Isaac is learning and, in some ways, that makes me the teacher. I've already taught him when you should swing at a 3-0 count. When to throw the sinker. When to take a jumpshot falling away just inside the three-point line and when to dribble the clock out. I don't think he's grasped my lessons yet. But he is learning in other ways.
The Mrs. bought a fun toy for him last week. Now I'm of the opinion that we should just give our child a cardboard box and let him use his imagination. In fact, I'm excited about our new house because there are several places where a productive imagination could yield some interesting afternoons. But he's not quite there yet. And this toy is a pretty neat thing. Neat in the sense that I can already measure it's effectiveness. Basically, the toy let's him lay on his back with things to grab onto over his head. It's working. In the past week, he's gone from barely being able to focus on something in front of his face to being intrigued by his index finger and reaching for it with his other hand and grab and hold objects at will.
You don't think about teaching these things. You think about teaching right from wrong. Curveballs from sliders. Times tables. Words. Not grabbing things like a plastic ladybug or a rotating toy mirror. Not how to focus and reach for something. Or even putting things within their grasps.
But that's my role as a Dad. To teach him to reach for things over his head, or right in front of him. To teach him to focus, grab and hold on to whatever he can. He starts, I'm learning, with a toy that makes noise, it progresses, eventually, into dreams and goals. From tangible objects to intangible desires.
I guess this is as easy as it will get for me. Because, right now, I can hold the desired object for him to grab on to. I won't always be able to do that.
But when the time comes to teach him how to hit a fastball, rest assured, he's not going to be able to hit my fastball.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
200
For those of you keeping score at home, this is my 200th post since I started this blog 13 months ago. That averages out to some 13 posts a month; about 3 posts a week. In that time I've had more than 10,000 visitors to the site as well. Not bad. But in comparison to, say, ESPN.com, that total is, well, close to nothing at all. But then again I'm not trying to be the world-wide leader.
But there is cause to celebrate. The thing of it is (yes, I'm breaking that out): the 200th of something is a rare cause to celebrate. Off the top of my head, 200 is recognized as a milestone in television, with the 200th episode of a show. It's usually considered the ultimate goal because it takes about 8 years or so to reach and means the show's got staying power. 200 is also a significant number in baseball: 200 hits in a season; 200 wins in a career for a pitcher.
That covers quantity. As far as time goes, well, 200 isn't a popular anniversary. And if there were an Idiots Guide to Celebrating Anniversaries, I'd want it to address the topic of what anniversaries to celebrate. Clearly, the 1st and 2nd years following the date are important. After that? Do we really need to pay such close attention to 3 and 4? 5, sure. Then 10, 25, 50, and 75. Of course there's 100. Maybe 125 like baseball did a few years ago. 150? Not really. 200, maybe. Like the bicentennial in '76.
Along those lines, here's some 200 year anniversaries you should put in your calender over the next few years. Moments you're going to want to remember later this year.
August 17th: The first launch of the commercial steamboat. The world was never the same.
That's about it. But there are more 200-year milestone's approaching in the next five years. So mark these down.
February 12, 2009: Births of Charles Darwin and Abraham Lincoln. There's evolution for you. Two great minds born on the same day. And they both later died. So much for survival of the fittest.
December 30, 2009: Boston bans the wearing of masks at balls. I'm not sure this law has ever been repealed.
March 25, 2011: The great comet discovery. Great balls of fire and all.
February 11, 2012: The invention of gerrymandering. Love that word.
June 1, 1812: The War of 1812 begins. Hopefully it'll be over by 2012. And don't forget to remember Dolly Madison's heroic efforts in your celebrations.
Happy 200th everyone.
But there is cause to celebrate. The thing of it is (yes, I'm breaking that out): the 200th of something is a rare cause to celebrate. Off the top of my head, 200 is recognized as a milestone in television, with the 200th episode of a show. It's usually considered the ultimate goal because it takes about 8 years or so to reach and means the show's got staying power. 200 is also a significant number in baseball: 200 hits in a season; 200 wins in a career for a pitcher.
That covers quantity. As far as time goes, well, 200 isn't a popular anniversary. And if there were an Idiots Guide to Celebrating Anniversaries, I'd want it to address the topic of what anniversaries to celebrate. Clearly, the 1st and 2nd years following the date are important. After that? Do we really need to pay such close attention to 3 and 4? 5, sure. Then 10, 25, 50, and 75. Of course there's 100. Maybe 125 like baseball did a few years ago. 150? Not really. 200, maybe. Like the bicentennial in '76.
Along those lines, here's some 200 year anniversaries you should put in your calender over the next few years. Moments you're going to want to remember later this year.
August 17th: The first launch of the commercial steamboat. The world was never the same.
That's about it. But there are more 200-year milestone's approaching in the next five years. So mark these down.
February 12, 2009: Births of Charles Darwin and Abraham Lincoln. There's evolution for you. Two great minds born on the same day. And they both later died. So much for survival of the fittest.
December 30, 2009: Boston bans the wearing of masks at balls. I'm not sure this law has ever been repealed.
March 25, 2011: The great comet discovery. Great balls of fire and all.
February 11, 2012: The invention of gerrymandering. Love that word.
June 1, 1812: The War of 1812 begins. Hopefully it'll be over by 2012. And don't forget to remember Dolly Madison's heroic efforts in your celebrations.
Happy 200th everyone.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
On Reading Faulkner
For those of you unaware, I'm back in school. Accepted to the University of Dayton to begin work on a Masters in English, emphasis in Creative Writing. Of course, it's conditional enrollment meaning I've got to get 3.0's in two upper-level English courses to be officially enrolled this fall (or whenever I should complete them). So I'm in the midst of my first class at the moment, courtesy of the Internet and Ohio University: American Literature 1918-present.
It's a post-WWI literature survey course featuring the works of John Barth, Flannery O'Connor (a personal favorite) and Saul Bellow -- to name a few. And then there's William Faulkner. Known for his work in As I Lay Dying and Absalom! Absalom! we get to sample none of that. Instead, chosen for me, was "The Hamlet". A 400+ page introduction to the Snopes family, featured in other works and later, as part of a trilogy - this being the first one. I completed it this afternoon and was thoroughly impressed.
There's no way to describe Faulkner as a writer. No way to assess his adroitness with words, punctuation and syntax. But you know it when you read it -- and you know when other readers have read him and been influenced by him (see O'Connor's body of work). While this work was no where near his best, it was quintessential Faulkner. Not his apex as a writer, but what him being a writer was all about. Just like you could point to a Monet and say, "That's clearly Monet -- but not his best". You do that with "The Hamlet". If you can get through it.
Meandering through long sentences filled with prose and romance, punctuated by short sentences of statement, The Hamlet takes some patience. And perseverance. A lack of a DaVinci Code plot surely leaves the modern reader in want. But it's a character study the whole way.
I liken it to a Sunday drive. Or those old Sunday drives people used to say they were going on when they ran into folks in the atriums and lobbies of churches. People don't go on these drives anymore. They don't trek with windows down and squint through fading suns and sunlights dancing through trees. They don't stop for ice creams and share in the colloquialisms of flea markets and little league baseball games. It's one of those things though, that when done, you're glad you've done and wished it could have been longer. But before you began, did not expect to spend as much time doing it or enjoying it like you did. And you're not really sure what it was that made you spend the hours before dusk trucking around.
Faulkner is, perhaps, the best writer I've ever read. And I know why. Like I know a Sunday drive.
It's a post-WWI literature survey course featuring the works of John Barth, Flannery O'Connor (a personal favorite) and Saul Bellow -- to name a few. And then there's William Faulkner. Known for his work in As I Lay Dying and Absalom! Absalom! we get to sample none of that. Instead, chosen for me, was "The Hamlet". A 400+ page introduction to the Snopes family, featured in other works and later, as part of a trilogy - this being the first one. I completed it this afternoon and was thoroughly impressed.
There's no way to describe Faulkner as a writer. No way to assess his adroitness with words, punctuation and syntax. But you know it when you read it -- and you know when other readers have read him and been influenced by him (see O'Connor's body of work). While this work was no where near his best, it was quintessential Faulkner. Not his apex as a writer, but what him being a writer was all about. Just like you could point to a Monet and say, "That's clearly Monet -- but not his best". You do that with "The Hamlet". If you can get through it.
Meandering through long sentences filled with prose and romance, punctuated by short sentences of statement, The Hamlet takes some patience. And perseverance. A lack of a DaVinci Code plot surely leaves the modern reader in want. But it's a character study the whole way.
I liken it to a Sunday drive. Or those old Sunday drives people used to say they were going on when they ran into folks in the atriums and lobbies of churches. People don't go on these drives anymore. They don't trek with windows down and squint through fading suns and sunlights dancing through trees. They don't stop for ice creams and share in the colloquialisms of flea markets and little league baseball games. It's one of those things though, that when done, you're glad you've done and wished it could have been longer. But before you began, did not expect to spend as much time doing it or enjoying it like you did. And you're not really sure what it was that made you spend the hours before dusk trucking around.
Faulkner is, perhaps, the best writer I've ever read. And I know why. Like I know a Sunday drive.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Some Bathroom Reading
One week from today the Mrs., myself and Isaac will be the possessors of our new home. Needless to say it's been a stress-filled, yet exciting time for us. Between closing on a house and planning for the move into a home much larger than our current residence, we have been busy. Thankfully, our new home provides me with that needed respite. That longed for and welcomed moment of the day when no one wants to be around you and you won't no one around. Where it is just you and your thoughts. And sometimes some reading material.
A friend of mine has a book that provides summaries of all the greatest novels. Each books' summary can be read, well, in one sitting. The sports page is also common reading. My new home has something of the former adorning its walls. The previous owner, who gets major points for being clever here while having them deducted because of the location of the hot-tub filled gazebo, decided to paste pages of exceptional authors' works on the walls. All within plain sight. All easy to read. It's a rather ingenious idea, to post authors like Faulkner, Spinoza, Shakespeare, Bacon, Whitman, et al on the walls. And suddenly, these walls can talk.
I'm not sure where I'll start. On which wall. But I know I'll look forward to those chances I'll get to, well, sit and think. I'm just not sure how to reference them in footnotes on my graduate papers.
A friend of mine has a book that provides summaries of all the greatest novels. Each books' summary can be read, well, in one sitting. The sports page is also common reading. My new home has something of the former adorning its walls. The previous owner, who gets major points for being clever here while having them deducted because of the location of the hot-tub filled gazebo, decided to paste pages of exceptional authors' works on the walls. All within plain sight. All easy to read. It's a rather ingenious idea, to post authors like Faulkner, Spinoza, Shakespeare, Bacon, Whitman, et al on the walls. And suddenly, these walls can talk.
I'm not sure where I'll start. On which wall. But I know I'll look forward to those chances I'll get to, well, sit and think. I'm just not sure how to reference them in footnotes on my graduate papers.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
On The Draft Lottery
Please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please.... pretty please with sugar on top... Please.
Please.
Also, ever write a word so many times it doesn't look right?
Please.
Please.
Also, ever write a word so many times it doesn't look right?
Please.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
On Quality
It occurs to me: we live very convenient lives. Especially these days. People speak of the "modern conveniences" in vague, generic terms. But it's rather true. For instance, yesterday the Mrs. and I headed to Cincinnati for the day, listening, the entire trip down, to Damien Rice on the iPod.
Now I love the iPod. I love it's convenience. How I can store my entire collection of music on a piece of technology roughly the size of an index card. Not only that, but I can access it anywhere -- like in my car. And if I hear a song I like, I can own it. I hear also that there's a new device, aside from being a phone, that you can put up to a speaker, it will identify the song for you and offer to download it. These are the lives of complete convenience we lead.
Thing of it is, MP3 is a huge dent on the quality of music. It's not even close. Audiophiles, and I'm not quite one of them, rant on degeneration of sound that is the MP3. And they're right. CD quality is much better. Vinyl is even better than that. But we sacrifice it all for the ability to bring it with us.
There are other things we've given up too in these "modern times". Given up quality, prepared food for microwavable meals. Handwritten letters that show time and effort for short emails. Phone calls even for text messages. Cross-country road trips in cars, itself a modern convenience, for quicker airline travel. Walks in the park for the treadmill and athletic clubs. Actual sports for something called the Wii. Full-length content for highlights and summaries . Newspapers for webpages.
It's amazing and frightening how in 100 years we've stopped doing the things that civilizations for thousands of years were doing. And it's all in the name of convenience.
Now I love the iPod. I love it's convenience. How I can store my entire collection of music on a piece of technology roughly the size of an index card. Not only that, but I can access it anywhere -- like in my car. And if I hear a song I like, I can own it. I hear also that there's a new device, aside from being a phone, that you can put up to a speaker, it will identify the song for you and offer to download it. These are the lives of complete convenience we lead.
Thing of it is, MP3 is a huge dent on the quality of music. It's not even close. Audiophiles, and I'm not quite one of them, rant on degeneration of sound that is the MP3. And they're right. CD quality is much better. Vinyl is even better than that. But we sacrifice it all for the ability to bring it with us.
There are other things we've given up too in these "modern times". Given up quality, prepared food for microwavable meals. Handwritten letters that show time and effort for short emails. Phone calls even for text messages. Cross-country road trips in cars, itself a modern convenience, for quicker airline travel. Walks in the park for the treadmill and athletic clubs. Actual sports for something called the Wii. Full-length content for highlights and summaries . Newspapers for webpages.
It's amazing and frightening how in 100 years we've stopped doing the things that civilizations for thousands of years were doing. And it's all in the name of convenience.
What will be left for the poets? For the writers? For the singers? Songs that employ those binary words that have become part of our lives? Poems that rhyme MP3 with me? Stories that describe turbulence and jet-lag? I worry for them. For how they'll have to make stories out of modern life; a life that is, in places, cold and austere, efficient. Where there is no quality, only convenience.
Friday, May 18, 2007
On Leaving Early
Inspired by a post on a blog I've occasioned, I was reminded about a story I once wrote. Of course it involves baseball. All my stories involve baseball. Also, it's a particularly good time to write about baseball as the Red Sox are playing some outstanding baseball right now.
Remember my first ever 'live blog'? Well, if you get through it you get to the point where we attend the Red Sox game in the pouring rain (and also what humorous events happened to us at the game which were even funnier in lieu of everything that happened that horrible, no good, very bad day). One of the things I love about my wife is she gets me. Completely and, sometimes, inconceivably. Despite the rain, despite the events of the day, she did not once consider or broach the idea that we should leave the game early. And more than that -- and this is why I love her -- she did not want to leave the game early.
You don't leave a baseball game early. Especially if it's the Red Sox. Especially if it's at Fenway. It is my belief that those people, and there are many of you who choose to leave, for good or for lame reasons, a baseball game before the final out, are the same sort of people who would leave church in the middle of the altar call (Been reading Faulkner, sorry about that sentence).
The altar call is the whole point (usually, but it doesn't have to be) of the sermon and church on the whole. Staying for the final out is the whole point of going to a game. Only then is the final outcome determined. Only then is the victor the victor and the loser the loser. And that's what you go to games for. For one team to win and another to lose. Sure, things may not change between the time you leave your seat and that final out. But the whole point is that they can change and so you need to stay.
My brother and some friends once attended a Red Sox game at Fenway. It was a few years ago and it was a night game in the middle of the summer. Well, like any fan going to a game's dream, it went into extra innings. Around the 14th they made an announcement that the last train was leaving at a certain time readily approaching. That train would have taken them across the city to where they had parked. Sara, one of the friends at the game, as street savvy as she is in Boston, said she knew how to walk the two dozen city blocks so they could stay. They put it to a vote. It was unanimous. They stayed.
In the bottom of the 18th the Red Sox won it on a Shea Hillenbrand home run. And they walked back. He still tells that story.
What story can you tell if you left early.
Remember my first ever 'live blog'? Well, if you get through it you get to the point where we attend the Red Sox game in the pouring rain (and also what humorous events happened to us at the game which were even funnier in lieu of everything that happened that horrible, no good, very bad day). One of the things I love about my wife is she gets me. Completely and, sometimes, inconceivably. Despite the rain, despite the events of the day, she did not once consider or broach the idea that we should leave the game early. And more than that -- and this is why I love her -- she did not want to leave the game early.
You don't leave a baseball game early. Especially if it's the Red Sox. Especially if it's at Fenway. It is my belief that those people, and there are many of you who choose to leave, for good or for lame reasons, a baseball game before the final out, are the same sort of people who would leave church in the middle of the altar call (Been reading Faulkner, sorry about that sentence).
The altar call is the whole point (usually, but it doesn't have to be) of the sermon and church on the whole. Staying for the final out is the whole point of going to a game. Only then is the final outcome determined. Only then is the victor the victor and the loser the loser. And that's what you go to games for. For one team to win and another to lose. Sure, things may not change between the time you leave your seat and that final out. But the whole point is that they can change and so you need to stay.
My brother and some friends once attended a Red Sox game at Fenway. It was a few years ago and it was a night game in the middle of the summer. Well, like any fan going to a game's dream, it went into extra innings. Around the 14th they made an announcement that the last train was leaving at a certain time readily approaching. That train would have taken them across the city to where they had parked. Sara, one of the friends at the game, as street savvy as she is in Boston, said she knew how to walk the two dozen city blocks so they could stay. They put it to a vote. It was unanimous. They stayed.
In the bottom of the 18th the Red Sox won it on a Shea Hillenbrand home run. And they walked back. He still tells that story.
What story can you tell if you left early.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Catch-22: An Emmy
So I've been nominated for an Emmy award. Not the real Emmy's, mind you. These Emmys. It's for a 30-minute special I wrote and produced last year on a local restaurateur named Cameron Mitchell. I poured a lot of time and effort into it -- especially in the pre-production stage where I laid out my plans for the piece. Of course each idea I had was shot down. They weren't all fantastic ideas, but they were ideas that made the piece something more than the "newsy" type piece I knew my (now former) bosses wanted from it. I didn't want that. I wanted a documentary feel. I didn't get that and they got what they wanted. I didn't want it submitted. They did. I don't want the Emmy. They do.
So who should I thank if I win? God? My wife? Cameron Mitchell? David Ortiz? My fifth grade teacher who always believed in me?I'm not up against anybody so chances are pretty good I'll bring home the hardware. And I must come up with something very cliche to say. The last video production award I won was in 6th grade. It was on a new school being built for junior high students. We entitled it "A Dream Come True". The award we won, I gave the speech for, thanking everyone, including my teachers for "making this a dream come true." I'll need a speech to top that.
Truth be told I'm not thrilled about this thing. While it will benefit me professionally, and it will, it's not the piece I would have liked to be recognized for. It wasn't something I would watch so how should I expect someome else to watch it? My wife hasn't even seen it and I show her everything I do. I didn't even want it submitted (mostly because of the $75 admission fee. It was paid for "anonymously"). But professionally, an Emmy goes a long, long way.
And therein lies the rub.
So who should I thank if I win? God? My wife? Cameron Mitchell? David Ortiz? My fifth grade teacher who always believed in me?I'm not up against anybody so chances are pretty good I'll bring home the hardware. And I must come up with something very cliche to say. The last video production award I won was in 6th grade. It was on a new school being built for junior high students. We entitled it "A Dream Come True". The award we won, I gave the speech for, thanking everyone, including my teachers for "making this a dream come true." I'll need a speech to top that.
Truth be told I'm not thrilled about this thing. While it will benefit me professionally, and it will, it's not the piece I would have liked to be recognized for. It wasn't something I would watch so how should I expect someome else to watch it? My wife hasn't even seen it and I show her everything I do. I didn't even want it submitted (mostly because of the $75 admission fee. It was paid for "anonymously"). But professionally, an Emmy goes a long, long way.
And therein lies the rub.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
To My Mom
Take another look at me
Oh breaker of my heart
Take a look and you will see
How beautiful you are
Even when I walk away
I could not go very far
Before the child in me would say
Home is where you are
In the tapestry of time
I cannot imagine where
I could find someone as kind
On the ground or in the air
I have heard that angels fly
And they never show their face
So I suppose that from the sky
One landed in your place
Did you know right from the start
When you first held me in your arms
That you would always hold my heart
Where you are
You make the mornings seem so light
With coffee in the air
But to be a mother and a wife
Is a heavy load to bear
And so you gave your life away
Like the God inside your heart
And even though we've gone away
Home is where you are
It's where you are
-Bebo Norman, "Home is Where You Are"
Oh breaker of my heart
Take a look and you will see
How beautiful you are
Even when I walk away
I could not go very far
Before the child in me would say
Home is where you are
In the tapestry of time
I cannot imagine where
I could find someone as kind
On the ground or in the air
I have heard that angels fly
And they never show their face
So I suppose that from the sky
One landed in your place
Did you know right from the start
When you first held me in your arms
That you would always hold my heart
Where you are
You make the mornings seem so light
With coffee in the air
But to be a mother and a wife
Is a heavy load to bear
And so you gave your life away
Like the God inside your heart
And even though we've gone away
Home is where you are
It's where you are
-Bebo Norman, "Home is Where You Are"
On The Theotokos
It's Mother's Day. The Mrs'. first Mother's Day. Isaac and I both got her gifts and I think she liked mine better. His involved his footprints (ooooohhhh!) while mine involved something called decoupage.
But today I was reminded of another idea that has never really gotten any play in church on days like today. Usually today Ephesians is quoted about honoring your parents and, perhaps, what that means. Yet especially on the Protestant Branch of the Church I have yet to come across an idea involving my favorite Greek word: Theotokos.
I came across it Theology class years ago. Apart from it's meaning, and I'm not trying to be sacrilegious here, it always sounds like something Robin would say. As in "Holy Theotokos, Batman! The Riddler's done it again!" And for awhile I tried to implement it in moments where I was, also, astounded. Never really caught on.
It's a term used to identify Mary, the Mother of Jesus. It means, and Eric will probably correct my Greek, "God-bearer". I've long been affected by the idea of Mary we find in Scripture. She is given a prominent role by the authors of the Gospels. Yet doesn't ever seem to receive much praise or wonder in Protestant theologies. Don't get me wrong, Marian Theology in the Catholic Church has gone a little overboard. But her role in the Gospels is interesting and undeniable. How this one woman, this teenager, was charged to give birth to the Christ.
All that being said, today we honor our bearers. Those amazing and powerful and graceful and loving and astounding women who have given us life. We are endlessly thankful for your bearing of us. As for how you were able and are able to do it -- all you Moms out there -- I have one expression I use: Holy Theotokos!
But today I was reminded of another idea that has never really gotten any play in church on days like today. Usually today Ephesians is quoted about honoring your parents and, perhaps, what that means. Yet especially on the Protestant Branch of the Church I have yet to come across an idea involving my favorite Greek word: Theotokos.
I came across it Theology class years ago. Apart from it's meaning, and I'm not trying to be sacrilegious here, it always sounds like something Robin would say. As in "Holy Theotokos, Batman! The Riddler's done it again!" And for awhile I tried to implement it in moments where I was, also, astounded. Never really caught on.
It's a term used to identify Mary, the Mother of Jesus. It means, and Eric will probably correct my Greek, "God-bearer". I've long been affected by the idea of Mary we find in Scripture. She is given a prominent role by the authors of the Gospels. Yet doesn't ever seem to receive much praise or wonder in Protestant theologies. Don't get me wrong, Marian Theology in the Catholic Church has gone a little overboard. But her role in the Gospels is interesting and undeniable. How this one woman, this teenager, was charged to give birth to the Christ.
All that being said, today we honor our bearers. Those amazing and powerful and graceful and loving and astounding women who have given us life. We are endlessly thankful for your bearing of us. As for how you were able and are able to do it -- all you Moms out there -- I have one expression I use: Holy Theotokos!
Saturday, May 12, 2007
On Life Without A T.V.
For the past three and a half weeks we've been without a television set. It's being "fixed" -- but not in the Bob Barker sense-- because of a loud hum that annoys everyone in the Greater Columbus area. And there are downsides to not having a television. But we've managed despite these negative qualities.
My uncle, as I was growing up, never had a T.V.. And this was before the Internet. I never thought one, especially me, could manage. But a person can. I remember thinking people without cable were weird, too. But I've been without cable for 4 of the last 5 years and gotten along just fine. I'll admit I'd go crazy if it weren't baseball season because I can watch the Red Sox via the Internet and faithfully do every night. And I also watch the occasional movie on the computer.
Life slows down a little when you don't have a T.V.. No more are your days timed in 30 minute increments and commercial breaks. When it's eight o'clock it's eight o'clock. It's not time for My Name is Earl or How I Met Your Mother. Afternoons are filled, not with reruns and news, but with coffee and books and playing with my son. Early evenings are occupied with walks at sunset to pet stores and for ice cream and along riverbanks. And mornings, especially Saturday mornings, are filled with full breakfasts and short naps.
Sometimes life gets a little too slow and you wish you could just kick back for 30 minutes. Because of that I do look forward to the return of my T.V. -- especially because I can watch sports on the weekends which I miss most of all. But I've learned life doesn't give itself to you to be spent going the bathroom during commercial breaks. And that Isaac doesn't laugh because there's a sitcom on. And that the NBA playoffs aren't really worth the time (except for when Golden State's playing).
Life is about moving pictures and entertainment -- only it's going on all around and shouldn't be confined to my 30-inch wide screen. I always knew this. But it's nice to be reminded once and awhile.
My uncle, as I was growing up, never had a T.V.. And this was before the Internet. I never thought one, especially me, could manage. But a person can. I remember thinking people without cable were weird, too. But I've been without cable for 4 of the last 5 years and gotten along just fine. I'll admit I'd go crazy if it weren't baseball season because I can watch the Red Sox via the Internet and faithfully do every night. And I also watch the occasional movie on the computer.
Life slows down a little when you don't have a T.V.. No more are your days timed in 30 minute increments and commercial breaks. When it's eight o'clock it's eight o'clock. It's not time for My Name is Earl or How I Met Your Mother. Afternoons are filled, not with reruns and news, but with coffee and books and playing with my son. Early evenings are occupied with walks at sunset to pet stores and for ice cream and along riverbanks. And mornings, especially Saturday mornings, are filled with full breakfasts and short naps.
Sometimes life gets a little too slow and you wish you could just kick back for 30 minutes. Because of that I do look forward to the return of my T.V. -- especially because I can watch sports on the weekends which I miss most of all. But I've learned life doesn't give itself to you to be spent going the bathroom during commercial breaks. And that Isaac doesn't laugh because there's a sitcom on. And that the NBA playoffs aren't really worth the time (except for when Golden State's playing).
Life is about moving pictures and entertainment -- only it's going on all around and shouldn't be confined to my 30-inch wide screen. I always knew this. But it's nice to be reminded once and awhile.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
On The Sunrise
It does not always rise over calm seas. Between mountain peaks. On breezy plains. It ascends to its heights over the austere creations of man. Over the Ayn Rand landscape of modern America. Red and orange hues do little to warm the cool gray and fading blacks of our highway system. And it is this juxtaposition that is most striking on the ascent. When the air and light is still cool. But mindlessly we drive to our places of work mainly unaware. In fact for many, the rising of the sun is an inconvenience; the stinging and squinting of eyes and drawn visors of cars are the fruits of men and women trying to hold the sun back.
The filled lanes of blue and red and black pick-up trucks and compact cars and SUVs continue on their ways to fill up empty parking lots of black concrete. Rarely a moment is given to this phenomenon that occurs every day. Painfully we notice it and try to look past it. To spreadsheets and bills; to conference calls and contracts; to breaking news and time crunches. We do not want to be reminded that we will be unable to enjoy the clear blue sky the rising sun will soon settle into. So we choose to ignore it by looking past it. By looking to what it means and not at what it represents.
It's rising signifies a new day. Not another day. A new day. Filled with rises and falls of its own for sure, but a new day nonetheless. Our days are as complicated as these highway roads filled with cars. Of twists and turns and stops and starts. As unpredictable as traffic. Yet rising above all the uncertainty is a certain predictability.
In the cool of the morning, over the empty parking lot, over the gray overpass, over the skyscraper, over this day before me, there is this rising of a sun.
The filled lanes of blue and red and black pick-up trucks and compact cars and SUVs continue on their ways to fill up empty parking lots of black concrete. Rarely a moment is given to this phenomenon that occurs every day. Painfully we notice it and try to look past it. To spreadsheets and bills; to conference calls and contracts; to breaking news and time crunches. We do not want to be reminded that we will be unable to enjoy the clear blue sky the rising sun will soon settle into. So we choose to ignore it by looking past it. By looking to what it means and not at what it represents.
It's rising signifies a new day. Not another day. A new day. Filled with rises and falls of its own for sure, but a new day nonetheless. Our days are as complicated as these highway roads filled with cars. Of twists and turns and stops and starts. As unpredictable as traffic. Yet rising above all the uncertainty is a certain predictability.
In the cool of the morning, over the empty parking lot, over the gray overpass, over the skyscraper, over this day before me, there is this rising of a sun.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
In Things Hoped For
I've been thinking quite a good deal about faith lately. Spurred by a song (not George Michael) I came across on the radio by a band I was always mocked for enjoying in high school by friends. It's called "Take My Hand" by The Kry (aged Canadian rockers; YOU album). The fact that I even heard it on the radio was astounding, seeing as how, 15 years ago when it was written, I never heard it on the radio. My estimation is that some tired DJ at the Christian Radio station here in town pulled a fast one. Either way, at 3:30 in the morning on a Saturday on 5 hours of sleep, that song still resonates deep within me.
There are many instances of faith. There's faith that your first house will be everything you hoped for. There's faith that your favorite NBA team will land one of the top two picks in the upcoming draft. Faith that your baseball team will one day win it all. And, more seriously, there's times when one's faith is tried by unspeakable and inconsolable tragedy. When only faith, the unspoken and unseen comfort and presence of faith, gets one through.
In all these cases, it's a hope in the things not yet come, the evidence of things not seen. Yet it's more than that in the latter case. It actually carries us through those times. Changes how we approach events like that one. There is a fine line between faith and hope. Hope is a good thing to have for sure. Faith is a better thing because you can actually use it here and now. You can let it affect you. You can let it drive you forward. And it's promises bring one joy, however slight, in times of great darkness.
One of the glorious things about faith is the day and moment it is rewarded. Any conception I have of that moment now is but a shadow, the faintest whisper, the slightest breeze. And it is that faith, that hope in things not yet seen, that carries me further up and further in through this life.
"Talk my hand and walk, where I lead."
There are many instances of faith. There's faith that your first house will be everything you hoped for. There's faith that your favorite NBA team will land one of the top two picks in the upcoming draft. Faith that your baseball team will one day win it all. And, more seriously, there's times when one's faith is tried by unspeakable and inconsolable tragedy. When only faith, the unspoken and unseen comfort and presence of faith, gets one through.
In all these cases, it's a hope in the things not yet come, the evidence of things not seen. Yet it's more than that in the latter case. It actually carries us through those times. Changes how we approach events like that one. There is a fine line between faith and hope. Hope is a good thing to have for sure. Faith is a better thing because you can actually use it here and now. You can let it affect you. You can let it drive you forward. And it's promises bring one joy, however slight, in times of great darkness.
One of the glorious things about faith is the day and moment it is rewarded. Any conception I have of that moment now is but a shadow, the faintest whisper, the slightest breeze. And it is that faith, that hope in things not yet seen, that carries me further up and further in through this life.
"Talk my hand and walk, where I lead."
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Home Sweet...
Well, not yet. But almost. We're in contract on a new house. Inspections to come. Needless to say it's been a crazy week and will continue to be one. It's a charming Cape Cod: 4 Bedrooms, 2 Baths, 1300 sq feet, plus 300 sq feet in a finished basement, a hot tub/gazebo deal, privacy fence, playground and shed, hardwood floors. The Mrs. and I couldn't be more excited. Or more thankful.
I'll have pictures eventually. For now, a tease. Don't be surprised if some future posts start with: As I was sitting in the bathroom reading the wall...
Seriously, it's the Greatest. Bathroom. Ever. And only I could think that.
I'll have pictures eventually. For now, a tease. Don't be surprised if some future posts start with: As I was sitting in the bathroom reading the wall...
Seriously, it's the Greatest. Bathroom. Ever. And only I could think that.
Why I Won't Go To Boston
Because of the media. The White-Middle-Aged Boston Media. Like clockwork, the borderline racist columnists print their "I Hate Randy Moss" columns. Character issues? A soiled mark on the pristine franchise? I'm sorry, Tom Brady hasn't been the modicum of morality this off-season but he's not a black mark on the franchise. Oh. Wait. He's not black. That's right.
I'll admit Moss has character issues. But he's also one of the best players in the game. Period. His problems are minor. He's never shot and killed someone like other athletes. So he mooned the intolerable Green Bay fans. Sorry: mock-mooned them. I thought it was really funny. Really funny. Not "disgusting". So he walked off the field 2 SECONDS before the game was over. The nerve. Larry Bird NEVER shook hands at the end of a game he lost. With Bird, that was panache. With Moss, that's a sign of bad character.
And since when did Boston seek the moral high-ground? Bill itself as the new Bible Belt? I'm not saying it shouldn't. Or that isn't something it might try doing. But that's not the issue here. I'm tired of this trade being discussed as a "What are they doing at Foxboro? What happened to all the great people concept?" type of situation. That's a way for the media in Boston to subtly discuss their racism. And maybe it's not racism. That's harsh. Maybe we can call it: their bias against an African-American player with outstanding talent with some "issues" playing for their precious little team. But that's being nice. Russell and Rice never had issues. But the media didn't like them. Same with Pedro. Same with Manny. Same with Pierce. Anson Carter? Anyone?
Me. I couldn't be happier with this trade. I love Moss. Always have. Now that he's playing for the Pats, I'm giddy. Can't wait for the season to start. Finally, Brady has a Pro-Bowl Receiver to throw to. And not just that, finally we have a playmaker. A gamebreaker. But it might not work out in the end. Maybe Moss is a troubled soul. But winning tends to change things. Let's at least give peace a chance? And if we can do that, we can say the Pats are scary good. Scary. Good.
Of course, they're not morally good anymore. But who's to blame for that?
I'll admit Moss has character issues. But he's also one of the best players in the game. Period. His problems are minor. He's never shot and killed someone like other athletes. So he mooned the intolerable Green Bay fans. Sorry: mock-mooned them. I thought it was really funny. Really funny. Not "disgusting". So he walked off the field 2 SECONDS before the game was over. The nerve. Larry Bird NEVER shook hands at the end of a game he lost. With Bird, that was panache. With Moss, that's a sign of bad character.
And since when did Boston seek the moral high-ground? Bill itself as the new Bible Belt? I'm not saying it shouldn't. Or that isn't something it might try doing. But that's not the issue here. I'm tired of this trade being discussed as a "What are they doing at Foxboro? What happened to all the great people concept?" type of situation. That's a way for the media in Boston to subtly discuss their racism. And maybe it's not racism. That's harsh. Maybe we can call it: their bias against an African-American player with outstanding talent with some "issues" playing for their precious little team. But that's being nice. Russell and Rice never had issues. But the media didn't like them. Same with Pedro. Same with Manny. Same with Pierce. Anson Carter? Anyone?
Me. I couldn't be happier with this trade. I love Moss. Always have. Now that he's playing for the Pats, I'm giddy. Can't wait for the season to start. Finally, Brady has a Pro-Bowl Receiver to throw to. And not just that, finally we have a playmaker. A gamebreaker. But it might not work out in the end. Maybe Moss is a troubled soul. But winning tends to change things. Let's at least give peace a chance? And if we can do that, we can say the Pats are scary good. Scary. Good.
Of course, they're not morally good anymore. But who's to blame for that?
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