E.D.O.R.K.

All husbands have this talent. It can be conjured at any moment. It can be summoned no matter how weary we are.

I call it: The Emergency Dumb Outfit Reflex Kinaesthesia. EDORK, for short.

Say, your wife hears something in the night. The wife, slightly scared, wakes you up. You mumble something about the carrot juice, earwax and spaceships - something that made TOTAL sense in your dream - leaving your wife more spooked. Annoyed, she shakes your arm and tells you to listen. Then you hear hear the darn noise. (Some sort of "click" or something that the brain can't quite place.) So, you reach for the light and grab a shirt. Not just any old shirt, but the shirt that would clash the worst with your boxer briefs. Most times, that shirt is inside-out or backwards. Then comes the shoes... At first you MIGHT think "Flip-flops," but Flip-flops are rarely chosen, because they can rarely be found in these moments. After all, you might be called upon to go outside. So, your brain turns quickly to the cowboy boots, front and center, because they provide the most all-around protection and are best for stomping mice and spiders and all other things that are enemies of the wife.

Then, dear friends comes the strange pedestal factor of EDORK. Somehow, we always find ourselves standing on a chair, reaching for something, on one leg, with our wives safely on the ground or couch, watching.

Then we hear it. The chuckle. We turn and view the wife, still in her perfectly matching pajamas, pointing and chuckling at our EDORK attire. It is then that we notice that our judgment might not be what we think it is. It is then that the wife is proven superior in judgment and we are left with a strange alternative. Either get down, immediately and fix the clothing ensemble, or we act like we don't care at all and continue on our pedestal in wife-late-night-entertainment.

Most times we blaze on, and act like we knew how goofy we looked the whole time, but other times... I wonder if the wife secretly set the whole thing up. You see, it alllllllll goes back to Eden. They WANT the power. And how do they GET the power??? By slowly chipping away at our manliness. See, I wonder if our wives don't set the whole darn thing up. I wonder if they wait till we are talking nonsenical in our sleep to sneak out of bed, turn our shirts inside out, unmatch our socks, hide our pants, and strategically place the worst looking boots at the FRONT of the closet.

I just wonder...

Regardless, EDORK is a true gift. It shows that we are truly fearless. It shows that no matter what, we are not afraid of humiliating ourselves to return to our dreams.

Can I get a witness.

Top Of The Heap

Back in the Apple. Feeling good. Feeling really good. The weather is exceptional right about now.

However, during my summer travels, I did grow accustomed to being transported places and not using my limbs unless completely necessary. Meaning: Four flights of stairs, carrying my sweet wife's luggage/anvil-collection almost flat-lined me. "Clear!"

After I laid down for a few minutes to calm the ole' ticker, we headed out to eat at one of our favorite restraunts.

Heavenly sunlight, heavenly sunlight flooding my mouth with cobbler diviiiiIIIIIINE. Hallelujah, I'm almost bloating...

Okay, tired of the hymn-perversion.

Going to church in the morning. Looking forward to it.

Spirituality Rant Alert!:

I have decided that I am no longer an Evangelical Christian. I am simply, a Christian. Seriously, why don't we have Apostlical Christians? (I guess we do, they are called Catholics.) Prophetical Christans? Pastorical Christains? Teachical Christians? Healical Chrisians? Administrationical Christians? Those are all Spiritual gifts, right? Why do we teach all Christians to be Evangelists when maybe, just maybe they haven't been given that particular spiritual gift? Maybe that's why we're in the schtick we are today? Maybe that's why "Evangelical" has become synonymous with "close-minded and irritatingly pushy." People are trying to be evangelists to their neighbors when they should be cooking their neighbors dinner.

When I was a young lad, I used to tremor something FIERCE when I was forced to go door to door and hand out tracts. My words would jumble and the four Romans road turned into to something very unorthodox. To be honest, I hated it. Later I discovered that that wasn't my particular spiritual gift, and good Lord, what a relief. I thought I was just a no good un-born-again heathen.

Maybe, just maybe, teaching our kids to love their neighbor when their neighbor is mean or nasty to them is a better witness then telling them to cram the four spirchal laws down their throats?

The bottom line for me is this: The Holy Spirit is in the business of drawing a soul God. The Holy Spirit is in the business of giving the gifts to those who are there to close the deal. That may come through evangelism, preaching, teaching, cooking a meal, being a good and kind boss, or being a true friend. God speaks in a still small voice, and when done through the properly allotted gifts, they take on that attribute. When done improperly, it becomes a still obnoxious voice.

Evangelical? Who are we to claim the market on any one of those gifts.

I wanna run, I want to hide.

I've started a morning regimen of sit ups and push ups and let me tell you... wait a second...

By gum... I think I don't mind it! WOW!

That may be the first time I've ever said that about any sort of organized or self-inflicted calisthenics.

(Pausing to review my life-working-out history.)

Let's see... I despise running with a passion. (I would just assume sniff a trucker's rhoid-cushion to running a mile.) And, as I remember back to my educational prison sentence... yes, I still have a black burning coal of hatred behind each knee-cap for high school gym class.

Now, sports, that's another thing altogether. I love a good romp on a court or in the dirt and always have. I love football, baseball, tennis, racket ball, volleyball, aerobic walking if I am walking with someone because you can talk and pass the time, monopoly... (That's right, folks, monopoly is cardio when I play it. Especially for the "other players," otherwise known as "My future tenants/slaves." muhaha... muahahahaha... muuuHAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!)

About the only sport I hate playing is basketball. That's because I pretty much suck at it, and I ain't exactly a human skyscraper, and call me prideful, but when some 14-year-old kid in the youth group blocks my lay-up -or even my alley-oop for crying out loud - all of my faults and/or awkward memories, from childhood to present, go rushing before my eyes.

Anywho, other than basketball, as for just doing something for the sake of doing it, "working-out" sucks. It sucks bit poo-covered cow utters.

Seriously, if you think about it, working out is torture. I know, that isn't really a terribly original epiphany, but hang on a second. I know we say, "oh, wow, this is like torture!" But do we REALLY ever consider it to actually be torture??? Does torture REALLY have to be administered by the Japanese or a militant Islamist to be considered authentic, Grade-A torture? What does torture do and work to achieve? Here is the definition of torture, according to good old Webster:

1 a: anguish of body or mind : agony b: something that causes agony or pain
2: the infliction of intense pain (as from burning, crushing, or wounding) to punish, coerce, or afford sadistic pleasure

Sounds pretty much like the friggin StairMaster, Nautilus, or treadmill to me. Suuuure, we listen to music to take our mind off the pain, but I have a theory that eventually, hearing "Where the Streets Have No Name" is someday going to be to the Christian-weight-lifting-enthusiasts what Beethoven's 9th was to the psycho-rapist in A Clockwork Orange: a form of torture in itself.

Yes, I can see it now. Someday, Chris Tomlin is going to start singing "Where the Streets have No Name" (a song he covers) at a concert, thinking he will surprise all his avid worshipers by cleverly enlightening thousands unto spirit-U2-ality, but instead, he will choke on the chorus as he sees several thousand men writhing on the ground covering their ears and screaming for their mommas. Tomlin's last thought before he stops singing the song? "Why didn't any of big fellas eating chili-dogs writhe around on the ground when I started to sing the U2? Maybe momma was right... Maybe it really isn't a praise and worship song. Maybe it IS of the Devil."

Welp, arms are getting tired from all the push-ups. Gotta go. Chick-fil-a is 'a calling.

Et' tubes Guglie?

I suppose everyone has heard about the guy, pastor Michael Guglie-manilli singing healing songs with the oxygen tubes in his nose. Am I the only person who finds that mildly funny? (Now I said, "mildly.") I'm sorry, I keep remembering the Conan O'Brien skit "Dudz'a'plenty" in which Conan invented a boy band. Conan insisted that there be some cool handicap guy in the boy band as all famous boy bands tend to have someone sporting a cane. So Conan made one of his Dudz'a'plenty boyband members sit in a wheel-chair and sing with an oxygen mask. He called it a "Vanity Respirator." It was hilarious.

I suppose I should be a little more judgemental about ole' Guglie, but I really just can't. I'm more prone to rolling my eyes and chuckling. I've done my fair share of stupid things in church. Like the time I stood in front of the entire church, spoke my bible verse (one of 4 bible drill winners) and flipped-off all my friends sitting in the balcony, especially the ones who kept giving me phantom golf claps. Now, it wasn't an all-out "hanging of the bone" on my part. It was gently tapped on my arm as my arms where crossed. However inconspicuous I felt my little birdie was, my tapping foul finger sent a shock wave through rows and rows of the very people who shine the buckle on the bible belt. When I got home, I met my dad who was clutching a very different kind of belt. It was fun. My mom barely spoke to me for two weeks. I think it was the only time my parents actually stuck to a grounding.

Now, some of you might be saying, "well, you were just a kid then." Well, I suppose so, but grown up men make little boy mistakes every single day. Just ask their wives. And I guarantee you that not a sermon or service goes by when a pastor or music minister isn't flipping someone off in their minds from the pulpit. "Well, there's that old crabby bastard just a' sittin' in the back with his arms folded. It's because of him that nobody can hear back there. He has been the biggest thorn in the ass of the budget committee." or, "There's old such and such. Scowling as USUAL over the Anthem I picked. He can just kiss my butt and smell it."

The point of this post is this: We aren't so disgusted with the sin, really. I mean, he didn't really "harm" anyone. He wasn't banging the secretary or laundering church money. He was just doing a grand bit of faking. And yes, Pastor Michy Vanilli may have dashed a few sick people's hopes who admired him for his battle with cancer (fake-cancer.) But come on, there are plenty of other role models who have fought and beaten cancer. And if they can't listen to his songs anymore then they better just stop quoting David's psalms since David killed a man so he could get freaky with the man's wife.

We are disgusted because it makes Christians and Christian Music look so dumb and gullible. It is also a tad sickening that this guy played upon the illness of others to get money. But don't all songwriters do that in smaller, more acceptable ways? Do they reeeeally feel all their emotions towards their daughters when they write those wedding songs? Now WAY they are thinking -just a little bit - "holy Osteen, this could make me richer than M.W. Smith and Amy Grant's lovechild!" Don't ya think that when Chris Tomlin or D. Crowder or Mercy Me writes that perfect praise melody, that for a brief little second, along with hearing the voices of angels they hear, "ca-ching?" Yeah, I'm suuuuuure ole' Bart doesn't regret selling the publishing rights to Only Imagine to Amy Grant for a 100 grand. And I'm suuure Amy really regrets that deal. Yeah. Riiiiight. But that's OKAY! Nothing wrong with making an honest days wages.

The dangerous bottom line is this: There is a pretty penny to be made in the CCM world and it is a business. Brody once asked the lead singer of Switchfoot for me "what's the difference between an "artist who is a Christian" and a "Christian Artist." The lead singer replied, "The Christian Artist makes more money."

The man with the tubes in his nose, faking cancer was just doing what we've all done on time or another when we cheat on our taxes, or what the Chinese volleyball player did when she was about to lose to the Americans... they fake it. They go overboard. They take advantage of the system. This man was doing what everyone of us do, except on a grander, more ridiculous level. He was just doing it from a church stage... with oxygen tubes in his nose. I will admit, that's pre-----tty low-down, but sin is sin and we've all done it and will continue to do it.


In the end I think I'll cut the tubes-in-his-nose-cancer-faking guy some slack. I'm sure he's got many-a'-night to sleep on the couch and ponder his decision. We can pick the sin, but we sure as hell can't pick the consequences.

It always sucks when a Christian publicly screws up, but what sucks more is how the Christian community reacts. We are sooooo embarrassed. Embarrassed about what? Embarrassed that man is flawed? That Christians aren't perfect? I'm not embarrassed. Maybe a little, but more amused, sadly. If we are devastated that a Christian can sin, well, get used to it. Honestly, I'm not so worried about this guy any more. His sin is out in the open. I'm more worried about the millions of Christian men dilly-dallying in front of a picture of a naked lady on their computer monitor, late at night when the wife's gone to bed.

Hopefully we can be a little forgiving to the guy and take this time to examine ourselves and our motives, and try not to be such colossal suckers. Hey, maybe the guy's got a future in a middle-aged boy band.

Kentucky Apartment Chronicles, (abridged verstion.)

So, I had planned to closely chronicle the Kentucky apartment saga/experience, reliving every morsel on this here blog. I have now grown bored with that notion. It's time to move on. I offer you the late-nite cliff-note/Tarzan (or slightly Tanto-ish, I can't decide...)version.

Kentucky remind Sethzan of Jungle where he grow up. Big bugs used to cary little Sethzan accross Jungle. Used to make Sethzan go boom boom in loincloth. Sethzan kill big Kentucky jungle spider to conquer childhood fear.

Kentucky Jungle make me feel at home, until we reach cabin. Bunch of people in the Cabin. Sethzan no like. Sethzan cannot make bathroom thunder sounds without all other man/woman-people hearing.

Sethzan hint to producer to move him and woman to nother tree. Him say, "We'll see." Him give Sethzan a wink. Sethzan think that his man-charm has scored a nice place for him and woman to have some... alone... stuff. Sorry, Sethzan has to stop typing for second to beat chest for woman painting her toe claws.

Back now. Where was I?... Oh.

Producer returns next day and says we stay at apartment. Sethzan and Amber do a little happy dance. Sethzan goes to view apartment. Apartment look like several chimps throw crazy parties on the carpet. Apartment also smell like chimps had pee pee contest near bed and the biggest bubba chimp won.

Sethzan break news to woman. Woman sees for-self. Woman holds nose.

Sethzan and woman complain to winking producer. Winking producer sends young helper to clean it. Young helper was like bad gorilla. Him not do good job.

Sethzan and woman think they stuck in chimp-pee/poo hotel. We real sad. Us spray lots of Febreeze. Too much we thinking. We start having bad dreams and having glowing tinkle water from the fumes.

Then, next day, bathtub fill up with poop water. This last bamboo stalk.

Finally we move into another house. Very nice. Owned by very nice man. Him also own a very nice woman. Rest of summer we sleep gooder.

The End.

We're baaaaaack.

The Ward's have left the building. (Building= Kenyucky... I mean, Kencrusty... I mean, Ken*ucky... WHOA!... I MEAN... KenTUCKY. There. Darn these Strangelove fingers.)

No, seriously, there were many things that I loved about Kentucky. I'm just too interested in being catty right now to list them.

First of all, I'd like to introduce the state to a little thing called, "Evolution." The bugs and critters have not yet discovered that Man, is in fact, the dominant species, and that we will kill if provoked.

Second, I would like to introduce you to a good friend of health-savy, Jenny Craig. Seriously, stop the Maddness. Burn down every fast-food establishment in your town. Throw away the motorcade of remote controled wheel-chairs and start moving your limbs. No wonder no one in Prestonsburg liked Wall-E. They must have felt some royalties were due.

I have so much to say... Sheesh. So much happened when I stepped in to that wrinkle in time. So many funny things happened to me, that have never happened before. New experiences.

So, for starters, we are going to play a game called: "Before I lived in Kentucky I had Never:"

Here goes.

Before I lived in Kentucky I had never: Listened to three Copper-head snakes being decapitated-by-hoe in the soft grass, six feet from where I was sitting in an orchestra pit, while I'm playing "Merry Old Land of OZ."

Before I lived in Kentucky I had never: Experienced the sensation of a large Moth flying down the back of my pants, getting lodged in the top of my crack and flutter for its pinched life while I played "What I Did for Love."

To be continued....

piddly post from my iphone

Hey friends and enemies (i.e. whoever engineered the traffic-light timing system in Prestonsburg, KY,) I will be posting regular in a week or so. We have zilcho Internet. This here post is brought to you via my iPhone. Thus far, this post has taken 30 minutes on the count of the half of a bar of a signal my phone is picking up. Shows end Saturday and we'll be pretty much slammed till then so I couldnt post if I wanted to. Getting a headache now. Off to see the Wizard! (on park and seventy-third, that is.)

Ten points to whoever decodes that last sentence.