Those of you who know me, know that I can be a superstitious person. Especially when it comes to my beloved Red Sox -- or really any New England team that's making a run. For the Patriots, I have only one t-shirt. And that t-shirt gets buried at the bottom of my drawer each season. I don't even so much as touch it or even entertain the thought that it is there.
I went into full superstition mode yesterday during Curt Shilling's no-hit bid. Catching only the latter half of the game, I was shocked when the end-of-the-inning scoreboard came up 0 0 1. I turned to the Mrs. sitting with Isaac.
"You know that I'm superstitious about baseball, right?"
Only a look of sarcasm.
"Well, there are some instances during a particular game where it behooves a person to not say anything regarding a certain something during that game."
I didn't use the word "behoove". Though, in a conversation yesterday, I did work in the word diffidence.
"Yes," she replied.
"So if you should see something on the scoreboard and that should elicit a question or two, please don't ask them until later."
Again, didn't use the word elicit.
She consented and we managed to talk around the actual no-hit bid while both eagerly hoping to see one.
I have never seen a no-hitter start to finish. Neither had she. Though her first EVER baseball game she watched, a September match-up between the Red Sox and Yankees in '01, featured Mike Mussina within one-hit of a PERFECT GAME. I had never seen that either. And only with two-strikes on Carl Everett did I begin to root for the feat. Everett broke it up. The only good thing he did with the Sox.
It didn't happen for Schill yesterday. And I was crushed when Stewart broke it up. But I appreciated how the announcers for the Sox acknowledged the 'mentioning-the-no-hitter-jinx' which many announcers find dubious. Though, usually when they begin to discuss their highfalutin view of the dubiousness, the no-hitter proceeds to get broken up. I can count at least two-dozen times I've seen this happen. Anyway, props to Remy and Orsillo for talking around it.
There are some things you just don't talk about during a baseball game. Some things you just don't mention. Some things that are just too glorious that you feel too selfish to even hope for: a five-run rally in the ninth, a perfect game or no-hitter, 4 Home Runs in a game, a game-winning hit. These are things every time you turn on a baseball game you just hope for with everything you got. You pull a Tiger Town.
And sometimes talking about the hope lessens the hope. Puts it in the context of the present reality and makes it seem foolish. Hope is a foolish, foolish thing.
But without it....
Friday, June 08, 2007
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Closing Time
A week after the original closing day, closing day has come and gone. The house is now our house. It is our home.
And as for me and my house, we begin tomorrow the re-tooling, refinishing, redecorating portion of owning a home.
As for me and my house, today it became our house.
And as for me and my house, we begin tomorrow the re-tooling, refinishing, redecorating portion of owning a home.
As for me and my house, today it became our house.
Monday, June 04, 2007
You Look Nice
In my job, there's not an impetus on looking nice. Very few non-managers wear ties. Walk through the building and you're more likely to see an employee in jeans than a pressed shirt. For me, it's always jeans and a polo shirt -- sometimes even a nice t-shirt.
Today I decided to dress up a little. To tuck my shirt in. To match my belt with nice shoes. To wear a shirt that spends most of it's time on a hanger and not in my drawer. To shave. To not wear a hat. To wear khaki's. I'm not saying I'm dressed to the nines, but I'm considerably dressed up from my usual dressed down look. I even drank tea instead of coffee. Drank it Jean-Luc Picard style.
And I feel better today. I feel more alert. I feel on top of my surroundings, instead of just blending into them in a pair sneakers. My roommate in college stumbled across this phenomenon and for about a month dressed up to go to classes. Even at 8 in the morning. Of course, he could've gotten A's in sweatpants, but he claims he did much better during that time. What stopped it for him? Well, I think it was the week we decided to wear an odd article of clothing around just because (one day it was headphones with the plug hanging loosely at our side; another day it was butt-cut day).
I know there are studies that say dressing up increases productivity. But I've long been of the opinion that comfort takes precedence. I don't think LeBron's doing what he did last Thursday (a top-5 all-time playoff moment behind The Flu Game and Magic's 40+ in '80) in a suit. Of course, I've used this as an excuse to get lazy in my appearance.
For the work-a-day world that's moved from suit and tie to business casual to "as long as you're not naked", I'm beginning to alter my theory on how I should present myself. That I should look my best to be at my best. I realize that's some pretty heavy stuff for a Monday.
See what happens when you tuck in a shirt.
Today I decided to dress up a little. To tuck my shirt in. To match my belt with nice shoes. To wear a shirt that spends most of it's time on a hanger and not in my drawer. To shave. To not wear a hat. To wear khaki's. I'm not saying I'm dressed to the nines, but I'm considerably dressed up from my usual dressed down look. I even drank tea instead of coffee. Drank it Jean-Luc Picard style.
And I feel better today. I feel more alert. I feel on top of my surroundings, instead of just blending into them in a pair sneakers. My roommate in college stumbled across this phenomenon and for about a month dressed up to go to classes. Even at 8 in the morning. Of course, he could've gotten A's in sweatpants, but he claims he did much better during that time. What stopped it for him? Well, I think it was the week we decided to wear an odd article of clothing around just because (one day it was headphones with the plug hanging loosely at our side; another day it was butt-cut day).
I know there are studies that say dressing up increases productivity. But I've long been of the opinion that comfort takes precedence. I don't think LeBron's doing what he did last Thursday (a top-5 all-time playoff moment behind The Flu Game and Magic's 40+ in '80) in a suit. Of course, I've used this as an excuse to get lazy in my appearance.
For the work-a-day world that's moved from suit and tie to business casual to "as long as you're not naked", I'm beginning to alter my theory on how I should present myself. That I should look my best to be at my best. I realize that's some pretty heavy stuff for a Monday.
See what happens when you tuck in a shirt.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
On Learning New Things
Isaac is learning and, in some ways, that makes me the teacher. I've already taught him when you should swing at a 3-0 count. When to throw the sinker. When to take a jumpshot falling away just inside the three-point line and when to dribble the clock out. I don't think he's grasped my lessons yet. But he is learning in other ways.
The Mrs. bought a fun toy for him last week. Now I'm of the opinion that we should just give our child a cardboard box and let him use his imagination. In fact, I'm excited about our new house because there are several places where a productive imagination could yield some interesting afternoons. But he's not quite there yet. And this toy is a pretty neat thing. Neat in the sense that I can already measure it's effectiveness. Basically, the toy let's him lay on his back with things to grab onto over his head. It's working. In the past week, he's gone from barely being able to focus on something in front of his face to being intrigued by his index finger and reaching for it with his other hand and grab and hold objects at will.
You don't think about teaching these things. You think about teaching right from wrong. Curveballs from sliders. Times tables. Words. Not grabbing things like a plastic ladybug or a rotating toy mirror. Not how to focus and reach for something. Or even putting things within their grasps.
But that's my role as a Dad. To teach him to reach for things over his head, or right in front of him. To teach him to focus, grab and hold on to whatever he can. He starts, I'm learning, with a toy that makes noise, it progresses, eventually, into dreams and goals. From tangible objects to intangible desires.
I guess this is as easy as it will get for me. Because, right now, I can hold the desired object for him to grab on to. I won't always be able to do that.
But when the time comes to teach him how to hit a fastball, rest assured, he's not going to be able to hit my fastball.
The Mrs. bought a fun toy for him last week. Now I'm of the opinion that we should just give our child a cardboard box and let him use his imagination. In fact, I'm excited about our new house because there are several places where a productive imagination could yield some interesting afternoons. But he's not quite there yet. And this toy is a pretty neat thing. Neat in the sense that I can already measure it's effectiveness. Basically, the toy let's him lay on his back with things to grab onto over his head. It's working. In the past week, he's gone from barely being able to focus on something in front of his face to being intrigued by his index finger and reaching for it with his other hand and grab and hold objects at will.
You don't think about teaching these things. You think about teaching right from wrong. Curveballs from sliders. Times tables. Words. Not grabbing things like a plastic ladybug or a rotating toy mirror. Not how to focus and reach for something. Or even putting things within their grasps.
But that's my role as a Dad. To teach him to reach for things over his head, or right in front of him. To teach him to focus, grab and hold on to whatever he can. He starts, I'm learning, with a toy that makes noise, it progresses, eventually, into dreams and goals. From tangible objects to intangible desires.
I guess this is as easy as it will get for me. Because, right now, I can hold the desired object for him to grab on to. I won't always be able to do that.
But when the time comes to teach him how to hit a fastball, rest assured, he's not going to be able to hit my fastball.
Monday, May 28, 2007
200
For those of you keeping score at home, this is my 200th post since I started this blog 13 months ago. That averages out to some 13 posts a month; about 3 posts a week. In that time I've had more than 10,000 visitors to the site as well. Not bad. But in comparison to, say, ESPN.com, that total is, well, close to nothing at all. But then again I'm not trying to be the world-wide leader.
But there is cause to celebrate. The thing of it is (yes, I'm breaking that out): the 200th of something is a rare cause to celebrate. Off the top of my head, 200 is recognized as a milestone in television, with the 200th episode of a show. It's usually considered the ultimate goal because it takes about 8 years or so to reach and means the show's got staying power. 200 is also a significant number in baseball: 200 hits in a season; 200 wins in a career for a pitcher.
That covers quantity. As far as time goes, well, 200 isn't a popular anniversary. And if there were an Idiots Guide to Celebrating Anniversaries, I'd want it to address the topic of what anniversaries to celebrate. Clearly, the 1st and 2nd years following the date are important. After that? Do we really need to pay such close attention to 3 and 4? 5, sure. Then 10, 25, 50, and 75. Of course there's 100. Maybe 125 like baseball did a few years ago. 150? Not really. 200, maybe. Like the bicentennial in '76.
Along those lines, here's some 200 year anniversaries you should put in your calender over the next few years. Moments you're going to want to remember later this year.
August 17th: The first launch of the commercial steamboat. The world was never the same.
That's about it. But there are more 200-year milestone's approaching in the next five years. So mark these down.
February 12, 2009: Births of Charles Darwin and Abraham Lincoln. There's evolution for you. Two great minds born on the same day. And they both later died. So much for survival of the fittest.
December 30, 2009: Boston bans the wearing of masks at balls. I'm not sure this law has ever been repealed.
March 25, 2011: The great comet discovery. Great balls of fire and all.
February 11, 2012: The invention of gerrymandering. Love that word.
June 1, 1812: The War of 1812 begins. Hopefully it'll be over by 2012. And don't forget to remember Dolly Madison's heroic efforts in your celebrations.
Happy 200th everyone.
But there is cause to celebrate. The thing of it is (yes, I'm breaking that out): the 200th of something is a rare cause to celebrate. Off the top of my head, 200 is recognized as a milestone in television, with the 200th episode of a show. It's usually considered the ultimate goal because it takes about 8 years or so to reach and means the show's got staying power. 200 is also a significant number in baseball: 200 hits in a season; 200 wins in a career for a pitcher.
That covers quantity. As far as time goes, well, 200 isn't a popular anniversary. And if there were an Idiots Guide to Celebrating Anniversaries, I'd want it to address the topic of what anniversaries to celebrate. Clearly, the 1st and 2nd years following the date are important. After that? Do we really need to pay such close attention to 3 and 4? 5, sure. Then 10, 25, 50, and 75. Of course there's 100. Maybe 125 like baseball did a few years ago. 150? Not really. 200, maybe. Like the bicentennial in '76.
Along those lines, here's some 200 year anniversaries you should put in your calender over the next few years. Moments you're going to want to remember later this year.
August 17th: The first launch of the commercial steamboat. The world was never the same.
That's about it. But there are more 200-year milestone's approaching in the next five years. So mark these down.
February 12, 2009: Births of Charles Darwin and Abraham Lincoln. There's evolution for you. Two great minds born on the same day. And they both later died. So much for survival of the fittest.
December 30, 2009: Boston bans the wearing of masks at balls. I'm not sure this law has ever been repealed.
March 25, 2011: The great comet discovery. Great balls of fire and all.
February 11, 2012: The invention of gerrymandering. Love that word.
June 1, 1812: The War of 1812 begins. Hopefully it'll be over by 2012. And don't forget to remember Dolly Madison's heroic efforts in your celebrations.
Happy 200th everyone.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
On Reading Faulkner
For those of you unaware, I'm back in school. Accepted to the University of Dayton to begin work on a Masters in English, emphasis in Creative Writing. Of course, it's conditional enrollment meaning I've got to get 3.0's in two upper-level English courses to be officially enrolled this fall (or whenever I should complete them). So I'm in the midst of my first class at the moment, courtesy of the Internet and Ohio University: American Literature 1918-present.
It's a post-WWI literature survey course featuring the works of John Barth, Flannery O'Connor (a personal favorite) and Saul Bellow -- to name a few. And then there's William Faulkner. Known for his work in As I Lay Dying and Absalom! Absalom! we get to sample none of that. Instead, chosen for me, was "The Hamlet". A 400+ page introduction to the Snopes family, featured in other works and later, as part of a trilogy - this being the first one. I completed it this afternoon and was thoroughly impressed.
There's no way to describe Faulkner as a writer. No way to assess his adroitness with words, punctuation and syntax. But you know it when you read it -- and you know when other readers have read him and been influenced by him (see O'Connor's body of work). While this work was no where near his best, it was quintessential Faulkner. Not his apex as a writer, but what him being a writer was all about. Just like you could point to a Monet and say, "That's clearly Monet -- but not his best". You do that with "The Hamlet". If you can get through it.
Meandering through long sentences filled with prose and romance, punctuated by short sentences of statement, The Hamlet takes some patience. And perseverance. A lack of a DaVinci Code plot surely leaves the modern reader in want. But it's a character study the whole way.
I liken it to a Sunday drive. Or those old Sunday drives people used to say they were going on when they ran into folks in the atriums and lobbies of churches. People don't go on these drives anymore. They don't trek with windows down and squint through fading suns and sunlights dancing through trees. They don't stop for ice creams and share in the colloquialisms of flea markets and little league baseball games. It's one of those things though, that when done, you're glad you've done and wished it could have been longer. But before you began, did not expect to spend as much time doing it or enjoying it like you did. And you're not really sure what it was that made you spend the hours before dusk trucking around.
Faulkner is, perhaps, the best writer I've ever read. And I know why. Like I know a Sunday drive.
It's a post-WWI literature survey course featuring the works of John Barth, Flannery O'Connor (a personal favorite) and Saul Bellow -- to name a few. And then there's William Faulkner. Known for his work in As I Lay Dying and Absalom! Absalom! we get to sample none of that. Instead, chosen for me, was "The Hamlet". A 400+ page introduction to the Snopes family, featured in other works and later, as part of a trilogy - this being the first one. I completed it this afternoon and was thoroughly impressed.
There's no way to describe Faulkner as a writer. No way to assess his adroitness with words, punctuation and syntax. But you know it when you read it -- and you know when other readers have read him and been influenced by him (see O'Connor's body of work). While this work was no where near his best, it was quintessential Faulkner. Not his apex as a writer, but what him being a writer was all about. Just like you could point to a Monet and say, "That's clearly Monet -- but not his best". You do that with "The Hamlet". If you can get through it.
Meandering through long sentences filled with prose and romance, punctuated by short sentences of statement, The Hamlet takes some patience. And perseverance. A lack of a DaVinci Code plot surely leaves the modern reader in want. But it's a character study the whole way.
I liken it to a Sunday drive. Or those old Sunday drives people used to say they were going on when they ran into folks in the atriums and lobbies of churches. People don't go on these drives anymore. They don't trek with windows down and squint through fading suns and sunlights dancing through trees. They don't stop for ice creams and share in the colloquialisms of flea markets and little league baseball games. It's one of those things though, that when done, you're glad you've done and wished it could have been longer. But before you began, did not expect to spend as much time doing it or enjoying it like you did. And you're not really sure what it was that made you spend the hours before dusk trucking around.
Faulkner is, perhaps, the best writer I've ever read. And I know why. Like I know a Sunday drive.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Some Bathroom Reading
One week from today the Mrs., myself and Isaac will be the possessors of our new home. Needless to say it's been a stress-filled, yet exciting time for us. Between closing on a house and planning for the move into a home much larger than our current residence, we have been busy. Thankfully, our new home provides me with that needed respite. That longed for and welcomed moment of the day when no one wants to be around you and you won't no one around. Where it is just you and your thoughts. And sometimes some reading material.
A friend of mine has a book that provides summaries of all the greatest novels. Each books' summary can be read, well, in one sitting. The sports page is also common reading. My new home has something of the former adorning its walls. The previous owner, who gets major points for being clever here while having them deducted because of the location of the hot-tub filled gazebo, decided to paste pages of exceptional authors' works on the walls. All within plain sight. All easy to read. It's a rather ingenious idea, to post authors like Faulkner, Spinoza, Shakespeare, Bacon, Whitman, et al on the walls. And suddenly, these walls can talk.
I'm not sure where I'll start. On which wall. But I know I'll look forward to those chances I'll get to, well, sit and think. I'm just not sure how to reference them in footnotes on my graduate papers.
A friend of mine has a book that provides summaries of all the greatest novels. Each books' summary can be read, well, in one sitting. The sports page is also common reading. My new home has something of the former adorning its walls. The previous owner, who gets major points for being clever here while having them deducted because of the location of the hot-tub filled gazebo, decided to paste pages of exceptional authors' works on the walls. All within plain sight. All easy to read. It's a rather ingenious idea, to post authors like Faulkner, Spinoza, Shakespeare, Bacon, Whitman, et al on the walls. And suddenly, these walls can talk.
I'm not sure where I'll start. On which wall. But I know I'll look forward to those chances I'll get to, well, sit and think. I'm just not sure how to reference them in footnotes on my graduate papers.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
On The Draft Lottery
Please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please.... pretty please with sugar on top... Please.
Please.
Also, ever write a word so many times it doesn't look right?
Please.
Please.
Also, ever write a word so many times it doesn't look right?
Please.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
On Quality
It occurs to me: we live very convenient lives. Especially these days. People speak of the "modern conveniences" in vague, generic terms. But it's rather true. For instance, yesterday the Mrs. and I headed to Cincinnati for the day, listening, the entire trip down, to Damien Rice on the iPod.
Now I love the iPod. I love it's convenience. How I can store my entire collection of music on a piece of technology roughly the size of an index card. Not only that, but I can access it anywhere -- like in my car. And if I hear a song I like, I can own it. I hear also that there's a new device, aside from being a phone, that you can put up to a speaker, it will identify the song for you and offer to download it. These are the lives of complete convenience we lead.
Thing of it is, MP3 is a huge dent on the quality of music. It's not even close. Audiophiles, and I'm not quite one of them, rant on degeneration of sound that is the MP3. And they're right. CD quality is much better. Vinyl is even better than that. But we sacrifice it all for the ability to bring it with us.
There are other things we've given up too in these "modern times". Given up quality, prepared food for microwavable meals. Handwritten letters that show time and effort for short emails. Phone calls even for text messages. Cross-country road trips in cars, itself a modern convenience, for quicker airline travel. Walks in the park for the treadmill and athletic clubs. Actual sports for something called the Wii. Full-length content for highlights and summaries . Newspapers for webpages.
It's amazing and frightening how in 100 years we've stopped doing the things that civilizations for thousands of years were doing. And it's all in the name of convenience.
Now I love the iPod. I love it's convenience. How I can store my entire collection of music on a piece of technology roughly the size of an index card. Not only that, but I can access it anywhere -- like in my car. And if I hear a song I like, I can own it. I hear also that there's a new device, aside from being a phone, that you can put up to a speaker, it will identify the song for you and offer to download it. These are the lives of complete convenience we lead.
Thing of it is, MP3 is a huge dent on the quality of music. It's not even close. Audiophiles, and I'm not quite one of them, rant on degeneration of sound that is the MP3. And they're right. CD quality is much better. Vinyl is even better than that. But we sacrifice it all for the ability to bring it with us.
There are other things we've given up too in these "modern times". Given up quality, prepared food for microwavable meals. Handwritten letters that show time and effort for short emails. Phone calls even for text messages. Cross-country road trips in cars, itself a modern convenience, for quicker airline travel. Walks in the park for the treadmill and athletic clubs. Actual sports for something called the Wii. Full-length content for highlights and summaries . Newspapers for webpages.
It's amazing and frightening how in 100 years we've stopped doing the things that civilizations for thousands of years were doing. And it's all in the name of convenience.
What will be left for the poets? For the writers? For the singers? Songs that employ those binary words that have become part of our lives? Poems that rhyme MP3 with me? Stories that describe turbulence and jet-lag? I worry for them. For how they'll have to make stories out of modern life; a life that is, in places, cold and austere, efficient. Where there is no quality, only convenience.
Friday, May 18, 2007
On Leaving Early
Inspired by a post on a blog I've occasioned, I was reminded about a story I once wrote. Of course it involves baseball. All my stories involve baseball. Also, it's a particularly good time to write about baseball as the Red Sox are playing some outstanding baseball right now.
Remember my first ever 'live blog'? Well, if you get through it you get to the point where we attend the Red Sox game in the pouring rain (and also what humorous events happened to us at the game which were even funnier in lieu of everything that happened that horrible, no good, very bad day). One of the things I love about my wife is she gets me. Completely and, sometimes, inconceivably. Despite the rain, despite the events of the day, she did not once consider or broach the idea that we should leave the game early. And more than that -- and this is why I love her -- she did not want to leave the game early.
You don't leave a baseball game early. Especially if it's the Red Sox. Especially if it's at Fenway. It is my belief that those people, and there are many of you who choose to leave, for good or for lame reasons, a baseball game before the final out, are the same sort of people who would leave church in the middle of the altar call (Been reading Faulkner, sorry about that sentence).
The altar call is the whole point (usually, but it doesn't have to be) of the sermon and church on the whole. Staying for the final out is the whole point of going to a game. Only then is the final outcome determined. Only then is the victor the victor and the loser the loser. And that's what you go to games for. For one team to win and another to lose. Sure, things may not change between the time you leave your seat and that final out. But the whole point is that they can change and so you need to stay.
My brother and some friends once attended a Red Sox game at Fenway. It was a few years ago and it was a night game in the middle of the summer. Well, like any fan going to a game's dream, it went into extra innings. Around the 14th they made an announcement that the last train was leaving at a certain time readily approaching. That train would have taken them across the city to where they had parked. Sara, one of the friends at the game, as street savvy as she is in Boston, said she knew how to walk the two dozen city blocks so they could stay. They put it to a vote. It was unanimous. They stayed.
In the bottom of the 18th the Red Sox won it on a Shea Hillenbrand home run. And they walked back. He still tells that story.
What story can you tell if you left early.
Remember my first ever 'live blog'? Well, if you get through it you get to the point where we attend the Red Sox game in the pouring rain (and also what humorous events happened to us at the game which were even funnier in lieu of everything that happened that horrible, no good, very bad day). One of the things I love about my wife is she gets me. Completely and, sometimes, inconceivably. Despite the rain, despite the events of the day, she did not once consider or broach the idea that we should leave the game early. And more than that -- and this is why I love her -- she did not want to leave the game early.
You don't leave a baseball game early. Especially if it's the Red Sox. Especially if it's at Fenway. It is my belief that those people, and there are many of you who choose to leave, for good or for lame reasons, a baseball game before the final out, are the same sort of people who would leave church in the middle of the altar call (Been reading Faulkner, sorry about that sentence).
The altar call is the whole point (usually, but it doesn't have to be) of the sermon and church on the whole. Staying for the final out is the whole point of going to a game. Only then is the final outcome determined. Only then is the victor the victor and the loser the loser. And that's what you go to games for. For one team to win and another to lose. Sure, things may not change between the time you leave your seat and that final out. But the whole point is that they can change and so you need to stay.
My brother and some friends once attended a Red Sox game at Fenway. It was a few years ago and it was a night game in the middle of the summer. Well, like any fan going to a game's dream, it went into extra innings. Around the 14th they made an announcement that the last train was leaving at a certain time readily approaching. That train would have taken them across the city to where they had parked. Sara, one of the friends at the game, as street savvy as she is in Boston, said she knew how to walk the two dozen city blocks so they could stay. They put it to a vote. It was unanimous. They stayed.
In the bottom of the 18th the Red Sox won it on a Shea Hillenbrand home run. And they walked back. He still tells that story.
What story can you tell if you left early.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Catch-22: An Emmy
So I've been nominated for an Emmy award. Not the real Emmy's, mind you. These Emmys. It's for a 30-minute special I wrote and produced last year on a local restaurateur named Cameron Mitchell. I poured a lot of time and effort into it -- especially in the pre-production stage where I laid out my plans for the piece. Of course each idea I had was shot down. They weren't all fantastic ideas, but they were ideas that made the piece something more than the "newsy" type piece I knew my (now former) bosses wanted from it. I didn't want that. I wanted a documentary feel. I didn't get that and they got what they wanted. I didn't want it submitted. They did. I don't want the Emmy. They do.
So who should I thank if I win? God? My wife? Cameron Mitchell? David Ortiz? My fifth grade teacher who always believed in me?I'm not up against anybody so chances are pretty good I'll bring home the hardware. And I must come up with something very cliche to say. The last video production award I won was in 6th grade. It was on a new school being built for junior high students. We entitled it "A Dream Come True". The award we won, I gave the speech for, thanking everyone, including my teachers for "making this a dream come true." I'll need a speech to top that.
Truth be told I'm not thrilled about this thing. While it will benefit me professionally, and it will, it's not the piece I would have liked to be recognized for. It wasn't something I would watch so how should I expect someome else to watch it? My wife hasn't even seen it and I show her everything I do. I didn't even want it submitted (mostly because of the $75 admission fee. It was paid for "anonymously"). But professionally, an Emmy goes a long, long way.
And therein lies the rub.
So who should I thank if I win? God? My wife? Cameron Mitchell? David Ortiz? My fifth grade teacher who always believed in me?I'm not up against anybody so chances are pretty good I'll bring home the hardware. And I must come up with something very cliche to say. The last video production award I won was in 6th grade. It was on a new school being built for junior high students. We entitled it "A Dream Come True". The award we won, I gave the speech for, thanking everyone, including my teachers for "making this a dream come true." I'll need a speech to top that.
Truth be told I'm not thrilled about this thing. While it will benefit me professionally, and it will, it's not the piece I would have liked to be recognized for. It wasn't something I would watch so how should I expect someome else to watch it? My wife hasn't even seen it and I show her everything I do. I didn't even want it submitted (mostly because of the $75 admission fee. It was paid for "anonymously"). But professionally, an Emmy goes a long, long way.
And therein lies the rub.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
To My Mom
Take another look at me
Oh breaker of my heart
Take a look and you will see
How beautiful you are
Even when I walk away
I could not go very far
Before the child in me would say
Home is where you are
In the tapestry of time
I cannot imagine where
I could find someone as kind
On the ground or in the air
I have heard that angels fly
And they never show their face
So I suppose that from the sky
One landed in your place
Did you know right from the start
When you first held me in your arms
That you would always hold my heart
Where you are
You make the mornings seem so light
With coffee in the air
But to be a mother and a wife
Is a heavy load to bear
And so you gave your life away
Like the God inside your heart
And even though we've gone away
Home is where you are
It's where you are
-Bebo Norman, "Home is Where You Are"
Oh breaker of my heart
Take a look and you will see
How beautiful you are
Even when I walk away
I could not go very far
Before the child in me would say
Home is where you are
In the tapestry of time
I cannot imagine where
I could find someone as kind
On the ground or in the air
I have heard that angels fly
And they never show their face
So I suppose that from the sky
One landed in your place
Did you know right from the start
When you first held me in your arms
That you would always hold my heart
Where you are
You make the mornings seem so light
With coffee in the air
But to be a mother and a wife
Is a heavy load to bear
And so you gave your life away
Like the God inside your heart
And even though we've gone away
Home is where you are
It's where you are
-Bebo Norman, "Home is Where You Are"
On The Theotokos
It's Mother's Day. The Mrs'. first Mother's Day. Isaac and I both got her gifts and I think she liked mine better. His involved his footprints (ooooohhhh!) while mine involved something called decoupage.
But today I was reminded of another idea that has never really gotten any play in church on days like today. Usually today Ephesians is quoted about honoring your parents and, perhaps, what that means. Yet especially on the Protestant Branch of the Church I have yet to come across an idea involving my favorite Greek word: Theotokos.
I came across it Theology class years ago. Apart from it's meaning, and I'm not trying to be sacrilegious here, it always sounds like something Robin would say. As in "Holy Theotokos, Batman! The Riddler's done it again!" And for awhile I tried to implement it in moments where I was, also, astounded. Never really caught on.
It's a term used to identify Mary, the Mother of Jesus. It means, and Eric will probably correct my Greek, "God-bearer". I've long been affected by the idea of Mary we find in Scripture. She is given a prominent role by the authors of the Gospels. Yet doesn't ever seem to receive much praise or wonder in Protestant theologies. Don't get me wrong, Marian Theology in the Catholic Church has gone a little overboard. But her role in the Gospels is interesting and undeniable. How this one woman, this teenager, was charged to give birth to the Christ.
All that being said, today we honor our bearers. Those amazing and powerful and graceful and loving and astounding women who have given us life. We are endlessly thankful for your bearing of us. As for how you were able and are able to do it -- all you Moms out there -- I have one expression I use: Holy Theotokos!
But today I was reminded of another idea that has never really gotten any play in church on days like today. Usually today Ephesians is quoted about honoring your parents and, perhaps, what that means. Yet especially on the Protestant Branch of the Church I have yet to come across an idea involving my favorite Greek word: Theotokos.
I came across it Theology class years ago. Apart from it's meaning, and I'm not trying to be sacrilegious here, it always sounds like something Robin would say. As in "Holy Theotokos, Batman! The Riddler's done it again!" And for awhile I tried to implement it in moments where I was, also, astounded. Never really caught on.
It's a term used to identify Mary, the Mother of Jesus. It means, and Eric will probably correct my Greek, "God-bearer". I've long been affected by the idea of Mary we find in Scripture. She is given a prominent role by the authors of the Gospels. Yet doesn't ever seem to receive much praise or wonder in Protestant theologies. Don't get me wrong, Marian Theology in the Catholic Church has gone a little overboard. But her role in the Gospels is interesting and undeniable. How this one woman, this teenager, was charged to give birth to the Christ.
All that being said, today we honor our bearers. Those amazing and powerful and graceful and loving and astounding women who have given us life. We are endlessly thankful for your bearing of us. As for how you were able and are able to do it -- all you Moms out there -- I have one expression I use: Holy Theotokos!
Saturday, May 12, 2007
On Life Without A T.V.
For the past three and a half weeks we've been without a television set. It's being "fixed" -- but not in the Bob Barker sense-- because of a loud hum that annoys everyone in the Greater Columbus area. And there are downsides to not having a television. But we've managed despite these negative qualities.
My uncle, as I was growing up, never had a T.V.. And this was before the Internet. I never thought one, especially me, could manage. But a person can. I remember thinking people without cable were weird, too. But I've been without cable for 4 of the last 5 years and gotten along just fine. I'll admit I'd go crazy if it weren't baseball season because I can watch the Red Sox via the Internet and faithfully do every night. And I also watch the occasional movie on the computer.
Life slows down a little when you don't have a T.V.. No more are your days timed in 30 minute increments and commercial breaks. When it's eight o'clock it's eight o'clock. It's not time for My Name is Earl or How I Met Your Mother. Afternoons are filled, not with reruns and news, but with coffee and books and playing with my son. Early evenings are occupied with walks at sunset to pet stores and for ice cream and along riverbanks. And mornings, especially Saturday mornings, are filled with full breakfasts and short naps.
Sometimes life gets a little too slow and you wish you could just kick back for 30 minutes. Because of that I do look forward to the return of my T.V. -- especially because I can watch sports on the weekends which I miss most of all. But I've learned life doesn't give itself to you to be spent going the bathroom during commercial breaks. And that Isaac doesn't laugh because there's a sitcom on. And that the NBA playoffs aren't really worth the time (except for when Golden State's playing).
Life is about moving pictures and entertainment -- only it's going on all around and shouldn't be confined to my 30-inch wide screen. I always knew this. But it's nice to be reminded once and awhile.
My uncle, as I was growing up, never had a T.V.. And this was before the Internet. I never thought one, especially me, could manage. But a person can. I remember thinking people without cable were weird, too. But I've been without cable for 4 of the last 5 years and gotten along just fine. I'll admit I'd go crazy if it weren't baseball season because I can watch the Red Sox via the Internet and faithfully do every night. And I also watch the occasional movie on the computer.
Life slows down a little when you don't have a T.V.. No more are your days timed in 30 minute increments and commercial breaks. When it's eight o'clock it's eight o'clock. It's not time for My Name is Earl or How I Met Your Mother. Afternoons are filled, not with reruns and news, but with coffee and books and playing with my son. Early evenings are occupied with walks at sunset to pet stores and for ice cream and along riverbanks. And mornings, especially Saturday mornings, are filled with full breakfasts and short naps.
Sometimes life gets a little too slow and you wish you could just kick back for 30 minutes. Because of that I do look forward to the return of my T.V. -- especially because I can watch sports on the weekends which I miss most of all. But I've learned life doesn't give itself to you to be spent going the bathroom during commercial breaks. And that Isaac doesn't laugh because there's a sitcom on. And that the NBA playoffs aren't really worth the time (except for when Golden State's playing).
Life is about moving pictures and entertainment -- only it's going on all around and shouldn't be confined to my 30-inch wide screen. I always knew this. But it's nice to be reminded once and awhile.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
On The Sunrise
It does not always rise over calm seas. Between mountain peaks. On breezy plains. It ascends to its heights over the austere creations of man. Over the Ayn Rand landscape of modern America. Red and orange hues do little to warm the cool gray and fading blacks of our highway system. And it is this juxtaposition that is most striking on the ascent. When the air and light is still cool. But mindlessly we drive to our places of work mainly unaware. In fact for many, the rising of the sun is an inconvenience; the stinging and squinting of eyes and drawn visors of cars are the fruits of men and women trying to hold the sun back.
The filled lanes of blue and red and black pick-up trucks and compact cars and SUVs continue on their ways to fill up empty parking lots of black concrete. Rarely a moment is given to this phenomenon that occurs every day. Painfully we notice it and try to look past it. To spreadsheets and bills; to conference calls and contracts; to breaking news and time crunches. We do not want to be reminded that we will be unable to enjoy the clear blue sky the rising sun will soon settle into. So we choose to ignore it by looking past it. By looking to what it means and not at what it represents.
It's rising signifies a new day. Not another day. A new day. Filled with rises and falls of its own for sure, but a new day nonetheless. Our days are as complicated as these highway roads filled with cars. Of twists and turns and stops and starts. As unpredictable as traffic. Yet rising above all the uncertainty is a certain predictability.
In the cool of the morning, over the empty parking lot, over the gray overpass, over the skyscraper, over this day before me, there is this rising of a sun.
The filled lanes of blue and red and black pick-up trucks and compact cars and SUVs continue on their ways to fill up empty parking lots of black concrete. Rarely a moment is given to this phenomenon that occurs every day. Painfully we notice it and try to look past it. To spreadsheets and bills; to conference calls and contracts; to breaking news and time crunches. We do not want to be reminded that we will be unable to enjoy the clear blue sky the rising sun will soon settle into. So we choose to ignore it by looking past it. By looking to what it means and not at what it represents.
It's rising signifies a new day. Not another day. A new day. Filled with rises and falls of its own for sure, but a new day nonetheless. Our days are as complicated as these highway roads filled with cars. Of twists and turns and stops and starts. As unpredictable as traffic. Yet rising above all the uncertainty is a certain predictability.
In the cool of the morning, over the empty parking lot, over the gray overpass, over the skyscraper, over this day before me, there is this rising of a sun.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
In Things Hoped For
I've been thinking quite a good deal about faith lately. Spurred by a song (not George Michael) I came across on the radio by a band I was always mocked for enjoying in high school by friends. It's called "Take My Hand" by The Kry (aged Canadian rockers; YOU album). The fact that I even heard it on the radio was astounding, seeing as how, 15 years ago when it was written, I never heard it on the radio. My estimation is that some tired DJ at the Christian Radio station here in town pulled a fast one. Either way, at 3:30 in the morning on a Saturday on 5 hours of sleep, that song still resonates deep within me.
There are many instances of faith. There's faith that your first house will be everything you hoped for. There's faith that your favorite NBA team will land one of the top two picks in the upcoming draft. Faith that your baseball team will one day win it all. And, more seriously, there's times when one's faith is tried by unspeakable and inconsolable tragedy. When only faith, the unspoken and unseen comfort and presence of faith, gets one through.
In all these cases, it's a hope in the things not yet come, the evidence of things not seen. Yet it's more than that in the latter case. It actually carries us through those times. Changes how we approach events like that one. There is a fine line between faith and hope. Hope is a good thing to have for sure. Faith is a better thing because you can actually use it here and now. You can let it affect you. You can let it drive you forward. And it's promises bring one joy, however slight, in times of great darkness.
One of the glorious things about faith is the day and moment it is rewarded. Any conception I have of that moment now is but a shadow, the faintest whisper, the slightest breeze. And it is that faith, that hope in things not yet seen, that carries me further up and further in through this life.
"Talk my hand and walk, where I lead."
There are many instances of faith. There's faith that your first house will be everything you hoped for. There's faith that your favorite NBA team will land one of the top two picks in the upcoming draft. Faith that your baseball team will one day win it all. And, more seriously, there's times when one's faith is tried by unspeakable and inconsolable tragedy. When only faith, the unspoken and unseen comfort and presence of faith, gets one through.
In all these cases, it's a hope in the things not yet come, the evidence of things not seen. Yet it's more than that in the latter case. It actually carries us through those times. Changes how we approach events like that one. There is a fine line between faith and hope. Hope is a good thing to have for sure. Faith is a better thing because you can actually use it here and now. You can let it affect you. You can let it drive you forward. And it's promises bring one joy, however slight, in times of great darkness.
One of the glorious things about faith is the day and moment it is rewarded. Any conception I have of that moment now is but a shadow, the faintest whisper, the slightest breeze. And it is that faith, that hope in things not yet seen, that carries me further up and further in through this life.
"Talk my hand and walk, where I lead."
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Home Sweet...
Well, not yet. But almost. We're in contract on a new house. Inspections to come. Needless to say it's been a crazy week and will continue to be one. It's a charming Cape Cod: 4 Bedrooms, 2 Baths, 1300 sq feet, plus 300 sq feet in a finished basement, a hot tub/gazebo deal, privacy fence, playground and shed, hardwood floors. The Mrs. and I couldn't be more excited. Or more thankful.
I'll have pictures eventually. For now, a tease. Don't be surprised if some future posts start with: As I was sitting in the bathroom reading the wall...
Seriously, it's the Greatest. Bathroom. Ever. And only I could think that.
I'll have pictures eventually. For now, a tease. Don't be surprised if some future posts start with: As I was sitting in the bathroom reading the wall...
Seriously, it's the Greatest. Bathroom. Ever. And only I could think that.
Why I Won't Go To Boston
Because of the media. The White-Middle-Aged Boston Media. Like clockwork, the borderline racist columnists print their "I Hate Randy Moss" columns. Character issues? A soiled mark on the pristine franchise? I'm sorry, Tom Brady hasn't been the modicum of morality this off-season but he's not a black mark on the franchise. Oh. Wait. He's not black. That's right.
I'll admit Moss has character issues. But he's also one of the best players in the game. Period. His problems are minor. He's never shot and killed someone like other athletes. So he mooned the intolerable Green Bay fans. Sorry: mock-mooned them. I thought it was really funny. Really funny. Not "disgusting". So he walked off the field 2 SECONDS before the game was over. The nerve. Larry Bird NEVER shook hands at the end of a game he lost. With Bird, that was panache. With Moss, that's a sign of bad character.
And since when did Boston seek the moral high-ground? Bill itself as the new Bible Belt? I'm not saying it shouldn't. Or that isn't something it might try doing. But that's not the issue here. I'm tired of this trade being discussed as a "What are they doing at Foxboro? What happened to all the great people concept?" type of situation. That's a way for the media in Boston to subtly discuss their racism. And maybe it's not racism. That's harsh. Maybe we can call it: their bias against an African-American player with outstanding talent with some "issues" playing for their precious little team. But that's being nice. Russell and Rice never had issues. But the media didn't like them. Same with Pedro. Same with Manny. Same with Pierce. Anson Carter? Anyone?
Me. I couldn't be happier with this trade. I love Moss. Always have. Now that he's playing for the Pats, I'm giddy. Can't wait for the season to start. Finally, Brady has a Pro-Bowl Receiver to throw to. And not just that, finally we have a playmaker. A gamebreaker. But it might not work out in the end. Maybe Moss is a troubled soul. But winning tends to change things. Let's at least give peace a chance? And if we can do that, we can say the Pats are scary good. Scary. Good.
Of course, they're not morally good anymore. But who's to blame for that?
I'll admit Moss has character issues. But he's also one of the best players in the game. Period. His problems are minor. He's never shot and killed someone like other athletes. So he mooned the intolerable Green Bay fans. Sorry: mock-mooned them. I thought it was really funny. Really funny. Not "disgusting". So he walked off the field 2 SECONDS before the game was over. The nerve. Larry Bird NEVER shook hands at the end of a game he lost. With Bird, that was panache. With Moss, that's a sign of bad character.
And since when did Boston seek the moral high-ground? Bill itself as the new Bible Belt? I'm not saying it shouldn't. Or that isn't something it might try doing. But that's not the issue here. I'm tired of this trade being discussed as a "What are they doing at Foxboro? What happened to all the great people concept?" type of situation. That's a way for the media in Boston to subtly discuss their racism. And maybe it's not racism. That's harsh. Maybe we can call it: their bias against an African-American player with outstanding talent with some "issues" playing for their precious little team. But that's being nice. Russell and Rice never had issues. But the media didn't like them. Same with Pedro. Same with Manny. Same with Pierce. Anson Carter? Anyone?
Me. I couldn't be happier with this trade. I love Moss. Always have. Now that he's playing for the Pats, I'm giddy. Can't wait for the season to start. Finally, Brady has a Pro-Bowl Receiver to throw to. And not just that, finally we have a playmaker. A gamebreaker. But it might not work out in the end. Maybe Moss is a troubled soul. But winning tends to change things. Let's at least give peace a chance? And if we can do that, we can say the Pats are scary good. Scary. Good.
Of course, they're not morally good anymore. But who's to blame for that?
Friday, April 27, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, April 20, 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.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
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.
"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."
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."
Saturday, April 14, 2007
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."
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.
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.
Monday, April 09, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
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.
"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.
Friday, April 06, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, March 30, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
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
Monday, March 19, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, March 12, 2007
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.
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.
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