... 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."