Long Beautiful Hair

It was time for a haircut this week. Both for myself, the Mrs. and for Isaac. Haven't done the latter yet, we're still deciding on the hairstyle to give him. We're trying to avoid giving him a dew like mine -- otherwise he'll be stuck with it for the rest of his life, seeing as how he's my kid and I've had the same haircut for 15 years now.

Well, not exactly. Summer of my senior year in college, I was anxious for a haircut but had no money. My mom offered to cut it, but on her time. That wasn't a fair compromise for me, it was long and it was a hot summer. So I took the razor and went to the bathroom to begin cutting my own hair. You can see where this is going. I forgot to put a cover on the razor and it slipped off the comb and took off a large chunk of hair, right to the scalp. From there my mother acquiesced -- but she was not happy. Not at all. She shaved my head reluctantly, the whole time stewing at her foolish and impatient 21-year-old son who saw the whole thing as a joke(how else could I see it? I had no choice). And since then I've shaved it one other time. Two years ago the wife did it. I had a steady job and had wanted to do it again for awhile. And the thing is, it looked pretty good too.

Outside of those two instances is I've had the same haircut for 15 years. It used to be a Caesar cut. Now it's a "#2 on the sides and point cut on top". "Point-cutting" is something my stylist (and by stylist I mean the lady who gives me my $12 hair-cut) suggested. I've got to admit, it looks pretty good these days. Like today. Perfect hair day.

I envy the people who can change their hairstyles and it look great. I've tried to grow my hair out. It doesn't look good at all. One guy I work with rarely cuts his hair or his beard. In the summer he keeps everything shaved. In the winter, he grows everything out. An old friend used to do the same. He rotated seasonally between very long hair and a shaved head. I envied that. I still do. Though I never envied his premature greying.

In Sunday School growing up I remember being taught that God knows the number of hairs on your head. And I thought, "Wow. I wonder how many I have." It was a really cool concept. Now, well, the idea strikes me as a kind of Divine Autism. God acting like a sort of supernatural Rain Man. Honestly though, what should one expect from God? If God is God we can assume he either invented or established mathematics (by this I mean, is there a case where 2+2 could not of equaled 4?). So, we should expect God to be good with numbers and with counting. One exception to this idea is, of course, the Feeding of the 5,000. There was some kind of bending of the rules of mathematics in that story. Or, maybe, the perfection of mathematics.

And if God knows the exact number of hairs on our head, does He then know the exact length and cut they should be? In Heaven will we have the perfect hair cut? Will there be Barbershops and Hair Salons in Heaven? Does God get as frustrated with us as we do when we're having a bad hair day? Or suffering from a bad haircut? We know God as the Divine Doctor, can we also identify Him as the Divine Barber?

If so, I hope God knows how to point-cut.

Fill'er Up? Y/N.

Stopped off at the gas station today. The immaculate Speedway on the way to work. An elderly woman flags me down as I'm beginning to fill my car up. Her pump is beeping. We figure out she needs to put the nozzle back on the machine and then start the process over again. She does and it works. But I couldn't help, as I filled up my car, wonder how she had gotten to that point. And the answer was pretty clear.

Before I even insert my credit card, the gas pump posits to me: Are you a Speedy Rewards Member? I search my mind for the occurent belief to answer the question. No, I say. And hit the blue, "NO", button. Then, I slide my card in. I remove it, as I am directed by the gas pump. Then another question: Would you like a car wash? As it's currently raining, and I'm getting wet along with my car, I say "NO" again. Then, yet another question: Would you like to try 2 Nathan's Jumbo Hot Dogs for $2? No. I'm going to Wendy's. Plus I don't want a jumbo dog. Maybe a regular. But I don't have that option. I, again, press "NO". So far, I think the way I've answered these questions makes me smarter than a fifth-grader -- I think. I was waiting for: Would you like to buy gas today? Y/N.

From this point on I can fill up my car with gas. But as for that elderly lady, I think she either a) answered incorrectly or b) wasn't expecting the gas pump pop quiz. So what's the deal with this? Why can't I just fill up my car with gas? Why can't I just pump and go? The answer to these questions can't be discovered by pressing a simple red or blue button.

But if I ever own a gas station, I'd have some fun with that annoying feature. Like: Do you believe in God? Y/N. Are you happy today? Y/N. Is blue your favorite color? Y/N. If you had a million dollars, would you give it all away for an extra year of life? Y/N. Have you ever been to Easter Island? Y/N. Do you watch PBS? Y/N. Is Seinfeld the greatest television show ever? Y/N. Do you know who shot J.R.? Y/N. Have you ever read a good book? Y/N. Can you dunk a basketball? Y/N. Would you give your life to save a complete stranger? Y/N. Do Leprechauns really exist? Y/N. Is there such a thing as a tesseract? Y/N.

I'd ask questions that make people think. That make people smile. That are just plain stupid. Just think how accurate these questions could be to get the correct gauge (note the pun) of the American public. Better than phone surveys and exit polls and CNN/N.Y. Times/Women's Day polls.

Instead, now that you pretty much have to pre-pay for gas (which is annoying 'cause I used to fill up my car then go inside and get a Frappucino and Chocolate Chip Mini-Bites and pay for it all at once. That way, the Mrs. never knew I was snacking or "eating breakfast out when there's cereal and coffee cake at home". And it all got counted against the gas - which we always over budget for - in the budget.).

One day I'll choose the red button and see how deep the rabbit hole goes, though. I'll get that car wash one day.

A Deserving, Quiet Night

Caught Austin City Limits tonight. A show I frequently try to watch, but it usually airs about midnight every Saturday, and some nights I'm just too tired to enjoy the unique music. But I tuned in tonight 'cause Coldplay was on. Say what you will about them in terms of good music, but I like Coldplay. Clever melodies that stick with you. Music that always strikes the right now, grooves if you will. And lyrics that stick. Plus, the Scientist was a really cool music video.

Anyway, midway through the concert Michael Stipe came on for a couple of songs. I've always been a big REM fan. Especially since I spent all-night one summer listening to one particular song repeatedly with an old friend. A song, whose lyrics as I listen to them now, are eerie. And as I remember that night, I remember this song. And as I remember this song, I remember that night. Sometimes, music does that. It acts like an all-encompasing sense. When you taste, touch, see, smell and hear everything. All at once. And it takes you back and moves you forward all at the same time. Realizing where you are now, where you're going and we're you've been.

Well, as Chris Martin introduced the song, he said: "In my opinion, this is the best song ever written." Then, he broke into the piano opening of Nightswimming. I know I've mentioned it before, but I love this song. Now it wasn't the best rendition of the song. Lacking much of the emotion I hear in the album version. But still enough to make me close my eyes and remember that night where my friend and I debated life and love and everything in between. And some of the lyrics.

That debate settled on the line sung as "a bright, tight forever drum". We decided (in the days before Google and Wikipedia could settle any bet) it was actually "a bright tide forever drawn". Well, a couple of years later, still haunted by the song and hearing it infrequently, I submitted my school yearbook quote as "A bright tide forever drawn". Seemed appropriate, it being my favorite song. It being an obscure lyric that brought the whole mysticism of past experiences like high school together in one, solid line. Poetic, as I like to say.

Coldplay's finishing out with my favorite song by them, "Fix You". Great song. Kicks in perfectly. Just the right note. Then it drives through the end.

Some nights, like this one, like the one that street light on a camp road reveals fresh in my memory from years ago, I just love music.

My Turn(ey)

Even with the arrival of the baby, I did manage to make my 2007 NCAA Tournament picks. I even submitted them into the office pool in the nick of time. And so far, not too bad. I asked Isaac for help, and he had little to give honestly, but together we picked and watched the games this past weekend. So a couple of thoughts first.

1. Greg Oden is a thug. That was a dirty, intentional foul and OSU should've lost the game.

2. Mike Barnes (Texas Coach) is an idiot. How do you not call a timeout when your team is getting trampled by a 17-3 run? How? And how do you fail to post up your best player on smaller guards? Forget that, try getting him the ball period. Kevin Durant got the ball twice during that USC run. Ugh...so upset at this outcome.

3. Going into the 2nd round I had 14 winners to pick out of a possible 16 games. I was 13 of 13 heading into the Texas game. I had Texas. I had Texas winning it all. I hate Rick Barnes. Complete moron. I finished with 13 of 16 winners picked and in 13th place overall in the office pool.

4. I still have an outside shot at winning the office pool. But OSU must lose. But I've been rooting for that all along. I despise the buckeyes. They should've lost Saturday (but ended up winning the best game of the tournament so far. Go figure). How Isaac slept through my screaming and yelling during this game is also beyond me.

5. I'll miss Gus Johnson. A fantastic announcer. I get chills thinking about his call of the OSU game and the UCLA game from last year. Great play-by-play guy. Why CBS isn't letting him continue is beyond me.

My picks for the final four are intact, well, except for Texas. I have Florida, UCLA, Texas A&M and had Texas. I'm leading a couple of online groups but we'll see. Without my National Champion, I don't stand much of a chance. Can't say I've heard of anyone winning without having the eventual champion.

On The Baby Mix Tape

For those of you who were wondering, I did finish the Baby Mix Tape I once blogged about. In fact, I finished it awhile ago and never blogged about the final cut. Now there are also two smaller mixes made up of faster and slower songs that made the final cut. A Day Baby Mix Tape and a Night Baby Mix Tape, if you will.

Today we gave it it's first run. When CCR, Looking Out My Back Door, came on, he settled down immediately. Wide-eyed and peaceful. Then Now and Always, by David Gray followed. I tried to sing it to him, but he scowled. I love that song. It reminds me of him, "You're in my mind baby, now and always". By the time Shelter, by Ray Lamontagne, came on, he was fast asleep. But as I listen to it, I think this is a pretty good mix.

Many of you will know little of some of the 70 or so songs. Others may know all of them. But let me know what you think.

BABY MIX TAPE
Wonderwall Oasis
Faith My Eyes Caedmon’s Call
Name Goo Goo Dolls
Grace U2
Where You Are Bebo Norman
Bubble Toes Jack Johnson
Jenny Wren Paul McCartney
Down On The Corner Creedence Clearwater Revival
Lookin' Out My Back Door Creedence Clearwater Revival
Have You Ever Seen The Rain?Creedence Clearwater Revival
When You Say You Love Me Josh Groban
Come Away With Me Norah Jones
The Nearness Of You Norah Jones
Lord You Have My Heart Delirious?
Thank You For Saving Me Delirious?
King Of Love Delirious?
Calico Skies Paul McCartney
Something In The Way James Taylor
How Sweet It Is James Taylor
She's Got A Way Billy Joel
Lullabye Billy Joel
To Make You Feel My Love Billy Joel
Better Together Jack Johnson
Banana Pancakes Jack Johnson
No Other Way Jack Johnson
Sitting, Waiting, Wishing Jack Johnson
Do You Remember Jack Johnson
Thy Mercy Caedmon's Call
I Boast No More Caedmon's Call
Nightswimming R.E.M.
Home Michael Bublé
Faithful To Me (Reprise) Jennifer Knapp
A Little More Jennifer Knapp
Martyrs And Thieves Jennifer Knapp
You And Me Lifehouse
Baby, Now That I've Found You Alison Krauss & Union Station
But You Know I Love You Alison Krauss & Union Station
When You Say Nothing At All Alison Krauss & Union Station
Down To The River To Pray Alison Krauss & Union Station
Hymn Jars Of Clay
Sweet Afton Nickel Creek
Amie Damien Rice
When God Made Me Neil Young
On Jordan's Stormy Banks I Stand Jars Of Clay
Lover Derek Webb
Sometimes By Step Rich Mullins
If I Stand Rich Mullins
Boy Like Me / Man Like You Rich Mullins
Hold Me Jesus Rich Mullins
Be Still And Know Steven Curtis Chapman
What's Simple Is True Jewel
Pass Me Not Fernando Ortega
Be Thou My Vision Fernando Ortega
I Will Praise Him, Still Fernando Ortega
When All Thy Mercies Fernando Ortega
Give Me Jesus Fernando Ortega
The Hammer Holds Bebo Norman
Where The Angels Sleep Bebo Norman
A Page Is Turned Bebo Norman
Every Grain Of Sand Derek Webb
Shelter Ray LaMontagne
Hold You In My Arms Ray LaMontagne
Miracle Foo Fighters
Now And Always David Gray
The One I Love David Gray
The Hand Song Nickel Creek
Beautiful Boy (DARLING BOY) John Lennon
The Things We've Handed Down Marc Cohn
Like A Star Corinne Bailey Rae

On His Name

So I gave you hints. No one was close. Though I did appreciate the effort. Goes to show we picked a pretty good name. That was the consensus anyway. A strong, powerful and simple name. One that resonates. Perhaps it's the nature of learning a name for the first time, but it was repeated several times by people when they were informed of his name. Rolling it, as it seemed, over their tongues like fine wine. Now, here's why we named him as we did.

Isaac was a very simple choice, but full of profundity. A key component of the way I view life is laughter. With a smile. Not that life is a big joke with a punchline. But that life is laughter in the sense of that big, belly laugh. That laugh that brings tears to your eyes. That laugh that hurts almost. Life is to be enjoyed. And with that joy I associate laughter and mirth and humor. And so, Isaac, meaning laughter, was the obvious choice. A good name to begin with, not uncommon, but not Jacob or Noah either. Not topping the Top Names Charts. But with it's meaning, it embodied something I hold at the forefront of my world-view. And so, Isaac.

James is a family name. There have been many James' along my side of the family. From Great, great grandparents on down. There's lineage in the name James. But there has always been one person I have associated that name with and it's my father. We chose to name him after "theoldman" as you know him on this blog. But as I know him: everything I hope to be as a man, husband, friend and father. So to name my son after the most important man in my life was a way to honor him in some way, though I don't think I ever fully could. So it will serve always to remind me of my father and how I have the hope that with my son, I could be the same father that my dad was to me.

Thus, Isaac James. Known to some as A.J.; I.J.; Angus (a story for another post); Jimmy; Izzy (the nickname I gave to him and have since been forbidden to use. Though I have this secret hope that when he's 12 his friends will give him this nickname. Then Mother will have little choice!). But known to his Mother and Father as Issac James for the above reasons. And will continue to be known as Isaac James for thousands of other reasons in the coming days, weeks, months and years.

A Merely, Mighty Inch

My sister will appreciate this post. It's a poem. In honor of Isaac's first inch of growth since his birth. Now I wrote this after his first ultrasound when he was approximately one inch big. Now, he's 21 inches. And I'm still amazed by it all.

A MERELY, MIGHTY INCH

What love is there in spaces wide,
In oceans, lands, seas and skies.
The same love is there and it fits
In all of that merely, mighty inch.

Where life begins and carries forth
To tears and love and merry mirth
Not time, nor space, nor size deters,
That love that grows.

And as it were
Reflects, really, all we know
That God was man in manner and means
How then, as now, holy heaven teamed
As divine and man were surely pinched
Into that merely, mighty inch.

Where and why and how indeed
We are left to ponder. So it seems
What was so small, yet loved so large.
God. Imaged in this finite world
Bound and formed in mortals' fall.

You're reflective of that divine call
That God 'came man, so to wrench
Us all - in that merely, mighty inch.

Not As Much Time To Think, Actually

Isaac's well this Saturday morning. The Mrs. and I are doing well too. It's been a busy, stress-filled and joyously happy week, as one can imagine. So, I haven't had much chance to think...to reflect.

But I will say Isaac has enjoyed March Madness. And he's doing pretty well with his picks: 22 wins in the first round, but just about all of the Sweet 16 is still around. Isaac's in a pool at my work and if he wins, I'm gonna get him a Nintendo Wii. Seriously. He picked Texas to win, which made me happy. Kevin Durant is fantastic. And this is the first of many sporting events in the coming months we'll watch together (or with Grandpy). The Masters. Opening Day (he's got his outfit already).


Also, serious props to my Uncle and Aunt this morning. Received a great fruit basket from them (it's baseball themed). And there's not much left of it right now. And on that note thank you to all of you who've called or emailed or blogged your thanks. The Mrs. and I appreciate it all. We're all doing well. Very well.




A few of things I'll explain here shortly is his name. I know I gave hints, and I'll explain them shortly. In the news business, we call that a tease. That way I keep you coming back. In the meantime, enjoy the pictures.

The pictures count thus far: 164.

Because I've Had Plenty Of Time To Think

There's not a whole lot for me to do. I take pictures. I take care of the Mrs. I arrange family visits. I hold my son. And I think.

I wonder if years from now he'll wonder what happened on the day he was born. Not much, honestly. No big sporting events, no Boston team won -- or even played. Not a lot of news. Reports of his birth were the big story in our newsroom. It was pretty much his day.

I've certainly been watching too much American Idol when I see one of the nursery nurses and think to myself, "She looks a little like Antonella". I really do hate that show.

Remember "O Draconian Devil" from the Da Vinci Code? Well babies have this thing...well...let's just say the proper phrase should be "O Meconium Devil". Trust me on this.

Not a lot of famous people born on March 12. He may very well be the first. I have high hopes for this.

Interesting coincidence: March 12 is the birthday of Jack Kerouac. He's an author. Wrote "On the Road", described as ''a magnificent single paragraph several blocks long, rolling, like the road itself." I've never read it. Though I might give it a shot. But here's the coincidence. Kerouac was born in Lowell, Massachusetts. I grew up in Lowell. Lowell is my hometown. It's where I'm from. It's a coincidence, sure. But it's a fun one.

What's not a coincidence are the tales that I've been told from friends about the early hours before Isaac's birth. Several have told me stories of how they were moved to pray in hours before morning yesterday. Prayers which I am forever grateful for. Knowing that the prospect of C-section was all but definite and somehow she was able to deliver the baby herself -- shocking even the doctor -- well those prayers were answered. Thank you to those who prayed. It brings me enormous awe, quite humbling really, knowing that God is interested on such a personal level. That there is that much at stake.

Anyway, I've got highly more theoretical thoughts than Antonella and Jack Kerouac. There's not much else to do. But for now, the Mrs. and Little Man are doing quite well today. Day Two. But my thoughts from a previous day looking forward to this particular morning, serve me well right now.

WHEN YOU COME(YOU BRING MY LOVE WITH YOU)

You bring my love with you,
Whenever you should come.
Don't forget or leave behind,
My love that's grown through time.

Grasp it in your holding hands;
Hold it on your tasteless tongue;
It can't be lost, but hold still tight,
You who bring my love with life.

That it's bigger than you
I am aware.
But somehow it does fit
(like you in there).

My love for you it sits,
In such tiny fingertips.
However big you may one day be,
This love will tower over you,
Like the nearest tree.

But don't worry, you can hold my love,
And bring it with you, when you come.

So now my baby, my child, has come
And he has brought with him my love.

And Here Comes The Baby

So I can think of few things more deserving of a live-type blog than the birth of a child. So here goes. And it's going to be long.

3:21 - Jen wakes me up with a start. Through tears, in obvious pain, she tells me that she's in labor. Now I'm a morning person normally. And being told that my son's coming was more than enough to rouse me from sleep.

3:30 - After a couple more contractions, she's still hesitant to go to the hospital. I convince her to at least get ready, that way, by the time the contractions have hit an hour, we'll be on our way.

3:50 - About 5 contractions later we're all of a sudden unsure if we should go. I've already showered and packed and stored away a Frappucino for the trip. Then the mother of contractions hit her and we resume getting ready.

4:10 - She's showered and is putting on make-up, doing her hair. She has never looked more beautiful.

4:20 - We're in the car. I've skipped over all the stuff I've done in the past hour. Shower, clean-up the house a little, prepare my breakfast, check my email, watch some stupid show on PBS, make sure the overnight bag is packed, packed the computer, iPod, mouse, digital camera, cords and rubbed Jen's back with every contraction.

4:25 - It's funny, usually I get yelled at for my driving. For being too aggressive, for challenging too many yellow lights. In the middle of the worst pain yet, I run my first of two red lights. I top out on this semi-main road at 60. Still, I couldn't drive fast enough.

4:28 - I hit the highway and do 80 to the hospital.

4:33 - Pull up the "baby delivering spot" designated for those about to give birth. Every spot is full and there's no valet at 4:30 in the morning. I park illegally and off we go into the hospital.

4:37 - Fighting to maintain a minute more of empowerment, Jen shrugs herself out of wheelchair. I love her fight sometimes, it's very amusing. I'm proud of her. Of what she's doing. She couldn't be any more beautiful.

4:50 - 8:30 - We are admitted and all the normal procedures are done by doctors and nurses who do this sort of thing all the time. They talk over us, about the mundane things before them this day. We're a little preoccupied to notice and I think they know that. And I know what's coming. I hear the excitement in the voices of my parents, also now awakened by a 5 am phone call they've been waiting for. By my sister's screams of joy knowing she'll be arriving in Columbus today and so will her nephew. They know what's coming. But as I write this, a few minutes before 9, having been up for 6 hours, having seen my wife in pain, feeling the baby kick, hearing his heart beat, being told he's coming today, I realize I have no idea what's in store. Even as we pray together, in one of the few moments of solitude we've had this morning, the words come out as one would expect: "We praise you Lord. We give you thanks for this miracle before us." But there's something more there that brings me to tears, something larger than such simple and pedestrian praises I offer to the Creator of this life I'm about to be a part of. And I'm reduced to tears. To quite, shaking, fluttering tears. I know what's coming. But I have no idea.

9:34 - A spot of incredible news. Two weeks ago we found out that Jen was probably going to have to have a C-section because the baby hadn't dropped. It wasn't what we wanted to hear, what any expecting parents want to hear. We've prayed hard for two weeks, that the baby would drop and she could deliver him without the surgery. There are many reasons why we wanted it this way, the main reason was that we could be together as a family in the moments following his birth. Well, according the last check, we may have this baby before noon! And have it normally. He's dropped and she's ready to start pushing here shortly. The doctor and nurse we're shocked. We're ecstatic! I don't quite have words. But I'll be a dad shortly, and then I'll probably talk too much.

10:45 - Decide to shut my phone off because people keep calling. It's understandable...but I've got to help the Mrs. focus. And we're getting close.

11:10 - The nurse comes in and tells Jen to get ready. He's coming!

11:15 - She starts pushing.

11:27: I can see the top of the head. He's got hair on his head. It's so absolutely incredible.

11:40: They call the doctor over and his heads all about out. It's really pointy.

11:50: Out he comes. In one magnificent push, Jen gets his head out. Had to be one of the most surreal moments imaginable. When the baby's head comes out...my gosh...it is amazing.

11:51: One push later, he's out. Surreal. I was there. I saw it. Amazing. Out came another life. Out came my son. From this little point and me thinking he was going to be quite small to an entire baby in the hands of the doctor. What an overflowing moment.

11:52-12:00 - We hold the baby. First Jen. Then me as we get weight and measurements. He is so very small. So very tiny. So very full of life. Almost lidless black-blue eyes. They blink every so often. A mouth getting used to breathing and crying all at once. Skin cool to the touch. Soft. Plush. I'm not sure what he must have thought. I'm 27 and I have no thoughts on those intimate, immediate moments where I held my son for the first time. His eyes. His tousled hair. And movable fingers and toes. His mouth agape. Seems quite a paradox that something so small could contain a moment so large.

12:20 - Calls are made. Everyone's happy. I'm beyond happy. Jen's beyond happy.

12:25 - A quiet prayer. The first Guest family prayer. Me. My wife. My son. My Savior. Thank you Lord for Isaac James. 7 lbs. 11 oz. 20 inches.

The Tyranny Of American Idol

I detest this show. I've never watched it through a full season and I have no intention ever to. It's the dumbest show on television. But, this season, the Mrs. is enjoying it to the point where she wants to watch it. And she's pregnant. So, she gets what she wants. Meaning I've had to sit through more than a few episodes. And, truthfully, I try hard to be either out of the house or out of the room when it's on. I detest this show.

But since I've been watching an episode here or there (6 total I believe, including 3 results shows), I've formed an even stronger opinion. Especially after last night. I've always found the fact that there are website urging viewers to vote for the worst of the competitors amusing. A way to buck the system. To prove the show is flawed and stupid. It's still funny that this works, as it clearly did last night when Sundance lost to the guy with Farrah Fawcett hair. Obviously, this show is a popularity contest, not one based on actual talent (of which about 4 of the singers can actually sing).

Another favorite is the fact that the judges are always stunned by the results. Always gets me. And for all the ripping Simon takes, he's just about always right with his criticism. Randy and Paula are fools.

Still even more amusing is the actual talent. Again, very few of them can actually sing. I can't sing. I've come to terms with this. As the saying goes, it takes one to know one, it takes someone who continually sings off key to know when someone else is off key. Most of the singers are usually flat -- just a tad bit off. But Randy and Paula sing their praises -- ironically --and are just as off key as the actual singers. And Simon chastises them and everyone boos. It's the dumbest show on television. And don't throw numbers at me. Don't tell me that America disagrees. America's stupid.

Meanwhile fantastic shows like Arrested Development, Studio 60, SportsNight and Scrubs get canned or buried in midseason time slots because they can't find an audience (Would I even want this audience anyway?).

This is what is meant by Mills' "tyranny of the majority" and Plato's "just because they are the majority does not make them right".

I Just Called...To Say...

It's reaching a new level. I'm not calling anyone. Period. Because we're so close to the due date (this Sunday), that any people I call always think I'm calling to announce the birth (and his name, for no one knows that). So I'm not calling anyone. Last week I called my mom and felt bad, because I know when she sees the caller ID she's thinking she's got a new grandson. Sorry for that mom. So I won't be talking to you anytime soon. Maybe this is in my head. But I definitely get the feeling that me calling someone is like playing a cruel joke on them.

If you'd like to talk to me. Please call me or email me. I am making no more phone calls.

Also, in case you're wondering about the name of our child, here are the hints:

1. The name is Biblical. But I'm not saying which testament.
2. If you know me, this name should come as no surprise (obviously, this clue, along with the first throws out Nomar and Brady).
3. There was a nickname I was using. The Mrs. disliked it so much that she said if I continued to use it the actual name would be disallowed.
4. Only two people have guessed it and they don't know they have. This means I'm not telling you even if you guess right.

There are four of you out there that know the name, either through a slip up or us testing it out on you. I ask you do not reveal yourselves or the name. In other words, you are not allowed to participate in the guessing. Thank you.

On The Third Dimension

There is still no baby. It is now March 5th. The due date is less than one week away. Obviously, I'm thinking a great deal about this. To say it's always on my mind is an understatement. And, rest assured, when he comes, I will post about it. There will probably be some pictures as well.

But it occurs to me that the pictures will be lacking. There is that saying about them being worth a thousand words. In some cases, that is a conservative estimate. Especially if the picture is good. But there's something about pictures that often is lacking. It is, what is typically, and what I'm calling, the third dimension.

Length and Height are the first two. Pictures you will soon see will certainly elicit those two dimensions for you. But, as for depth, well, it occurs to me that no picture, whether held tacitly in the hands or not, will bestow that dimension upon the viewer. Such is the case here as I discovered laying awake at this late hour.

You will not be able to understand the depth in the coming photos. They will lack the essential quality of what makes something 3D (Now I could 3D the images for you which would be cool. And honestly, what happened to 3D? How did that not ever catch on?). This will be the case in both the tangible and metaphysical aspects.

I am realizing the depth of my love for this child. For my son. And no picture can capture it. And no word can hold it all in its letters.

As I ponder this, I am also left at the mercy of H.G. Wells' supposed Fourth Dimension: Time. And given my feelings towards the 3rd Dimension right now and this unceasing and insatiable desire to experience it by holding him in my arms for the first time, I am finding it hard to practice the mores of said dimension, namely: patience.

Tomorrow, may "I wake to the perfect patience of mountains."

Death Cab For Squirrel

Recently I saw a squirrel get killed. It first fell out of a tree and onto the street. That was funny enough for me. It's like seeing someone trip and fall. Squirrels live in trees; they know how to climb like people know how to walk. Sometimes, I guess, squirrels forget.

Then the squirrel, slightly stunned at this point, saw a car coming towards him. First the squirrel hopped to the left. Then it went right. Then left again. Finally, the fateful decision that, for a second, probably tasted a little like Turkish Delight. The squirrel went right again. Bounding across the median, just narrowly missing the front left tire of an SUV and out of harms way. Then it ran headlong into the back left tire of a yellow VW bug. It careened up into the air and landed. Stiff. Bouncing like a baseball on cement. I swerved to miss it, in the chance it could still be alive. The car behind me made sure it wasn't.

Turn Around Backwards

Two years ago I was without a full-time job. We were living in an apartment in a sketchy section of Wheeling on virtually nothing. I had been unemployed for about 10 months, aside from 10-15 hours at the local GAP and 5 hours a week as a real-estate show editor for a cable access show. Again, in Wheeling, WV. Then a door opened up that I quickly shut, only to crawl through a window.

I was hired by the NBC Affiliate here in Columbus as a photographer. Then ONN called with a producer opening. The interview went well. I admitted I already had a job I was starting Monday, but I wanted this job. I would need to know by Friday at the latest. She expedited the whole process right there, assured me pending a drug test and confirmation from the news director, it was mine. And it was, two days later.

And now I am changing jobs again. I'll still be working at ONN where I love the people. But I'll no longer be a producer, I'm becoming a director. Here's the proof (the AG is me).

Two years ago was one of the toughest periods in my marriage, in my faith and in my life. No job, no money, no prospects. But I look back very fondly on that time. I grew a lot as a person. I was really blessed.

Now I look forward and to an equally uncertain future with a kid on the way (not here yet), grad school up in the air, and a new set of skills I'll need to learn. And when I look forward, I always feel it's a good thing to look back. To know where you've come from. It's the only way you can figure out where you're going.

THE TITLE OF THIS POST IS FROM A SONG. ANYONE KNOW WHAT SONG?

On The Little Way: 31W x 30L

"It is not a bad thing to settle for the Little Way, not the big search for the happiness but the sad little happiness of the drinks and kisses, a good little car and a warm deep thigh." -- Walker Percy, "The Moviegoer"

I very much enjoyed this quote on the "sad little happiness[es]" of life. I, too, have such things. Things I am particular about. Things that are of the drinks and kisses of the little way. Namely, jeans. It has been a very trying few days for me. Over the weekend the Mrs. discovered this gash in my favorite pair of jeans.

Long before I worked at the Gap I was very particular about jeans. For example, people say "jeans go with everything" -- every outfit, every color. False. There are some light-colored jeans that should not be worn with a grey shirt. And there are some shades of blue jeans that shouldn't be worn at all. When it comes to buying a pair of jeans, I shop around. It takes about 4 to 5 trips to several stores to find the perfect pair (It drives the Mrs. so crazy she won't come with me anymore).

In a typical year I wear one pair (by pair I mean one jean only, but that sounds funny) of jeans. Said pair is broken in and of such a color to go with most anything (but not everything -- so I usually have a pair of jeans of a different color to match the shirt that the favorite pair doesn't go with and also, for other reasons, as I'll explain). Over the year the pair becomes, as one can imagine, worn down and threadbare -- usually in the knee. And usually I am aware of the wearing down in those places and can manage to make the pair last about a month longer than it should. And by last I mean: in such a condition as to wear out in public without embarrassing the Mrs.

(I realize my eccentricity. For example, my best friend has had the same pair of jeans for about 4 years now (Don't think I haven't noticed. I notice jeans like a normal man notices women or cars. Like Carrie noticed shoes.). How do I know? His particular pair is differentiated by a Abercrombie fashioned hole in the thigh. I once had a pair with a hole in the thigh much like his. Except it was created by me running into an exposed end of a pool table one week after said pair became the pair. Tragic. But I wore them anyway for the next year.)

Now this gash occurred in the bottom (and that is my bottom in the picture). I'm not sure why or how that happened. I am at a loss. The Mrs. says she can make them wearable and repair the gash. However, she is 9 months pregnant, working 10 hours a day and altogether miserable (in a happy way of course!) that I don't see the repair coming anytime soon. And I have been forbidden to wear them out until they can be fixed. (Already, I've worn them out twice. And both times were without her knowing -- though she found out last night and yelled at me!)

No worries. I have had another pair that I've been warily and reluctantly working into the rotation -- trying to break them in and settle them down for the long haul. So far, it's working. I'm adjusting to them; liking the color of them (they're lighter than my current pair in the repair shop); they're starting to feel comfortable -- relinquishing the stiffness I hate in new jeans. Now, I knew the day would come that I'd have to give up my favorite pair of jeans. I just wasn't ready for it. Not yet.

So, my favorite pair of jeans is one of my sad, little happinesses. And, today, I am saddened because my happiness in them is coming to an end. A happiness that looked forward after a long day of work to putting them on. A happiness that stopped dressing up at work and wearing them daily (I sit behind a desk at a television station, I chose my profession, in part, because I don't have to dress up). A happiness that looked good in mirrors. A happiness that felt like a part of me.

And, I know, a sad, little, yet new happiness is about to begin, but, parting, is of such sorrow.

A Conceivable Word

Perhaps it's the poetry kick I'm on. Perhaps it's remnants of a GRE test I did quite well on. Perhaps, as an old friend would venture to say, it's my obsession with big words that I want to mean what they actually don't. With either of those options withstanding, I've got a new word.

Several times in the past week I've come across the noun cathedral. Most of you will know that word and what it represents. In these instances I've heard the word used, I've got to understand what it means(I readily admit that much of my enthusiasm for the word might come from my sentimentality towards Catholicism).

The first use of the word that struck my fancy was on this blog by another old friend who frequents this site as well. I was awed by the phrase: I am a little church(no great cathedral). At my urging, she posted on the origins of the phrase, from this e e cummings poem (I'm still not sure why cummings' name is always lowercase). It's a great poem, it really is. I see something new in it each time I go over it.

The second reference this week came this morning in church. Our pastor was speaking on the Sabbath. His sermon was titled "The Sabbath: A Cathedral in Time." He didn't qualify that phrase directly, but he did evidence the notion of the Sabbath in such a way as to make it poetically clear what was meant by the sermon title.

So my word for this week is cathedral. It's a word that carries much imagery and carries much weight. It's a word, much like the building it describes, that has a lot more going on inside it. I think that's the thing about words in general, if we take the time, we can see there's much more going on, much more at stake. Words are poetical.

To quote Walter Pater: The goal of poetry is to renew the finer edges of words.

The thing of it is: I keep using the word "poetical" to describe some of my thoughts. For example, if something strikes me, I say it's poetical.

To quote Inigo Montoya: "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

An Impending Joy

There is a line from a familiar Isaac Watts hymn that goes "Repeat the sounding joy, repeat the sounding joy." We're not at that yet.

For a few hours early yesterday, we thought the birth might happen. It didn't (You'll know when it does). Our original due date is March 11th. As you know, it's merely February 22nd. So, the baby would be incredibly early. However, baby measurements and our calculations put the due date at March 4th. That's only a week or so away. So, all of a sudden, for a woman on her feet 10 hours a day, a first child, a February 22nd birth doesn't look all that early.

Yesterday, the Mrs. had an interesting look about her. For weeks now she has insisted that the baby will come in March. I have insisted he will arrive in February. February 23rd, to be exact. And, well, that's tomorrow. But last night she seemed, while not so much resigned to the fact, but had a peace -- that he's coming very soon. And while, for work purposes, she wants to make it to March, she doesn't think she will.

So there is this impending joy about our household. My writings in the past 24 hours have circled around it. Wondering when he will come. Will it be during the commercials? While I'm brushing my teeth? During an evening snack? Require me to take a midday reprieve from work? And, my personal, poetic favorite: Like a thief in the night?

He's coming. We're ready. And, I repeat, there is this impending joy standing somewhere just around a corner, just behind a street light, just behind the clouds. When will he come?

Syntopical Thoughts

"The things common to all men are more important than the things peculiar to any man." - GK Chesterton

"Look for smaller signs instead, the fine
disturbances of ordered things when suddenly
the rhythms of your expectation break
and in a moment's pause another world
reveals itself behind the ordinary." -- Dana Gioia

"The holiness of the ordinary." -- Walker Percy

60 86ed?

Turns out my favorite show on TV is probably getting the axe. It's unfortunate. Studio 60 is a well-written, intelligent show. I've blogged about this before. What's frustrating are the criticisms surrounding the show and its impending demise.

Many harp on the fact that it's a behind-the-scenes look at a sketch comedy show, like SNL. That America isn't really interested in the inner-workings of a late night comedy show and shouldn't really be. Other prevarications focus on the way the characters speak, that people don't really talk like they appear to in the show. That writers really don't know that much philosophy and literature and history. Still more find fault with the "romances" on the show -- that there are too many of them. Or that the show's too much like the West Wing and it's too close to when WW went off the air.

All these criticisms are silly. America doesn't care about a hollywood sketch comedy show? But America should care about Supernanny or Wife Swap? Really? Or that characters speak intelligently? God forbid we all speak stupid. Or that romances are a crutch and weak plot device? Yeah and sex as a plot device hasn't gotten old or become the easy joke. It's nice to see characters woo each other. Oh, and that people are intelligent. Sometimes there are more things to decide upon in life than whether to take the deal or not. There are actually books to read. And my favorite: it's a show too much like West Wing and because that show ended people need some time between shows that are similar. First, Sorkin left the West Wing in 2004. After that it sucked. Everyone knows this but forgets it changed completely in style. So it's been 2 years, not 2 months since the West Wing ended. Second, no one complains that Fox and ABC have the same nanny show -- that it's too close.

The problem is, and if people would realize it I'd be okay with it's cancellation, that the show's to smart for a vacuous America and that the consumer-driven, plot-thinned shows they keep turning out are just easier to watch. What's funny is that the show dealt with this possibility in earlier episodes. And no critique of the show I've read has mentioned that. That the show new from the beginning it would be a little bit on the erudite side of words.

Studio 60 isn't an easy show to watch. I'll admit, sometimes the writing isn't as good as I'd like. Sometimes it settles. But it's still better than every single show on TV.

A Baby Tour

So we're close. Real close. Less than 3 weeks out. My guess is still by next weekend. But the Mrs. insists she'll make it through to March. Me, I'm not so sure. Everything's just about set too. The final piece of furniture should arrive tomorrow pending another snow storm.

This week we also took a tour of the birthing suite at the hospital where we'll have the baby. Rest assured this suite is nothing like the suite we stayed in during our BabyMoon back in October. Although, there is one suite we saw that had, what I've dubbed, a "tower view".

During the tour, which consists of us learning about procedure for when the Mrs. goes into labor, we made a stop by the nursery. For me, this pregnancy has been mostly theoretical. My body doesn't change. There's no moving inside me; no wedging of limbs under my rib cages. And, sure I can see the pregnancy, but I'm not feeling it like she is. Well, during said stop, we saw little newborns. One about 9 pounds, another just a hair over 5 lbs. That was when it hit me. Soon, I will feel it. Soon it won't be theoretical. Soon it will be as "practical as potatoes". Soon and very soon.

And I'm past excited. Soaring past excited. It's eagerness. Earnestness really. My son is about to be born. Somewhere between a hair's breath of 5 lbs and more robust 9 lbs; somewhere in-between the theoretical and the practical; somewhere between a tower suite and a quiet room; somewhere between unfeeling and feeling; somewhere between mere thoughts and actual sight; somewhere between the present and the future. My son is about to be born.

Valentines

Had a lovely valentines day. Chinese food (I had the orange chicken). A movie (Marie Antionette). And the Mrs.

It's been our V-day tradition for years now. Chinese and a bad movie. Well, not necessarily a bad movie, but not really a good one and one you remember because it wasn't great, it was just different. Case in point, movies for past days: Meet Joe Black, The Postman, The Good Girl, Marie Antionette. I happened to really like all of the films...but they were only memorable because they fit the V-day tradition. Had I watched them on any other day, I would've ceased to remember them.

On top of this tradition, the Mrs. and I have another unspoken one where we each by a card or gift for the other even though we say no gifts. I got her a rose and a simple card with a hand-written message. She got me a card with the perfect message written on it.

It's not dressing up and going out. It's not showing up at work with a bouqet dressed like a knight (in shining armor of course, not like a Paul McCartney or Anthony Hopkins knight). It's not any sort of grand sweeping gesture the movies tell you you need to make.

Our valentine's day traditions are indicative of us. Our love for each other is in the small things. In a simple rose. In a simple card. In holding each other's hands. In sitting in the same room with each other. In a slight glance away when the other catches you looking.

On The Things We Remember

Why is it that we seem to remember the most inane things? Perhaps this may not be the case for you, but I can remember who the starting first baseman was in spring training for the Red Sox in '93. But I can't remember one line from the greatest play ever written (King Lear). I know all the stats of pretty much anyone who's ever played for the Sox and Celtics in my lifetime, plus volumes of other useless information. A friend of mine can name the mascot for any Division 1 college. Neither of us can recite "Little Gidding", however.

I am much troubled by this because "a thing of beauty is a joy forever" (Keats), and as such poems and sayings of those who have gone before should be remembered. Granted, reciting a poem during the Super Bowl wouldn't have done me any good (not that my knowledge of how inept Manning is served any good in a room of Colts fans). But it still bothers me that I can't remember invaluable lines of poetry or Scripture, but can remember every line from Dumb and Dumber and know just about every line from every song playing on the radio at the moment.

With this as it is, I present to you, my readers, a new task. Here is your opportunity to pass on some sentiments. It can be a line from a song, a "quotable quote", line from a play or some words of wisdom. Limit it to a sentence. The purpose is to pass the sentiment on to our son -- maybe.

A Rather Poetic Analogy

The art of versification, or, prosody. It's becoming a hobby of mine. So much so that I've already read one book on poetry, am reading another, and even ordered "Leaves of Grass" by Walt Whitman. I am slightly embarrassed by my enthusiasm, but not ashamed of it. I find myself writing poetry often and find when I write it that I am more confident of my ability to write poetry than my ability to right fiction, or post blogs (mind you, my poetry is horrible).

For me, prosody is like shooting around in basketball. Basketball is my favorite sport to play, even though I'm not great at it. I love running the court, playing defense, making that extra pass and nailing a jumpshot (there's not much better in life than hitting a jumper with a hand in your face. It's the lost art. Much like poetry). Writing fiction for me is like playing soccer, or football. Sure it's fun and I'm actually decent at it, I can hold my own (despite what OSU says), but it's not where my heart is. I step on to a basketball court and I'm at home.

Writing poetry is much like that then. Sure, it's something I'm not good at. Not at all. But it's where I feel at home. Much like a shootaround where I'm not playing an actual game, writing a poem for me, right now, is like that. I'm just working it out. Maybe I won't ever get good at it to run full-court. But I know that I could forever be happy with a basketball (read: pen), hoop (read: notebook) and visions of Larry Bird in my head (read: Eliot and Keats).

To prove my point, here's a poetry writing sample (which would've been rejected by OSU):

Ah, you are my unborn baby boy!
And now is your mother with child filled
Before me and at my side she's stilled

But there's a glow in your mother's opened eyes.
Feeling you churn in your yet unseen skin
Under these, these strong hands of mine.

I love thee and only know thee now but by
A mother's eyes, is your existence known,
Such is your life my son, on the outside.

See...my attempt at iambic pentameter. Utterly horrible, I know. It doesn't even rhyme.

A Post Of Discontent

And so it begins. Well, it's already started. My least favorite month of the year: February. No sports to aimlessly waste time watching; no teams to pull for. Nothing. And these past couple of days haven't been any better, so allow me to lament my travails for the moment.

First, the Colts won. Have I mentioned I hate the Colts, despise Peyton Manning and utterly detest the fact that they beat the Pats on some suspect calls (as you can see I'm still not over this 2 1/2 weeks later).

Next, it snowed in Columbus over the past couple of days. The city just shuts down. Roads are not plowed. And the general attitude is that the city is doing what it can. But it's not. Cleveland never has problems like this. It's unacceptable. It's mornings like this that I pine for Boston.

Then, I got rejected by OSU for grad school. It was my top choice -- if only for convenience, but still my top choice -- and I got denied. Thanks for playing. But they told me it "doesn't reflect on my ability to undertake graduate studies." So I got that going for me, which is good. I've still got two other options and I know whatever happens, things will work out. Doesn't mean it can't sting a little.

Oh, and I came into work early today for my normal shift on Wednesday only to find out I'm working a different shift (means I must stay an hour and a half later). Not sure if I missed that on the schedule or my bosses' changed the schedule. But I need someone to blame, so I'm blaming them.

And my knee is hurting so bad I've had to postpone racquetball matches and can't play basketball either. I also can't walk without some measure of pain. For some, that's no big deal. But me not being able to play sports...well...it's not good.

I realize these problems are trite compared to the woes of others. I really do. And on the bright side, my son's about to be born and there's much there to be thankful for. And I don't offer this lightly either. Thinking about fact makes my problems fade away.

On The Pilgrims

So I finished "The Life You Save May Be Your Own: An American Pilgrimage" by Paul Elie. In truth, it was a well-written and extremely challenging book. As I said before, the book examined the lives of four Catholic writers in the 40s and 50s. It looked at their lives, their writing, their beliefs and how they incorporated it all. It looked at their "predicament shared in common" to quote Percy.

Dorothy Day
Founder of the Catholic Worker. A poverty movement that provided homes and food for the poor. Amazingly, she herself took the same vow of poverty. Donating all of her profits from her books to the organization. Very much a peacenik she protested the wars believing it didn't jive with the commandment to "love thine enemy". She was someone who's writing I didn't care for but her actions spoke much louder.

Thomas Merton
Became a monk at age 27 and spent almost 30 years in a Kentucky Trappist monastery. Wrote "Seven Storey Mountain" which became an international best seller. It was his spiritual autobiography. I enjoyed his writing, but he was too much of a contemplative for me, a little too much of a recluse. But he was firm in what he believed and his writing reflected that.

Flannery O'Connor
Easily my favorite of them all, perhaps because she was the author I was most familiar with, perhaps because she may have actually been the best author of them all. I've already mentioned her works several times in this blog. I offer another assessment: In talking with a friend we both feel that her writing doesn't strike you right away, but "Everything in it stands for something and you only find out what it stands for after you've left the book and the events sort of explode in your mind." She's a remarkable writer.

Walker Percy
Led a very mundane sort of life, honestly. Trained as a doctor he abandoned it all to write. At first his writing reflected to much of the philosophy he had taught himself and was quite cumbersome. Then he became a writer with the Moviegoer, next on my list of books to read I think. I am intrigued by his writing, for his approach and the challenges he faced with writing mirror my own in many ways. I'm always trying to be philosophical or have my characters be philosophical. I've yet to cross the bridge he eventually did. He was an interesting writer. And I like his "holiness of the ordinary" idea. Expect a post on that soon.

In conclusion, all these people, these writers, were Catholic. They weren't perfect people by their Church's standard either: Day had an abortion, Merton had an affair, O'Connor may have been racist. They knew quite well about grace. And so did their characters. And as Christians, they didn't make Christian art, they made good art. And I liked that about them.

Sometimes, It's the Little Things

These types of things never seem to happen to me. While my life, in many regards, is a story, it is devoid of little anecdotes. But, today I present a little pastiche of a friend's blog: an anecdote of my own.

I wanted a soda. Wandering through the airport I found a Coke machine. But, after putting my money in, nothing happened. Naively, I put another $1.50 into the machine. Low and behold, still, nothing happens. So I set out through the airport in search of another machine. Coming across a sign for a brand new A&W stand in said airport, I get excited. It's been years since I had A&W Root Beer!

So I get in line at the brand new facility which consists of more than a few empty tables and chairs. As I get up to the counter, money in hand, a taste for the cool creaminess and smoothness of an A&W Root Beer, the following conversation happens:

Me: "I'd like a medium Root Beer, please."
Lady: "We don't have Root Beer."
Me: "You don't have Root Beer?"
Lady: "Only Coke products."

She turns to reveal the soda fountain: Fanta, Diet Coke, Coke and some grape stuff.

Me: "But you're A&W!"
Lady: "Yeah, so."

On Malapropisms: A Eulogy

I've not had many nicknames in my life. Three to be exact. One of which is it's own story -- the greatness behind any nickname -- and really, only one person ever calls me by it. My last name not sufficing like it does for other guys, I've pretty much always been called Aaron. That is, until recently, thanks to my nephew.

Over dinner one night, struggling with the word ice cream truck he also got tongue-tied on my name, calling me Uncle Anna. I immediately sought to correct him. And he, in my haste to correct him, noticed how much I did not like that name and proceeded to call me Uncle Anna for next few years. At times it even descended into Auntie Anna.

My aunt passed away this morning -- my Nana's older sister. For most of my life, I knew her also by a malapropism bequeathed to her in much the same manner as my own, though in a time much before mine. She was my Auntie Apple. And growing up I knew her only as Auntie Apple -- cards and gifts were always signed as such. I don't remember even thinking of whether her name was 'Apple' or not until my teenage years when I learned of the malapropism. Her name was actually Ethel.

As she aged she longed to be called Aunt Ethel again. So we corrected ourselves. But it was not easy. We struggled with it -- it was a difficult adjustment for all of us. And we understood the malapropism for the first time. Cards and gifts also reflected Ethel's wishes. Perhaps I understand why she wanted to be called Ethel again -- much like I wanted to be called Uncle Aaron again (and incidentally I am Uncle Aaron again).

But this morning, when my mother called to tell me of her passing, her words were: Auntie Apple passed away this morning. When I told my wife: Auntie Apple died today. As I think about her in my head, I remember her as Auntie Apple. And when I think about what I will miss, I will miss my Auntie Apple.

I am my own nephew.

With What

One my my favorite quotes. It involves Flannery O'Connor. One of the writers I'm currently fascinated by. Here's the back story and the quote:

Flannery was taken by some friends to have dinner with an accomplished author. This author departed the Church at the age of 15 and was a "Big Intellectual". Flannery didn't speak at all throughout the dinner party, "there being nothing for me in such company to say. Having me there was like having a dog present who had been trained to say a few words but overcome with inadequacy had forgotten them." The conversation did turn to the Eucharist, which Flannery, the Catholic, felt she should defend. This author said as a child when she received the host, she thought of it as the Holy Ghost, "He being the most portable person of the Trinity" and that "now she thought of it as a symbol and implied that it was a pretty good one." Flannery's response: "Well, if it's a symbol, to hell with it."

I was never brought up to take part in the Eucharist, though I regularly went to church. My church, the Salvation Army, didn't practice the sacrament, one reason was the belief that "All life is a sacrament". So to set aside special "sacraments" was, in some sense, unnecessary (I'm surmising Salvationist beliefs I know. Sally's out there indulge me). In fact, I didn't receive the Eucharist (Communion, Lord's Supper, Bread & Wine, etc.) until a college chapel service. And I did so not fully sure of the practice myself. The next few times it was offered, I refused it. Until, that is, I came across the subject in theology classes.

Now I won't get into consubstantiation and transubstantiation. Actually, I don't think I could anyway. But what the Eucharist has become for me is a deep spiritual experience. It is not an experience weighted in liturgy or concerned with intinction. It is an experience shrouded in the mystery that is the presence of God, the presence and reminder of Christ Himself, of His Sacrifice. I am utterly moved by the sacrament of Communion.

Back to Flannery. Perhaps I have not betrayed my Salvationist upbringing quite as much as I had once thought. Perhaps Catherine Booth simply said "to hell with it" because it had become a symbol. Even today, Christians have symbols they erect -- in some cases: the sacraments; in others: devotions; Christian music; the books Christians may read; the mission trips they go on. Events partaken in because they are to be the "symbols" to the world of the faith.

Then I say: To hell with them. For if they are JUST symbols -- then it is nothing; "it is all straw".

The Mourning After

How do I write about my despair. How do I put into words this abject sadness that fights to consume me over this cup of coffee. For most of last night and as I awoke this morning, I thought of all the plays we could have run differently. How Reche could've caught the ball. How if Evans had broken a tackle and scampered inside the 20 with 24 seconds to play. If Brady had gone to the sidelines instead of over the middle. How a non-pass interference call on Reche and a bogus roughing-the-passer call on Banta-Cain could have sealed it for us (Seriously. I hit my dog harder than Tulla hit Peyton. Not saying we would've of stopped them, but that type of a call cannot be made in those situations. Also, how is that the announcers mentioned it only once? It was arguably the biggest play of the game getting the Colts to the 11 instead of the at the 20?).

Then it occurs to me...all this "we" stuff. It's not like I had any control over what was happening. Despite not shaving, despite wearing the same clothes every Sunday through the playoffs, despite eating only certain foods, there was nothing I could have done to control the outcome of the game. Of course, this realization lead to complete helplessness for a short-time. Why is it that sports fans put themselves through it? I have no answers, not this morning. On October 28, 2004 I had answers for you. On February 3, 2002 I had answers for you. This morning, I have nothing.

On the morning after the Mets won the '86 World Series, I remember it was my mother who told me as I woke up and scurried into the kitchen. I remember the same feeling then, as a six-year-old, that I have now. Then, as a baseball player, I pondered in my head whether I should want to play for the Mets when I got older -- because they were the champs. Then it occurred to me that I couldn't do that because the Red Sox needed me.

Do the Patriots need me? Probably not. Though I've got pretty good hands. They don't need me in any physical, emotional or metaphysical sense. I don't have those delusions. What I've surmised is that being a sports fan is like riding a roller coaster. There's the waiting in line, anticipation as the cars climb to the top, and then the up-and-down-topsy-turvy ride to the end. Sometimes the end is less than satisfying. Sometimes it's over at just the right moment. Either way, you usually enjoy the ride and want to do it again.

I enjoyed the ride. And I want to do it again. Also, don't misunderstand me either, this entry is not cathartic in any way. I'm still upset. But in anticipation of next year's ride, maybe I should lay off the ice cream and chips.

I'll Know You By The Ringtone

So I've had to get a new phone after I'd had it with my LG Cingular phone. Between dropped calls and bad reception, it was time to part ways. Without much convincing I selected the Motorola RAZR for only $25. It's a great phone.

One of the perks of the phone is Bluetooth, which means I can link up my phone and my computer (iBook G4 w/Bluetooth). After a few google searches last night I found how I could send music from my computer to my phone. How is this cool? Well, if you have iTunes it's pretty freaking awesome.

In iTunes, there's a function that let's you edit a song based on start and finish times you manually enter. Then by a simple conversion to MP3's, iTunes basically copies the truncated song to your music playlist. Then you can export that 10,15,25 second song (or however long you want it) to your phone via Bluetooth.

So, what all does this mean? Well it means I've got some pretty cool ringtones that I haven't had to pay for. And that I can configure any part of any song to what I want that reminds me specifically of a person and then assign that, again, truncated song as that person's Ringtone ID. Here's my current list along with the part of the song I've used:

The Mrs.: "Trouble" by Ray Lamontagne: "I've been saved by a woman and she won't let me go.

eric: "Jimi Thing" by DMB -- the intro only, you played it ALL the time in college.

Dad: "It's the words Red Sox fans have longed to hear: The Red Sox are World Champions!" by Joe Buck. I'll fess up -- I payed for this one.

Mom: "Where You Are" by Bebo Norman: "The child in me would say, home is where you are."

steve: "T-Shirt Song" by Derek Webb: "They'll know us by the T-shirts that we wear."

mig: "A Little While" by U2: "A little girl, with Spanish eyes."

tim: "Into the Fire" by Bruce Springsteen: "Up the stairs, into the fire."

becky: "Piano Man" by Billy Joel: "Sing us a song you're the piano man."

sarah: "Mr. Tambourine Man" by Bob Dylan: "Hey Mr. Tambourine Man play a song for me in the jingle-jangle morning I'll be following you."

Obviously there are a few of you I haven't gotten to yet, like eric's Mrs., mike p., phil, OOBM, et. al. So if you've got suggestions, let me know and I'll get you on the phone.

Also this brings up an interesting idea for all of us. If we could be recognized by a song lyric, what would you want that to be? Would it just be from your favorite song? How would you describe yourself in song to be identified by someone else? Because, I have chosen these ringtones/songs as I did because I feel they best describe the person to me. Of course, it may also not be how such a person sees him/herself. But it's an interesting notion, that, first, we can be described as such and second, that different people would describe us differently.

Some Musings

Thoroughly enjoying the new John Mayer CD "Continuum". Fantastic, really. Easy on the ears, great lyrics and more than a few songs with a groove. One of my favorites, like everyone elses, is "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room". Also, a big fan of "Gravity". And bonus points to Mayer's imperative inside of the album jacket: "If your listening to this with an instrument on your lap: get to work, and deep in it. We all need you."

Finished my third book in two weeks, all by Nick Hornby. High Fidelity was by far his best of the books. Of course, I'd seen the movie already -- also a very good flick.

Next book is The Life You Save May Be Your Own: An American Pilgrimage by Paul Elie. It interweaves the life of four, 1940s and 50s Catholic writers (The so-called Lost Generation): Dorothy Day, Walker Percy, Thomas Merton, and, one of my all-time favorites, Flannery O'Connor. The book examines their struggles with religion and art and discusses their approaches to writing. Thus far, I'm very intrigued.

So this friend of mine, the one who's blog I named, changed the name of his blog. No. I'm not bitter. Not at all. Though, I must admit, his new name, very strong. Meets the criteria. Check it out.

If you don't watch Scrubs, shame on you. Last night's episode was classic. Any song where you can combine diverticulitis and barium enemas (been there, done that. Sorry. TMI.) is instantly a classic. And what's wrong with hearing singing in your head?

This English Football team thing may have been a bad idea. One of the teams I picked, Newcastle, got drubbed on national television Wednesday at home, against a lower seeded team. Oh...and there's now accusations of racism against the team.

No predictions on the big game Sunday. Rest assured however, that I am in full superstition mode...even down to the way I shave.

And The Winner Is...

It's that time of year again. Time for my company to start applying for all these journalism awards. Needless to say it's taking up most of my bosses' time. And it all seems foolish to me. My bosses' have spent the last few weeks going through tapes for the past year, assembling the best newscasts, reporter stories, writing, etc.. And then we send our best to the awards' committees with a small fee per entry. Doesn't seem right -- that you have to apply for awards and pay to get them. This foolishness about awards is inane because the awards mean nothing. Who in your viewing audience cares that you won an SBJ or Regional Emmy? Is it the same thing as an Emmy? Did you apply for an Oscar? No and No. See. Who cares.

At the same time, I'm not completely against awards. I am against journalism awards however, but not against some awards. For example, every year at camp I won an award for "Worst Attempt at a Tan". My skin color was a dynasty, if you will, winning the award four consecutive times until they retired it. So, in honor of High Fidelity, a book I just finished, I've made a list. Here's my top 5 all-time awards I'd like to win (read:receive):

1. Super Bowl MVP: It's one thing to win a season MVP in any sport. But in no other sport (other than soccer) does such an award mean as much. You may not remember all the Super Bowl MVP's but you know that if you won one, you were the reason your team won the game.

2. The Man Booker Prize: It's a writer's award. Means you've written the best book/novel out there.

3. An Oscar: Not for acting or directing, but, again, for writing: for best original screenplay. And I've got several ideas...

4. Medal of Honor.

5. Best Dad: Only because you get either a really cool t-shirt and/or coffee mug.

So maybe only 3 of the 5 are realistic for me at this point in my life and my career. And it's not something I would certainly pay to win. Except for my kid...he may need to borrow a few bucks as a 4-year-old to get me that cup or that shirt.

The Challenges Of Writing

Painters have it easy. Their tools are of limitless potential. Light, shape, color all already extend beyond the canvas. All the painter must do is pull them into a finite border. It is much the same for the photographer. He, too, uses the boundless forms of lighting and color to bring to the viewer something much larger than the two-dimensional picture before them. They, have it easy.

The writer does not have it easy. Their tools are finite, binded by definition and meaning. The color blue can mean a number of things; the word telephone has far less import behind it. Surely, there are words like love, sacrifice, and truth that are shrouded in nuance. Perhaps that is why writers choose to write on those topics. A short story on the telephone may not win the Booker Prize.

Still, the task of the writer is much more difficult. The painter sets the picture before you and leaves you to interpret it. You do not watch him paint it or have any idea how the picture came to be. The writer must paint the picture for the reader in words and then demand that the reader transcend those words that formed that picture. A writer's challenge is to make words echo in the canyons -- canyons the writer himself has made.

But the good ones do just that. They paint pictures in finite words that reverberate in something much larger. Those words echo of the giantesque. And you find that the picture that has been painted on the pages has surrounded you and you are in over your head.

That a murderer on the loose in Florida kills a family out for a Sunday drive is just that (A Good Man is Hard to Find). But it's so simply just that that it can't be just that. So you read it again and sure enough there's something behind each word. There, in the sentence, in the words of a good writer, you find that the infinite has been divinely compressed into the finite and that each sentence bleeds of something larger. The good writers do this.

On English Football

Just to be clear: Go Patriots!

I've been thinking since last year's World Cup that I should really follow soccer more often. I really do enjoy the matches, the atmosphere and the "beautiful game"; the fact that if you don't do well you get relegated to a lower league. How inventive is that? I mean imagine if American pro sports did that. It means that the teams that are terrible still have a reason to play even if they're out of it.

I'll be honest, it's very confusing. Very, very, very confusing. Between the FA Cup, the UEFA Cup, premier leagues and Euro Premier leagues, my head's been spinning as I've tried to figure it all out. But as much as an American can understand it I think I have. So I've decided to declare an allegiance to an English Football Club. Namely one in the EPL (Here's a list of teams if you're interested).

The book "Fever Pitch" helped a lot. Though I won't be rooting for Arsenal. My plan is to pull for Newcastle and/or Fulham. The former because there's a drink named after the town, Michael Owens plays for them and they're not necessarily a "bandwagon team". That last quality was essential to my allegiance. No way I was jumping on board with Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal or Chelsea. As for Fulham, I might decide to root for them because there are a few Americans that play for them, namely: Clint Dempsey.

Now, for the moment, this is only a trial period. Not because I'm unsure if I'll like it. Truth is, I love soccer -- been playing it since I was 5. But if I'll have the energy to follow another sport faithfully -- like English Football deserves to be followed. So, for the remainder of the EPL season I'll follow these two teams and root for them, read match recounts and watch highlights and do what I can.

Can I spend my time better? Pr0bably. But I feel like English Football is something I should and can be a part of. And would really, really enjoy. Also another reason for the trial period is to determine after said period whether or not I can justify adding Fox Soccer to the DirectTV subscription we may get when we move into our new home this summer.

If you've got any suggestions, I'm a blank slate at this point -- persuade me. But, again, just to be clear: Go Patriots.

A Long Night

So the Mrs. thinks I'm crazy. Which, at this point in the pregnancy, is that whole pot-kettle conversation. I admit to being slightly eccentric. Last night I read an entire book -- start to finish. I wrapped it up a few minutes before the Mrs. returned from work around 1:30am. And it wasn't a particularly good book. But it was worth the time I put into it.

The book was, again, by Nick Hornby called "A Long Way Down". For some reason I enjoy Hornby. Like I said, it wasn't a great book but I enjoyed it. It's about four people who plan to "top" themselves off on New Year's Eve but circumstance has it that they meet up. It's a dark subject but he and his characters handle it deftly -- and there are some fantastic characters.

He's a good writer, Hornby. Very good with dialogue. But the book was more akin to a Red Sox-Yankees game in mid-April. It's something you get geared up for and thoroughly enjoy but in September, you've all but forgotten about the game and how you felt about it. In fact, at that point, it's more like an dispositional belief. In other words, a year or so from now, I'll probably need to be reminded I've read it.

Perhaps because I was afraid I wouldn't finish it if I put it down ("Finishing a book proves nothing!" sayeth George Constanza). Perhaps it actually was good. Fact of the matter is I was up until 1:30am reading the 300+ pages I began at around 6:30pm (I took a two-hour break for must see TV Thursday -- I'm actually an efficient reader. Heck I've finished two books this week! I felt I needed to defend myself). The last time I did this was exactly a year ago -- with Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice" (maybe one of my all-time favorite books -- top 10 at least). Back then, the Mrs. thought I was crazy, too.

The thing of it is: maybe I'm the only one this happens to but I actually got an adrenaline rush to finish it. Maybe I am crazy.

Anyway -- High Fidelity is next. Like I said, I'm enjoying Nick Hornby.

On Why I Won't Tell'em Your Name

Recently, a friend started a blog. I was charged with coming up with the name for this blog. And I rose to the challenge, submitting a number of creative and interesting names. Here's the winner. Not my favorite of the suggestions, in fact one I came up with over lunch with him on a whim. But still carries much import and I'm rather proud of it. Because I want you to visit his blog, I won't tell you the name of it.

I came up with some criteria for naming a blog. Mainly because it's fun. And also because I like coming up with things like this. And I thought I did a great job with the name of my blog.

Anyway, my criteria for blog appellations were quite simple:

1) It must be representative of your blog goals.
2) Creative element. By this I insist it must have a rather poetic notion (I'm obsessed with poetic notions even though I can't describe it).
3) It must be, while not obvious, not obscure.
4) It must be a name with implications that cannot be easily exhausted.

His particular blog met all of these qualities. I maintain it must at least meet three. In case you're not familiar with the title, it's from C.S. Lewis' The Chronicles of Narnia. But you must read the books to find out its possible meanings. The title certainly has a creative element and meets his goals he laid out to me for his blog.

Now take a look at my blog's title. It meets three of the four. Perhaps only a few of my readers will recognize the song I've pulled the title from. But it's representative of this blog especially. Because, quite often, little of what I say is of any lasting value. Like this post. I must be honest, I often gloat about my blog's title and how good I actually think it is. Perhaps someday I might explore it a little more. I've been meaning to do that.

Oh, and names that were rejected for his blog:
"That Long Saturday" -- perhaps my favorite, though, again, a little obscure.
"A Sea To Stretch Myself In" -- I came up with this one this morning, but it, too, may be obscure.
"Shoulders of Giants" -- perhaps too obvious a reference and also not indicative of his blog.
"The Thing of It Is" -- that was one I rejected for this blog but I was willing to sell the rights.

On Musicians As Poets

It's not that I think you care. I know you don't. But I like music. In fact, I pretty much have to have music on somewhere at any point in the day. Last week working the overnight shifts I brought in the iPod and listened to music for 4 hours straight while working. And I'm not lying when I say I was working at my most efficient level ever here at the network. Funny thing is though, when I'm listening to music while doing something else, I hardly hear the music -- it fades into the background really.

All that said, I've gotten some new CDs in the rotation. First, I'm thoroughly disappointed with Damien Rice's lastest foray 9. Other than the title track and maybe two others, it's not very good -- at least not for my ears. No worries though, I've kept my musical interests within the United Kingdom (even my latest reading material is by a British author). And I am thoroughly ensconced in the music and lyricism of David Gray. Many will know him from that song Babylon -- which I never really liked until now. His two CDs you should pick up: Life in Slow Motion and White Ladder (featuring the aforementioned song). My favorite tune by far Ain't No Love(though The One I Love is sweeping and feels like autumn and is therefore a close second).

It's haunting. I like music that's haunting. Music that feels like it's just you, the artist, some musical instruments and a room with the lights off. Music that feels like your daringly craning your next over a precipice to see the crashing whitecaps below on a cloudy English morning. Music that gets your heart racing in that fearful sort of way. Music that feels like it's sneaking into a giant's house and your Jack. Music that, like a good book, is an adventure. I'm not much for just instrumentation doing that job. I like lyrics that do that. Musicians are, in some cases, poets. The good ones are. And like any good poet, they help me get my "head into the heavens."

On Obsessions

So I've recently picked up a book that I'm rather enjoying. And mind you it's not a book I have to read for any class or application to any master's program -- I'm reading it for fun. Anyway, more of you are probably familiar with the movie, but I assure you the movie pales in comparison. Not that the book is fantastic, but the movie was terrible.

I haven't done as many film reviews as I wanted to in this space. And I won't review this movie. I will only say that it bastardized a very special moment in my life -- that the third thing I saw when the ineffable happened was two hollywoodland lunatics celebrating with my team. It still invokes ire from me so I'll stop here. And I'm not mentioning the title, figure it out yourself.

Well, the book is much more my cup o' tea. It's about a man's obsession with a English soccer team (Arsenal if you're interested). It's funny. It captures exactly what it's like to be an obsessive sports fan. Wait -- you didn't know I was an obsessive? Well let me share some evidence that will greatly alter your opinion of me.

During the '04 MLB playoffs, I was heart broken. Crushed after the 19-8 drubbing that Saturday night (incidently, what lifted my spirits was Damien Rice on Austin City Limits, an artist I now have this inextricable bond with because of what followed). Co-workers tried to console me but they knew better. The next game, they won. In the most dramatic fashion imaginable. But in that 9th inning, I decided that if the Sox were going to lose, I'd at least want to hear Jerry and Joe tell me, not idiot Joe Buck. So I put the game on the Internet and listened and I still have trouble believing it. I mean, everyone knew he was going to steal second, and he still did. Anyway they went on to win. For the next few nights, the game, while also on my tv, was also on my computer, a full 30 seconds behind (sorry, who has attention problems?). Also, I sat in the exact same spot on the couch. I wore the exact same clothes. So did the Mrs.. Funny thing, I didn't even ask her to, she just did out of her own passion for the Sox. You know what, they went on to win it all -- so don't you judge me.

For the Patriots, it's a much different story -- but perhaps it's more appropo right now considering yesterday dismantling in Foxboro (what a great game!). Since the 96-97 Superbowl season, I've refrained from wearing any Patriots gear during the regular season, though I've got plenty of it. The only time that year it happened was when my father (I'm taking money back for this mention) decided our superstitions were foolish and wore a Patriots jersey -- revealing it to us dramatically at half-time from underneath his shirt. We lost that game. Anyway, since then, I've carried on that superstition despite several bad seasons and despite losses. For the Sox, once they lose, I change my approach. For the Patriots, the games are a different animal I suppose my technique is also different. And as far as not wearing Patriots gear, it extends to burying shirts in drawers and hats in boxes -- I don't want to even see or touch any of it during the season. But I can talk about it -- again, something that doesn't work for the Red Sox.

There are more to these obsessions with Boston-area sports teams. But you get the idea.

My poor kid right?

On ADD and ADHD

I'm not one for letting young kids watch tv. Especially since much of what it consists of is crap. But I have this other theory.

Back in media classes in college, we were taught about how to keep the audiences' attention. One way: quick cuts from shot to shot by making edits every 2 to 3 seconds. Another way: create some movement within the shot if it's going to be longer than 2 to 3 seconds (i.e. by zooming in or out, panning left or right, tilting up or down, or having graphics come flying in). We are so used to it these days that we don't notice it. But count the number of times the shot changes, the camera moves or graphic appears in your average tv show.

Why is this significant?

Well... the whole point for cuts and movement is to keep your audiences' eye by creating these rapid movements to keep them watching. There exists this attention void that needs to be constantly filled. Wouldn't you think this is dangerous for little kids? The way the cuts and movement affect a child's attention has to be detrimental to them and transfer over into life as well. It's no surprise the amount of kids these days that have ADD and ADHD -- attention deficit disorders. I have no proof to back this but certainly there must be a correlation between kids with attention problems who also watch a medium that takes drastic measures to ensure a viewer's attention.

Now, look at the Baby Einstein videos. I like them because they don't "cut" between shots at all. You wouldn't notice this unless you were looking for it. The videos change shots either by wiping (with sound affects) or by dissolving. These transitions are must less jarring to the eye and foster a better type of attention in a child. It's smoother; softer than the drastic "cutting" that's on television.

The thing of it is: I'm also convinced that this is why people don't like baseball on television. Because the shot rarely changes as drastically as viewers are used to. It's also for this reason that I love baseball. "You can fall asleep and wake up 20 minutes later and realize you've not missed a thing."