American Standard

I remember as a 1st grader, going to church every week which used a particular version of the bible that at the time, was popular as much as any version of the bible could ever be popular anyway.

It was called the “American Standard” version. Although I had no such thoughts at the time, I now realize that anyone who thinks critically about the bible at all would not willingly consider using either one of these words to describe it, let alone both together. Nonetheless, that is exactly what it was called, but that's a side-point.

Anyway the thing was: in the church my family attended, there was a particular restroom which was the one I thought was cool to use because it was not in the main area for the masses of congregants. I knew the way and the doors leading there were usually left unlocked.

It was through a door that was behind the pulpit area, up a winding stairway and through a threshold just tall enough for me, a 1st grader to walk through and touch the top.

I did this every time I went in there because reaching the top of the door frame, somehow, made me feel like a full grown man even though I was well aware that the door was originally built for a short-decrepit humpback or perhaps a leprechaun.

The thing was: I felt the presence of the toilet bowl was blasphemous because on the rim of the toilet behind the back of the seat and lid were these words “American Standard.”

The first time I noticed this, I could not believe my eyes and it made me feel a little sick. All I could think was what wicked, mocking Devil-worshipers these toilet manufacturers must be, having the gall to paint the name of the Holy Bible on their toilets – such vile receptacles.

What I found even more disturbing was that whatever committee there was in charge of ordering the toilets at the church could be so culturally unaware as to let such a profanity slip into the walls of the sanctuary restroom without their knowledge and without a buzz or a hullabaloo erupting among the community.

I remember going to someone in charge and demanding that the sacrilegious bowl be removed from the restroom; otherwise, I could no longer worship there.

It was shortly thereafter explained to my satisfaction that the defacement had been hastily implemented. I was, furthermore, informed that because I had been so traumatized by the experience, the board was concerned that even mere memories of the impious object could potentially hinder my spiritual journey, so the door would be kept locked and I would no longer be permitted to use or even enter that restroom again.

Adam's Tips for Tough Economies

You know, it's funny; most of us are feeling the pain of the times. Even those of us fortunate enough to have jobs still have to deal with lack of raises and even pay cuts, not to mention, increasing prices on gas, groceries and other needs. Because of this, we have to begin thinking with a new mindset if we are going to survive with even a moderate amount of comfort and convenience.

So let me share one example. This is a plan I devised earlier this week when my 4-year-old daughter Josie had to get glasses.

Now, while it certainly is not her "fault" that she needs glasses, it’s an unplanned expense nonetheless; and furthermore, just because it isn’t anything she did "wrong" that caused her to need them, it even more so is not the fault of the other members of this family, all of whom, incidentally, have 20/20 vision.

Now, I have a couple options regarding how to deal with this expense. I could take it out of the family fun budget completely making Josie’s need for glasses a difficult and negative experience for the entire family that would stain the memories of Summer 2009 all together causing everyone else to resent her, but that wouldn’t really be fair to anyone.

So I’ve spent some time developing the "Kenyon Family Josie Optical Fund Dispersement Plan."

The way it works is simple. Josie, while quite intelligent for her age, is 4 years old. She is too young and frankly, much too lazy to earn any kind of steady income to contribute to the family budget.

However, all is not lost! For example, today was a nice day. We went out for ice cream. I ordered, Mom ordered, Brother ordered and Josie was absolutely permitted, even encouraged to come along, but when she wanted to order a frozen treat as well, that was where the tough love came in: I had to tell her about fairness and all that.

So taking the average cost of our 3 ice cream cones I patiently explained to her how that amount would be deducted from the $311.57, the total cost of her optical prescription, lenses, frames, eye-doctor visits, approximate cost of gas to and fro etc.

Now the thing about good parenting is you can’t just sit back in pride when it comes to a loving stroke of genius like this. It’s not enough.

That’s why I gave Josie two licks of my ice cream. It’s basic compassion. That’s the kind of father I am. I can’t help it. She was crying almost the whole time because, I’m convinced, she, sensitive soul that she is, was simply moved by my profound gesture of inclusion and generosity.

I further explained how until the amount was completely recouped, if we had say, burgers on the grill, she could have a bun, a piece of cheese, and water FREE OF CHARGE! but the price of the meat, condiments, munchies and a beverage would be deducted from her recoupable bottom line; as it will be if the rest of the family goes to a movie or miniature golfing. In which case, she will be comfortably hanging out in the lobby or clubhouse.

By the end of summer/early fall she would be almost fully paid up and back to participating in the family outings as long, as she incurs no damage to the glasses, of course. Insurance doesn’t cover that.

As I gave her the lowdown once again, she began to well up with tears. I know, she was touched by the fact that despite her visual short comings, I was accepting of her and willing to offer her free bread and cheese. A lot of kids wouldn’t have that much gratitude, so I must be doing something right. It’s times like these that you know exactly why you became a parent and what it means to be one.

Bluetooth Girl Asking Out Technique

You know, it’s funny: there I am at the supermarket, pretending to shop, following this girl around wishing I could get brave enough to talk to her. I’m not selecting items that I want, but rather ones that I think she might notice me buying and be impressed by.

For example, I grab some kind of exotic fruit from Asia hoping she’ll think I’m slick because of my healthy choice; and because it’s Asian, maybe she’ll think I am smart as well, like I know more than regular people because I eat Asian fruit instead of regular American fruit like pineapples or bananas.

Maybe she’ll ask me about the fruit. Then I realize this would be bad. I don’t know what I would say, I would either have to make something up, in which case I would get too nervous and blow it, or else admit ignorance and that can’t happen either.

I consider putting the Asian fruit back, but then she would think I was really stupid, like I can’t make up my mind even about fruit, which is bad. Chicks dig decisiveness.

I cover up the fruit with the first thing I see: A box of Dora cereal, and then I panic. What if she thinks I’m into Dora? Should I put it back? No. Can’t do that. I’ve already been through this. “Relax,” I tell myself “Deep breath – The cereal is for your niece.” There, problem solved.

Next, I grab a jar of these things called capers. I don’t even know what capers are. Never tried one, but they sound and look quite interesting, like maybe an ingredient that a gourmet chef might use in some kind of meal or something.

But anyway like I said I’m wishing I could get brave and talk to her, but I can’t approach a stranger and just blurt out, “Hi, could I take you to dinner?”

This is because of the likelihood of rejection; and I’ve dissected rejection and figured out what it is. It’s her saying, “You desire me, which is quite understandable. I would not laugh at you for that; but what’s ridiculous is that you actually imagined that I might desire you. Well, get real, dude!” It’s the woman affirming that the guy is not nearly as much as he’d allowed himself to hope he was.

And I could get over knowing that she WOULD reject me like if I could read women’s minds and automatically see that out of the 100 women in the room which 98 of them would decline if I asked them out. I could handle that, because then the women would not know that I wanted to ask them out, but once you ask them out they know, and that’s the idea I cannot stand.

So all I’m thinking at best is that maybe I could think of a friendly comment to make small talk and she would smile or even laugh and then comment back; and who knows? Maybe it would develop from there like in a movie or a really good commercial. That’s the best I’m hoping for when the most amazing thing happens: A woman’s voice asks, “Do you want large marshmallows or minis?”

I turn to see a different mom-sorta woman who’s looking right at me. I say, “No thanks! I don’t need any marshmallows, but that’s very kind of you to offer.”

The woman looks at me dismissively like I’m a huge bug that just landed on her sleeve. She reaches past, grabbing a bag of marshmallows off the shelf behind me. No longer looking in my direction says, -“Penelope likes the gingerbread ones with sprinkles . . .” trails off and turns to reveal a hands-free headset on her ear.

“Oh,” I realize, “She’s talking on her mobile phone,” which makes more sense if you think about it. It would be rather odd to offer marshmallows to a stranger. But in any case that little event, that little miracle, gives me an incredible idea that will probably one day revolutionize the methods men use to ask girls out.

So I put on my Bluetooth hands-free headset and I side step over to the girl I’ve been following, in such a way that she can’t see the ear with the earpiece. I turn and look pretty much at her, and say, “Heeeeeeey, what’s up? Do you want to get some dinner?”

She gives one of those tight lipped smiles that’s not really a smile because no other parts of the face move and says, “I don’t think so.” (Beautiful.) And I quickly turn and gesture toward my earpiece whispering, “I‘m sorry, Mam! I’m on the phone with a sweet-lookin’ babe.”

Isn’t that the best? I found out that she was one of the 98 while convincing her that I wasn’t asking her out! And when you do think someone is asking you out and you find out they are not, you have to feel pretty stupid because you are not as cool as you thought you were, so I really turned that whole feeling that I can’t stand back around on her, and that makes it all worth it. Which is why I consider this day a huge success as far as my personal dating scene goes.

Public Pools: DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!

I was mentioning to Ali how when people are in a pool, the water that goes in their suits and up into their butts, loosening and washing out tiny fecal molecules is the same water that you put your face and mouth into when you go underwater in that pool.

She said, “Stop it! They CLEAN the water.”

I said “Do you know how they ‘clean’ the water? They add chemicals to it that make it ‘smell clean.’ That’s all they do. They can not remove any microscopic particles with a sand filter. True, sometimes the chlorine may kill a portion of the bacteria but the poop chunks go through the filter and right back in via the jet stream return .”

She told me I was gross.

I said “It’s just reality. Am I gross for pointing out a reality that is completely out of my control? Is it more gross to point out that it‘s happening or to be a participant in the fecal/facial cleanse?”

She said, “You’re so gross.”

I said “Are you saying that doesn’t really happen?”

She firmly stated that she didn’t want to talk about it and I was gross; However, I would like to point out that I am not the one gleefully submersing my face in a pool filled with the feces of random strangers.

My Loved One: The Provolone Chicken

Last night after the tender and attentive preparation of a little provolone chicken, we left the house; and since we had covered neither the provolone nor the chicken with any kind of fire-retardant coating and since we’d inadvertently left the dish baking in the oven for a couple of hours, our meal had been altered into stuff that a talented person could’ve used to draft a lovely charcoal drawing of maybe say, a family seated around the table for a nice dinner.

Immediately, I ran over to the charred casualty in a panic, as if it were a crying child that had just fallen off of some monkey bars – as if maybe there were something that could still be done.

I quickly looked it over, grabbing a knife and fork which in my mind, I think, might’ve actually been surgical tools of some sort. I chipped and cut into the crusted-powdery black matter and discovered a great deal of white meat underneath. Maybe it was only surface damage! Maybe there was hope after all.

With the knife I dissected the remains, fashioning what was possibly an edible bite of the meat. Then, with great consideration, I chewed it up and ate it. "It’s not too bad. Some of it might be okay," I officiously muttered to Ali, who responded with silence and a deliberate lack of eye-contact.

I was lying to myself and I knew it. I couldn't possibly have eaten another bite, so I absconded into the garage to alphabetize the spray paints, to disengage my mind.

I returned a few minutes later, dismayed to see that my wife – this . . . woman - had submersed the food, soaking it in water in order to be able to clean out the pan, which instantly aggravated my grief. "You’re WASTING that?!?!" I thought, "I thought this dinner MATTERED to you!! How could you so hastily dispose of something so dear to me?"

It was heartless.

I’d LOVED the provolone chicken. I’d had ideas - detailed and well thought out ones - about how grand it would be to eat and converse, laughing and chewing like pompous politicians - the kids taking occasional breaks from their giggling only to again mention how splendidly prepared was this evening’s entrée’. It would’ve been so exquisite.

But Ali accepts these everyday, disappointing realities with such equanimity and ease. If you ask me it’s quite insensitive of her really.

I mean, seeing my former culinary fantasy drowned there in the sink was emotionally difficult. I was still "Bargaining," in stage 3 of the grieving process – and to have this violent image forced upon me somehow made it all seem so pointless, so final. I hadn’t been ready. I’d needed more time. Why couldn’t she see that?

I guess I couldn't be to hard on her, considering that she was the one acting coherently and sane and I was fixated and struggling to accept the death of a factory farmed chicken that was probably much happier dead that it had ever been alive, but still.

I don't really know what the lesson is here. I considered implementing a household rule where every time a person puts a dish in the oven, they would be required to hide the car keys in the oven-mitt. The reason for this, obviously, would be so that in the event that the oven user wanted to leave the house, they would upon finding their keys in the oven-mitt be prompted mentally to turn off the oven, thereby preventing any burnt mishaps.

But, alas, as brilliant as this idea is, it wouldn't really be kept up in our household. People would invent reasons why they shouldn't live up to such a rule. They would rob the idea of the respect it deserves and somewhere along the banquet of life another chicken would be senselessly burned all over again. Some people feel that the loss of a delicious fowl every 10-20-30 years is worth the price of not having to perform the simple task of hiding their car keys in an oven-mitt for the rest of their life. Crazy, I know, and difficult to get over, but a person just has to accept these things.

Good Will Hunting

My friend and ex-band mate – . . . let’s call him . . . uh . . . Randy – Randy and I were in this band – Ok, actually, we WERE this band – called ‘Defective Replicas’. We spent one long summer in ‘98 in a barn, recording 8 songs that we wrote together. These songs became an independent CD called, “Here, Hear.” In fact it may be the most independent CD of all time.

Anyway, Randy was recently at the local Good Will thrift store hunting for vinyl records, because that’s the kind of person he is, the kind who looks for vinyl records because for one thing he says, “they sound better than CDs and mp3s.”

“Yeah,” I say, “At least until they’ve been played more than ONCE and/or become scratched and sound like not even music anymore.”

Ok, that was a tangent, but the other reason he looks for vinyl is because the Home Copyright Act states that if you own one legitimate original copy of something you are permitted by law to make as many copies on as many OTHER mediums as you wish provided that they are only used in the home of or by you, the owner.

So when Randy found an old Duran Duran LP at the Good Will, he bought it for the handsome suggested post-consumer retail price of $.50.

Now, once he owns a legitimate copy of “Hungry Like a Wolf” he has absolute legal permission to possess as many burned CDs or ripped mp3s as he wishes. And as a footnote, Randy is a 38-year-old man who recently purchased on EBay several packages of Duran Duran trading cards, not to resell, but simply to have and own because, “They are cool, Man.”

He has recently began to apply this moral to video games as well, purchasing Atari 2600 cartridges of Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, Q-Bert, and Frogger at garage sales 6 for a dime, which legally entitles him to download the bootlegged MAME arcade versions of all these games, which he plays on a nightly basis via a mind-blowing custom video game console that is a little bigger and quite a bit more impressive and complicated than the cockpit of a fighter jet.

Now, as far as the 100s of songs and video games of which he owns only illegitimate copies, I think Randy has every intention to acquire the lawful formats very very soon.

Ok, this is a tangent of the tangent although I really think it’s a worthwhile detour. Oh, and trust me you’re going to need its comic relief to get you through the day after reading this pathetically sad ending but let’s get back on the main road here:

While browsing the old records at the Good Will, a familiar CD spine catches Randy’s eye. He pulls the CD out of the rack: “Defective Replicas: Here, Hear,” which means that one of the 11 people we sold it to back in 1998 decided it wasn’t worth their shelf space and donated it to the Thrift Store.

That’s a king-size B-slap in the face. I don’t understand it! As Randy relays this story to me, I immediately realize where we went wrong. Had we charged more for the CDs, perhaps this Music Donator, this Rock Hock, whoever he is, would’ve realized its immense value and held onto it, setting goals to listen better with the intent of finding a richer artistic value, a deeper meaning, and a new insight for living with each spin.

Now, like me, you probably can’t imagine how this story could get any sadder, but it does. The twisted ending will probably dawn on you in slow motion like when you finally realize that Bruce Willis’s character in The Sixth Sense has been dead all along.

RANDY: . . so I picked it up.
@M: What?!?! What do you mean you picked it up?
RANDY: Well, I never had my own copy . . . or I gave it to someone intending to get another and never did; I thought it would be nice to have one and it was only two bucks, so I bought it.
@M: !
RANDY: I listened to it a few times too. It had some pretty good songs on it, man.

He bought it . . . he . . . bought it . . . he actually bought it.

Well, later I get to thinking it’s not such a bad thing; for this reason, and I think though he played it off with no sentimentality, Randy was a step ahead of me: I think he realized that he was rescuing the lonely recording from an even worse fate, like a long lost child, a runaway.

Perhaps it would’ve been found by a curious someone who would’ve cared for and loved it, but as a good father, Randy just couldn’t take that risk. He couldn’t bare the thought of this disc remaining un-purchased and ending up in the dumpster in the dirty alley out back.
Randy had to pay its way and take home the unloved unremarkable CD, like the prodigal son who had not properly earned his keep in the world.

Welcome home, little buddy; glad you’re safe.

If I Were God

Click this link to see my piece in The Wittenburg Door.

http://www.wittenburgdoor.com/if-i-were-god

The Worst Liar in the World: Another Brief Screenplay

DAY: INT: A MEDIUM SIZED BROWN DOG WITH THREE BALD SPOTS ON THE FUR OF HIS BACK END ENTERS RUNNING THROUGH THE LIVING ROOM WHERE A MAN IS STANDING. TWO SMALL CHILDREN, A 6-ISH BOY AND A 3-ISH GIRL, APPEAR AND ARE FOLLOWING THE PATH OF THE DOG.

BOY
Dad! She cut Reese’s hair!

MAN
How do you know?

BOY
(WITH THE MATTEROFFACTNESS OF AN ATTORNEY) She was with Reese under the table and she cut his hair with the scissors. I saw her do it.

MAN
(DRAMATICALLY STERN TO GIRL) Did you cut Reese’s hair?

GIRL
(CAUTIOUSLY SHAKES HER HEAD “NO”.)

BOY
(PLAINLY) Well, there’s a moderately reliable eyewitness account that STRONGLY suggests otherwise.

MAN
(IGNORING THE BOY) What color scissors did you use?

GIRL
(STILL WITH STEADY CAUTION) Green.

MAN
How did you do it?

GIRL
(STILL WITH CAUTION SHE
MAKES A SCISSOR MOTION
WITH HER FINGERS.)

MAN
That was naughty!

GIRL
I didn’t do it.




FADE OUT


THE END

Summer Storage

True Story: While putting all the winter wear away in a plastic bag for summer storage, I had a brilliant idea: I would mate all of the gloves by clipping or rolling them together. Well, the ones pictured are the ones that did not have mates. Remember: this is a family of 4.

So what does one do? Store a bunch of single gloves? Spend a Saturday searching the house for glove mates? Seems ridiculous, but I am that person. I am the family member whose main mission in life is to NEVER waste ANYTHING. There have even, believe it or not, been other people in the household who've been so bold as to suggest that I can be perhaps a bit extreme in my methods, ideas, practices and behaviors pertaining to resourceful waste prevention. Really, they've actually said that.

So I seriously found myself thinking things like: "Well, I could use that black leather glove by itself, if I ever join the rodeo; better not throw that one away. And see in the lower left corner? It's the Dora glove. I could cut out that Dora patch and sew it on the hole of Josie's holy jeans.

At this point, I become my own therapist: @m, if you were the kind of person/family that would take the time to sew a patch on holy jeans, then wouldn't you also be the kind of person/family who avoids losing 14 gloves over the course of one winter? . . .

OUCH! That hurts. SHUT up inner Therapist! I could also cut up the fuzzy gloves into a set of 4 matching coffee coasters; 2 black and 2 maroon. Plus, I could cut the furry leopard cuff of of the black glove and put it around Reese's neck as a stylish dog collar. Everyone's doing that nowadays.

Anyway, I went around and through the house and cars looking for the mates of the single gloves.

The good news: I found one.

The bad news: I found 4 other singles! No shit. We are now up to 14 lone pieces of winter hand-wear. Thank God, we don't live in the 20's when women would wear those long sleeve gloves as part of their formal wear; and that none of us wear "driving gloves" and that baseball gloves and oven mits only come in singles anyway and that we don't really "garden" per say, so no more single gloves because of that.

Maybe this is how rhinestone-handed Michael Jackson got his big signature idea.

After many seconds of prayer and petition, I've resolved to start a charity organization specifically designated to receive donations of single gloves and mittens that will be distributed to those individuals who only have one hand. I don't imagine that we will get a whole lot of customers, but oh boy, will they have a lot of styles to choose from.

Not Torn Fakes. Torn Fakes.

- a brief screenplay

FADE IN:

INT. KITCHEN IN CONTEMPORARY MIDWEST HOME. 2-YEAR-OLD GIRL SITS AT BREAKFAST NOOK EATING A BOWL OF CORN FLAKES WITH GUSTO.

ENTERS: DAD.

DAD:

Hi, there.

GIRL:
I eating torn fakes!

DAD:
Torn Fakes?

GIRL:
No! torn fakes.

DAD:
That’s what I said: torn fakes.

GIRL:
NO!

(Slowly with exaggerated enunciation)

torn . . . fffffakes.

DAD:
Corn flakes?

GIRL:

(smiling broadly with satisfaction)
Yep.

FADE OUT:

THE END

Toddlers and Monsters

A father’s words should be instructive, yes; but also compassionate and understanding. It’s important for parental interaction to meet the child at the child’s level no matter how young.

For example, the other night my 2-year-old daughter was having difficulty getting to sleep. Every parent of a toddler knows the routine: The kid gets out of bed repeatedly crying all the while. This was unusual for her; she usually falls right to sleep after her bedtime story.

I asked her “What’s wrong, Sweetheart?”

“Monster – eat – me!” was her tearful and terrified reply.

I knew this would be a turning point moment and that it was no time to question her about where she got this childish notion of monsters getting her. You can’t argue with a kid about things like that. They get their minds set and there’s no reasoning with them.

An attempt to explain anything to her would not only be a waste of my time, but would also be casting pearls before swine. Is she a swine? No, of course not, but in her fear, she is completely unable to comprehend the reality that monsters don’t exist; and naturally, it was a real bind for a father to be in.

Not only did I want to be compassionate toward her tender little feelings and naïve perceptions, but I was also really sick and tired of the crying and was ready for it to stop.
That’s when it happened. I’ve no idea where it came from unless Solomon himself stopped by to endow me with a statement of such wise counsel.

The words came out of my mouth like honey out of something from which honey flows: “Baby Girl, I’ll let you in on a little secret about monsters, OK?”

“K, Daddy,” she managed, sniffling.

“Monsters are all blind as bats. They can’t see a thing, so the only way he’s going to be able to find you is by the sound of your crying. Keeping totally quiet means no worries. OK, Precious?”

Goosey Goosey Gander

You know, it’s funny. I’m continually surprised at the profound insights that can be found in the myths, legends, and simple stories of human history. Thoughts of such amazing spiritual depth are often costumed in a seemingly straightforward idea like a light-hearted child’s tale.

I ran across one such tale in my daughter’s nursery rhyme book just today. The beauty of it is that not only can I use it to teach my kids valuable faith lessons with an easy-to-remember rhyming jingle – which, in a nutshell, is really what faith is all about – but it moved me personally to see a new angle of God’s grace and love.

The old “nursery rhyme” goes like this:

Goosey, goosey gander,
Whither shall I wander?
Upstairs and downstairs
And in my lady’s chamber.
There I met an old man
Who would not say his prayers.
I took him by the left leg
And threw him down the stairs.

Like all good teachings of faith, this leads to more questions than it does answers; then, it turns right around and gives you quick, easy answers to all of those questions. Amen?

This man of faith begins with “Goosey, goosey, gander.” He is obviously a gleeful and fun-loving guy; and in the very next line is seeking God’s direction for his life. “Upstairs to the heavenly realms?”, he prays. Or “Downstairs in the dungeon of heaven, the worldly earth, the planet that is void of God’s Truth?”

The next line, ‘And in my lady’s chamber,’ is an obvious reference to 1 Corinthians 7. Now to the unmarried and the widows I say: It is good for them to stay unmarried, as I am. But if they cannot control themselves, they should marry, for it is better to marry than to burn with passion.

So clearly, any fool can see this is a Godly man seeking his wife’s “chamber” if ya know what I mean. Nothing wrong with a little bit of holy mess around, amen?

But then what happens? ‘There I met an old man.’ Enters the Devil and his wicked schemes. Some guy, some, ‘dude’ is lurking in the room of the wife of our upright friend.

Now, there is little doubt about what this guy is up to and if you aren’t convinced yet, check out the next line: ‘Who would not say his prayers’ BOOM! There you go! This hell’s-angel stranger vehemently refuses to initiate a personal relationship with the Almighty. We all know these wicked headstrong types and they aren’t going to wise up are they? They aren’t going to come around to God’s way of thinking given enough time and patience are they?

Our wise hero knows this. So he does the only thing he can do. He grabs the wretched offender and hurls him rolling down the stairs; head thumping like a coconut, bones splintering and snapping along the way, coming to rest only in death at the stair’s bottom in a lifeless bloody heap.

Now to our modern sensibilities, this action will seem a little harsh, but don’t forget this room-prancing abomination WOULD NOT SAY HIS PRAYERS. Is there too harsh a punishment for such a refusal?

I am not sure how our leading man knows that the intruder wouldn’t pray. I suppose God revealed it to him, because who upon finding another guy in his lady’s chamber asks the guy to pray? No one would do that. Maybe he just assumed the guy was prayerless, but in any case, I’d say it’s a safe bet considering the unbeliever’s intentions with another man’s wife. These kinds of sinners don’t pray and if they do they don’t do it correctly with affirmation seeking amens along the way.

I am sure you’ll agree that this is a most lesson-hearty fable. Little did I know that I would be awakened to such an insight by a seemingly shallow book of nursery rhymes. And it comforts and assures me to know that my children will take this story with them along life’s journey and with greater understanding, unpacking it’s richness further and further as they go about their way.

Amen and God Bless America.

Porter on Theology and Pumpkins

My family and I were recently bestowing some graven images upon a few pumpkins, a celebratory ritual for an upcoming holiday rooted in spirituality. As my 5-year-old son, Porter was preparing to reveal his manically-faced orange head unto me, he said, “Daddy, you’re gonna be scared!”

“I don’t know about that," I responded, "pumpkins aren’t very scary."

He became very enthused, “Uh, Dad. That’s what pumpkins ARE FOR . . . to be SCARY!”

I briefly thought about what a great opportunity for teaching this had suddenly become and replied, “Really? Don’t you think that perhaps God made pumpkins as a food source for his people and other creatures giving them seeds to they could continue growing other pumpkins?”

“Well, of course he did, Dad!” Porter propounded with the confident air of a postgraduate student in his 25th year, “But he also made them to SCARE people!”

The Man in Black OR Red Man Walking?

I very frequently see an elderly gentleman walking up and down the road in the town where I live. I see him so frequently, in fact, that I’ve wondered if he ever does anything but walk back in forth on this particular mile stretch of road, all day long.

I first took note of him years ago. Every single time I’ve ever seen him, regardless of the temperature or season he has been donning the following ensemble: black pants, black boots, black vest, a non-black shirt and a black cowboy hat. He has a quality about him; very rugged and mysterious.

If you met a character that looked like him in a movie he would be sage-like and stoic with a Buddhist Monks peace about him; and in a brief encounter he would reveal insightful things to you about your life without ever having met you before. But in real life he would probably either apprehend you with an unbreakable chain of spouting about his pains and ailments else he would immediately wave his hand and write you off calling you a pansy for wearing tennis shoes in public or something.

Now, I also have to provide an explanation of my town’s annual celebration, Red Flannel Day. We are the Red Flannel Capitol of the World. I suspect it’s because there is no competition for that particular office; No one else wants it. I think maybe that when the town counsel got together in 1903 to decide what they should go for in terms of being the World’s Capitol of something, there was one bright guy who acknowledged that “We as a town suck so bad we should pick something no one else wants so there will be no danger of ever losing the title”, and suggested Flannel.

Then his even brighter counter-part said something like, “That’s Brilliant, my Boy! Say, why don’t we narrow it down to RED Flannel just to be safe?! Huh? All in favor say, “I”.

Then an array of Is erupted from the room under a thunderous enthusiasm; and every man with a gleam in his eye was thinking, “Yep, our town may suck but we suck with a brilliant strategy; Red Flannel indeed!! Here, here!”

To this day there are red union suits affixed to every street lamp on the main drag. There is actually a law that if you’re caught in city limits on Red Flannel Day without a pronounced red garment you can be put in jail. Now in reality, the town police are dressed as Keystone Cops, and they lock you in a jail that is brought outside into the city courtyard for this special day. They put people in there for 10 or 15 minutes; and sometimes the tasteful dresser can pay $2 to get out early. Nonetheless, it is a law.

So anyway, I am driving down the road on Red Flannel Day and I see The Man in Black; but my world is turned sideways as I realize that he’s not in black but has a frighteningly bright red cardigan sweater on in place of the black vest. He was wearing the obligatory red garment. I thought it funny to be sure, yet heart-warming that this man apparently so attached to his wardrobe, was eager to take part with his community in the silly gimmick of a town celebration. I thought it endearing that he was adaptable and challenged my misjudgments about his character. And that was that.

Then yesterday, the third day after the festival, I saw him again. HE WAS STILL WEARING THE RED SWEATER! Really.

I’m not sure where to go from here. My potential speculations are endless. Yet nothing really makes sense. Did the color in his life make him so much happier that he continued with it? Did his Crush neighbor lady compliment him on the sweater? I would say maybe it was laziness, that he didn’t bother to change in three days, but that can’t be it because he walks more in a day than I do in a week. Perhaps he fell into a rut of not getting around to buying new clothes very often, then when the town’s rules forced him to unleash the sassy red sweater he felt brand new and couldn’t get enough.

I can’t say. I don’t feel confident with any of these explanations. This time, I need some help here. Who’s got a theory?

The Super Market Superman Man

So the other day I find myself on the way to the super market to purchase some Guinness, when I look down and realize, to my dismay, that although typically I prefer to avoid wearing clothing that has advertisements printed on it, I, due to unusual and muddled circumstances, am sporting a T-Shirt with a very unsubtle Guinness Logo. It’s not that big of a deal, but immediately my mind begins to race with worries that people will see me in the shirt carrying a 6-pack through the store and surmise that Guinness is my ‘thing’; that I am dedicated to it; that I am a Guinness Nerd.

There are people like that. They adopt some product or fictional character as a way to identify themselves; and I don’t want anyone to think that that is what I’ve done with Guinness; like I’m so obsessed with it that when I buy some I’ve got to change into the T-shirt, so everyone knows I’m Curaaazzy about Guinness. I know that I’ll feel embarrassed going through the store like that, but I also think it’s worse to go back home for a different garment to avoid something so silly, so I pull in to the parking lot and walk up to the storefront.

On my way in, I notice an enormous pick up truck featuring a proportionally huge custom decal reading: “Superman Returns”. I consider it strange but simply go into the store and forget about it until I run into the gigantic guy in his mid 40’s who is obviously the owner of Super-Truck. I know this because of his shirt, not a Superman shirt, but a sleeveless one reveals four unusually large bicep tattoos of Superman; of the ‘S’ logo, the actual Superman cartoon character in mid flight, Clark Kent taking off his business suit revealing the tights and cape and one more that I can’t remember for sure but is probably the whole red and yellow word “Superman”; if that is a word.

It’s just weird; borderline creepy. He’s a grown man utterly fanatical about Superman. I wonder how long I’d have to converse with him before the subject of Superman would break through. “Not very.” I conclude because he’s obviously not embarrassed by his obsession. He clearly has no qualms about it. He is proud of his passion.

Then I realize there is no reason to continue wondering when I can find out for sure, so I get into the check out line behind him and ask “Excuse me Sir, how’s that Moose Tracks Ice Cream you have there? I’ve never had it but have wanted to try it.”

His reply, and I am not kidding, is: “My kids like it but I only eat Superman Ice Cream.”

Kryptonite! Superman Ice Cream!

Then, astonishingly, he turns to his wife and says, “Hey Lois, what’s that Moose Tracks got in it?”

Lois.

NO shit:

A My Dad Story:

I remember once waiting as a teenager with my dad in an unusually long line at our friendly neighborhood McDonald’s. Not that’s it’s unusual to wait in line at McDonalds; I only mean that this particular line was maybe a little longer than usual. The following story, one typical of my father, took place:

It is only when dad finally gets up to the cashier who says, “Can I help you?” that this royal patriarch decides to browse the menu for something that might appeal to his refined and sophisticated pallet. After a minute or so he appears smugly dissatisfied with the selection on the tacky back-lit-plastic-wall-mounted menu that hasn’t changed in 30 years and says something seriously like, “What kind of soup do you have?”

“What kind of soup do you have?” . . .

At McDonald’s.

I might add that he WORKED at McDonald’s decades before as a teenager.

. . . “What kind of soup do you have?”

Then he actually looks disappointed and hurt at the cashier’s negative reply. He appears to be mustering up a shred of pity out of which, he believes, is the only reason he would continue on the path of entering into a business transaction with an establishment that has so deeply let him down by delivering the startling revelation: “We Don’t Serve Soup.”

Once his order was finally placed, mortified, I rattled off my order, as well as, my kid brother’s without any consideration of what he actually wanted in the record time of 2.3 seconds. I suppose I was attempting, in some way, to make up for the extra time my dad had taken not only of the cashier, but also of the sequence of normal people behind us in the line. My brother would’ve probably chosen to have me order in this fashion for while only a wee lad, still plenty old enough to feel the embarrassment of the situation. The cashier would say “That will be $14.48 please.”

It was this kind of statement that, somehow, always seemed to take my father by surprise; and that prompted him to conduct an immediate but not at all hurried all-garment pocket search. He’d check all his pockets, which was no small task because he prides himself as a wearer of the kind of leather jacket with an elastic waistband and about twenty-five hidden compartments where each and every pocket is at least a double pocket and then each one of those is a triple pocket, all of them with snaps, Velcro or zippers OR snaps and Velcro and zippers.

He checked each and every one of them with a sequence of rhythmically steady self-frisking hand motions, which for brief moments in time bared a resemblance to the Macarena dance. Mere common men would likely reveal some extent of embarrassment to be in this apparent predicament, but our father swayed out this whole boogie without a hint of self-consciousness or even seeming awareness that he’d placed an order at a public business, without knowing the whereabouts of his wallet.

At the end of the painful performance he would at last, from somewhere deep inside that Leather Castanza, withdraw his car keys and hold them out to me, jingling slightly, with one simple invitation: “Will you go out to the car; and get my wallet?”

“@#$%#&*!”

The Case of the Nose Hair Guy

So I was recently assigned to work with this guy – let’s call him ‘Harry’ – on a class project; and believe it or not I observed something very strange about him.

We meet for the first time at the library and he’s rambling on for seemingly quarters of an hour so excitedly about what he wants to do for the assignment. He seems to be really into it, but I’m not sure because from the time I sit down I don’t even process or comprehend a single phrase he utters. It’s all just like muffled sounds vaguely being emitted forth from his mouth like the bellowing of a record playing back at a low speed; for I am so preoccupied, so locked on, so zoned in and honed in upon his personal forest of nose hair that it’s like these nostril hay bales are screaming with such intensity that nothing else is audible for miles.

Yet the extreme decibels of Harry’s Snout Shout are apparently only audible to me; and what’s even more peculiar is that he even seems unaware that I’ve noticed it. He actually thinks I can hear his verbal jumping jacks.

Right then it really strikes me! I’m going to have to accomplish tasks with this beholder of thy snot rain forest. How am I going to do it? I can’t concentrate on what he’s saying. It’d be like trying to tune a guitar with a steadily clanging gong two feet away.

But the next time we meet the most bizarre thing of all happens. HE HAS TRIMMED THE NOSE HAIR! You do understand why this astounds me, do you not? The reason I can’t believe it, is because a person who would think to trim their nose hair at all would NEVER, EVER IN A BRAZILLION YEARS let it get that out of hand first.

I’m perplexed and confused, because to cut it at that point would require that he looks in the mirror and all of a sudden realizes and says to himself, “Well, I’ve had this appalling pelt of beak fur for about the last 90 days now . . . better not let it go for 91; because THAT would be gross.”

That’s all I have to say on the matter, but if YOU can think of a sensible explanation as to why - if one of you out there knows nose hair - no matter how preposterous, Harry might’ve let it go so far please leave it as a comment.

Heaven

I really think Heaven is a place where people will finally be able to see how things truly are. Everyone will have the chance to weigh their strong opinions and unkind behavior against the gravity of the ultimate loving reality. They will be broken in shame and fully restored.

It’s too bad dogs have such short life spans, because I really hate to miss seeing my dog Reese strutting into The Kingdom; because when he’s confronted with the fact and finally realizes that his whole life long he indiscriminately barked and growled ferociously and fiercely at extremely kind people, innocent young children and the elderly, running at them like a psychotic screaming devil, frequently scaring them out of their shorts, he’s going to feel like a total Fricken Idiot; and I can't wait.

I sure do hope they have Heaven’s Funniest Videos up there so I can rewind again and again, pointing and laughing at his sorry butt.

Coolwhipaphobia: Random Spouting on America’s Favorite Dessert Topping

Hello, my name is @m; and I'm have Coolwhipaphobia

COOL WHIP.

Am I the only one who fears this . . . this . . . substance? Ok, I don't really FEAR the substance, but I am seriously concerned about a culture of people who will eagerly ingest, on a regular basis, things of such an ambiguous essence as that of Cool Whip.

I mean, break it down: You have the "Cool" and you have the "Whip". This tells us virtually nothing. That name is the polar opposite of descriptive. I would be ok with the 'Cool' portion as an adjective if the noun portion had any information. 'Whip' -
What the -?!?!
Think of it this way: You are eating something that is named not after the actual content of the product but rather vaguely after the process that gives it its texture. So all you can infer is that it’s stored in a refrigeration device, and as some point it was beaten around to some degree.

COOL WHIP: The content remains untold.

To solve this problem, the Political Science Division at Kraft Foods has Christened Cool Whip, as if it were a Self Help book, with an informative subtitle in order to shed light on this disturbing mystery. That slogan of final revelation is "Non-Dairy Whipped Topping". So you can see now that the Kraft folks have nothing to hide after all. I guess we can go home, accent our pies with fluffy clouds of sweet dreams and forget all about it.

GET REAL! This leads to more questions than answers! It's a Non-Something, in this case non-dairy. This description is so entirely non-descriptive that it would be every bit as accurate to call it “Non-Pancreatic Whipped Topping” OR “Non-Shag Carpet[*] Whipped Topping”. The ONLY things it tells you about the content is that there is one thing Cool Whip does not contain. Is that really enough information for something that we bodily consume? Check it out:

Ingredients: Water, hydrogenated coconut and palm kernel oils, corn syrup, sugar, sodium caseinate, dextrose, polysorbate 60, natural and artificial flavors, sorbitan monostearate, xanthan gum and guar gum. Artificial color.

Now, I am confused why would Kraft want to hide these wholesome components? (Sarcastic Tangent Begins Here): Doesn’t it just sound mouth watering when you put it that way? In fact, I remember when I was a boy; my mother went to the grocery store and picked up some hydrogenated palm kernel oil, sorbitan and guar gum. She’d initially forgot the xanthan gum, and had to go back in and find it. As it turns out, it was right next to the carrots; but anyway she made a good stir fry out of it; and doctored it up with some natural and artificial flavors, Mmmmm. She served it to me and my sister, who asked for seconds. It was a real storybook kind of dinner. Then we had Cool Whip dollops for desert.

Those were the days.


* I realize that under common conditions throwing the phrase "Shag Carpet" into any work of prose is an act which opens itself to be pegged as a pathetic comedic crutch, however, I still feel that in this case it is an appropriate usage with a reasonably high amount of humor value.

a parable: a more beautiful noise

A man was heading home. His 2-year-old son, in whom the father delighted, was in the back seat of the vehicle. Many things were weighing on the father's mind. After some time, the young boy who hadn't yet learned adequate speech to carry on any kind of a conversation, broke the heavy silence and began singing a simple song.

The song was not a performance. It was not intended for an audience. The child held no concept that his singing could potentially be evaluated by or impressive to someone listening on.

He was merely expressing the wonder in his heart. He sang for no reason other than, it was what he was moved to do at that moment. For this reason, the child's voice resonated in the Father's ears as absolute purity.

The father considered how a singer with flawless execution of technical skills and emotional delivery could never have pleased him nearly as much as the soft, undeveloped voice of this young boy.

The heart-deep song was full of what many would surely consider serious errors and inaccuracies, but it was genuine and true; and the father could not have imagined a more beautiful noise.

The Drinking Dream

Last night I dreamt that a deathly thirst came suddenly upon me and subdued me, not unlike the grip of a noose upon the throat of a dusty and trail-blazed outlaw. I hurriedly poured a glass of ice water and hastily downed it. After emptying the vessel, I was still every bit as dry so I poured another and drank that one down as well. I continued in this manner, only to find that my unrelenting need for liquids persisted even after quaffing 14-15 large glasses of chilled H2O within a couple of minutes.

Strangely, I wasn’t troubled, but was, instead, feeling rather impressed with myself for an astounding feat, thinking, "Wow. It's a good thing I started hydrating when I did. Otherwise, I might've collapsed! I've never known anyone to drink 2 gallons of water in such a short duration and yet remain thirsty. I must have been close to death!"

I imagined myself almost proudly relaying the story later to others at the next office water-cooler gathering. I could foresee the heavy expressions of shocked unease and concern for my well-being. An attentive crowd offering an array of genuine remarks like, “Wow, @m, you sure are blessed to be alive!”

“Oh, yeah, I know,” I’d say heavily, fully relishing their caring attention, “Very lucky.”

Just then, I awoke, and sure enough, I was parched like never before. To give you an indication of how thirsty I was: I got right out of bed without hesitation; something I have not done since the Christmas morning of ’79.

I usually argue sleepily with myself, negotiating my way out of getting up. I do this even as my insides are in pain from a bladder, full far beyond recommended capacity, pushing on its neighbor organs. I usually try to hold out by repositioning myself and thereby distributing the pressure of the bladder more evenly among the other organs and therefore slightly decreasing the pain. Yes, shamefully, I often am willing to withstand actual pain in order to avoid getting out of bed.

So anyway, that’s how terribly in need of water I was. I went directly to the kitchen and just like in my dream I poured a glass of water, only I was too thirsty to care about adding ice like in the dream. The big disappointing letdown was that, after one and a half glasses of water, I was pretty much quenched.

I felt so suckered by that dream, like the dream itself was laughing at the trick it had played on me; like I’d been had; made the fool; like I was all worked up over nothing. Nothing exciting happened at all; I didn’t almost die; I didn’t drink 2 gallons of water in world record time; I didn’t even have a good story to tell.

Sign Language

You know, it’s funny. I believe that every sign is a sign from God; and I’m a literalist, so when I say “sign” I don’t mean something that happens in life that I interpret as a sign, I mean sign literally; actual physical signs like “Stop” “Do Not Enter!” and “Eat at Joe’s,” those kinds of signs.

Think about it. Everything belongs to God including each and every sign. If the signs belong to him, then the words the signs reflect are His Words. Those words are not random. They are part of God’s instructions uttered to us in reflective, neon and strobe-lit lettering.

Now as you might imagine this “One Way” of Life complicates things significantly as one remains obedient to the signs of God. I mean; signs from God have to be obeyed. I cannot delay in obeying them either. They must be obeyed – whenever possible – as soon as they are revealed unto me.

Remember though, that many signs, thankfully, are merely informative and don’t explicitly tell you to do something; for instance, Speed Limit: 70 mph. It’s only telling you what the limit is. It’s not telling you that you have to go the limit. Now whether you should or not is a different blog, but the sign doesn’t command you to do so.

One of the most important things is the gift of being able to discriminate between important or relevant signs and irrelevant signs. If you lack that insightful ability, it can appear that the world of divine revelation is just a quagmire of chaos and mixed messages.
So here are a few more general principles I use that help to simplify life:

Symbols: A Common Misconception:

Signs with symbols aren’t telling me to do anything. (What is that?!?! A guy with a detached head dropping snowballs with leaves inside them into a huge duck mouth?!?!? I don't have a clue! It has no words, therefore it can’t be telling me anything important. I mean get real! I am literate in ENGLISH not hieroglyphics!) Now, pay attention this is important: Symbols are too cryptic and therefore have no place in my religious system. God doesn’t say strange things. He is always succinct. Sure they are still his signs and have purpose, but you have to be reasonable. They are not for people. Who knows? Perhaps he communicates to the animals with the symbol signs. I don’t know. I just chalk that one up to mystery.


Here are a few examples that might help you get the idea:

· Wet Paint See that’s merely informative. I can touch the paint if I want to. Only if it said “Don’t Touch”, would I have to adhere to it.

· Drive in for a Car Wash! – My car isn’t even dirty, but I am a person of faith and cleanliness is next to godliness. In fact, the heavenly realm can probably see filth on my vehicle of which I am not even aware.

· Do Not Walk On Grass! – These kind can get tricky because does it mean, Do Not Walk on Grass Ever? Any Grass? Or just this grass right now? There are some gray areas, I guess I’d have to admit.

· No Diving! – Why would anyone dive into a dangerously shallow depth of water anyway?!?! You see; the Word of the Lord is ever faithful and prudent.

· Try it SuperSized! – Come to think of it, I am famished. He leads me to an affordable and stodgy meal before I am even fully aware of my gnawing hunger.

· Stop in and Try our Brisket! Dammit!!! I don’t even like Brisket! Besides, I just ate an entire Super-Sized McMeal!! I really struggle with all this some times; and I guess you could say that I’m a slightly on the obese side. For some reason it seems there are a lot of signs that tell me to eat this food or that. Clearly, God, in the mystery of His ways, is providing me a safeguard against vanity.

· Cardiology Center – Again, good to know – informative – but I don’t have to do anything.

· Tailored Wedding Gowns. Call Now! – Now that’s just annoying. Admittedly, I don’t get it, but I call anyway on a leap of faith. I am thankful that the sign doesn’t command me to purchase the garment, but simply instructs me to call. Usually, I just call and pretend I want to order a pizza and they think I have the wrong number; so I can check that one off as: “OBEYED”.

· For Sale – So? Everything’s for sale if the price is right, can I get an “Amen”? I kid, but again, this sign isn’t commanding me to do anything and I’m like, totally down with that.

· Enjoy Coca-Cola! - Thankfully, I adore Coca-Cola; otherwise how would I genuinely enjoy it? I suppose if someone who doesn’t like the drink was to make an honest attempt at obedience, God would intervene and supernaturally enable them to enjoy the wonderfully sweet effervescent beverage. And I suspect that their aversion to the glorious product is somehow rooted in a spiritual poverty anyway.

· Now, some signs prophesy about the future. I don’t have to do what they say because I take it on faith that it will happen weather I do it or not. I am talking about signs like “You’ll Love Our Oak Armoires”. Plus don’t forget that telling somebody that something will happen is not the same as actually telling them that they have to make it happen; thank God.

This assuring, yet intense system of faith can be overwhelming at times to my mere humanity and when I am feeling that way, I try really hard to look straight ahead and not focus on any signs. This is because, if I don’t see the sign, even if I know it’s there, I don’t have to obey it. It just wouldn’t make sense otherwise. They are only signs from God in a particular time and to a particular person. Otherwise, I’d be trying to obey every sign that I knew existed somewhere; and that’s just ridiculous.

Usually, however, I eventually become dreadfully curious and can’t help but look at a sign even if I suspect it may be a terrible inconvenience. I guess this is because of my relentlessly insatiable hunger for more and more spiritual depth. This is simply the way I am. It could be simply because I am a Virgo, but the more important question is, “What’s your sign?”

Dip an Upside Down Cross in God Candies

After studying this product for some time, I remain unable to determine the intent of its distributors. Do they desire to promote Christianity or to see its demise?

Pigotry

I’ve noticed something. If you took a quick inventory of the most revolting American foods, almost certainly, Deep Fried Pork Rinds would be near the top of the list. And if this offends you and you actually eat these things, you have apparently stumbled upon this blog haphazardly. If this is the case, please stop reading immediately, click here, and be entertained for hours.

While attempting to imagine a scenario in which people would be consuming fat-fried pig fat, the first thing that came to mind was a living room of guys gathered in front of a large TV screen watching football. I thought it ironic for the following reasons:

• This is a demographic of men often referred to as “pigs”.
• When one plays football one “sweats like a pig”.
• If it rains on the game, it turns into a pile of players wallowing atop one another in the mud, perhaps, not completely unlike a herd of pigs.
• The entire friggin’ game revolves around a ball made of what? PIGSKIN!!

It’s over the top isn’t it? It’s just way too much pig! It’s like Americans want to be just one pig happy family. Settle down folks. Of all the creatures in the animal kingdom why be so closely associated in so many different ways, with swine? They are the animals that will eat ANY-THING! Is this fixation a poetic justice; like some kind of unconscious American confession of a gluttonous life-style? We’ve gone hog wild with pigotry. What is the obsession? Can someone please help me?

The Evolution of Santa Claus

You know, it's funny. In times past, various groups and individuals have come forth claiming that Santa is really Satan (Notice the two names are anagrams of one another). He comes to steal the attention and focus of Christmas for himself by making it all about the gifts, getting, greediness and gadgetry.

They often point out how Santa wears the red suit just as, like everybody knows, Satan does also. They might suggest that Satan, taking pride in his or her own clever sense of irony and cunning deceit, puts his alter ego not in the hottest place but rather the coldest place on earth, the North Pole. Which you must admit, is pretty clever. He invades folks' homes and "descends" down into their fiery pits; alluding to the fact that he is comfortable and at home in flaming-hot infernos. I am sure you can guess why that is. This Satan Claus is famous for being the bearer of "gifts" that are crafted by elves which are, in Norwegian folktale, the spawn of demons and even more powerful and evil than their parents.

Then he eats cookies that are left especially for him by the homeowners. This one sneaks by a lot of decent people, but it is actually quite blasphemous. It’s more recognizable by the eastern religions. Hindus for instance frequently leave sweets as an offering to the divine. Incidentally, it seems like Buddha would be the one most apt to go for the sweets, being by far the chubbiest deity. But anyway don’t forget that the Jews offered food for animal sacrifices also. Satan disguised as a gift giver is very eager and proud to blatantly take, for himself, the sacrifices that belong to the Lord, which is what he is doing by eating the cookies as Santa Claus.

The allusions go on and on. In fact, it’s disturbingly obvious isn’t it? So much so that I finally realized it’s all a sham. Yes, you read that correctly. Satan has been framed!

By whom you ask? By the True Deceiver: Charles Darwin the evil-utionist, of course. I realize that it’s hard to see at first considering that you’ve always assumed that Santa is the Prince of Demons. But Ho-Ho-Hold your horses, tiny tot! You must now open your eyes to see, as the gift of truth behind Darwin’s colorfully papered sham is excitedly unwrapped. Prepare to have your stockings blown off!

What is the biggest hole in the theory of evil-ution? Mutation. While mutations actually do occur occasionally in various organisms, they are, for one, quite uncommon. Secondly, it is exceptionally rare that mutations could ever be considered beneficial to an organism. This is the largest hole in evolution, yet one on which the theory heavily relies.

So what does Mr. Darwin do? He dons a flamboyant suit and flies his sleigh directly into that hole. He does this in order to make the world comfortable with the idea of beneficial mutations. If you haven't yet figured it out, of course, I am talking about Santa's most valuable asset, Rudolph, the so-called Red-Nosed Reindeer!

Now is the light bulb coming on over your head?

Think about this: First an entire super-race of mutant reindeer suddenly acquires the abilities of flight and speech. But even more, Rudolph’s nose, an otherwise preposterous notion is nothing more than a subtly disguised mutation! At first in the story, the mutation is more realistic, being non-beneficial to the organism, Rudolph. The other reindeers, because he is different, laugh and call him names, as well they should. But then Darwin Claus steps into the scene, sporting his ridiculous crimson velvet get-up, explaining to all of his reindeer why the shinny nose belonging to this freak of nature, Rudolph, is a wonderful ADAPTATION, a blessing in disguise; Why his MUTATION is BENEFICIAL to the species and to the WORLD!!!

Now, do you see what I mean? It’s been there all the time right under our non-luminescent noses. It almost makes you feel sorry for poor Satan doesn't it?

My Friend Catt, the Mute

You know, it's funny. Some time ago I became friends with a mute named Catt. Well, actually, his real name is Matt but everybody calls him either "Catt" or "Matt the Catt". I guess it’s because cats aren’t very noisy and neither are mutes.

I thought he must be a pretty funny guy when I found out that he named his cat: Mute. That’s pretty good: Catt the mute owns Mute the cat.

Our friendship works really well because he’s a very good listener. I suppose you could argue that he has no choice since he can't talk and I can’t read sign language. Either way he’s a good listener.

I think he really wanted to be friends with a speaking person even though usually, mutes tend to be friends with other mutes. I mean they are not prejudice people or anything. It’s just that they have a lot in common.

Catt liked me from the start. I suspect it was because even though I am a very clever individual, I’m not one of those guys who says jokes like, “Hey, whatsamatta? CAT got your tongue?” That’s got to get old after a while.

I guess it's a status thing for mutes to be friends with speaking people. In the same way it would be for me if I were friends with a professional athlete, or someone who possesses an ability that I don't have. My other friends might think it enviable that I was friends with the pro athlete: That’s what I mean by status.
So because of that, he is friends with me and ends up listening to me all the time. At first I wondered if he could hear me because I kept talking and he never replied; so I asked him if he could hear me; and he nodded. It was great not to get a lengthy explanation about how mutes are not deaf, but rather just an efficient nod. I appreciate that about Catt.

It's really nice to have a friend who always listens and never unloads the tough parts of their life onto you. If fact I really don't know much about Catt at all.

The only part that sucks is this: when we go out for beers and the waitress asks, "Is this going to be on separate checks?"

Well, see that really leaves me in a precarious situation. I have to either look like a selfish miser and always say, "Separate" or say, "One,” and pay for his. And why should I do that just because he can’t talk? He can pay for his own damn beer!

In fact, often, Catt does pay for my beer. He just grabs the bills when she brings them, but nonetheless, I really feel stuck in such a predicament.
It makes me wonder how mutes can be friends with other mutes, because if they went to a restaurant or something, it would be a real pain, since you couldn't tell the waitress what you wanted to order. Sure you could point at the menu item, but you wouldn't be able to explain the fact that, "Hey, just so you know I'm mute so I won't be saying anything tonight."

And then it would be awkward when the manager guy comes around to ask how everything tastes. If it tasted really crappy you’d either have to gesture like you were going to vomit or else you'd both just have to sit there staring at him until he went away which would be potentially awkward.

You could try to communicate with gestures to indicate that you can’t talk, but I am sure that you don’t do that if you are mute because it just gets old after a while; and you get sick and tired of it and give up.

Your whole life would be like a game of charades. Charades is a really fun game, but if you had to play it all day everyday for you’re whole life I’ll bet you wouldn’t think of it as a game after a while.

But I like that game, which gets me thinking: I should ask Catt if wants to play charades sometime. On the other hand maybe not; he’d be so good that I would end up looking foolish just because I don’t sit around practicing all day everyday like he does. Besides he wouldn’t be able to shout out guesses to my charades so I would lose anyway. Screw that! I guess Charades really only works with teams.



It sure would be a hassle to learn sign language. Not only would I feel weird signing in public, because it looks so conspicuous. It’s like “Enough with the boisterous gestures already!” Plus, those kinds of guys who make the Cat-got-your-tongue joke whenever they saw you signing they would do the Jedi-Knight motion with their hand and say, “You will go buy me a beer right now” and laugh as they walk away.
But also if I could sign, I'd have to listen to Catt all the time. And that would really be weird because if I truly got to know him, I might not even like him at all, which could completely ruin our friendship.

Lance

There's a guy who works in my building. Let's call him Barry. It's ok for me to call him Barry for now, even though that's not his name, because for one; I am acknowledging that Barry is not his real name in protection of his identity. And two; I am not personally addressing him as Barry, leaving him to wonder, "Why is he calling me Barry? That's not my name."
Strangely, as you are about to discover, this leads me to the crux of the matter:
Starting sometime around 5 years ago, Barry, a virtual stranger to me, would pass by in the aisle or the stairwell. A pattern began of him saying things to me things like, "How's it going, Lance?" or "What's up, Lance?" or "Hello, Lance."
And this is very strange. Of course, my main concern here is that my name is not and never has been: Lance. What's more: of the several hundred people who work in my building NONE of them are named Lance or even Lancelot, Lancebert, Lancington or anything close.
I remain unable to concoct a single theory as to how Barry first came to think of me as Lance. However, he's, no doubt, continued in this regard, because over the 5-year period I never said to him, "Hey, incidentally, Man, my name isn’t Lance."
That’s right, never once.
Initially I was afraid to create an awkward situation. I mean here is this guy trying his best to be friendly. Not knowing me, he goes out of his way with a personal touch to address me by name, its utter inaccuracy notwithstanding.
I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I imagined him awkwardly fumbling about saying, "Oh jeeze, I'm sorry. @m, huh? Why'n the world did I think you were Lance?"
I just couldn’t so cruelly push a stranger into such self-doubt. I even felt kind of guilty for not being named Lance, wondering if it was even healthy for me to be so particular about what people call me.
It went on and on like that until it was just too late to ever go back. You can’t try to correct a 5-year long relationship that’s not a relationship if it’s built on a lie.
How unbalanced would I appear to be if after half a decade into our little agreement I inform Barry from out of nowhere that he’s been calling me by the name of a fictitious person all this time? I can not do it, so I’ve sold my soul to the Coward’s Charade.
There’s nothing left for me now but to spend the rest of my career hoping that Barry doesn’t call me Lance in front of some pain-in-the-A overachiever who happens to know my real name and immediately insists on getting to the bottom of the Lance thing.
“Lance!?!? Why’re you calling him Lance?” he’ll say.
Barry will reply matter-of-factly, “His NAME is Lance.”
“The hell it is!” will be Asspain’s prompt reply “That’s not his first OR last name. And if he had a nickname it wouldn’t be after something sharp!” laughing long and forcefully at his own stupid joke.
Then before you know it after a couple more perplexed exchanges they’ll both be looking at me, quizzically, as if all of a sudden remembering me from such films as ‘Awakenings’ and “’One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.’

I hate that look.

The Hut

Yesterday in circumstances of provisional urgency, I “dined” at one of the local Pizza Huts. It was my first encounter with a fast food chain in about six months. I was far from eager to partake, but my wife and I were the two things that qualified us as potential fast food consumers. We were both very hungry and in a hurry.
I think it might be precisely these two aspects of Americianity, which have made the success of the fast food enterprise so monumental. Why are we rushing? And is it really a bigger, tastier portion that we are so hungry for? I don’t think so and for me, the following account solidifies that belief.

I approached the counter to place an order and the guy tells me with a matter-of-factness that immediately irritates me and reminds me why I hate these places, “If you’re dining in, Why don’t you just go sit down and wait for the server to take your order.”

I want to pursue this conversation further. I want to answer “That I don’t want to WAIT for a WAITperson because I am in a HURRY, but I suspect that he may be angered by the exchange and the fact that I am not down with the Pizza Hut Ordering System and take it out on my pizza somehow. So, I say nothing and enter the “dining area”. You see, it’s not a “dining room”, because it’s in the same room as the cash register, counter, soda fountain, the line of customers waiting to be seated and the Monster Truck Massacre video game.

As I proceed, I get a vague sense of something. I realize it’s as if an explosive device that would ordinarily be used in war to swiftly kill large numbers of enemy soldiers with a noxious gas, was in this case, detonated inside this building in order to spread a subtle, almost undetectable layer of grease (perhaps even digestible grease) over every accessible surface in the restaurant, not least of which the food itself* and certainly not excluding the ceiling, walls, woodwork, tables and vinyl covered seating. They use a Pizza Hut version of Windex on the windows and salad bar glass so it won’t be too obvious, but I think that even my water tasted greasy.

When the ‘waitperson’ came around – she might’ve been offended to be called a waitress – to take our drink orders, I courteously explained that we were already to order because we were in a hurry. I could tell by her expression, which could just as well have been a W.W.P.H.D. bracelet, that this also, was another violation of the Pizza Hut Way, but she found the words, “OK, what would you like?”

My reply, would turn out to be another problem. You see, sometimes two people ordering the same pizza don’t like the same toppings. The Pizza Hut Way ‘kind of’ understands that but only kind of. To be fair, I am sure that my wife and I are the first and only couple in which one person likes plain pizza and one likes lots of stuff.

The ‘kind of’ part is that The Hut actually lets you order different pizza toppings on different halves of the same pizza with no extra charge. That is good and it makes sense for everyone involved. Yet, when I explained that I would like all of the four half toppings on one side of the pizza and none on the other rather than two on each side, she crinkled her nose and actually remarked, “We’d have to charge you extra for that.”

I was about to respond with, “So you’re saying you will charge extra to move your hands over to the other side of the pizza before dropping the toppings?” But she might’ve been chummy with whoever makes the pizza and again, I didn’t want to risk the ‘tampering factor’.

Our two-topping/no-topping pizza came about 10 minutes later. We ate a few pieces. It actually tasted pretty good (See * above). We asked for our check and a box.

I went up to the counter and as I was WAITing to pay “the guy” I wondered why they chose Pizza Hut for the name. The building plan in no way resembles a hut and pizza is not something ordinarily associated with huts. I couldn’t come up with any sensible explanations, but Hut does rhyme with several words that make it easy for juveniles to derive entertainingly derogatory parodies of the restaurant’s name. I smiled. But, by the time we got to the car, that urgency I was speaking of earlier, took on a completely new objective.

afghans

You know, it's funny. Usually, you don't get this personal when you start a blog, but for some reason sitting here alone, I feel liberated enough to share this:
You see, I met with my therapist recently. When I sat down she said, "Atom, how's your week?"
And see? Right there; That was the beginning of the trouble. Because I have this rare condition of hearing what people don't say.
What I mean is that I hear words in sentences that are not there but they sound like they are. Most people don't hear them because they are focused on the context but I am not. Now, that may sound a little crazy, but let me explain what I mean.
She said, "Adam, how's your week?"
Well, I realize now that that’s what she said, but at the time I thought she said, “Add ‘em, House year weak?”
So, of course, my prompt retort was, “Hey! What the hell is that supposed to mean!? Are you trying to be funny or something?! Doctor?! You know very well that’s exactly the kind of nonsense my wife is always spouting off at me. I can never tell what the hell she’s talking about either and here you are, ironically my therapist, mocking me, blabbering the same sort of humbuggery! . . . ”
Well, thank goodness I helped her get that straightened out and she finally got her wits about her and said slowly, “What’s been going on in your life?”

So right there, I began to open up. I said, “Whenever I hear the term Afghan, like on the news, for some reason, the only thing I can possibly think of is the blankets, even though they NEVER mean the blankets. They mean, almost exclusively, the people from Afghanistan.
“I mean, NO ONE, not anyone discusses blankets; Ever. Can you recall one conversation you've ever had about a blanket? I didn't think so. Yet, whenever I hear "Afghans" I always think of the blankets and not the people group. Then I chuckle to myself at the absurd thought of all that hullabaloo over some lousy blankets. Jeeze, there sure are a lot of weirdoes in the world.”

Then she asks me (slowly) if I can think of any significant role that afghans played in my childhood.
So I say, “You mean the people right?”
“No . . . the blankets.”
"Oh."
I couldn’t think of anything at all that could’ve possibly been important and I tell her so.
Then I said, “I am sure this is nothing but it’s all I can think of: For years and years when I was a kid growing up, we had scores of Afghans all around the house, probably several hundred. In fact, we had no couches or beds we just had 3-foot stacks of various afghans on which to sit and sleep. And although they were at times very comfortable, it was always difficult to explain why all the afghans when I had friends over.
“We didn't believe in couches and beds. I mean we believed they existed and that other people owned them and stuff like that. I just mean to say we didn’t believe in having them for ourselves.
“This was because Jesus said, ‘The son of man has no place to lay his head.’ So we believed that we shouldn't have one either.
“I can remember being verily confused by this; and I would protest saying ‘But what’s the difference? We lay our heads on the stacks of afghans!’
“Then, the church elders and my parents would gather around me, harshly scold and warn me not to make a mockery out of the teachings the Lord or else I would be sent to my afghans without supper.
That was all I could think of.
I knew that the doctor couldn’t think of any connection between the two events either because she just sat there, staring blankly letting out a big exhale.
Then she said, “That Saul that I’m we ave fern Owww.”I was really thankful to be out of there. Those doctors are nuts.