Saturday, April 29, 2006

How its done 101. Prof. Bono

This is an excerpt taken from that terrific book/interview "Bono In Conversation with Michka Assayas"

Bono: (talking about debt relief in third world countries)... And whatever thoughts you have about God, who He is or if He exists, most will agree that if there is a God, God has a special place for the poor. The poor are where God lives. So these politicians should be nervous, not me.

Michka:"I'm surprised at how easily religion comes up in your answers, whatever the question is. How com you're always quoting the Bible? Was it because it was taught at school? Or because your father or mother wanted you to read it?

Bono: It's strange, I couldn't know. Whenever I hear people talking from the Scriptures, I always manage to be able to see past their sort of personality, to see past the difficulties of the environment I was listening to them, and the hypocrisy. I always manage to get to the content.

Michka: "When was the first time something happened when you thought about a line from the Scriptures? When you first said to yourself: Yes, I can see beyond that and see how it applies to such and such situation?

Bono: "Let me try to explain something to you, which I hope will make sense of the whole conversation. But maybe that's a little optimistic. This was not the first time, but I remember coming back from a very long tour. I hadn't been at home. Got home for Christmas, very excited of being in Dublin. Dublin at Christmas is cold, but it's lit up like a Carnival in the cold. On Christmas Eve, I went to St. Patrick's Cathedral. I had done school there for a year. It's where Jonathan Swift was dean. Anyway, some of my Church of Ireland friends were going. It's kind of a tradition on Christmas Eve to go, but I'd never been. I went to this place, sat. I was given a really bad seat, behind one of the huge pillars. I couldn't see anything. I was sitting there, having come back from Tokyo, or somewhere like that. I went for the singing, because I love choral singing. But I was falling asleep, being up for a few days, traveling, because it was a bit boring, the service, and I just started nodding off, I couldn't' see a thing. Then I started to try and keep myself awake studying what was on the page. It dawned on me for the first time, really. It had dawned on me before, but it really sank in: the Christmas story. The idea of God, if there is a force of Love and Logic in the universe, that it would seek to explain itself is amazing enough. That it would seek to explain itself and describe itself by becoming a child born in straw poverty, in shit and straw... a child... I just thought: Wow! Just the poetry... Unknowable love, unknowable power, describes itself as the most vulnerable. There is was. I was sitting there, and it's not that it hadn't struck me before, but tears came down my face, and I saw the genius of this, utter genius of picking a particular point in time and deciding to turn on this. Because that's exactly what we were talking about earlier: love needs to find form, intimacy needs to be whispered. To me, it makes sense. It's actually logical. It's pure logic. Essence has to manifest itself. It's inevitable. Love has to become an action or something concrete. It would have to happen. There must be an incarnation. Love must be made flesh. Wasn't that your point earlier?

Michka: As I think I am beginning to understand religion because I have started acting and thinking like a father. What do you make of that?

Bono: Yes, I think that's normal. It's a mind-blowing concept that the God who created the Universe might be looking for company, a real relationship with people, but the thing that keeps me on my knees is the difference between Grace and Karma.

Michka: I haven't heard you talk about that.

Bono: I really believe we've moved out of the realm of Karma into Grace.

Michka: Well, that doesn't make it clearer for me.

Bono: You see, at the center of all religions is the idea of Karma. You know, what you put our comes back to you: an eye, a tooth for a tooth, or in physics-every action is met by an equal or an opposite one. It's clear to me that Karma is at the very heart of the Universe. I'm absolutely sure of it. And yet, along comes this idea called Grace to upend all that "As you reap, so will you sow" stuff. Grace defies reason and logic. Love interrupts, if you like and consequences of your actions, which in my case is very good news indeed, because I've done a lot of stupid stuff.

Michka: I'd be interested to hear that.

Bono: That's between me and God. But I'd be in big trouble if Karma was going to finally be my judge. I'd be in deep shit. It doesn't excuse my mistakes, but I'm holding out for Grace. I'm holding out that Jesus took my sins on the Cross, because I know who I am, and I hope I don't have to depend on my own religiosity.

Michka: The son of God who takes away the sins of the world. I wish I could believe in that.

Bono: But I love the idea of the Sacrificial Lamb. I love the idea that God says: "Look, you cretins, there are certain results to the way we are, to selfishness, and there's mortality as part of your very sinful nature, and, let's face it, you're not living a very good life, are you? There are consequences to actions." The point of the death of Christ is that Christ took on the sins of the world, so that what we put out did not come back to us, and that our sinful nature does not reap the obvious death. That's the point. It should keep us humbled...It's not our own good works that get us through the gates of Heaven.

Friday, April 28, 2006

Mystery, my Son

"Now listen to me Son,... Mystery. Mystery, is Majesty. Say it, memorize it. It is the key to getting yourself a good woman." These wise words were uttered by my Father to me back in my pubescent days when I gawked from my lonely corner in the School library at Debra Daily as she would walk by, rip my heart out, take a bite of it and put it back in, without even tossing me so much a casual glance.

Basically my dad was trying to tell me to become mysterious. I had just gone through an unfortunate event in the 10th grade where one of my best friends and myself happened to have a crush on the same girl. The only problem was that I didn't know he had the hots for her as well. He would simply collect information about my crush and turn around and use it against me. Dirty snake. The story isn't pretty and it ended up in a scuffle during German class followed by a trip to the principles office. The only reason I did not get suspended from school was because when Christmas came around, I always sang the solos when we would serenade the principle and she thought my voice was perty. Yup I had enough brown on my nose to keep me in the black. When I told my dad the story I received the advice of "Mystery is Majesty" It was amazing, my dad had somehow used a theological principle and turned it around so to use it as a tool for getting and keeping babes. Now that's one heck of a dad.

Before I post on the Trinity I just want to say a word about the Idea of Mystery. A Mystery is not something we can know nothing about, it is something that the mind cannot WHOLLY or fully know. We shouldn't think of it as a big giant wall that we cannot climb or get around, but rather think of it as a gallery of art that has no beginning and no end and every moment we walk and discover is immeasurably satisfying. My wife for instance, is a Mystery to me. She is beautiful beyond measure, but how she can get my last bite off my plate into her mouth without me noticing is a complete Mystery to me. Seriously, every day I learn something new about her, I can never totally predict what she will do. She is altogether a Mystery to me and I LOVE IT.

This is the attitude we must have when we tackle things like the doctrine of the Trinity. We should not use "well, its just a Mystery," as an excuse to not study it further or know nothing about it as if it cannot be known.

Monday, April 24, 2006

Okay, The Holy Trinity, let me have it.

Okay, so give me your best short answer. (as short as you can make it)

Water, Vapor, Ice??

A babe in black latex dodging bullets for her monotone man.???

If someone were to walk up to you off the street and say, "so whats up with that 3 in 1 business?... what the heck IS this Trinity anyway? How can God be three things and still be 1?????"

Can we do better than "well, its just a mystery"...?

What would you say? (I am working on this myself so, help a crippled mind out here would ya?)

Friday, April 21, 2006

Over the river and through the woods

I used to hate to go and see my Great-Grandmother in the nursing home. The only reason I went was because I used to get to spend time with my Dad. My G.Grandmother. had Alzheimer’s disease and for some reason she would always mistake me for her late First Husband Ornan. Now, I hope I don't sound like big, hard-hearted jerk, but let me tell you, this was not always such a pleasant mis-association to experience for a 13 year old boy... and that’s all I'll say about that. Ah Hem...

However, even in those moments of AWKWARDNESS when I became my Great Grandma Velma's X-Lover boy, they became mildly funny because my Dad would just silently chuckle and wink at me. Finally he would come to the rescue by sending me to the Coke-Machine. By the time I had returned, Coke in hand, she would have forgot that I ever came in and by this time she was usually in a bad mood asking my dad about her money.

"Who the hell are you?!!
"Well Grandma," my dad would say, you know who I am; I'm your grandson Pat.
"No Grandma I didn't take your money, it's in the bank, safe and sound" my dad would grin and kindly reply.
"Well, when I die, I am gonna find out, and come back from the dead and SCRATCH THEIR EYES OUT, WHOEVER TOOK IT!"
"Now Grandma, you don't want to do that..." My grandma would just look back at him and say, as sane as anyone,
"You just watch me."

After about 15 minutes of this kind of conversation, we would leave and while I would sit in the car and see no purpose for our visit, my dad would sit back and tell good memories that he had of his Grandma, and of how she could make the best Mashed Potatoes in the south.

For me, the best things about these little road trips to and from the nursing home or other places were all the stories. My dad is a great storyteller and he could make a 2-hour trip seem like 15 minutes. However, on this particular day on the way back from seeing my dear sweet Great Grandma Velma, there was mostly silence. No real reason really, we were just kicking back in the car and listening to the oldies station. About an hour into the trip we passed by a group of prison workers picking up trash. They were all wearing orange. It was just starting to rain and the drops were hitting the wind shield just enough for my dad to flip on the windshield wipers. As we passed the men in orange, one of the men stopped, and looked up at me. For a brief moment we made eye contact. We passed by and the Man calmly went back to his work.

"Man that’s gotta suck" I said mumbling through my hand that was propping my chin up.

I expected my dad to agree, and then give me advice on how never to end up like those poor slobs, or possibly to be sure, and never pick up any hitch-hikers cause it could be one of THOSE bunch of wretched souls your picking up.

What he said instead has stuck with me every day, for the past 17 years. My dad was quiet for few seconds. As he looked at the men disappear over the hill behind us, he said very softly "There go I, but by the Grace of God." The mirror seemed to become a window into his past.

I was quiet; I didn't need him to elaborate. I had heard plenty of stories. Every time I would go home to Oklahoma someone would make sure and say, "boy, you know it is the derndest thing that your daddy's a preacher," "I never would have guessed that in a gillion years." They never would tell me the full detailed stories out of respect for my dad, but I knew. From the parts they would tell, that my dad was PRETTY reckless in his younger years.

I learned my first lesson about the Grace of God in that minute, passing those prisoners. My dad, a preacher, who loves his family, who loves God, who is kind enough to take an entire day every two weeks just to go up to see his sick and dying Grandma, was at one time his life, very, very close to the fate of those men we passed. And he was thankful. Thankful for not being where they were but also identifying with every one of those men in some way and not passing judgment.

My perfect dad became vulnerable in that moment. He let me know in one sentence that the only reason he is where he is today is because God had mercy upon him and he let that love and mercy save his life. Periodically, I will be telling some of that story here on this blog so I do not forget any of it.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Any Port in a Storm

I love days off. No shoes, a little T.V., maybe a book at Barnes and Noble, maybe some coffee, a brisk lunch, then when the moon rises, a good dinner and a movie. Today is kind of a day off for me. I know that I should do alot of the things mentioned above, but somehow work finds its way back into the garments of my day, and I am working, again. No one in this country ever takes a day off. Work is all we know. I find myself at times working until 2:00 a.m. Yeah I am at home and yeah I may have my shoes off, but if I am not worrying about work I am doing something related. We have forgotten what it means to rest. I think that mentality is in the fabric of our genes as Americans. Our great-great-great- grandparents did not know the meaning of rest and neither do we. They knew the meaning of collapse from exhaustion, but not rest. Sometimes, even when it seems like the world around you is going to crash in, you have to reach inside and find peace, lie down, and rest. Hey, Jesus did it.

I have tried many times to imagine the scene when that nasty storm hit the disciples at sea. There they were in the middle of a white squall or huge storm, trying desperately to keep the ship from tipping. And somewhere off to the side of the boat, Jesus is resting, actually sleeping. Not out of laziness or disinterest, but because he could find peace in any circumstance. The boat is going crazy, John and Peter are screaming at each other to keep things steady, Mark and the others are shoveling water out of the boat to keep it from sinking, and there lies Jesus...sleeping. They look at Jesus and finally say something to the tune of, "how in the name of my grandpa Jehosophat's grapes and twig is he sleeping? Could someone please wake him up and ask him to help, lest we drown standing up." Jesus gets up and says "ye of little faith." He turns to the storm and says a word of command and the storm completely and totally becomes calm. Suddenly, its not raining, there is no wind, the waves stop tossing around and the disciples are left standing with drenched garments and rain dripping from their hair and beards, totally speechless and finally at peace. Every creature on this planet knows how to rest in any circumstance except for us, and ESPECIALLY Americans.

I hate to twist this story to make a point but... this brings me to a question that has been on my mind lately,- Church. Now I am all for meeting together as the Body, encouraging each other and collectively finding ways to show the Love of God to the world, but... what is this Sunday business? Really? Do we NEEED these huge mega-million dollar Churches decked out with bookstores, work out facilities, Christian Yoga classes, racket-ball courts? Do we all NEED to get all dressed up, drag our butts out of bed on our only day off, on the Day of Rest, Go to Church, then have Youth Choir, then have dance practice, then have band practice then meet for a Sunday Night service then clean everything up, go home and collapse from exhaustion ONLY to get up early the next morning so that we can go BACK to work? I am beginning to think that this mentality is a bunch of malarkey. Maybe, we could find a good time to meet with a small group during the week. Then once a month or so meet with the "“Big"” group, and on Sunday, the family rests, spends time together. Maybe dad and mom go to the park, take a walk with their daughter or son. Throw a frisbee around, have a picnic, be a family. What if the Church encouraged that? Have a day, and be a family. Would not the Sabbath be more Holy, more Spiritual?

I wonder if Jesus were in the flesh today, while we are all busy with our rehearsals, cantatas, events, fine arts series, special parties, banquets, and most importantly, the big Sunday Morning Bash...while we worry if the sound is going to work, or the light people will get their cue, i wonder if Jesus, would be lying on the back pew, fast asleep and catching some Z’s.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

Super Target And the Aisle of Joy

OK, I have to admit something. Lately, I have been really digging Super Target. I'm not Brokeback Mountain diggin' it, but boooyyy do they have some kind of Jelly Belly selection. As you round the corners of endless cool purses, sunglasses, women looking for carts that somehow were taken by other women while they were not looking, aisles and aisles of women glancing over the shoulder of other women to see if they found something cute that maybe they missed when they passed by that section of frilly skirts, then you see it... The monument of Joy, the Jelly Belly selection from Heaven. It keeps me occupied while my wife tries on a billion combinations of clothing. There is something pleasant about the people who shop at the Super Target. Unlike the people who shop at the Super Wal-mart, the Target shoppers are a little more cheerful. Maybe it is all the red and pink. Or maybe the husband will actually come with the wife and not complain endlessly while he is there because of the Monument of Joy described earlier. Or maybe... It is because everyone there feels one step up on the economic scale. Rich people LOVE Target, but so do poor people. So there you have it, a perfect place where the Rich and Poor can come, buy clothes, be around each other and not think that one is better than the other.Even the workers are a bit nicer (except for that lady monitoring the ladies dressing room). No, everyone is on level playing field at Target. They are there because they have something in common. They like Target, the sense of level playing field, community, and the quality things you can get there. Man, I sure wish the church was more like Super Target...Well maybe the nice to each other part. I really don't want to see a bunch of leopard print size D bras on my way to Sunday School.

BTW, these pictures were taken with my RAZR Phone. If you want to know I feel about this phone then scroll down and behold. (That pretty girl in the cool hat is my HOT wife.) (The little boy hiding... well i just thought he was pretty darn cute.)

Friday, April 14, 2006

A Run-in with Spock

I watched a show on UFO's last night on the History Channel. Where in God's name do they dig these "experts" up. There must be a UFO Expert school somewhere in America where the only prerequisite for entrance is that you must promise to be bald, you must promise to grow and comb a large flap of your remaining hair over your shiny scalp. If you have no more remaining hair, then something resembling a large rodent, sideways, will do nicely. All these things, of course will help your credibility in the already skeptical world. Most of these Men I gather were hopelessly single in status. There was one “expert” who was married but the couple looked liked something from the Scientology black-list. The wife only opened her mouth to affirm her husband but it ended up usually sounding like “number 1” from Star Trek affirming the Captain.

In all honesty I would really like to see one, a UFO that is. Who wouldn't? Would it not be amazing to walk out your patio door in the middle of the night, maybe for some fresh air, or maybe for a smoke of your pipe, and look up and see something that you can’t explain, and if you tried even the people closest to you would not believe it. I have to admit… there is a possibility… that I have witnessed such an occurrence…

Okay, Okay, twist my arm no more! I’ll tell you. I wasn’t in a field somewhere in Indiana, or on some important flight with the president, (and yes I have those weekly) or out on a ship in the midst of a storm directly in the center of the Bermuda triangle. It was in a little college town in Middle America.

I was taking a walk in Springfield, MO with one of my friends at the time, conversing on the meaning of life and of course, women. Or was it the meaning of women? Anyway, while my friend was waxing on how this one particular girl was treating him like dudu in a garbage bag, (for the 300th time) and as I was giving him my occasional nod to make it seem as though I was giving a rip, for some reason, I decided to just look up. I can'’t remember exactly why I looked up. It was probably out of habit. I have been looking up at the stars since I was a kid. It was not until I was older and during a trip to Vienna that I found that looking up could benefit you in other ways. In America, if you'’re walking down a city street and approaching a large building, what you see in front of you is pretty much what you see 65434 stories up. In Vienna, if you look up at a tall historical building you might see glimpses of 4 to 5 centuries of architecture, and all of it dripping with beauty. Since that life-changing trip, looking up has become a part of my character. So, on that cool spring night in Springfield, MO, while my friend about to get to the part of his story where "SHE was just lucky that HE still loved her", I looked up and saw a chevron shaped object probably less than a thousand feet up moving at a rate that could not have been more than 30 miles per hour. It had small red lights surrounding the edges, not really that bright, and then inside that outer row of lights, another set of lights, the same color but a bit less luminous, and it was not making a sound.

I immediately informed my friend and to his utter dismay, he was unable to see this object because of his lack of contacts. Unbelievable. Not only had he been boring me comatose, he was now as useless as a rearhole on my elbow. My only witness was as blind as a bat. I was nearly frantic and so was he, me standing there jumping up and down and pointing, him just squinting and saying "crap! I can't see, I don't have my contacts man..."

The object moved ahead of us about a half of a mile then disappeared. Just when I thought it was gone it reappeared another half mile to the right, moving perpendicular to its original flight pattern. If I were to draw that flight pattern on a piece of paper, it would look like a right angle. I rushed back to my apartment to call the local airport (3:00 am) and ask if they had any other calls for something unidentified and flying. My question was very quickly followed by a click and a dial tone, which was followed by an uncontrollable urge to show my middle finger to the receiver. (Now, come on, we’ve all been prompted to use our anger management finger.)

There you have it folks. No where near the fantastic stories told by the members of the UFO-Comb-Over club, but its all I got.

Well, off to Super Target to buy my first suit in 10 years.

Live long and prosper

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Bye Bye Dog

When I was about 7 years old, I was strapped in between my mom and my dad in an old 74 station wagon decked out with wood paneling and missing a hub-cap. (poor preacher-mobile) My 3 sisters were crammed in the back seat. One of my sisters, Trisha, was fast asleep after 4 hours of driving and faintly smelling exhaust. She sat, peacefully, mouth open, slightly drooling, and if there weren't such road and hole-in-the-exhaust-pipe noise you might have heard a small resemblance of a snore. My younger sister April sat next to Trisha slowly and methodically trying to see how many small items she could place in Trisha's mouth without waking her up. She was up to a pencil, and a piece of scrap paper, and a baby carrot. My 3rd and oldest sister, Lorrie, sat reading Gone With the Wind, for what she would remind us at every rest stop, would be for the 11th time. This was the scene, or the highlights you might say.

I sat in that front seat, at that particular moment for no real reason except boredom, contemplating why my mom and dad smelled so different. Now, my dad is a preacher, Southern Baptist that is, and quite possibly the most unorthodox Southern Baptist preacher you could ever meet. He is an ex-: marine, dairyman, truck-driver, welder, boxer, drinker, smoker, and brawler. Although the good Lord has saved him from many perils with a new life in Jesus, their is still the aroma of those things hanging about him. Maybe that's what I smelled that morning on the way to my grandparents somewhere in the great sweltering cornfield desert between Indiana and Oklahoma.

For some reason, maybe fate, maybe the Lord decided to bring a memorable moment, whatever the reason, the stage was set for drama. It was one of those highways where you wondered if the highway department or who-ever the h-e-double hockeysticks takes care of the roads, had ever considered it as an existing part of highway reality. It wasn't necessarily the pot holes, although there was a steady flow of them. It was the lack of shoulders that gave this day its final ingredient for horror.

It was upon this shoulderless, pot-holed, stage, that an old stray dog made his entrance. I remember thinking, "umm, he's walkin' kinda slow." He just seemed to be sadly meandering. "Maybe he had the same thing happen to him as Humper," I thought to myself. My dad had told me a story a few months before our trip about his dog named Spot (nick-named "Humper" because of his K9 philandering), and how when they had him "fixed" Humper was so depressed that he just laid down in the road until a car ran over him. In short, Humper did himself in. "But this dog looks like he's trying," I thought, "to slowly, very slowly, cross the road and not lay down,... not lay down."

The next 10 seconds happened in what seemed like fast forward and slow motion simultaneously. I looked at my dad, my mom nervously says "Pat" (my dad's name), my sister Trisha wakes up from her slumber not entirely noticing how many things are in her mouth, Lorrie tears herself away from Rhet and Scarlet, and my little sister April unsuccessfully tries to see over the front seat blocking her view. I look back and forth from my dad to the dog, my dad to the dog. As my dad starts to brake, his eyes dart to the rear-view-mirror, then to the side realizing that two semi trucks had made there way beside and behind us. And as heralds of death the truckers seem to see the dog, the brief flash of brake-lights from our family-packed station wagon, the dilemma, and simultaneously honk their horns to both warn us and hopefully scare the darn wayward dog. The dog, however, seemed to care not.

This caused Trisha and Lorrie to scream "daddy, dog!" and my little sister simply pulls her arm up and down at the truck drivers to try and get them to honk again. Knowing the peril we are all in my dad, with his thick, Oklahoma, tough-guy-born-again accent says, (while tilting his head ever-so-slightly): "well, ...bye bye dog." And the rest as Harvey says, is history.

Cows and Chickens don't laugh

What the heck is laughter? It is one of things that we all do and love. (unless of course it is the evil laugh that my sisters used to dread hearing because it meant that 1. I was winning in Monopoly, or 2. Some kind of prank was in progress.)

I love what Chesterton says about laughter “Alone among the animals, he is shaken with the beautiful madness called laughter; as if he had caught sight of some secret in the very shape of the universe hidden from the universe itself.”

This is such a beautiful explanation. No one laughs more perfectly than a child. A child has the best view of things at all times. A sense of wonder, excitement, enjoyment, always wanting to play. And sometimes they play the best when they are creating something. We spend our whole lives trying to become more like a child. I mean, can anyone here wait until they can pee in there pants and everyone consider it normal? I know I cant.

To me it is yet another proof that there is a Good God in heaven, and that Joy is a scientific anomaly.

Saturday, April 08, 2006

The Razr Rules

I have to admit, I love my cell phone. I have suddenly, for the first time in a long time, remembered what it was like to own something that other people don't have and wish they did. It appeals to my nature. It is in us all. It starts early. If you're a guy you can relate to these conversations. (If you're a girl replace "Starlight Splendor Barbie" for the cards.)

Seth at age 11: "hey which cards did you get?"
Neighbor boy: "awe just a bunch of nobodies."
Seth: "hmm.. That's to bad because I GOT THE MARK MCGUIRE ROOKIE....FOR THE FOURTH TIME!"
N.B.: "Well I bet you don't have his Olympic Card?"
Seth: "bet again bucko I got it last week"
N.B. "bull honkey"

etc. etc.

Well, fate would have it, I experienced this again just the other day. Walking through Super Target with my...., you guessed it, wife, (actually I love super target. I cant explain it right now, ... Maybe another blog.) anyway, as I strolled along with my wife, everytime I noticed a persons cell phone, I would think, "bet you wish you had a razr."

It is amazing how close these little tendencies I think are childish are right under the surface. I want to be better than the person next to me. Have a better car, house, (in my business) -a better Album, better Blog, blah blah. Its all right there. Within seconds I am there again, flashing my Mark McGuire Cards or Verizon Razrs and feelin good. It just takes the right thing at the right time to trigger it. Oh the rush, the power, the little sensation of uber-coolness that you get down in your belly when you have something others want. Then I get in my car drive by the nearest homeless guy and remind myself that I am more in debt than this soul will ever be and he is asking me for money. I roll my window down, give him some money, and He tells me "God bless you." Irony is a weird but good teacher and it reminds me that I will always want more, so I might as well give what I have away. Although I think ill keep the Razr for a few more weeks...

Friday, April 07, 2006

Hot Yoga and the Secret Plan to Rule the World

Well, I guess I will return to "Hot" Yoga tonight with my wife. It is called "hot" because, well they keep the room FRIGGIN' hot. Last time I went i thought I was going TO DIE. If you have not been to Yoga, or as i like to call it,-"torture," you are really missing out. You might be asking: " Seth, how can we be missing out if you are calling it torture" I'll tell you my fine readers. ... I Challenge you, heed these words.

Now, I am a man, and men have their pride. I went into a room with about 20 other women. Mind you, these women, with the exception of my fantastically beautiful wife, were not all models and hard bodies. After 5 minutes of stretching and laying down in room 107 degree I thought I was going to barf and collapse while all the other middle-aged women in there were just catching there stride. I was thinking to myself, "how can this be??" "I am not a complete lard-ass, I don't smoke (anymore) I am relatively thin, not to mention handsome in Apollonian proportions. (yeah right)."

I guess it all goes back to the dishwater-pain factor and the secret plot for women to rule the world. I'll explain. My mother could wash dishes with her bare hands in darn-near 400 degree water, turn around tell me to finish the dishes, I put my hand into the water wail a redirected curse word (i.e. shiiiiiiiiiifffft) quickly pull them out a to find that my hands had been reduced to a steaming skeleton. My eyes would race from the remnants of my hands to hers, looking for some sign of damage. For a few years after, I acutally suspected that my mother was a mutant of some sort. It still boggles the mind. Here is my conclusion. (darting my eyes back and forth, leaning in to whisper to you)


That's all there is to it. The garden of Eden, that whole, "oh the serpent deceived me business" that was all a big hoax. She used the devil. It is brilliant if you think about it. The majority of the blame went to the Lucifer and Adam. She KNEW that once Adam could notice her in the nude that the world would be hers FOREVER. It is not the Devil to which man relinquished his control. It was the woman. Yoga, well..., lets just call that booty camp for control. How much pain, can they endure while making themselves more beautiful. Only a powerful and brilliant being could come up with such a thing. Once again it boggles the mind.

So why do I return tonight? To spy, learn all I can, and then someday.... be able to.... throw my underwear anywhere I want when I take a shower. AHAHAHAAHHA!!!!! Its only a matter of time men, a matter of time. The return of the King will be soon, and when that day comes.... sorry gotta go, the wife needs me to run some errands... to be continued...

Teaching pt. 2

"I am going to cut off your foot and throw it out the window" (spoken with a deep bulgarian-woman accent)

these were the kind of phrases i used to hear on a weekly basis during my piano lessons with Krassimira Jordan. Some people do not realize how intense private music lessons can be. A teacher is truley like a scultpure sometimes. The get out a great big hammer and chizzle, and go to pounding. Sometimes they knock off a little ego, and replace it with beauty, and sometimes they knock a little tooooo hard and "David" left without his twig and berries. That seemed to happen to me quite a few times in my lessons with Krassimira. She used to say "fuckus fingerrrs Set!, fuckus fingers!!" translation: "focused fingers Seth, focused fingers!" it was all i could do to not burst into to hysterical chuckling when she would burst into these little accidental profanities.

After all the great comments like, "you know Seth, that Mozart melody would sound beautiful if you got rid of TRACTOR IN YOUR LEFT HAND!!" Or, "use the pedal here,....NO NOT LIKE HORSE, fuckused fingers Set..." I could say that I learned more about myself in those lessons than any other time with any person besides my wife. It was more than just piano lessons, it was charachter building and i love my piano teacher for the blood sweat and friggin funny comments she poured into my artistry.

Thanks Krassimira.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

A Question

What the HECK IS CHRISTIAN MUSIC? someone please tell me...

Is it music that is baptized? Is there an industry that is saved by Grace. Is it cheezed up pastels on the wall of great art.

Or is Bach's b minor mass Christian music. What if music is just music and sometimes the artist's music leans toward a direct praise to their Creator. If this is criteria then personally think that J.R. Cash and J.S. Bach were and still are the greatest CCM artists to ever shake the sinning world with their art.

Monday, April 03, 2006

Teaching pt. 1

I think that being a teacher is the most noble profession or pastime a soul created by Almighty God can have. You pour more than what you know into the people you teach. You pour out your spirit and your love. One can never know the impact that one has on the person or persons that you are teaching. Teaching changes a persons life. Plain and simple. Every good teacher I have had has changed me and shaped me in some way.