and the "No Gender" Bible... I heard organ numbers, piano music, CD Tracks, and pitch pipes. All of it came together in a small white Catholic chapel with stained glass windows, a large alter up front and almost cartoonish statues of Christ everywhere. And when we sang O Come O Come Emanuel as ONE congregation, really as ONE choir with the organ... it was beautiful. The Kingdom of Heaven is near.

Isn't This My Space?

I consider myself a member of the "blogging community". My blog isn't famous or published, but I would still say that I am a consistent blogger. But recently, I've been thinking that I am less a part of the blogging world, and more just a "blogger". Allow me to clarify.

In the blogging community there is a veritable smorgusboard of weblog servers. There is Xanga, Myspace, Topix, Face Book, and of coarse BLOGGER. All the weblog servers are different and have their own particular flare. Myself, I have four blogs. FOUR. One is just what I use to try out templates I create in my side business Blogskins by Lucas. One is for picture storage and I happen to write in this one that you are reading.

A couple of my friends have Xanga sites. I of coarse don't comment on them, because you have to have your own Xanga account, and I will not be sucked into that... again. But Xanga sites are perfect for the multitasking, random blogger. Each blog is sectioned up and you get to know everything from the CD they are playing to what is in their pocket to the gossip they overheard. So you can actually have five separate blogs in one.

But I also have a Myspace account. Why do I have a Myspace account? Because sometime, someone asked me to check out their Myspace blog. Of coarse, you can't read their blog unless you have your own Myspace account. Not only that, but you have to APPLY to be "added" to their "Myspace friends". So I make my profile and read their blog... no big deal. But then it starts to happen. People see my profile on myspace and assume that I will blog on it and have interesting pictures and stories. They APPLY to be "added" to my Myspace. I now have 33 "Myspace friends". I went two years not updating my blog and people still wanted to be added. I don't know if they are just trying to run up their friend points or whether they are trying to change their bad karma or what. I started to feel so bad about it that I have now started posting some of my old BLOGGER posts on it and now I have to maintain two blogs. I find the whole process annoying. I don't even like Myspace. I like Blogger.

I admit it. I am a Blogger snob.

Maybe I Need Some Fresh Air

Serenity. I am sitting next to the fire place at Panera Bread Co. I have my hot chocolate and my laptop, and I'm just sitting watching the snow fall outside.

So I keep having the same dream. I have had it three times this week and twice last week. It's kind of a troubling dream but fantasic in its own respects. I leave. I just pick up and leave.

My dream always begins with me trading in my car for an old blue pick-up truck. Just an old chevy with some character and a tiny bit of rust. I quit my job, the stuff I don't sell gets locked up in a storage space that I return to from time to time, and I leave my parents a letter. It explains that I had to go and that I'll be back in two years. I cancelled my phone and won't have a permanent address, so I said I would write... but I never would put a return address on the letter.

I throw my duffle bag in the bed of the truck, take one last look and then just drive. I go west as young men do. I spend my first year in southern California. I walk into a bar/club with a help wanted sign on the door. The sassy lady that owns it looks at me a little suprized, like I didn't belong in that place. "Can I help ya?" "I'm just looking for work." She pauses, "You just get into town?" I nod. She just walks away. Then I give a rather impressive speach about what a hard worker I am and how much I need the job. She likes me, even though she doesn't want to hire me for the bouncer postion. (can't blame her) So she teaches me to bartend. She asks me my name and I tell her. Then she asks, "And who did you used to be?" So for the next year I would surf in the morning and tend bar in the evening. Everyone called me "Preacher" on the account that the owner thought it was funny that I used to be a minister and now was a bartender. But she grows to respect me as I befriend the regulars without getting caught up in the nightlife scene. And when it came time for me to leave, I just walked into her office and with out saying a word she already knew. "Time to move on, I guess, " she said without looking at me. "yeah..." She gets up and gives me a mother's hug. And I left.

After a long bit of a drive I pull up the lane to a ranch in Colorado. I tell the Rancher, a strong man with white hair and black suspenders, that I'm lookin' for work. He tilts his dirt colored hat up slightly so he can get a better look at me. "Well boy, what can you do?" "Anything you teach me, " I reply. He just spits and says, "Is that so?" I spend a year and a half at that ranch. I snow board in the winter when there isn't as much work to do. In the summer I live above the barn with the other ranch hands. And the reason I stayed six months past my two year mark is because of my encounter with the Farmer's daughter (funny I know) who visted from Denver. Nothing dirty. I just found a woman more stuborn than I am.

The dreams are very detailed and I'm leaving out quite a bit, but they always end the same. I pack up my army dufflebag and tell Chuck's daughter I'd be back for her. My fellow ranch hand who I sold my truck to drives me to the airport and I leave for home. I sent a letter to my parents to ask for them to pick me up. I haven't spoken to any friends or family in two and a half years. I have no idea what has gone on in two years. But when I arrive at O'hare Eric is there to pick me up. He almost doesn't recognize me because I've been hardend by the sun and hard work. (and my cowboy hat is covering my face.) But he drives me home where my family and some of my friends have been waiting. I take over the teaching minister position at PCC as they are happy to take me back. I plan to marry the daughter, but the dream always ends with me staring out a window felling astranged from everyone I know, because there is no way to explain what I experienced in those two years.

I keep having this dream.

Where else can you get Free Panties and $5 Gloves...?

You got to love Chicago. Like most cities, amidst the cold, hard cash and the people that won't make eye contact with each other, there beats the heart of traditionalism. Not tradition in the traditional sense of the word, but more of a selfish, liberal traditionalism. Even though residents of the Windy City boast to be "open minded" and claim to hold loosely to the "old times" as soon as the snow starts to fall and the temperature drops, everyone looks forward to some of the same things every Christmas season. The lighting of The Miracle Mile (Michigan Ave), The Christmas Parade, Shopping at Water Town Plaza, Marshal Field's window dressings that would be cool if they weren't so freakin' creepy, and what they used to call "Skate on State".

Now they don't ice skate on State St. It has been moved to Millennium Park. So on Friday I trekked up to the City to meet one of my friends and go ice skating. The City was just like I remembered it... freezing.

After sitting in traffic for two hours, I paid $16 to park my car on Michigan Ave. Martha Stewart was signing her new book at Borders, so the crazies were coming out of the woodwork. Apparently, ex-cons that cook go over big in Chicago. One person actually asked Martha to sign a copy of The Shawshank Redemption... and was "asked to leave." So I moved past Borders and the old water station to the monstrosity that is Watertown Place. I had to pick up Ashlie at work so I rode 14 escalator for 7 floors in Marshal Field's before I found an entrance to the mall. She works at Gap Body, which is Gap's version of Victoria Secret. Ashlie, loyal to the Gap (and increasingly beginning to believe in the Gap the way My Big Fat Greek Wedding believed in Windex), she thinks Victoria Secret sucks. But a customer had given her a coupon for a free "very sexy panty" from Vicky's. So we redeemed the coupon for some kind of ... fabric... that what of it that was there was see through... awkward. Anyway, it was good that it was free, because it was about 2 cents worth of material. Then we stopped at H&M and got $5 wool gloves. H&M, you are so trendy and cheap... where would I be without you.

Then we met up with Ashlie's friends and rode the bus down to Millennium Park. Ride the Bus in Chicago... I dare you. On the way down we saw the practice run for the parade and the lighting of Michigan Ave. Which is better than the real thing, because there is no crowd. We skated for two hours and bumped into Billy Barton and Phil who I went to school with. It's kind of funny when two guys bump into each other at an ice skating place. "What are you doing here?" "Aaahh... Nothing" "What are you doing here?" Ice skaking is just like roller skating. Apparently, I can do both. In the future I play to be the old guy at the roller rink "roller dancing" in the middle with short shorts... but that's another story. It was soothing to get out of the office for a little while, breath in some fresh air, and see other people enjoying themselves. It was like this happy, giant, awkward dance with too many people on the floor. It was beautiful.

Anyway, then it all ended. All the lights went out, the music stopped, the tourist went back to there hotel and the four of us just sat up on the balcony by the giant bean at Millennium Park. Lake Michigan on one side and a surprizingly quite Chicago on the other. Good Times.

Monday, November 14th 2005

You know those days where you think about chucking it all and joining the military.

This is one of those days.

Kill IKEA vol 2

Last time on Kill IKEA vol 1...

I don't know what it is about IKEA. It is bright and shiney and the whole building shakes when you jump up and down on the floor. It is mystifying. And their low low prices... I mean forget about it. So I went to the Bollingbrook store to get my shelves, and surprise surprise... I couldn't get all the pieces I wanted. So I had to drive the extra hour to the Shaumburg store.

And then I saw bare chested women... but we'll get to that.

Now, everytime I go to IKEA I never know what is going to happen. Usually I learn something about life and the great questions of the universe. This trip I learned that I look like someone who works at IKEA. I don't know if I emanate some kind of wisdom vibe or if my aura is yellow and blue, but from the moment I walked in the door, I started to notice that other customers where staring at me. It looked like they wanted to come up and talk to me. I kept thinking I was running into people that I am suppose to know and couldn't remember their names. This happens a lot. But finally one couple worked up the courage to come and ask me, "Where can I get a small end table." My response was sad. "It is one floor up and next to the desks... but I don't work here." Then the flood gates opened.

This process repeated itself (I kid you not) at least ten times. The sad thing was I new where everything was. I even knew which bins items were in. But I would always tag my line "... but I don't work here." Like I thought they would tell their friends or something.

Then when I was done being a customer rep I saw something that made me uncomfortable, angry, and stupified all at once. I saw breasts. Not boobs. Breasts. I use the formal term and distinguish it because "they" (the breasts in question) where in the act of breast feeding. If you have ever been to IKEA you will know that along the central path of the store, there are little room modules set up so you can see the furniture in action. Some woman had just plopped down on a couch in the middle of the store and started breast feeding her child. No "cover up blanket" didn't try to hide anything. She was just "out there." I just wanted to walk up to her and say, "Excuse me, would you mind putting those things away, or there are blankets in that bin over there for $4. I'll buy you one if you use it." Women that breast feed are slightly distracting just because you know what is happening and it is a little gross. But at least find a place off the beaten path and cover up for God's sake if not mine. Why Why Why would you do that? I understand that the baby is hungry, buy why would you just open wide your shirt in the middle of a store and expose yourself. Of coarse this woman was sitting in the Mod I needed to look at to find the bin numbers for my selves... but I just left and found it by walking up and down the endless rows of bins. Gross.

........
Still Shivering.

Masquerade

Our family never celebrated Halloween. The first time I went "Trick or Treating" was when I was 22. Instead, my family always went to Chucky Cheese or Show Biz Pizza on Halloween with another family. And when I told this to my small group it was returned with the question, "So are you going to do that with your kids?" I'm not sure what to think anymore. Halloween used to be viewed as evil because it celebrated witches, ghouls, and goblins... things that are unmistakably symbols of evil. But I don't think that is true anymore. I think it may have turned into something worse.

In the early 80's Halloween was boycotted by lots of families, because the whole point of Halloween was to be as scary as possible. It was a time when houses got egged, "tricks" happened, and sick-o's were putting razor blades in the candy. Halloween was unabashedly a time were evil was celebrated. But thanks to the over commercialism of the 90's Halloween has been sanitized and the tomb whitewashed. Now, the child portion of Halloween is very safe and user friendly. Parents walk or drive their children to safe neighborhoods and to
houses of people they know and trust. In fact, a lot of trick or treating is done at business. But deeper than the candy in the bags, I believe Halloween has changed into a different species of the same genus.

Now the point of Halloween is not to scare, but to pretend. Halloween costumes now are not for people looking to scare others, but to be admired by others. Kids get to be who they really want to be. Little girls are princess; cheerleaders; Mrs Incredible and little boys are spiderman; jedi; Legolas. The costumes are now about heroes. Pro-skaters, Movie Characters, and most are not the villains. On the adult level this is true as well. And I do mean the "adult" level.

Every costume for adults is about being admired. Sexy Bar-wench, Sexy Snow White, Naughty Nurse, Bad School Girl, Sexy Pirate, Big Daddy Pimp, Knight, etc. The list of best costumes reads like a fetish magazine, and believe me the list is longer than the skirts. Halloween is not about being scary, it's about being sexy. The holiday itself changed into a giant masquerade ball. Everyone gets to wear a mask and each mask is a license to be someone you are not. What normally requires alcohol, requires only a slinky dress and some cat ears. What is normally taboo and pornography is just a costume and a party. Halloween is less reminiscent of the Adams Family and looks more like Mardi Gras. But it's not just the costumes. Halloween has become one of those Holiday's like Mardi Gras and Spring Break that communicate the message that you can dress up as someone else, go places you wouldn't normally go, and do things that normally you would regret because you are just playing a part. The part of someone who is cooler, sexier, and more fun than you really are.

So I'm faced with the dilemma. Would I let my kids celebrate? It doesn't seem Halloween is about witches and warlocks anymore, but I'm afraid it may have become something much more dangerous. Evil that looks cute with those shoes.

(Take your time with this one, I don't have kids yet, I suppose I should get a girlfriend first.)

Happy

If you ask any parent in America what they want for their children, they will of coarse say, "I want them to be happy." What are we doing to our children?

I started to see it in my generation and the people a few years younger than me. People were starting to be more and more insecure. As a whole our decisions were becoming more selfish and our relationships more shallow. But this next generation has got nothing on the Nintendo generation.

It just doesn't seem to compute. I'm still a very linear logic person. But this next generation isn't like that at all. It's not that they use circular logic or linear logic. It's doesn't matter that they don't make sense. It's not that they are stupid kids. They just don't care. It is a generation of instant gratification. They get what they want when they want it. There is no waiting, no saving up, no waiting till you're older, and there is absolutely no way to say "no."

I go to Wal-Mart and the woman next to me has a boy in the cart screaming, "Buy me a watch! You are going to buy me a watch!" This outright demanding goes on for a good five minutes. Mean while she keeps offering him half the store to appease him. And sure enough, she bargins with her child. "If I buy you a watch will you be happy and stop this?" His response, "You will buy me that watch." She does. And I wonder if she will ever learn, or will her boy grow up with things that will make him happy for about an hour before he tosses it aside. I'd hate to be his first wife, or his forth.

We are raising a generation that gets its money from its parents, its morals from Laguna Beach, and gets absolutely anything they want. A whole society with daddy's credit card and this fall's hottest fashions. Their hero's are Paris Hilton and Lindsey Lohan (God save us). And the worst part is that we are doing it to them. We are raising our kids to have everything that we didn't, and it is crippling them. You send the message that you need to take what you can when you can get it and then wonder why there are so many "hook ups" or one night stands or friends that just have sex with each other. You send the message that just do it now and clean the mess or pay the bill later and wonder why teens are having abortions and cleaning the mess with no moral quams about it.

We are crippling our children with candy bars and watches. We are trading good morals and good work ethic for a cute hat that will go out of style next week.

God save the Queen.

Just Drive Kid... Just Drive.

I fell in love with driving the way I fell in love with music. Its not that I've ever been exceptional at either, but there is something about driving the open road with the windows down and the music up. It's almost like poetry in motion. The sensation of the wind on your face, combined with the smells of the scenery, and flowing melody of the music (picked according to your mood) is a form of art that can't be displayed in any museum or gallery. The gallery is the world and the canvas is the road.

And just like my favorite songs, there are stretches of road that I return to. There a many roads to drive and each are different. Each has a different rhythm and meter and some take some unexpected turns, but there are just certain roads that hold that same feeling as the songs that never get old. Here are some of my favorites.
1. Route 23 when you descend into Ottawa and you can see the whole river valley.
2. The bridge across the Mississippi River outside Hannibal. The whole downtown is lit up at Christmas time and it looks like the whole hill side has stars on it.
3. The last stretch of Eldeman on my way back home.
4. Airport Rd. on the way to LCC. The road has more memories than it has gravel.
5. Skyline Drive across the Shenandoah River Valley... Breathtaking.

What is your favorite Road?

The Legend of the Coon-Bear

Disclaimer: Those with a heart condition should not read this blog.

Some say that the Coon-Bear is just a myth, an urban legend told around the campfire in mid-America to scare young boys. "Don't stray too far or the Coon-Bear might get ya..." Others claim it was invented to promote the carrying of firearms at all times. And some yahoo's up in Wisconsin think it is a government experiment gone terribly wrong. But the truth is much more disturbing. Few people have seen the Coon-Bear and lived to tell the tale. And none forget. This is there story.

Our story begins as every good scary campfire stories should, with a couple of young (good looking) guys packing up the car to go camping. You see there were four friends that had been separated after college. Two of them known as "The Brothers Hughes" because... they were brothers... and their last name was Hughes, lived near Indianapolis. Tyler and Adam were true blue and inseparable. Tyler was creative guy and what he lacked for in hair, he made up with personality. Adam who didn't inherit the Hughes receding hairline was a sharp looking kid who was one of those guys everyone liked because when he was in the room you never knew what was going to happen next.

The Brothers Hughes were driving north to the shores of the Great Lakes to meet up with there friends Nick and Lucas. Tyler had convinced them all to get together and record a podcast at a campsite near the Indiana Dunes. The four friends hadn't been united since college and they were looking forward to getting away for a little while. They had no idea what they might encounter. As Tyler and Adam pulled into the campground they were greeted by a rather sickly looking man running the gate and an elderly security guard strait out of a scooby-doo cartoon. As the gate man pushed his round glasses up on his nose he said in a shrill voice, "Yes, I believe your friends are expecting you at campsite 104." The security guard had a look on his face like he almost swallowed his own tongue, and had Tyler or Adam seen that look they might have understood better what followed.

Nick and Lucas had the tent set up by the time the brothers got to campsite 104. Nick and Lucas lived and worked in the Chicago-land area and just buzzed right over to the beach. Nick and Lucas were the Ying and Yang of their professions. Lucas was sarcastic and dry, the kind of guy that isn't afraid of anything but people that cry. Nick enjoyed dialoguing with anyone about anything (hence the cellphone attached to his head) and really had a soft spot in his heart for hurting people. The reunion of the four was heartfelt and exciting. In no time at all the four had prepared the campsite, acquired food, and were set up for a memorable night.

They recorded their podcast that evening. They laughed hard and talked about life. To this day you can hear their recording by downloading it. If you listen, you can almost hear how much fun they were having. But in the background there is another sound...

After they had eaten a hardy meal and sat around the campfire long into the night, they put all their garbage in one heavy duty bag and tied it to the table outside their tent. All the rest of the food was packed away... well almost all of it.

Just as they were closing their eyes in the tent. The four boys heard what would later be described as a something that sounded like a man wearing boots dragging a shovel. It was one of those sounds that make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and make you question your bravery. After what seemed like an eternity of fear, three of the four made preparations to investigate. Nick went back to his childhood assurances as he grabbed two flashlights. Adam did what he does best and started "dual welding" two hatchets. Lucas left with nothing else looked ridiculous in his union suit and boots clutching a yellow whiffleball bat. The three went to investigate. Tyler stayed. Whether he was too scared, or too tired know one ever found out.

The camp was still. Nothing was disturbed, but the bag of trash was gone. Not rummaged through, not opened, just ripped clean off the table it was tied too. And there... six feet into the tree line was the bag. Bait on the hook. Adam lumber off to get it with the swagger and sigh that accompanies a man who has been woken up and wants to return to his warm bed as soon as possible. He was two feet from the bag and reaching when his friends shouted. "Adam no!" Adam quickly recoiled and faster than a rattlesnake he was back out of the forest. Just peaking over the bag of trash was the head of a raccoon. But it was no coon. The 40 gallon trash bag barely hid the body of this creature. No one had told the boys about the Coon Bear, but if they had been told, they would have let the giant bandit keep the bag.

The three began shouting, shining light, and making advances toward the beast. The Coon Bear was unafraid but began to climb the nearest tree. It lumbered up the tree ready to pounce. Adam warily approached with his hatchets and grabbed the trash. The Coon Bear came down the tree matching Adam step by step as he backed away. The creature stood on its hind legs and glared at Adam as Adam locked the trash in the trunk of the car. It never broke its stare with Adam until all three of the boys were in the tent. It's funny how we believe a thin layer of nylon and a zipper will protect us and makes us feel safe.

It seemed like the boys had only shut their eyes for five minutes when the tent began to shake. They heard the child-like chatter of raccoons. A lot of them. It seemed to come from everywhere. There was a bag of jerky that didn't make it into the trash. We would like to think that was what the raccoons began to fight over, but that didn't explain why the tent was surrounded. Then the snarls came. Then the assault on the tent. The animals were possessed. They would wrestle and slam up against the tent. The snarls got worse and worse until... silence.

...

The boys arose with the sun... and Nick's alarm that sounded three times. Exhausted, but intact Tyler, Nick, and Lucas began to recap the night with phrases like "No, you were scared!" and "Can you believe that?!" "What did you think Adam?...Adam?" Adam was gone. His sleeping bag was not rummaged through and not torn... Adam was just gone. He was not in the tent. He was not by the fire. He was not at campsite 104.

When the park ranger got to site 104 it was deserted. The camp had been packed up and boys had left. No ones knows what happened after that. Their story is not told. It is assumed they returned to their lives, but I doubt they could forget that night. To this day you can listen to their podcast and hear their carefree banter. But some still say that if you listen closely you can still hear the child-like chatter coming from the woods.

Some still say you can hear the Coon Bear.

Newton's 3rd Law and why it Sucks

"For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction."

Although, Isaac Newton was a scientist, and the above statement is really intended for use in making physics equations as it relates to motion... I find it an astute observation about the universe. Of coarse Newton wasn't the only one to see it. Buddhists call it karma. Oprah calls it empowerment. Milton Bradley calls it Shutes and Ladders. I call it choice and consequence.

I've pretty much accepted this as a way of life. It goes back to my firm up bringing in modern/linear thinking. "If I make this choice, then the actions that follow are a result of that choice. Therefore, it's no ones fault but mine, and to move on I have to choose again." Every day is a list of decisions that will shape the future. If you wrong someone, it usually comes back to bite you. If you do good, usually you are blessed in return. Usually...

This system has a flaw. You see while Newton dealt with "The Universe" he was dealing with the laws of physics and nature. Things that do not change and that function the way God intended. People are different. There are a number of people on this earth that believe the rules do not apply to them. And they're screwing it up for the rest of us. I don't mean that they don't think the Pool Rules or the Class Rules or the Rules of the Law apply to them. I mean they think that in some why they can defy the laws that glue the very fabric of time together.

My brother right now is battling addiction. By battling I mean... we're battling his addiction. He doesn't see it. He doesn't see that his addiction has consequences. He truly believes that he can Forest Gump his way through life and expect his wife, his family, and friends to pick up the pieces. He doesn't get that his choices affect other people. And he is just selfish enough not to care. I've realized that my actions do have an equal and opposite reaction. I help him and he hurts me back. He hurts me and I help him. What that hell is that!?! He thinks he should have a good job, 2.5 children, a healthy marriage, a ministry, and a nice home, but he is not willing to choose any of it. He thinks he should be able to run himself into the ground and the world will just cough up all of that. I don't know what to do anymore.

On waiting...

I'm not quite sure what it is about waiting that makes it so painful. I'm sure that if new some kind of government secret, the kind that warrants James Bond having to go looking for missing scientists, that I could endure the torture chambers of any country on earth. I could be caned, burned, seered, poked, proded, beaten, and tenderized. But to get me to crack all they would have to do is give me a phone and put me on hold. In fact, I'm sure that if the Hitler would have had Kenny G playing in the background while a deep voice told you about the money you could save with a home loan, the war may have turned out differently.

I seem find myself waiting in alot of areas of my life right now. I'm not sure why I don't like it. Some people really enjoy it. "It's the antisipation!" They can't wait to see how it's all going to turn out. Usually these are the same people that look on the bright side of life and like going to the dentist because their teeth smell like bubble gum afterwards. For me its just a nagging. No, it's more than that. I imgaine that it is similar to the fear that sets in when one has alsheimers and enters those moments when they are unsure of who they are, where they are, how they got there, and wondering if it will be all right. It is stark terror mixed with utter despair, because it's out of your hands.

I wonder if it is just the notion of not being in control that scares me to death. To trust something to someone else. To trust someone else. To believe that someone will return your call, send you an e-mail, get that project done, memorize that music, not let you down, that somehow the great loving God of the universe will not let you slip through the cracks... that you're hard work will pay off, that she'll feel the same way eventually, that their intensions are good, that someday I'll find what I lost (thanks for finding my jacket Adam but now I lost my hat).

Not knowing is the worst feeling in the world. I would rather just win or lose. I would rather screw it up or make it right. But this waiting... its like life has put you on hold.

The Fair is a Veritable Smorgusbord- Orgusbord - Orgusbord

That's right. Last week was the Sandwich Fair. Where the crem' de la crem' of society come out to play and buy a deep-fried Snickers. Mullets and rattails as far as the eye can see. This has got to be one of my favorite things about summer. People actually say it's better than the state fair. Is it really? You'll just have to come find out. I have only been able to attend once the past six years, so I teamed up with a girl from my small group, Kimberly (don't call her Kim) and we single handedly tackled this orgy of fried foods and stuffed animal trophies.

We got our faces painted, ate a funnel cake (represent Super Dave), had a lemonade shake up, petted the llamas and camels, got bit by a goat, saw a 80 lbs pumpkin, rode the tilt-a-whiril and the visited the KKK sheep. For those of you city folk, when they shear the sheep they give them "sheep hoodies" to keep them warm. This looks awkwardly similar to Klan outfits... especially next to the burning crosses.

But my favorite fair activity has got to be the "mouse game." Don't tell PETA, but this has got to be the funniest thing I have ever seen. There is a game with a giant "wheel-of-fortune" style wheel that has different colors on it. On each slice of color there is a hole. Contestants bet on a color and the wheel is spun... fast. Then the carne smoothes his moustache and pulls out a little box. He drops the contents of this box into the middle of the wheel. The little white mouse hits the giant merry-go-round and instantly becomes dizzy. I'm honestly surprised every time that it doesn't just puke or go into little mouse seizures. After it works up the courage to move, it then stumbles to the nearest hole. If you bet on that hole, on that color, you win. But sometimes the wheel is going so fast the the little mouse is pretty much just flung to the outer edge by the centripetal force. Maybe it's cruel, but its funny every time.

(By the way, if you can name the movie that the title is from, I'll give you bonus points.)

No Grandma... Not the Scissors!

I'm still actually just shocked. I can't believe this actually happened but here it goes...

I just got my hair cut by Grandmother Time! I went to go get my hair cut and since the lady that normally cuts my hair wasn't around, I should have taken a hint and recognized a bad omen. So I causually just ask the reseptionist, "Have you got time for a walk-in?" She goes to check. She askes three different ladies if they would cut my hair. Most were leaving for the day and didn't have time. The receptionist seems a little flustered and a little hesitant. I don't really understand why, but I do now. She aproaches this little old lady sitting on a chair in the corner. I didn't even think this woman was a beautian. Being that she is "Wal-Mart greeter old" I figured she was there to get a weekly perm or something. When the girl from the counter askes her to cut my hair, you would have thought her grandchildren finally came to see her or something. She lights up like a Christmas Tree and tells me to come sit down. I'm pretty sure she is excited because she has been sitting there all day and I'm the first haircut she has given all week, if not all century. And as I pass the receptionist, out of the corner of my eye I imagined I saw her cringe.

I very patiently explain to Grandma that I just wanted to trim the sides and take about a half of an inch off the top. She seems to understand after I "speak up" and tell the whole salon. So, as she looks for all the tools she will need (rifling through drawers for five minutes) she emerges with the clippers. I'm instanly scared, because her hands are shaking. I'm not sure if it is just the excitement, the clippers, or the arthritis. She then proceeds to use the clippers to cut the sides of my hair... for twenty minutes. She spends ten minutes alone just trying to do the neck line. She just keeps cutting and cutting, then step back and take a look, and then cutting and cutting. So after what seemed like 6 years, she breaks out the scissors. I'm thinking, okay, this will be quicker, she only has to cut half an inch off. An inch and a half later, I'm pissed. I would be furious if I wasn't so scared.

Have you ever dropped a pen or something and instantly caught it with your wrist by slamming your arm up against the wall or desk, wedging the dropping item till you can recover it with your other hand? Of course you have. Would you ever do that with scissors? ON SOME ONE'S HEAD? Grandma drops the scissors TWICE and catches them with between her wrist and my head!!! I was in such a state of shock I didn't realize she cut my hair way too short. I was to busy trying to stay alive. I actually heard other people in the salon gasp when she dropped the scissors the first time.

Finally, she was done an hour after it started. I'm NOT exagerating. And what did it cost to have my life threatened and my hair butchered? $30. At least, if she was a Wal-Mart greeter she wouldn't have sharp objects.

Hey Who's Your Hot Date?!

The other night my Dad and I are sitting around bored out of our skulls. So we decided we will traverse the whole 2 blocks to the movie theatre WOW 7. Which stands for Weally Owesome Wovies in case you were wondering. I personally can't stand going to this theatre. They employ those whom we call "the chair Nazis." The actually have people that just wonder through the seven theatres making sure that you don't put your feet on the seat in front of you. You can talk through the movie, throw popcorn like you're trying to grow a field of it on the floor, you could probably make obscene shadow puppets at a Disney film showing, but if you put your feet on the seat you'll be booted out of the cinema so fast it will make your head spin. I don't know how these people sleep at night. That would be like being a night club bouncer and your sole responsibility was to keep out the rif-raf that tried to talk over the music. Surely you have better things to do. Anyway, I digress.

While in line to buy tickets I see a kid in the youth group named Eric. Eric is the little brother of a friend of mine that I went to youth group with. I turn to talk to Eric and just notice out of the corner of my eye a girl with him. I say, "What's up up man.." and I was going to continue on to say, "oh, you out on a hot date?" What can I say? I like to embarrass the kids in public any chance I get. But before those words passed my lips, I look to see who it is. It's his sister.

Patina is one of those girls that is fun to grow up with. She was fairly drama-free and usually had more fun hanging out with the guys than with the girls. Usually every group has one of these girls: the girl most of the other girls are uncomfortable around because they don't understand a girl that doesn't have hidden agendas with the boys she hangs out with. She was/is cool as all-get-out. I took her to prom my senior year of high school and she put Blue highlights in her hair to match her dress and my tux. Unfortunately, this reunion was slightly awkward, as most high school reunions are. At least when they are an organized event there is plenty of alcohol to cushion the blow. She didn't really blame me for not recognizing her right away. She claims that when her and Eric go out together his friends always say things like, "Hey Eric, your date is hot!" I remembered Patina in jeans with black fingernail polish and short spiky hair. Now her hair is long, her nails are manicured, and her favorite color is pink. She is no longer one of the guys, but quite feminine. We exchanged the uneasy banter of people that haven't seen each other in forever and live only a short distance apart. I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was that made it so weird.

Granted, these appearances of old classmates and friends is becoming almost a weekly phenomenon. But mostly they are awkward because I didn't really fit in during high school and don't really care to see these people again. But I was glad to see Patina, but I somehow we couldn't shake this semi-thick cushion of apprehensiveness. We exchanged numbers and decided we would have coffee on Sunday. I don't really drink coffee, but it's still fun to say.

Come to find out through talking for a good four hours at Panera (the best place on Earth), she thought the reason I didn't talk to her any more was because she stopped going to church. Truthfully, the reason I didn't talk to her any more is that I just liked college and didn't go home much. So naturally I lost touch. I feel like I'm in some kind of 12 step program where you have to find everyone you ever knew and rehash things. We have now dispelled the awkwardness and are resuming our friendship. Ah, Happy Ending?

I curious to see who I'm going run into next.

Yeah, I go to Harvard...

There are many tales to be told about the wedding of Jeff Peterson in Manchester, New Hampshire. Tales of adventure, anguish, airplanes, adversity, and alteration. But perhaps the greatest story told about our weekend in "The Shire" is what happened after the wedding.

On this gloomy Sunday afternoon, after driving home the fact that I have no sense of direction by getting us lost for 40 minutes trying to drive to a mall 1 mile away, Eric and I have decided that what we really need to do is travel into the City of Boston, to the region of Cambridge and the University of Harvard, capture a student and rub ourselves all over this lucky undergrad hoping that we, through osmosis or infection, might gain some of their superior wisdom. And if we can't accomplish the rubbing... we wanted to tackle a squirrel and dress it up in a cap and gown "even the squirrels here are superior."

So, because I can't traverse 1 mile without getting lost and Harvard is many miles away, we employed the help of our friend Lindy Nardoni. Armed only with her "boy cut" hair, my "boot cut" jeans, and Eric's "boot camp" experience we traveled to Harvard. We asked Lindy to come assuming that because she lives only 1 half hour away from Boston she would know how to get there and where to go while there. We were wrong. We discovered this when after about 30 minutes on the road I asked, "So what exit am I looking for?" She replied, "How should I know." As this comment resonated in my ear mixing with the sound of rain starting to fall outside, I knew this was going to be an "interesting trip."

We stole about $6 dollars worth of toll change from Jeff's pirate stash of coin in his car. We rode the train into Boston and emerged in Harvard Square. They didn't know it, but I had a secret agenda. I knew that short of rubbing on Harvard students, the best way to appear that you belonged at Harvard was either to transform into a Hippie that could speak for hours protesting a war that I would never fight in because I love the sound of my own voice and I can't leave my Daddy's credit cards behind.... or get a really obnoctious Harvard T-shirt. We got T-shirts. Thanks to my uncanny powers at "synergy" we all got the same T-shirt.

So after walking around Harvard like lost puppies, watching Eric pose like Captian Morgan, and being completely soaked because it rained the whole time, we rode the train home. Being soaked, we all changed into our newly acquired Smart Shirts and adopted new names. I was Guenther, Eric was Chet, and Lindy was Podimer Taylor. "Shut Up Chet" This is how we dined at On The Border. After the hostess realized Lindy was a girl we were all seated and proceeded to annoy everyone around us, laughing so hard I had a sore throat the next day. The subjects of discussion revolved around the fun fact that the hostess mistook Lindy for a guy, girls we were going set Lindy up with, my breasts, Eric's breasts, and of coarse Lindy's breasts. We never broke character and acted like pompous know-it-all's the whole time which added to the fun. In fact, Eric was so thrilled with it he is going to take the game to a whole new level when he goes back to school at ISU in the fall. He will wear his Harvard shirt with pride and lie through his teeth this semester.

"Yeah, I go to Harvard... I just transferred cause it was too easy. Shut Up Chet!"

A Series of Short Stories

Story #1
Title = Happy Birthday... I Hope You Like Crap

So my buddy Eric is in town this week doing his Army Reserve duties. Sunday was his birthday, and so being his only friend in the vicinity, I set out to take him out for his big day. We set out for lunch, Best Buy, a movie, dinner, and a good ole' game of catch. What happened was I lost/left behind my wallet twice and after the movie we realized that Eric had lost his keys. So we spent the next four hours driving around, retracing our steps. They ended up being at Best Buy, but it was closed. My parents of coarse made fun of us. The next morning my mother woke me out of a dead sleep because she had to go to work and couldn't find her keys. I immediately told her to call Dad to see if he knew where they were. This idea, of coarse, was ludicrous to her. Well... you know where this is going. We search for a good hour until she called my Dad and he knew exactly where they were... his pocket. The irony was only made thicker when I said to my mom, "You need a hide-a-key on your car." My mother outraged at the idea that there was something convenient in this world she did not own, retorted, "I have a hide-a-key Lucas..." Dead Silence. She had a hide-a-key this whole time.

Story #2
Title = Is That Even Possible

People sometimes question the use of cell phones. Most people are so annoying that they can't even walk and talk at the same time. They are actually passing laws now that you can't drive and talk on your cell phone unless it is a hands free headset. However, today as I pulled up to an intersection I was stupified. There was a man riding a Harley talking on a cell phone. Not a headset, but actually had one hand on the bike and was hold his cell phone up to his ear. I can't hardly talk to someone clearly on a windy day, or with my windows rolled down, let alone riding on one of the loudest motorcycles on God's green earth. Then I'm wondering how he actually steers the bike, and uses the throttle, and uses the clutch. People wonder if cell phones in the hands of stupid people are dangerous... now we know.

Story #3
Title = I Must Be Gay

So I went to get measured for a tuxedo at Men's Warehouse in Naperville. I would assume they would know me by name at this point. Jeff's wedding is the fifth that I've rented from Men's Warehouse. So I go in and endure the drill. I actually know my sizes, but they want to measure just in case I hit a growth spurt at 24. The old codger that is suppose to measure me goes outside for a cigarette. He yells to someone in the back room if they would get me started on my information. A brunette about 5'3'' and smoking hot comes out with a clip board. In the Naperville area this is not a rare occurrence. Most of the population is 20-30 and good looking. Which is why I live in Plano... the competition isn't as steep. So I begin to give her my measurements and she smiles and nods. At first I assume she is acknowleging that the measurements I am giving are correct, but as we continue she starts to make small noises and comments indicating that she is "approving" of my measurements. I felt slightly violated, but just slightly. This continues until she is entering me into the computer. She sees I have been there before and asks if any of these weddings were mine. I reply no. She approves. We talk for about five more minutes as she holds my receipt. Finally, I just said, "uh... can I have my receipt." "Oh, yeah... sorry." I leave. She waves goodbye and gives the faminine "bye (giggle)." I was dumbfounded. I was trying so hard not to be the creepy guy that hits on the girl behind the counter. I have lost my nerve. But I still have my num-chuck skills.

Say it in 6

It's a Revolution!

What if you showed up on Sunday morning and the preacher got up to bring the word... you prepare yourself for a funny introduction, 3 points interspersed between some not so funny jokes, and finished up with challenge to let Christ work in your heart... but instead, he sat down after 6 minutes?

I'm reading this book entitled "Say it in Six." It's a book aimed at corporate America and CEO's. The premise is that we waste a lot of time saying nothing when every word we choose should communicate our purpose. Every sentence should be thought provoking and heart felt, every idea should be relevant, and every solution practical. Basically, in a meeting some one stands up and says, "Here is the problem, This is the solution, This is a visual to help you understand and remember, Now lets make this happen!"

What if we preached like that? Here is a problem Christians are facing, This is what the Bible says about it, Here is a everyday visual representation of the solution, Now lets make this happen! And then sit down. Every word is chosen carefully. No Fluff. Visual Guides. And something practical like: You need to find your spiritual gifts so now we will fill out a gift inventory packet. Turn it in on your way out and next week we will find you a place to serve.

At six minute sermons or even 18 minute sermons (six minutes per point) we would have time. Time for worship. Time for singing. Time for scripture reading. Time for drama. Time for quiet. Time.

It think it might freak people out. But I want to try it some Sunday. Just preach six minutes and sit down. I wonder what they'll say?

It's my gift... It's my curse

Paul Moore: It must be nice to always believe you know better, to always think you're the smartest person in the room.

Jane Craig: No. It's awful. ~ Broadcast News

I have been blessed with what is called (in the Christian circles) the gift of "discernment" or "prophecy." Does this mean I am tearing my robes in the streets or seeing burning bushes? Absolutely not. Those wonderfully mystic sounding words, just mean I have a heightened sense of people. This is a strange gift to give a man who think most people are really ridiculous. Or maybe it's the cause...

Anyway, I just find it frustrating when you know people or meet people who are so transparent and so obviously... what's the phrase I'm looking for... in need of "help." Call it profiling, stereotyping, call it anything you want. Usually, I can meet a person for about an hour and tell them things about themselves that are very true and sometimes too true. Most of the time I try to give them the benefit of the doubt and just file away my assumptions under the "be careful" heading. But other times I just wish I could help them by telling them the truth!

Do you know what I'm talking about? Do you know these people? There are a group of girls at our church in 5th grade. You see them coming and you know they are trouble. They are the girls that someone should pull them aside before they ever hit Jr. High and tell them, "Look honey, it's your choice. You have the potential to be a strong, beautiful, smart leader that people will respect... or a very very popular slut. Choose wisely."

Or the people user. The guy you want to pull aside and say, "Look man, you could be a cool friend, but no one wants to hang out with you because you suck people dry emotionally and you never pick up the tab at lunch. Take control of your life and invest in other people."

Or that poor high school boy. "Hey, I know she's cute. You know she's cute. SHE knows she's cute. Try not throw your entire heart away on a girl that's using you. We are all routing for you to not get her pregnant. Choose wisely."

And of coarse, my personal favorite. The girl that thinks she needs a man she can fix. It's the same thing every time. "Yeah, it was a little scary, but he'd never hit me. I know that no one else in my life thinks he is a nice guy, but they just don't know him like I do. No, I don't think he is controlling, but I can't hang out tonight, he doesn't like it when I'm out with my friends and he's not there." Oh my Gosh! Here we go, "Honey, you are four months away from becoming a battered wife. Sure he is good looking. Yes, you probably went to far physically and you don't want to waste that on a man who won't be your husband. But you deserve better than that. You are beautiful, don't settle for a man who tries to convince you that you are lucky to be with him. Do you really want to spend the next ten years of your life saying, 'oh baby, daddy really does love mommy, so times daddy just drinks too much and is upset at mommy. So please don't tell your teacher at school what daddy does to mommy.' Choose wisely."

Things I'd Rather Not Know From Animal Planet

Just to disturb you.

The Lion King was a box office hit and personally, one of my favorite animated feature films. It is brilliant. A pig and a mir cat are friends... who comes up with this stuff? Of coarse, Disney spared no expense in making this movie. They actually brought live lions into the cartoonist's studio so they could make the movements and look of the animals as realistic as possible. And as for the characters... they consulted with zoologist to determine animal behavior.

Now, I learned from Animal Planet what Disney didn't tell us. For instance, in a pride (group) of lions, there is always only one full grown male. The strongest survives and claims the females. Each pride has mulitple females. They do all the hunting. This, of coarse, explains the plot of the movie. Mufasa (Dad Lion) fights with Scar (brother) for control of the pride at first. And at the end Simba (son) must fight Scar for control of the pride. But this also reveals some very disturbing things.

1. Simba's love interest (Nala) is the daughter of one of the female lions of the pride. But there is only one male. So Mufasa is the father of all children in the pride. Simba likes his sister. Gross.
2. It doesn't matter if Simba likes his sister Nala, because the Alpha Male of the Pride mates with all members of the pride. So Simba will not only mate with his love interest, but fights Scar to mate with his own mother and Nala's mother.
3. This also brings to light that while Simba is away singing with the pig and the cat, Scar is mating with the females.
4. The females of the pack hunt so it explains why Mufasa has so much time on his hands to teach Simba Buddhism and why Simba, Mufasa, and Scar are all Deadbeat Dads.
5. And finally, the principle remains that "there can be only one male." So if Mufasa hadn't been killed and had raised Simba. He would eventually have to kill Simba, have Simba kill him, or banish him from the pride anyway.

Ah, the Circle of Life!

I just want to spank them... is that wrong?

I know now that I'm not ready for a family yet. I'm sitting in Panera, and literally have chills running down my spine when the two year old boy next to me shrieks when he doesn't get his way. The two mothers having lunch are used to traveling with the seven children present and ignore the screeching child and his older brother who is tormenting him. I however cannot ignore the sound that is so piercing that it sends chills down my spine.

Who brings seven children to Parera Bread Co? You take kids to McDonalds, get them happy meals, and let them play outside (in the street in some cases). You don't bring them to a restaurant that is $6 or $7 dollars a person, doesn't have anything for them to do, and there isn't even a kids menu. If any place wants to send the message Kids Not Encouraged, it would be to not even have a kids menu.

It's not that I don't like children. I don't like children that I can't spank. Granted my parents only had two children and this women had at least 3 or 4 of her own, but if I behaved half as badly as the kids sitting next to me I would have been pulled into the bathroom and spanked. There was no shrieking, there was no tormenting each other, and we had a whole different set of manners we had to use in a restaurant. I used to have to approach my parents and wait silently till they were done talking, say,"Excuse me. May I speak?" Then I could ask a question. Depending on the question, I may have peed my pants by the time I got their attention. That was at Pizza Hut.

I don't want to be one of those people that claims, "My kids would never do that..." Because my kids will misbehave. But I will say this. My kid would only shriek like that once... ONCE!

... Could you take the "suck" out of my monitor...

It was just one of those Sundays. Everything is fine. And then all Hell breaks loose.

I have a guy that runs "the booth" for me. He is our program director. He stands in the back with the sound guy, media shout guy, and lighting guy and makes sure they are on target. He was on vacation this Sunday. So I probably played my guitar about 2 full minutes on stage while the sound guy talked to one of his fishing buddies no where near the sound booth. Finally, one of the other guys in the church that runs the board gets up and turns me on. The sound technician doesn't take this as a hint that he should get to his station. He thinks, "Oh, Scott got it." and went back to talking. This was okay till my mic didn't work. I wasn't mad... just shocked.

First service went okay as soon as everything was actually turned on. Second service for some reason was just painful. Have you ever been on a worship team, or lead worship at a service and after about the first song you just wanted to crawl into a hole and die? It was my own fault. I turned the bass amp just a little. This made all the difference in the world. The Bass in the microphones created feedback that would not go away without shutting off the mics. So here we are trying to teach a new song and we have either no mics, or GINORMOUS feedback. Because of the tech problems, the praise team isn't concentrating and we are messing up the songs. Of coarse, it isn't nearly as bad for the audience as it is for the worship team, but I seriously contemplated just stopping after the second song. I had two more to go, but I thought about just stopping and moving right to the sermon. I was so mad and embarrassed. I finished and to my surprize when I looked out into the congregation, they were worshiping. I couldn't believe it! I wasn't worshiping. I was getting my head split open from feedback. Oh well, here's to God moving even if I suck.

Come Back To Bite You...

I don't remember getting caught. Last night at small group, we were discussing and recalling instances where we were caught doing something we weren't suppose to be doing. The topic was actually about "bad things catching up to you." A few people shared some pranks they tried, others told about the wilder side of life. All were caught by their parent's super powers. The same super powers most parents are endowed at their child's conception. The powers of deduction that are exhibited when your mother knows something you did which had no witnesses, and your father's x-ray vision. You know, the ability to see through B.S. As I listen to these recountings, I couldn't help but have this grin on my face the whole time. It is the same grin my father and brother use when they are bluffing at cards. For some reason every time us Motley's are up to something the left corner of our mouths can't keep the secret.

Lots of people had stories about getting caught, but in my mind I kept going from great story to great story... but they weren't about getting caught. I scanned my childhood, teen years, and college. The only time I remember being caught doing something was when Tyler and I turned ourselves in for stealing President Ray's Moses bust. And even then, we weren't caught. We turned ourselves in out of guilt, not of the crime, but that one of our professors who we respected was upset by the prank. We could have got away with it, no problem. Most of my early life I did exactly what I was suppose to do. So by the time I reached Jr High my parents trusted my so implicitly that I didn't have a curfew and they never grilled me about what I did. They just assumed I was behaving myself. So I sat in group smiling, thinking how funny it was that they were caught, but I was too good to get caught.

But the sad realization came after group. On the way home I got a call from someone I haven't talked to in about a year. I checked my voicemail and this girl left me a message that said something like, "Hey, I'm calling to get (friends) phone number. I know you don't want to talk to me, because you never return my phone calls, and you probably hate me, but could you call me back and give me this number..." and that's as far as I got. I deleted the message. I'm not going to call her back. How did she get my new number? How dare she call me just to be spiteful! She could have called any number of people for that friend's phone number. And the reason I don't ever call her back is she is always spiteful and mean to me when I do talk to her.

But it is because my freshman year of college, she liked me and rather than being a real friend and talking about it... I blew her off. Yeah, things catch up to you. And being that I could be very cruel and selfish in college when I wanted to be, I'm starting to fell the ramifications of that. I used to not care. But as I have be trying these past two years to be a better man, it hurts to think of all the people I hurt, and who I used to be when I was hurting them. And as much as I would like to decieve myself, the reason I'm not going to call her back is not that she is mean, it is because I don't want to look at who I was when I was with her. I would have rather been caught pulling a prank. I could face that. I'm not smiling anymore.

Checking in

Sorry I haven't posted in like a week. I've been doing major construction on my blog. But I think everything works now. I've also been working on Jeff Nardoni's blog. So my creative juices have been wasted on writting code. But it's fun. I just wanted to check in because now Lindy has me paranoid that I'm going to drop a spot on everyone's blog lists. More to come.

The Rest of The Story

So I was playing Disc Golf with Nick the other day... we were talking about our blogs and I was telling him the background behind this past entry. He told me I should have told the whole story about the dressing room attendant. He is so focused on relationships, while I just want to complain about my pants... but here it goes.

So I was in Hollister looking for clothes with ear plugs and a flashlight when I heard a certain song coming over the stereo. I recognized it, but couldn't place the band or song title. I had heard it two days before and couldn't get it out of my head. So by this point it was maddening. So I exited the store and proceeded to American Eagle on my quest to find pants.

After trying on a few things, I finally found these great pants. I took them back to the dressing rooms and the cute girl who was the attendant unlocked a room for me. She was very sweet and seemed to be a very nice girl. I was just getting undressed when that stupid song came over the stereo. I threw my pants back on and stumbled out of my dressing room in a panic. I found the dressing room girl and as if I was talking to a 911 operator said, "Quick! I'm not crazy, but I have to know who sings this song! It's been in my head for three days and I've heard it 4 times today! I have to know!" She was half amused and half alarmed when she said, "Okay, I know what you mean." She winced like she was cutting the blue wire, "I don't know who sings this, (I sigh) but I'll watch to see." She pointed to a giant TV behind me which was playing the music video to the song.

Now realizing how ridiculous this was and wondering how I had missed the giant TV on the wall, I back tracked, "Oh, sorry... I didn't see... well didn't realize... wow that's convenient... well, you don't have to bother, I'll watch it. " She replied, "Are you sure?" "Yeah I'm okay," I said. So I stood there and watched the rest of the video. Unfortunately, her station was... there. So we just stood in silence waiting for the video to end. It did. The band is Gratitude. The song is Drive Away. So I back up into the dressing rooms, "It's Gratitude... the band." She gives me a "isn't he special" smile. So I disappear for about 30 seconds and have to return to her because while I had run out to here the song I locked the dressing room door behind me. Once in the dressing room I realized the pants I liked where button fly and shouted out loud, "ah, I hate you pants!" Then I heard her laugh and realized I said it out loud.

So I got back into my own clothes, as this whole episode happen while wearing the clothes I was trying on. I exited the dressing room and tried to avoid "her." She stops me and says, "So did everything work out okay?" Trust me at this point I would have bought half the store just to get out of there. I told her that the pants fit great and tried one more time to explain that I wasn't crazy, but it came out, "yeah the pants are great... I'm sorry about the thing... I didn't mean to... I'm not really that nuts... I... I'm going to go buy this jeans... thanks for... uh... yeah."

and that's the rest of the story.

D*** You Button Fly!

This one's for the boys.

Do you remember back to about second or third grade? I remember going into the boys bathroom and dropping my pants down around my ankles to pee at the urinal. Then I learned that big boys only open the pants but don't drop them. And as I have grown in wisdom these past 24 years, I have perfected the art of just unzipping the fly and peeing with as little exposure as possible. This is, in fact, good bathroom etiquette in the men's room.

But I must admit, I'm at a loss when it comes to the button fly. I don't understand it. It boggles my mind that someone thinks that oversized buttons are better than zippers. I admit, there are occasions for buttons. The crotch is never one of them. But lately, every time I pick up a pair of jeans that I like... sure enough, they're button fly. It's actually made it onto my top ten list of things that annoy me. And that's saying something.

It's just a ridiculous concept. I'm afraid to go out in public in my jeans. What if I have to pee?! I went to the movies the other night and as soon as the movie was over, I had to empty the two Mountain Dews I drank. So I proceed to the crowded bathroom and tried to undo the gargantuan pinball bumpers that are keeping my pants in the appropriate position. I would have had better luck with a combination lock. I started to get angry at my pants . It's always embarrassing to be fussing with your pants in public and yelling at your groin, "come on you stupid..." You can't maneuver your hands right to just open the middle buttons. So with my pants bolted down, I proceeded to unbutton from the top down. I might as well just dropped them down to my ankles.

And once again, yesterday I found myself in the dressing room. I had found the perfect pair of pants. I got them back to the dressing room and a small piece of me died in that dressing room. On the inside I screamed, "Noooooooooo, D*** You Button Fly!" And actually, audibly said, "Crap! I hate you jeans!" This made for interesting small talk between myself and the dressing room attendant. Did you know that the more you try to explain that you aren't crazy... the crazier you sound? I now know that. And knowing is half the battle.

Oh Yeah... I remember now... I'm not cool.

So I've become a bit more metro-sexual since I moved back near the city. My new look is the suit jacket with the jeans. Of coarse if the "suit jacket me" met the "punk rock me" back in high school I'm pretty sure I'd kick my A$$, just on principle.

So, a few weeks ago I went to dinner with my friends Eric and Bivens. We were exiting Red Robin with our stomachs filled with burgers and strawberry lemonade (mmmm) when in one deft motion I nodded goodbye to the cute girl at the door, eased the door open with my foot, and put on my sunglasses without breaking stride. Eric, being the smart-elict we all have come to love, says to me, "Wow... Luke... you are almost too cool." This has since become a running gag that every time I do... well... anything Eric says, "He's so cool." Coupled with the fact that usually I have quite a large libido (ego) and my regular walk has been deemed a "strut" I can never escape the accusation.

Ah, but then reality sets in. You see, I can nod at girls all day long. I can wear cool clothes and do cool things as long as you are about fifty yards from me and don't speak. The other day I talked to a girl on the phone and was vividly reminded that "cool Luke" may be an alter ego. This girl called and I was 16 again. I would make jokes that really didn't make sense unless you could see the facial gestures and hand movements that go with them (and I thank God she didn't see them). It was one of those conversations that words just come out and you think "oh crap, did I just say that." I have no game. I have no skills. I was asked recently for relationship advice by a friend and when I told them they should ask someone else because I couldn't seem to hold a relationship they replied, "I know, but your theories are sound... you know... those who can't do teach." Today's lesson was brought to you by the number 12 and the letters "F" and "U".

I can be confident as all get out, but when it comes to this girl it feels like when your playing basketball and you mean to go right or fake right and go left, no fake right then left and fake left again, then do a spin move... but all you really do is make a weird face, jiggle your shoulders and fall down.

So I hung up the phone and just realized, "Oh yeah... I remember now... I'm not cool."

Already Sick of Summer

I really need a hobbie for the summer. In the past I enjoyed the summer sun by cutting wood, mowing grass, or going to the drive-in with my friends. I never remember having to find things to do as I was usually working two jobs and doing chores in the summer. Now its different. I get off work and since I don't mow the grass, have another job, or do chores... I find myself needing an outdoor hobbie.

I'm looking for a new adventure. I love snowboarding and now being so close to Wilmont, Cascade, and Wasaw I have no doubt that I will be plenty busy this winter. But what about the summer? Is there something to do in the summer that is exciting? Do I need a motorcycle? Should I join a league? Play softball? I'm already sick of summer. Bring on the snow.

Unions and Reunions

At this point I am sure that the act of marriage produces a euphoric pheromone that has many of the same effects as alcohol or LSD. Jason got married Saturday and I feel like I just came off an acid trip or like it was all just one long drunken stupor. The whole process feels like a dream and yet I know it happened. I remember being happy and sad and worried and I think their was cake...

It's just such a mix of things going on. Like I was happy to see Mikey but was disappointed cause I remembered I missed his and Courtney's wedding cause I was in MO. I saw Tom and Jennifer, Neil and Amy, Kyle Wolf, Derek Reid, and I was really glad to see them but I missed them and realized I'm terrible at keeping up with old friends. I also realized I know a lot of people.

Its so much to take in. When you catch up with people there are relatives that have died, career changes, relationship drama, and the whole time I'm just hoping that I don't screw up someone else's big day. One weekend feels like a year with old friends. One person in particular I really wanted to catch up with... but we said like 5 words to each other.

It is just a very surreal experience. If I ever get married I think I'm going to elope. Then I can remind myself that it wasn't a dream by waking up next to the woman I love.... and having "the sex."

That sick feeling in your stomach

I almost had two anxiety attacks past week. One was from playing Doom 3 on X-box. I nearly had a heart attack at one point. It may be the most scary game I've ever played. There are just too many dark corners.

The second was a long time coming. I've been praying for the past year and a half for something that was missing in my life. I have always prided myself on having the ability to objectify anything. I can take myself out of something personally and talk about it like its just business. I have also developed some pretty thick skin. If someone said something hurtful to me rather than be hurt, I would just hurt them right back but take it up a notch to tell them to back off. I know just what buttons to push. On my personality test I scored 39 out of 100 on Mercy and Sensitivity. So I began praying for God to make me more "in touch with my feelings." unfortunately, God answers prayers.

I never realized how many feelings I would never allow myself to experience because they feel so crappy. I mean there are some great feelings out there, but it seems that some of them are almost unbearable. This is really scary for me. Over one year, I went from being a calloused A-hole, to feeling things very deeply.

The other night I watched the movie "The Notebook" with my parents. This is one of the best movies I've ever seen. And in the movie there was at least three points that were just heart wrenching. It was a freaking movie but I felt such deep emotion that my heart hurt and I started to cry. The logical side kicked in and I told myself, "It is stupid to cry over a movie" and "You don't want your parents to see you cry." like it is some kind of weakness. So I choked it down three times. By the third time I wanted to throw up, because now it hurts when it used to be very easy to just not feel it.

It's kind of a catch 22. I use the example (not that I'm bitter) but Molly was helping me and encouraging me to feel more, but at the same time she was used to me not being hurt by comments. So we would joke and she would say something that hurt my feelings and I would say to myself, "Why in the world would I want to feel this?" But then when I held Macy (friend's newborn baby) I loved that feeling. So it just sucks, but not.

The Teacher...

I have just read Tyler's blog post that is about cursive writing and oppressive teachers. I started to comment, but then had an epiphany and had to write a blog in response to the post.

As I started to think back on my teachers, I realized something weird and disturbing. I don't know if I was just lucky, or if I was just that nerdy. I loved my teachers. Well, not Mr. Stoyak. But I have had crush after crush on my teachers.

1st grade -- Mrs. Sparks would have us line up at the door everyday before we went home. On the way out the door she would whisper in each child's ear something encouraging, give us a hug, and have us kiss her on the check. I was in love. It broke my heart in 2nd grade to see those stupid 1st graders lining up at the door.

3rd-5th -- Mrs. Kelly was our music teacher. I was not in choir because I enjoyed singing "Under the Sea." She was the first person to teach me to sit quietly while the music of great composers washed over me. She would ruffle my hair when I did something right. Then I moved to Plano and my music teacher was a hag who made us listen to "Purple People Eater."

High School -- Mrs. Perini was our media arts teacher. She was hot, wore ripped jeans to school, and was a lot of fun. She helped with the senior play and in between performances the cast was partying and Mrs. Perini danced on top of one of the desks. Wow!

High School -- Mrs. Murray. Jeff and I signed up for Term Paper class. She would try to get the boys in the class to work harder by being flirtaceous and cute. I was in love, but still didn't work very hard because the class was easy.

College -- Holly (Kurka) Zehr. She made me reconsider poetry. She was my IDS section leader. She could give me a "C" on my paper, but write such nice things in the margin I didn't mind the poor grade. If she had not become Mrs. Zehr I would have stayed in college longer.

I miss school. What is wrong with me?

I think I just wet my pants

Yesterday was Mother's Day. I'm glad everyone had fun at their nice little dinners and tea times. We (Josh, Christy, Dad, Mom, me) packed up the car and went to Six Flags Great America. All I can say about this experience is "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

If you ever wonder when the best day to go to Six Flags is, it's Mother's Day. The longest we had to wait in line was 10 minutes at Super Man. We practically had the whole park to ourselves. This, like everything in life, had it's good and bad points. Given that we could walk on every ride we took advantage of this right off the bat. We rode Superman, Batman, V2, and Iron Wolf before we realized we were all about to throw up. Riding 4 coasters in under 40 minutes is not advisable.

So we started taking it easy and pretending to stand in line. We would sit down outside a ride for 20 minutes, then ride it. We also rode some tame rides like: the log ride, SPLASH WATER FALLS, and the fudge shop. Needless to say, we were done with the whole park in about 3 hours.

Probably the best part of my day was when we first arrived at Six Flags, we all went to use the restroom. I walked up to an open urinal and... uh... proceeded. My dad came up to the urinal next to me and lets out a rather loud, "AAaaaaaaahhhhhhhh." All ten men in the bathroom turn to look and then immediately exit. I'm trying really hard to control my laughter so I don't pee all over the wall. My dad looks at me, shrugs his shoulders and says, "What?!?" It then occurred to me that he didn't have his hearing aids in and probably doesn't know how loud he "Ahhh"ed. Poor guy.

Happy Mother's Day

diagram

The Professional Groomsman Secrets

HOW TO MAKE AN EMERGENCY RING
You will need the foil wrapper from a stick of chewing gum and a piece of tape. For a man's ring, use an entire wrapper; for a woman's ring, use a wrapper that has been cut in half lengthwise.

1. Remove the gum from the foil wrapper. Discard or chew the gum.
2. Smooth the foil on a flat surface. Flatten all wrinkles and folds.
3. Refold the wrapper lengthwise. Follow the existing crease lines and fold each of the longer sides up to meet in the middle, leaving the short ends unfolded.
4. Fold the wrapper in half lengthwise. The seams will be hidden in the middle.
5. Fold one end into a point.
6. Insert the point into the fold.
7. Fit the strip around your finger in the shape of a ring. Size the ring to a comfortable fit.
8. Secure the ring with a small piece of tape.

BE AWAREIf a gum wrapper is not available, or if you prefer a different color ring, you can use paper money. Select foreign currencies for a more dramatic palate. Other options (cut to fit) include candy bar wrappers, aluminum foil, writing paper, or bank checks.

Just like your Father...

It's funny what can turn your world upside-down.

The 70's were a strange time, but even stranger is the tale I'm going to tell. My father went to Lincoln Christian College to study to be a minister when he was 18. My mother as well, attended LCC... her major was "undeclared." My mother was of coarse a socialite on campus while my dad lived a disciplined life of study and playing on the basketball team (he was an All-American). As chance happened, one night during one of my Dad's ball games, he noticed my mom in the stands. He was actually playing in the game, so he waited till he got benched and asked one of his friends (the team water boy) to go and ask my mom if she would like to go out after the game.

Her reply was, "He can come ask me himself." So after the game was over, my dad humbly walked over and asked her in front of most of the people still in the stands if she would like to go out that night. Her reply (after she made him come and ask her himself) was, "No... I have plans tonight... but I would like you to ask me again some other night." Thus, was the beginning of my father's frustrations.

Trust me when I say that she made him chase her, but once she was caught... as much as my free-spirited mother could be... she actually left college to get a full-time job to support my Dad in school as he pursued his career in the ministry. She has since worked as a legal secretary, while being a house wife, and raising two rather unusual boys.

(Fast Forward 30 years)

My father's world has been turned upside down. My mother just got a job (no college degree) as the Vice-President C.O.O. of a company. She now makes, what is to our family, an obscene amount of money. She works longer hours and has almost given up fixing meals... except on holidays. My dad's not taking this very well. For 30 years he has gone to hospitals, counseling appointments, funerals, and other various job related things and mom has waited at home for him with the kids. But the kids are grown now. Mom isn't waiting when Dad gets home. Sometimes she doesn't get home till late.

This changes who my Dad is. He is not the bread winner. He is not the person with the most important job. She doesn't "need" him anymore. She has something to be excited about that is not church (Dad's job) and not her family (Dad). These are things that are the fundamental make-ups of what Dad views as being a father and a good husband. Because my mom has a new job, my dad's whole role has changed. He doesn't know who he is. He's lonely, jealous, and a little bitter. He is starting to adjust, because he loves my mother... and love means you stay and work it out. It is just painful to watch, because my father is a great father and a good husband. He just doesn't realize yet that he is a great father and husband for all the things he is and not all the things he does.

What will it be in 30 years that turns my world upside-down?

What will I chose for a measuring stick to determine if I'm a good father or a good husband?

I turn 24 tomorrow. I always thought I would be a husband if not a father by now.

I'm just getting used to the idea of being an uncle.

If only I played the bassoon...

Do you ever see people you don't know and make up stories about them. I do. I went to Jason's concert because he belongs to the Wheaton College Symphonic Band. The concert was a success and would have seemed like any other concert, however I knew what was going on under the surface. Or rather imagined what was going on. I find it terribly amusing to make up interesting drama about people I don't know. The following is a account of the events of that night, not as they happened, but as they are interesting to read.

The concert began with a piece called Monument Fanfare and Tribute. It was introduced by a young man named Ryan who was very proud of belonging to the Salvation Army church and Citadel Band as they had just played. He felt that his presence at Wheaton brought diversity to the college as he was representing the Salvation Army. The rest of us however just felt awkward around him as crowds often do around people who truly believe in a cause because we knew that soon we would be avoiding eye contact with him as he rings his bell outside of Wal-Mart with his red bucket.

The conductor of the first piece was the staff director. He was everything a director of a symphony should be. He was a short man with glasses that sat atop his rather pointed nose, dressed in his best and took his time getting to the podium prolonging the applause. It was a great piece that was executed with technical precision as bands technically do for their appointed conductors. At the end the conductor stepped down, his come-over out of place, and took his leave.

Then good ole Jeremy came to the front. Jeremy is the kind of guy that is gifted, but never takes himself or his art too seriously. He does an excellent job at everything he does, but he knows there is more to life than music... like laughter. The lanky percussionist pushes his glasses back into place as he informs the audience that his piece to conduct tonight is The Liberty Bell March which is, in fact, the theme to Monty Python's Flying Circus. He took the podium and began to conduct rather flippantly the band. They didn't care, because they admired Jeremy for his boyish charm and candidness. Jeremy no doubt was conducting because he could and was required to for his major. He knows he's not the best student conductor, but he doesn't care.

The band finishes in good spirits and moves on to the next song. Mr. Steven Carver, as the boy prefers to be called, walks purposefully up to the mic to introduce his choice for the evening. Steven is one of those kids who is described by the teachers as "...nice" or "a good student." Truth be told Steven takes himself way too seriously. He is a suck-up of the worst fashion. He is the kid of person that makes up for his lack of talent for trying too hard. He would be a date rapist if he wasn't afraid of girls. Steven has very few friends as he has no use of them on his way to the top. Steven has chosen a funeral dirge by Bach, which of coarse, he takes very seriously and is overly happy to introduce after having to play Jeremy's piece which Steven thinks is silly. The piece is seriously played and the audience seriously yawns. Not for lack of talent, but lack of passion. When Steven is finished he puts the stick back up his but, bows to the applause ment for the band, and sits down.

Everyone knows the people up next... because they were checking their programs during Steven's speech. Bubbles of fun Michelle Young steps up to the podium grinning from ear to ear. The grin all women have when they are in love or their crush finally spoke to them, asking them to pass the salt. Michelle introduces her piece which is sweet like herself. A young man named Dar Heinze steps forward to play the solo on the flute. Strangely, Dar is not the first chair flutist. A sharp looking blonde is. She is giving Michelle sharp looks. It is clear by the manner of her expression and the size of her breasts that this "first chair" is not used to not getting her way. I image that Michelle has given the solo to Dar at first as an excuse to talk to him and then as a way to spend time with him. Dar of coarse is oblivious as all sweet boys are and will most likely marry the "first chair" as she will make it her mission in life to be better than him and pay back Michelle for daring to pass her over.

And then a man who is barely a boy steps to the front. A man who can truly be described as beautiful in the Greek sense. Young Greg who's talent and passion are complemented by his beauty, brooding, and arrogantness. He sees life in passionate colors and chooses to conduct pieces of music that are described as "luscious." The boy is cursed with the stunning features of a Disney prince and behaives in a way that make the other men suppose he is gay. He will of coarse never be taken seriously because he is pretty and this will only frustrate him occasionally as the rest of the time he will be showered with praise. But it will frustrate him. He steps to the front and towers over his subjects. The girls in the front blush as they realize they are starring and then become flustered as they realized they are suppose to be watching their conductor anyway. Greg raises his hands as he raises the passions of the band. He is not only their leader, but their muse as well. What ever hatreds, jealousies, envies, or school girl crushes existed they are dispelled and only the desire to fulfill his passions exist. He doesn't lead the music, but inspires the instrumentalists to play from their souls. I admire him for his beauty, but pity him as I pity Dorian Grey, for it will be his undoing. But I applaud none the less.

Warning: Technical Language Ahead

So, being as I am in charge of multimedia at the church. I am now experimenting in a great deal more than I have ever been. You are wondering if I'm trying new mind alterting drugs? Not at all. I'm trying out Flash Animation.

I created a wonderful SWF file involving our church logo. It only took me five hours to make this thirty second clip. What can I say... its my first time. Its a lot of layering and copying. Its all worth it in the end, but the prospect of trying to create a church website using flash seems like it might be the end of me. Right now I'm using a program called Kool Moves, but I might need to find something more user friendly to make the website. This is fun, but diffinitly frustrating.

Happy to bore you.

The Family Business

So there is a rather large church in Naperville called Community Christian Church. It is a good church that a few of my friends attend, volunteer, and work at. The great thing is that they have their own "Young Adult" small group. This works out great for me. I can see some old friends, make some new ones, get tips on how a progressive church is doing things, and have some accountability from people who won't feel weird about me being a minister.

However, it is always interesting to watch people's reactions when I tell them I work for my father. It's always "oh, really?" and they make a face like they just tasted something they didn't expect and don't really know if they like it.

I like it. Not telling people that, but doing it. My Dad and I have an interesting relationship. In many ways I take my cues from him. I trust his leadership and his direction. He can say things to me like, "You know Luke... there are a lot of new songs coming up... you might want to put in some hymns if they fit into what you are doing. I'm not try to appease people, but don't forget they are there." Just the way he says it, I have no problems doing it.

On the other hand, my Dad doesn't necessarily "learn" from me, but in some strange way he looks to me for some kind of advice or validation to take a new direction. Just recently I gave my Dad three books to read. They are about office management the way Romeo and Juliet was about a crush. It is a tremendous book about vision, purpose, and leading a group of people to their goals. He started reading them just as a gesture of indulging his son, but quickly devoured them and the next staff meeting sits us all down Me (worship and small groups), Wade (Youth), Mary Ann (Childrens), Patti (Secretary), and Gayla (Janitor)... he says to us. I think we need to pick a destination. We have a vision, but we don't know where we want that vision to take us. And he goes on to say, "I don't know where we need to be, but I know we'll never get their if we don't seek the destination the Lord has for us. We need a goal and it must be measurable." Then he gives me a little knowing smile because it was all in those three books.

I truly believe my father and I have an "iron sharpens iron" relationship. Something I've missed for a long time. I feel like I have something to learn and something to give in the relationship. So people can make whatever faces they want.