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."

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.

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?

O Brother...

There are few events in life that make one feel older. That make one realize things aren't the way they were or the way they've been. For many, and for me, one of those events is a birthday, which I had this week. Another is the announcement that a sibling is getting married. Also, that happened to me this week.

My brother is getting married. For those of you that know my brother, I'll give you a moment to get over the shock that: 1) Steve Guest is going to have a wife and 2) That feeling that you're older than you thought.

I'm excited about this. And why shouldn't I be, he's my little brother. We shared a room growing up. Later, shared two attic rooms, even removing the door into mine so we could share the experience. We watched tv shows we weren't allowed to watch together. We rigged cable into my room. My friends were his friends and vice-a-versa. We even look extremely similar. Now, we'll both be married to amazing women.

Of course, I realize how much my brother and I are not alike anymore. No longer sharing rooms or cities or states together. We're barely in the same time zone. But all this is a very good thing. I would not want my brother to be me. Or to be like me. Or to want to be like me. It's nice to dress up in similar outfits with the same sneakers in 4th grade. Not cool at 27.

I still see him with glasses. Sporting an afro. Wearing the same shirt for the 34th consecutive day (Will that shirt be worn at the wedding... we'll see). Eating Peanut Butter and Fluff sandwiches. Despising Green Beans. Dunking with authority on a 5-foot rim. Punching me in the face because I made fun of him. I see him how I have always seen him. Not crying at a funeral. Not graduating from the Coast Guard. Not going off to Iraq. Not in love with a girl. Not engaged. Not getting married. Not as a man, as my little brother.

But I am old.

I am looking forward to "best manning" this thing. If you were at my wedding, you can rest assure that all efforts to repay the embarrassment I incurred will be repayed. Ten-fold. That little punk... I'm still bitter. But happy. Very. Very. Very. Happy.

Congratulations Steve. I love you.

On Turning Another Year Older

I'm 27 today. Another year older. As wise beyond my years as I am, there are still several things I am unable to do:

1. Grow facial hair.
2. Dunk a basketball.
3. Sing.
4. Retire.
5. Run a 5-minute mile.
6. Drive a golf ball 300 yards.
7. Read Summa Theologica.
8. Use tools to build something.
9. Fly a plane.
10. Did I mention grow facial hair? Of all the things, that's my most embarrassing failure.

Sure there are things I am able to do. Like be a dad. Be a husband. Be a friend. Be a writer. Be an athlete. Be a fan. Be a believer. Be a comedian. Be a director. Be blessed. Be stupid. Be sensitive. Be witty. Be dumb as a box of rocks. Be observant.

At 27 I know I'm young. But I'm another year older. Being able to say I'm still young isn't going to last too much longer.

Happy Birthday to me.

Because They Can't All Be Exciting...

Not everyday is "ex umbris et imaginibus in veritatum". So I'm blogging what has been a very mundane, banal and rather commonplace set of affairs I will remember as April 21, 2007.

3:15am: Wake up and get ready for work.

3:25am: Can't decide what shirt to wear. Definitely wearing the jeans with the sewn hole in the seat and my new Asics. Maybe a brown shirt. I go with the brown shirt.

3:40am: Stop off for some Mini-Muffins, Frappucino and Orange Juice. I've stopped drinking straight coffee that early in the morning. Doesn't tend to bode well later on.

3:45am - 12:00pm: Work.

4:15am: Finish a 10-minute recap of a dramatic Red Sox game. I hate the Yankees. I also scare my co-workers who are half-awake. They're not used to having somebody yell and scream this early in the morning.

12:10pm: Decide to stop for lunch at Subway. 2nd time in three days now. 3rd time this week. Get the Spicy Italian. Tip: Don't buy into this whole Toasted Sub nonsense. First off, Quizno's has been doing it for a decade. Secondly, it merges all the meat and cheese flavors together. It's like drinking wine in same glass as chocolate milk.

12:30pm: Get home and decide to straighten up the place. The Mrs. has been gone less than 36 hours and the apartments a mess. She's the greatest, I'm telling you. Me. Not so much.

12:45pm: Turn on Flyboys with James Franco. Watching it on my computer cause they took the T.V. to fix that high-pitched squeal that's annoying everyone in a two block radius.

1:55pm: Realtor calls. Yesterday our offer on the home was rejected. Not only that, but the seller of said home wanted to move into a bigger home but hadn't applied for financing despite having the home on the market for 4+ months. They were rejected and were going to have to take the home off the market. Today, they got the financing, but were asking list price without closing costs. A contingency because of financing. Um. Thanks for playing but no thanks. Back to square one and we begin to look for homes again.

2:00pm: Discuss my decision with the wife. We're kismet. She begins to brag about how nice it is in Florida. Yeah. It's 68 and cloudless here, so, uh, not so much. One of those slight breezes is blowing too as I talk on the phone outside. But I'd give it all away to be with her right now in Antarctica.

2:10pm: Go back to the movie which is terrible at this point and it's still got an hour left.

2:40pm: Interrupted again. For some reason I stop the movie instead of letting it play. It's the Mrs. She wants to discuss some things she's found for my sisters for their birthdays. I assure her what she wants to get them is ugly. She laughs.

3:00pm: Movie is finally over. Gosh, what a terrible movie.

3:05pm: Decide to go get my haircut. I get out to the car and realize I've forgotten my wallet so I have to walk 50 yards back to the apartment.

3:20pm: Get my haircut. Same haircut I've had for 15 years. The guy in front of me pays but forgets to use his $4 coupon. He gives it to me. Making my haircut now a whopping $7.50. Remember that movie. You know, the one with Helen Hunt and Kevin Spacey. I've never been one to adopt a movie's philosophy but now is as good as a time as any. The hairdresser gets a $4 tip. Suppose the Pay It Forward thing to do would've been the $4 plus my normal tip. It was a stupid movie anyway.

3:30pm: Decide to blog about my day.

3:32pm: Begin blogging about my day.

3:55pm: Successfully execute my plan. Kill about 30 minutes before the Red Sox-Yankees game. I'll be listening to it on MLB Gameday audio since I don't have a television right now.

Predicting the future:

4:00pm - 7:00pm: The Red Sox. A cup of coffee. A book. A slight breeze. A cloudless sky. An itchy neck. A bowl of cereal. A few streams of sunlight. My afternoon passing quietly and majestically a hot air balloon over the countryside.

7:30pm: A goodnight phone call from the Mrs. The one who has my love. The one whom I miss. Sleep well, I'll tell her. "I love you."

7:45pm: Fall asleep under the fading sunlight of April 21, 2007.

It's Not An Excuse...But...

I know it's been almost a week. I've been busy. The Mrs. and I made an offer on a house last night. A charming 4 BR/2BTH Cape Cod in the Grove City (commonly referred to around these parts as Grove-Tucky) area of Columbus (on the southwest side). Obviously we like the house. There's not much more to say about it. Here's to hoping we get it; I fear it may turn into a bidding war as we are up against another buyer.

The Kid is growing at an above average rate. Over 10lbs and 22 inches as of yesterday. He's also got a "social smile" at one one month. He smiles when he hears his Mother and my voice. And I can also make him laugh. At this point, honestly, that may be my greatest accomplishment in life. He's also made his first trip on a plane. To Florida with his Mom to visit his Aunt and Uncle. And was he ever ready to go.

Also, if there's anyone looking for a good book, I recommend the latest Oprah selection and, as it stands, also the latest Pulitzer Prize winner for Fiction: The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Not the most difficult or thought-provoking novel. But it reads quick and the writing's superb. A cross between Children of Men and A Steinbeck novel.

Finally, tonight it all begins. Red Sox. Yankees. Fenway. Here's what I had to say at this time last year. It's Baseball's opening line. Baseball's First Words. Baseball's epitaph.

Here's To You, Mr. Robinson

There are times when I am proud to be an athlete. Proud to have stepped foot on the field of competition. Proud to have fought hard in victory, and harder in defeat. There are times when moments transcend sports. Transcend the hardwood, the hash marks, the blue lines, the fairways, the foul lines. They are few. Perhaps a handful at best. Today the greatest of them is remembered and honored.

There are three things I cherish most about baseball. Running a dead sprint to center field to take my position while the other team bats. Reading the batter a split second before he connects. And Jackie Robinson.

At ballparks all around Major League Baseball today you will see tributes.

"Look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes."

You will see his number. You may even want to take a moment and read his story. His struggle. How good he was in spite of it. The passion he played with. The love for a game that did not love him back.

"Stroll around The Grounds until you feel at home."

One man representing so much. Carrying so much on his shoulders, but fitting it all in his glove.

"And here's to you, Mr. Robinson,
Baseball loves you more than you will know.
God bless you, please Mr. Robinson.
Heaven holds a place for those who play."

Ah, The Power Of...

The media. It's unflinching, unyielding, relentless ability to make a story appear much larger than it actually is. Without regard for the merits of a story, it's "newsworthiness", the media "reports the news".

It was an unsatisfying irony that on the day the Imus controversy peaked, the Duke Lacrosse players were cleared of all wrongdoing. Both examples of a media mainstream completely overflowing its banks. A simple perusal of the Duke investigation, a once-over of the evidence, should have resulted in a braking on the story which rose to national prominence. And now that the evidence has cleared them, who are the victims?

As for Don Imus, he said a stupid thing. But he has a radio show where he can say stupid things. In context, it was, what I call, a Michael Rappaport: A white guy trying to be black. Inevitably, such attempts, never come across as such. But that's all it was. It was a stupid thing to say.

It was not national news. It did not merit the 24/7's ongoing, situation-room, 360 degree coverage. So why was it? Because the 24/7's say it was. And why would they? Because there was nothing else going on that day. Or, really, four days later. Aside, you know, from the daily killings in Iraq, Sudan and Iran. Yet this story takes precedent. This is what Americans need to be informed about. This, and Anna Nicole's baby's father.

Three stupid words, uttered Michael Rappaport style, launched the crusade of Barak and Oprah and Jesse and Al. AP articles appear on ESPN.com saying "Don Imus targeted the Rutgers basketball team -- a team that includes a valedictorian, future lawyer and several outstanding students". ESPN? Targeted? CNN, MSNBC, FOX News all parade the "victims" out for an hour long press conference. It occupies the above the fold top stories on every major news website in the country.

It's called Wagging the Dog. Or Dawg in this case. The 24/7's need something to generate viewers. So they pick up on something that journalism 101 tells them is not newsworthy. They run with it because it has some bite, arguably. Even though it happened four days previously. They create a media blitz. They make fancy graphics. Bring on experts. Throw up the words "Breaking News", even though, again, it had happened four days earlier. They pull sound bites of inflammatory guests, whether or not they're right in what they say, or justified (irony, anyone?). And they yell across tables and satellite feeds. My God do they yell.

And don't get me into why he was even fired A WEEK later. Media pressure anyone? Advertising money being pulled? (which gets into who determines content, advertisers or the company? Remember Quiz Show?) CBS clearly doesn't have a pair.

I work in news. I did anyway, for five years. I changed jobs recently because I could no longer tolerate this penchant for "running with a story" when the facts of the story don't call for it. I prided myself as not going ape over the death of Anna Nicole, even though some of my bosses wanted to call it breaking news. For not going crazy over Duke Lacrosse. For having some objectivity, some critical thinking skills to weigh the merits of a story. But I couldn't do it any longer.

"I don't have the power."

Pining For The Fjords

The Mrs. and I have been doing some house shopping. From Condos to Ranch Homes to Split Levels to Cape Cods. We've given just about everything in our price range a once over. It's interesting what you can learn about a person by going through their house. A process which includes opening refridgerators, closets, and cabinets.

We've found a house we like. Two of them actually. Houses that we'll hope to re-visit and perhaps make an offer on by the end of next week. All-in-all we visited almost 20 houses over the course of two days.

My favorite house was the one with a dead bird in it. It was a vacated condo in a housing community. In the corner of the empty living room was the bird. It's neck contorted. Probably from flying into the window it lay beneath. And it was most certainly dead.

Our realtor mentioned that we could negotiate the bird in our contract if we made an offer. If we didn't and the bird stayed, I imagined it would go something like the following.

Two Things I'll Never Forget

It's not often in one's daily life that before 9am you learn two things you will never forget. And I'm not being hyberolic(?). These two things will I carry with me as long as I live. Forever.

If you don't feel like learning anything new today; anything that, while not going to change your life, or make you smarter, or make you feel better about your life, is something nice to know, then stop reading right now. I'm about to blow your mind.

1. One of my co-workers has driven around the entire perimeter of Ohio. Seriously. 1,000+ miles. Country roads, highways, byways. Starting in Cincinnati. Ending in Cincinnati. Look at the state of Ohio. He outlined it in a car. He and two friends. Fascinating stuff.

2. There's apparently a place in Kentucky completely surrounded by Missouri and Tennessee and not Kentucky. It's called Kentucky Bend. Look for it on Google Maps. Tell me you wouldn't want to go there.

On The Dawn Of That Day

There has been one thought, one saying that has resonated in my mind this Easter Sunday morning.

"On the third day the friends of Christ coming at daybreak to the place found the grave empty and the stone rolled away. In varying ways they realised the new wonder; but even they hardly realised that the world had died in the night. What they were looking at was the first day of a new creation, with a new heaven and a new earth; and in a semblance of the gardener God walked again in the garden, in the cool not of the evening but the dawn."
-G.K. Chesterton, The Everlasting Man

I've always been amazed at how one breath could bring forth so much. In Genesis it brings forth creation. In John, it brings forth the new creation. And what word then could have said so much. Could have carried so much weight? There are several possibilities, words that seem to reveal a great depth behind them. Words Christ could have uttered in the garden that morning. For example, "Behold" and "Amen". But there are other options, more current: "Booyah" and "Yeehah".

Christ could have taken the moment to be poetic. To be philosophical. To be theological. To utter a word that forever could not be spoken again. To retire a word, if you will.

Here was all of creation, waiting for the complete and full power of Christ to be revealed in the spoken word and Christ, forever the poet, forever the philosopher, forever the theologian, chose his word very carefully:

"Mary."

Christ chose to be personal.

Good Morning? Or Good Night?

Started my new job this week (more on that to come). And with it comes the possibility of being called into work early. Like today. At 3:30AM. No problem. Nothing a large cup of coffee and some donuts can't fix.

But it was an unusual morning at Tim Horton's. Maybe because I'm tired do I find this humorous. I pull up to the drive thru. I hear: "Please take a moment to look at the menu and I'll be right with you." Seems I've caught the lone worker at a bad time. I choose not to focus on those possibilities. But "please take a moment to look at the menu"? It's 3:30AM. It's 29 Degrees out. Is that the time of day you'd expect a person to need time to decide between a 12 seed bagel and the Wal-Mart version of the Mocha Frappacuino? You're the only coffee shop open this early. What else would I be getting? The worker was nice, though. She apologized for the wait and as she handed me my donut, suggested pleasantly that I have a "Good Morning, Sir." At what point during the night does it switch over to morning? I've got to tell you, at 3:30AM it still feels like the middle of the freaking night.

Another funny anecdote involving those in the service industry:

The wife was at Wal-Mart getting pictures. She asked the attendant at the photo desk if they were ready. He said they weren't. The Mrs. replied that the order was supposed to be filled today. He said they usually don't come in until 4pm.

Mrs.: "It's 10 of 4 now. Any chance they're here already?"
Attendant: "What time is it?"
Mrs.: "Uh, 10 of 4."
Attendant: "Shoot!"

At which point the gentlemen grabs a bag under the counter and takes off running towards the entrance, leaving my wife standing alone at the desk. She used the time to "Take a look at the menu."

Also, there was another incident with Isaac yesterday. I know he's already embarrassed by his old man here on the blog, but it was the first time he soaked me. Cleared the top of the tub and a direct hit all down the left side of my shirt. I handled it like a pro. But he timed the hit perfectly, waiting until I had turned to shut the water off. That's my boy.

On Opening Day

Yesterday was the day I had looked forward to since last July. Not only because it was Opening Day, but because it was my first Opening Day with my son. Growing up we always celebrated Opening Day as a family. Either we got out of school early, or we raced home to see the game (one time I snuck head phones into a last period Communication class to listen to the game against the Twins. The game the Sox won on an Opening Day walk off grand slam). It was a holiday at our house. Complete with everything you'd find at the ballpark: hot dogs, soda, ice cream sandwiches, Italian sausages.

I've carried on that tradition since I moved out of the house. Yesterday: hot dogs, soda, mac & cheese (which I think they probably serve at stadiums now). I have every intention of keeping the tradition intact (unlike the naming of first sons and second sons in my family. Sorry Grandpa). Even the Mrs. was excited she'd be home in time to see the game when I told her the start time changed.

Baseball is a good thing.

Anyway, it wasn't a particularly good game. A 7-1 loss to the Royals. The Royals. Whatever. But even the youngest member of Red Sox Nation knows it's a long season, so there's no reason to get worked up.


Me, however, I'd be lying if I said this picture didn't get me a little worked up.

EDITORS NOTE: THIS IS HIS SECOND RED SOX OUTFIT OF THE DAY. THERE WAS AN INCIDENT WITH HIM AND HIS FIRST OUTFIT.

On The Dignity Of Fools

Today has been April Fools' Day. There's an interesting history behind it if you have the time. Also, I enjoyed the Wikipedia lock on that information. I've not been much of an April Foolser myself, other than the saran wrap and Vaseline tricks on toilet seats and door knobs. One time, my parents thought they'd get us all and short-sheet our beds. It didn't work, and I still don't see how that's funny anyway.

In honor of today and yesterday's OSU win, our church secretly played a video of our pastor making a complete fool of himself during an OSU game. The entire service witnessed his dancing like a lunatic. Of course he tied it in to 2 Samuel, but the damage had been done, and it took a little while for the congregation to settle.

It got me thinking about foolishness. Is there an element of dignity in the foolish? Leads one to define dignity. Of course, there's the dignity that you can't take away from Whitney Houston. There's the dignity of Britney Spears. There's (supposedly) a dignity in winning at something and also at losing at something (I disagree with that. I'm from the Larry Bird school of thought). The dignity of the martyr. The dignity of the soldier. There's the dignity of King David.

In some sense of dignity, I suppose there's the element of doing something someone would consider foolish.

Today is also Palm Sunday.

There is another image of dignity I'm left with.




A dignity unto death.

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."