Poetry for Pete's Sake

I love poetry. Reading poetry is a lost art these days and it is sad because poetry should be read out loud. I think people forget that. Most of us read our page-turners in the airport and skip paragraphs and miss a few names but still get the plot because its hard to miss. And every once in a while then they (I, we, you) might, - ( if they are extremely bored and a poetry book is the only bound paper in six-mile radius) - open a book of good poetry.

Next time you open a book of poetry, read it out loud. There is a lot of bad, depressing poetry out there but when you run on to a good one, it rolls off your tongue like a tasty treat. Just try it. Do fun things like reading it with a goofy English accent. (Not that the English are goofy, it’s just when I try to do it sounds gooftarded.) Read it to your wife, your kids. If you don't get it at first, read it again. Usually a good poem really comes alive to me on the third reading.

My mom read me poetry when I was a wee lad and I loved it. Did I understand it? Heck no. But some of the imagery stuck in my brain and hasn't come unstuck since.

I think reading poetry to kids at a young age teaches them the basic tenants of art: order and beauty. It is also a little more fun for the mom than reading about duck's new brother "the red beach-ball."

The mind recognizes the patterns in the poetry but cannot predict them, and the way in which the poet wields the scheme and words and alliterations and imagery... well, I think they tickle the brain in ways no one else can.

Shoot, read them Shell Silvertstein for crying out loud. And don't forget Dr. Seuss.

Here are a couple of poems that are a fun outloud read.

Mr. Grumpledump's Song - Shell Silverstein

Everything's wrong,
Days are too long,
Sunshine's too hot,
Wind is too strong.
Clouds are too fluffy,
Grass is too green,
Ground is too dusty,
Sheets are too clean.
Stars are too twinkly,
Moon is too high,
Water's too drippy,
Sand is too dry.
Rocks are too heavy,
Feathers too light,
Kids are too noisy,
Shoes are too tight.
Folks are too happy,
Singin' their songs.
Why can't they see it?
Everything's wrong!



A Considerable Speck - Robert Frost

(Microscopic)

A speck that would have been beneath my sight
On any but a paper sheet so white
Set off across what I had written there.
And I had idly poised my pen in air
To stop it with a period of ink
When something strange about it made me think,
This was no dust speck by my breathing blown,
But unmistakably a living mite
With inclinations it could call its own.
It paused as with suspicion of my pen,
And then came racing wildly on again
To where my manuscript was not yet dry;
Then paused again and either drank or smelt--
With loathing, for again it turned to fly.
Plainly with an intelligence I dealt.
It seemed too tiny to have room for feet,
Yet must have had a set of them complete
To express how much it didn't want to die.
It ran with terror and with cunning crept.
It faltered: I could see it hesitate;
Then in the middle of the open sheet
Cower down in desperation to accept
Whatever I accorded it of fate.
I have none of the tenderer-than-thou
Collectivistic regimenting love
With which the modern world is being swept.
But this poor microscopic item now!
Since it was nothing I knew evil of
I let it lie there till I hope it slept.

I have a mind myself and recognize
Mind when I meet with it in any guise
No one can know how glad I am to find
On any sheet the least display of mind.

Robert Frost

Proud Hubby

I feel I must take a moment and brag. My wife is in a show! She beat-out over 200 other budding actresses for an understudy role in "Its a Wonderful Life" playing through December. She will be understudying the role of Violet and singing and dancing in the ensemble. Plus she gets paid! For those of you who don't know the theater business up here, paid roles in equity theaters are tough to come by. Especially when you are non-equity. Wahoo!!

Next stop: Broadway.

Storm a' brewin

Busy Week a' comin'.

Starting Friday I will be:

1. Flying to Houston
2. Taking my German Exit Exam at Rice
3. Attending a composition Lesson, presenting a draft for my dissertation
4. Finishing producing Carey Carrol's record (recording vocals)
5. While doing all of the the above, I'll be getting my wisdom teeth removed
6. Fly back.

Dan in Real Life: Review

The Delio: Dan, played by Steve Carrel, is a widower and advice columnist with 3 daughters. Go ahead; get it out of your system. Altogether now... "Awwwwwwwwe." In my opinion, if you've got a decent director and good actors, you are set for heartstring fun-park. Dan and his daughters load up the car to go to a yearly family get-together somewhere where the leaves are beautiful. Along the way, after he drops his girl off at the get-together homestead, he meets whatshername who starred in that film about Chocolate. It’s love at first sight except for one problemo, she's dating Dan's brother ... played by Dane Cook. Not a big fan of Dane, but in this film he was pretty charming. Please Dane, play more of these films.

Anywho, I'll give you three shiny nickels if you can guess the rest of the plot. Got it? Nickels in the mail.

The verdict: I liked this movie. I laughed out loud and even got teary-eyed once for a fleeting half-second. It is cute, funny and charming. Some might be turned off by the fuzzy-sweater-cuddliness of the family scenes (i.e. the crossword puzzle competition between the girls and boys) but if you have had a family that does those corny kind of things, like "playing games together" then you'll sink right into your movie seat and laugh for more.

Final Thoughts: Dan in Real Life made me want to go home and rassle with my family. Okay, maybe not rassle but definitely play monopoly and win, eat some of my dad's chili, then laugh at someone's unwelcome toot over some nice hot chocolate while watching re-runs of Frazier.

A New Favorite Quote

"I've never been lost, but I will admit to being confused for several weeks." - Daniel Boone

Darwin vs. Amber

Seth: Did you know that Darwin thought Black people were less evolved?

Amber: That's crazy.

Seth: Did you know that Darwin also thought women to be less evolved than men?

Amber: He was a jackass.

I'm Thirty thrizzlefrizzlsmatter.

Land Shark.

So today is the big B-day. Halloween baby. That's me. Maybe Clint Eastwood could make a movie about me. Could be even better than that depressing bit-of-a-flick he did with Swank... I could be this incredible trick-or-treater. But Eastwood thinks I am too old for trick-or-treating. Undeterred and inspired by his disbelief, I persist. I show him my killer Darth Vader outfit and my special-order porcelain pumpkin candy holder. He decides to train me. But tragically, I am stampeded by a bunch of 6 year olds and I break my neck falling off a porch, hitting my head on a yard-deer. He then decides to do me in, against my will (this is where we would differ from Million Dollar Baby) by injecting my vein with 60 pounds of liquefied corn candy. Eastwood walks out of the hospital, glares at the screen, lights a cigarette, and then begins to paint the whole town red after he makes the local midget the sheriff. It is a heart wrenching ending. All walk out of the theater dabbing tears and slurping the last diluted drips of coke hiding at the bottom of their paper cup.

Maybe for a film score the composer could do a combo of the Dies Irae from Mozart's Requiem and Happy Birthday.

Update

-My baby sister sang Madama Butterfly last night in a SRO production in Springfield MO. She was phenom.

-My birthday approacheth. Halloween. My mother and wife are decorating a cake with a big spider on it.

-You may send me ten thousand dollars.

-Or an iphone.

-Our landlord did the city dirtier than expected. After a little digging, a few tenants in our building discovered that it is a "rent stabilized" building. Meaning, we could possibly be paying... as low as 400 bucks a month, after the investigation. Please pray with all your might, digging in the dirt with your nails, wailing to the heavens on our behalf, for this to be true. It would be nothing short of a miracle.

-That would rock.

Apartment Saga, full circle.

Sooooooooo. We got evicted today, what'd you do?

That's right, our lovely, law-abiding landlord bypassed a few hundred legal permits to build our VERY cool looking apartments but missed a few-too-many major permits to be overlooked by the fuzz. Which ones? The biggie: fire escapes. A big no-no for post 9-11 builders.

Our apartments are located in the middle of the building. We have a window but it is just large enough for Frodo Baggins so sneak out of in case of an emergency. That would be fine if Frodo were also Spiderman because once you get outside the window there isn't any cotton-pickn' thing to climb on to flee the licking flames.

The whole window thing in our apartment is a little hard to explain... Just imagine a building. In the middle of that building someone took a 6X6 square out of it straight to the ground. Our window faces that. So anyways...

A little thing called the "fire chief" showed up yesterday and slapped a good old-fashioned eviction notice on our door. After he told me that our Landlord is unbelievably arrogant for thinking he could bypass ALLLLLL the permits and get away with it, he told me that he couldn't believe how different-looking our building was.

Apparently, it was housed by the Devil and his legions because it was notorious throughout NYC with the police and fire dept. He said he came to our building once because someone called and said there was a guy in a bunk that was sick and couldn't get up. He said when they arrived, the found the guy on the top bunk while three other tenants in the room played cards. You know what's coming next... The "sick" man on the bunk was deader than Abe Lincoln's toenail. Not only that, he'd been dead for THREE WHOLE days. I guess his buddies were gonna test-drive that old Jewish wives-tale and decided not to risk the stench on the fourth day. So they called the fire department to say that he was sick and wouldn't wake up, even after they shook and screamed. “And strangely, Mr. fireman, he just stares at this one place on the ceiling.”

So I could tell the fire chief was torn. On one hand, he was pissed the landlord gave us and four other tenants rooms that are truly classified as "death traps" and on the other hand, he was amazed to see that the landlord had turned a big smelly turd of a building into a pretty darn up-scale looking apartment. Oh well.

Back to the eviction at hand. This is where the story gets better. Not, as in “worse” better but as in “better” better.

I called the landlord el-pronto. I said to the landlord, who was at that moment being sued by every other tenant in the building except us, that we weren't going to sue. I wanted to say: “Merry Christmas you lucky bastard.” Instead, I kindly noted that the apartment down the hall, the one that we were originally supposed to get was fortuitously vacant, followed by the words “I want it now.” Then, “It would also be quite nice to get it for the price that we were paying for the death trap.” He agreed, and last night, we moved in. I love Just War theory.

So it only took the Lord one and a half months to set that right. Shoot, I had just chalked that up as a big boil on my ass that I would have to be thankful for.

But who knows what tomorrow will bring in this here City. We may be evicted.... again. New boils may arise on the rump with no ointment in sight. But now, more than ever, I am convinced that God will work it out. Sounds so hackneyed I know. But if you are the one saying it, and meaning it, it is as fresh as a towel right out of the dryer. I am not my own. I belong to somebody who's a lot better at running the universe and my fate than me. Thanks be to God. (Cue priest singing chant.)

A Pic of a Park

This is a little park where I stop to think and pray when I walk Amber to the Subway every morning for her auditions.

Beautiful stuff. I think Seinfeld lives around there through those trees. I know he parks his car in the garage across the street from us.

Also, we saw this guy out eating dinner the other night. He is getting ooooOOOOld, but seems very sweet. He was with his wife who was doting over his every move. Did a great job in the film "Holiday," which -stop the friggin press and slap me silly- I loved like crazy. Total chick flick, but I totally fell for it. Maybe it was because my wife was outta town when I saw it... Anyways, he is best known for staring in The Godfather III.

Mystical Experience With My Neighbors

Amber and I were walking very fast to the Subway from our apartment yesterday, trying to get her to an audition on time. It was Saturday, and there usually isn't an audition on Saturday, and Saturday, as you know, is a sacred day for the Jews. It is the Sabbath or "Shabbat" mean "to cease." So we were rushing out right about the time the Jews were filing out of the MASSIVE Jewish synagogue that is right down the street from us.

We live in a neighborhood that is primarily Jewish. I see more Yarmulkes every day then I used to see shotguns in the back of trucks in Texas. Honestly, I sorta want a Yarmulke. I got to wear one when we attended a Jewish Passover, hosted by Gerald and Staci Holtzman, our dear friends in Houston, and I thought it was pretty cool.

Okay, scene set, established a little history, and on with the mystical experience...

In our rush to the subway, a big Jewish family filed out of the synagogue in front of us, and started walking VEEEERY slowly the same direction we were going. We actually wondered if the slow walking had something to do with the Sabbath, considering the fact that during the rest of the weekdays, the Jewish folk seem to walk at a pretty good clip.

Well, it took us about 3 seconds to catch up with them and for some reason, instead of passing them by, we were just sort of swallowed by the group and started walking slowly with them. Weirder still, was that we didn't seem to mind. The man in front of us had his son sitting on his shoulders and his wife beside him had a child on each hand. The rest just walked beside and behind us, unaffected by our presence. Everyone wore black. About 12 steps into the walking, an old man walking to my right, unaffected by our presence, started singing a Jewish song, very softly. On cue, the wind blew softly down the street and the sun peeped thought the trees from central park at the end of the street. Besides feeling a little Prince-of-Egypt'd, I was suddenly stricken again by the significance of the Jewish people.

I was stricken with the fact that this, right here, is how it’s been for four or five thousand years. In my mind flashed images of the Israelites walking in the Desert, Jacob and his family traveling to Egypt, the Exile in Babylon, the rule of Herod, the Holocaust. God's people. The people to which God chose to show himself and establish his law, the people from which God chose to shine his light to the whole world, by descending from heaven, to dwell among us. I walk by the Rodeph Sholom Temple everyday and in huge letters, carved above the temple entrance is written "Do Justly,Love Mercy, Walk Humbly With Your God." I can't think of a better thing to be reminded of the first thing in the morning.

A great and beautiful people.

News I misread

I read this as "Future of Ultimate Fighting ON Jeopardy."

I suddenly had an image of a couple of guys in suits sort of slapping at each other, squirting their fountain pens and yanking off each other's toupees. Calling each other such horrible names such as, "ninny, buffoon, cretin, dullard," whilst they smacked.

Then they would end the match by seeing who could write each other's name in the crappiest handwriting.

Microbe Cravings

WASHINGTON - If that craving for chocolate sometimes feels like it is coming from deep in your gut, that's because maybe it is.

A small study links the type of bacteria living in people's digestive system to a desire for chocolate. Everyone has a vast community of microbes in their guts. But people who crave daily chocolate show signs of having different colonies of bacteria than people who are immune to chocolate's allure.

I think I have a community of microbes living in my belly who are constantly demanding french fried and boston creme donuts... and ice cream... and coca cola... and powdered donuts fed while playing Halo...

What does your community of microbes crave?

J.K. Rowlings is Ticked.

OLKATA, India (AFP) - Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling is suing organizers of a religious event for constructing a replica of her imaginary Hogwarts Castle in an eastern India city, officials said Thursday.

Rowling and her publishers Bloomsbury are seeking two million rupees (50,000 dollars) from the organizers constructing an elaborate castle from canvas and Papier Mache in Kolkata for the upcoming Durga Puja festival, court officials said.

Because she really doesn't have enough cash. I mean, come on. Throw the gal a friggin' bone. It's not like J.K. isn't richer that Zeus. Seriously, I'm sure she really needs the extra fifty grand to… pay for her cat's vasectomy, or to finally afford to have her ENTIRE lawn mowed… castle scrubbed?… Jet waxed?… Fleet of nannies messaged…? The gal’s got needs. Come. On.

Bottom line: J.K. IS JUST TRYING TO SCRATCH BY LIKE EVERYONE ELSES SO PAY UP YOU BUNCH OF INDIAN THEIVES.

Besides, who do you think you are... building A REPLICA OF HOGWARTS CASTLE OUT OF PAPIER MACHE.

Sheesh.

I seriously think Rowling could cash in if she were to take her lawyers to the beach and sue the crap outa all the little kids who are making Hogwarts sandcastles. She could at least score their shovel and bucket if she took them to court. Shoot, she's probably desperate for those too. I know I am.

p.s., Dear J.K., please don't sue me for posting a picture of the papier mache replica of Hogwarts. I'm on your side.

Fun. Htt: My Little Green Mojito.

1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME:

Lightning Subway

2.YOUR GANGSTA NAME:

Vanillabean Oatmeal


3. YOUR “FLY Guy/Girl” NAME:
(first letter of first name, first three letters of last name)

Swar (I'm not a girl but what the hey.)

4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME:
(favorite color, favorite animal)

Blue Eagle (This one, I like.)

5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME:
(middle name, city where you were born)

Dee Claremore (Sounds like the name of the token ugly dude.)

6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME:
(the first 3 letters of your last name, first 2 letters of your first)

WarSe (Sounds a little like horsey)

7. SUPERHERO NAME:
(”The” + 2nd favorite color, favorite drink)

Red Sweet Tea (The Texan Superhero)

8. NASCAR NAME:
(the first names of your grandfathers)

Earl Wayne (I like this one. May name little Seth this someday.)

10.WITNESS PROTECTION NAME:
(mother’s & father’s middle names )

Belle Dee (If I ever go into W.P., I guess I'll go in drag.)

11. TV WEATHER ANCHOR NAME:
(Your 5th grade teacher’s last name, a major city that starts with the same letter)

Kenzer Knoxville (Pretty good.)

12. SPY NAME:
(your favorite season/holiday, flower)

Halloween Bulebonnet (Welcome to hell, 007.)

13. CARTOON NAME:
(favorite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing right now + “ie” or “y”)

Tangerine Bootsie (beautiful.)

14. HIPPIE NAME:
(What you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree)

Omelet Christmas Tree (My fav.)

15. YOUR ROCKSTAR TOUR NAME:
(”The” + Your fave hobby/craft, fave weather element + “Tour”

Writing Snow Tour (Hmmm. Actually pretty good. My second one was "Frolicking Sandstorm Tour.")

Life Outside the Bubble.

A few days ago, we had lunch with a Producer. Very nice older guy, friend of Sondheim. I found that out because I thought that Sondheim had died and said so casually. The man said, "Cross yourself boy! He hasn't left us yet!" I felt sorta dumb.

Anyways, we said something about CCM music and he didn't know what the crap I was talking about. Then we spent the next 10 minutes trying to describe the genre to him.

For some reason, I felt really comforted by his CCM ignorance. Here was a man, a Christian, an artist... just all around terrific guy, and he had no knowledge of the inner workings of the Evangelical sub cultural bubble. Yet he shows up on Saturdays at his church and feeds the poor, and he is active in his Church...

It was like meeting someone from a different planet, someone who hadn't bitten from the forbidden fruit of Christian commercialism. For some reason, I felt a little giddy about that.

When you've lived in the Bible belt your WHOLE life, you begin to believe that God is only found there. And if you move from there, away from Christian Radio, Christian T.V., Christian bookstores, Christian Pop Stars... you’re told you will no longer hear the voice of God. "You might, but it will be faint, and non-spirit-filled.”

Then comes the day when God tells you to move out of it, and what a great thing it is to realize there are a whole lot of Christians who have never heard of Chris Tomlin, or Caedmon's Call, David Crowder or JOEL OLSTEEN, or Ed Young... and they are getting along smashingly with the Almighty. And when they have, it is a great compliment because you are in with all their other music and books, not just because it's Christian, but because it's good art. Any Christian art that stays, will always be good art. It will never stay just because it’s Christian.

Veggie Tales says, "God is bigger than the boogie man,” They ought to have one that sings, "God is bigger than the Bible belt." Wow, I even felt a little blasphemous typing that...

The Bible and Poetry

Random stanzas that reminded me of bible stories: This one reminded me of Moses and the Israelites.

A man once said, "Strip and be free!"
So I did, now I'm freezing' my ass off.

-From a poem by Robert Frost.

Because of the Last Few Posts...

I feel the strange need to express that this is one of my favorite movies.

I love everything about this sequence. The editing, the acting, the music (AWESOME SCORE!!!!) and of course, the guns.

Anyone see a resemblence in the directing of this film to a more current director and film?

Jesus Would Have Hung Out With Gays.

"I came not to call the righteous, but sinners." (Mark 2:17)

During Jesus' ministry it was very offensive to many respectable, religious, church-going people that Jesus had so little regard to what was expected of Him as to hang out with people who were no better than they should be. "If this man were a prophet," said Simon the Pharisee to himself, when Jesus allowed a woman of doubtful reputation to touch him. "He would have known...what sort of woman this is who is touching him, for she is a sinner" (Luke 7:39)

But Jesus knew perfectly well what the woman was, and for that reason decided to let her do what she was doing, which would be to any other "religious" man, an embarrassment.

Jesus has been called a "friend of the sinner," which is a comfort to us all for sure. But did you know that was given as a criticism at first? They called him a "glutton and a drunkard. A friend of the Tax Collector." Tax collector being considered lowest on the totem pole of respectability by the religious, matched only by hookers. So... guess what the self-righteous religious would have called Jesus today?

A fag, or at least, A friend of fags.

Why? Because that is exactly where Jesus would have planted himself. Right in their midst, for the whole world to see.

But wait, it makes us feeeeeel so much better when we say that Jesus simply "tolerated" the sinner. Nah uh. Not according to the gospels. As a matter of fact, Jesus seemed to prefer their company according to the Pharisees. "This man EATS with the sinners, in their own home!!!" (Luke15:2) Now, back then, when you ate at someone's house, it was THE way to signify a "unity" or fellowship with him or her.

God desires that NONE should perish. And how does that get done? By hiding it our light in our big giant Sunday buildings and perfectly organized bible studies? Nope, by diving in where the sick hang out and loving. Because it isn’t a clean record that shines light. God isn't a clean record. God shines in the prayer, "Woe is me for I am a sinner." God is Love.

So, hang out with Gays? Looks like the question is yup to that one. Why? Because God loves them. We should love them. Sorry, you can’t say that you love someone and avoid the crap out of them. Who do love and avoid?

Jesus believed in dealing with the root of the problem, not just the symptoms. And the root is a desperate need for Love, and if not from us, then who from? I think we know the answer to that one.

I thank God that Jesus didn't deal with me how I have dealt with Homosexuals in the past. I would have never known him. I repent of that.

I wonder what would happen to the world if Christians REALLY acted and operated like Jesus did.

Time for me to find out. But, maybe I can plead my case and opt-out of the Gay bar. Just because they dress too nice and I feel out-fashioned.

P.S. Thanks to F.F. Bruce for some great insight on this question. Check out his book "Hard Sayings of Jesus." Its great.

Carnegie Hall Tonight

Now beware folks, I get really geeky about this stuff.

Amber and I scored the free tickets to Carnegie hall tonight. It was incredible. I had to take a double take around ever corner. I couldn't believe I was in THE Carnegie hall. There have been so many legends that have played in that hall... I mean, just name one, and I mean a real legend. They've played there. Period. On every wall there was some bit of priceless memorabilia. I stared at snippets of a score and notes written by Bernstein, Copeland, Dizzy, Ella F, and the Beatles. I have five LPs under my record player that were recorded at Carnegie.

To top things off... (About to go into Geek overdrive...) We just happened to be seated by the world famous composer Pierre Boulez. To everyone else around him (besides all the entourage of people he brought with him that were trying to gain his attention) he was just an old dude in a suite. But old Sethro, he knows his Art Music Musicians and Composers. Now, Boulez may mean jack crap to most of you, but just imagine someone who is really into mail-bombing getting to sit next to Ted Kaczynski. Or my friend Jack Spalding getting to sit next to Ron Burgandy. Or Brody Harper getting to sit next to Kenny G. Nuff said.

Boulez... Composer, conductor, pianist, innovator... awesome. He did spend a good 30 years or so of his younger years making enemies, calling other composers lamazoids for not being original but hey, Mozart was much, much meaner to his contemporaries.

As you read here about composers, if you think composers don't matter much... well tell that to Paul McCartney. I just learned that Paul McCartney would attend Avant-Garde composition recitals to get ideas for his albums. He was seen at a Berio concert and said, "I really want to incorporate electronic music in our new album "Revolver" and these guys are the cutting edge."

And that brings me to another snobby tangent. I think that when people in pop culture RIP off composers, they should pay homage. Take Sufjan... Sufjan is a John Adams and Philip Glass minimalist composer rip-off. Don't get me Calvinist (wrong), I love the music, but everyone just goes on and on about Sujan's "original" style. Hogwash.

Sufjan went to music school and snagged the stylings of Adams, Glass and Reich and stirred it up with some Simon and Garfunkel. Not bad, really amazing, but still... pay Homage. Nary a mention on his bio. Come on Suffy.

That ripping-and-not-paying-homage includes film composers. I love John Williams. For sure, he has his own "sound." BUT... Jaws???? Stravinsky's Rite of Spring. The whole orchestration down to the oboe part is right out of the Rite of Spring. Not to mention Star Wars being a total rip off of Holst's The Plantets... But in his defense, Williams wrote in those styles by request and Williams is a melodic Genius which makes up for the ripped sounds. One of his best scores is Close Encounters of The Third Kind, which is pretty incredibly original, and ironically, not a single melody can be found in it. It's all motivic. Da da da da daaaaaa. Love that flick.

I know, I know. Regular, poor, college-loving, weirdo "Art" Composers rip too. But AT LEAST we pay homage (most of the time) and actually find it an honor if someone quotes us or writes in "our" style. Honestly, the need to be imitated gets kind of pathetic sometimes. We are like the really homely gal who is dyyyyyyyying to get the attention of some hotstuff-football player. Or something like that.

Two other random pet peeves while I'm on my period here and I'm done. People-who-write-with-a-bunch-of-hyphens, like myself, get that trick from good old Kurt V. and people who never write in cap's and think they are being all cool and artsy can thank good ole E.E. Cummings. {end rant}

So that's right baby. Composers rule. Don't you forget it.

Went to a Gay Bar. That's right. You heard me.

Amber's aunt came into town last night and we had dinner with her associates, five men and one other woman. All five of the men were gay. They were very nice and funny, as most gay chaps are. Plus, I got over about 90% of my homophobia long ago being in the arts, and music schools where hetero men are rare exotic birds. BUT, I have never quite jumped the hurdle of Gay-bar phobia. Doubt I ever will.

Amber and I finished up our meal, paid for by the company that my aunt and her friends worked for, and they asked us to go to a bar with them. We did. I don't know why it didn't dawn on me that they would be taking us to a gay bar, but some naivety just never goes away. It didn't take long to realize after entering the courts of bar that it was indeed a den of dudes on dudes.

Amber instantaneously became my Siamese twin but that didn't stop the longing eye-glares from other chaps sitting at the bar.

So there I was, good ole Sethro, wife now on my lap, wondering what the Lord was up to... and whilst feeling a tad uncomfortable at the gently pecking lips of young yuppie men... I had to tell myself, "This is exactly where Jesus would have been." It helped a little, not much; in fact, the thought was a bit comical. So now I ask you, "How far does that old standard "Jesus hangin' out with sinners" analogy reach? Strip clubs? Gay Bars? KKK meetings? Monster Truck Rallies? Rufus Wainwright concerts? Youth Camp? Is the gap really that far between me and you and the swirling stripper or cuddling dudes?

And what about that whole Gay thing... Why not open the floor up to this whopper of a topic? I know how Texas protetstants SAY they feel about it... but I hat to burst the dreamy bubble, lots and lots enjoy a good episode of Will and Grace as much as their BSF study or a Joyce Meyers book.

Thoughts appreciated.

The End.

To H-town and Back

Last week I was in Houston meeting with my prof. about my dissertation. It was a great trip and it was so good to see all our friends and people that have become like family to us. A blog is coming very soon about our church in Houston and the wonderful people that are there.

And yes, Houston is as hot as it was when I left it in August. If Louis Armstrong were to have sang about Houston it would have gone a little something like this:

I see smog of blue,
it burns my eyes
The hot humid days,
there's something in the sky...

And I think to myself
"Is that a mosquito or a bird...?"

I see traffic for miles
It ebbs and flows
like some poo made of glue
or a grandma, rowing a large boat

And I think to myself,
I'm gonna jab out my eye

(Bridge)
The colors of the rainbow,
high jacked by the gays
The churches are so huge
they could stage an Elephant's play (?)

I see dudes holdn' hands,
got both whiskers and some boobs
I see some old bum peeing
at the sonic drive-thru

I hear babies cry
No wait; it's a billion birds
perched above my car
covering it with their turds

But I think to myself...
"I miss all my friends there..."
Then I think to myself,
"No more sweaty underwear."

Crank it Barney

Do you know what Barney has been singing to your kids lately??????

Laugh

I sat behind an old couple at the airport in Chicago. It was a grey day and we all stared out of the terminal at the dismal Chicago sky and waited for our late flight. The old woman sat in a wheel chair, her hair thinning but curly and cute. The old man sat close to her and wore a cap high above his two ears that fanned out, nearly into cups of cartilage. I think that after 60, the cartilage in a man’s body gets tired of being merely ornamental or functional and begins its quest to take over the head. Your smell goes as well as your hearing, but not the nose or ears. No sir. They live on to conquer all things that are aesthetically important.

Every few minutes the old man would lean over and say something to her and she would laugh this wonderful, full laugh. Every 4 or 5 laughs she would reach over and pinch him on the leg from something he said and he would laugh.

I smiled and wondered if a good marriage in old age trumps the murkiest sky and if you make it that long, murky skies are welcome in the morning, maybe not as much as the sunny ones, but still welcome.

I looked at this old couple and thought of my wife. My wife thinks I am funny. Whether that is really true, beyond our marital bubble, remains a matter of debate. Regardless, I thought of how I’ve always been able to make her laugh, and I think if I can make her laugh at least one time a day, at me or with me, till we are old and in wheelchairs at an airport, spectators to a grey sky, I’ll be able to say I’ve done alright.

"She's a woman... if you make her laugh, you've got a life." -As Good as it Gets

Owe.

BARNAUL, Russia (Reuters) - A Siberian woman who gave birth to her 12th child -- doing more than her fair share to stem Russia's population decline -- was stunned to find that little Nadia weighed in at a massive 7.75 kg (17.1 lb).

70 degrees

I would like to take a moment and let my friends in Houston know that it is around Noon in NYC and it is about 70 degrees. Right now, I am trying to decide whether I should change into a long sleeve shirt or just take a little jacket because it might get a little chilly (60's) after five.

Whatever will I do? I'm not sure... I'm just not used to all these decisions. I mean, in Houston it was pretty much about picking which loincloth was most suited for church, or which shirt absorbed the most sweat without showing it. Black works best but unfortunately, black absorbs the most heat. Sooo catch 22.

Whatever shall I do?

Treo Pics of the City

Us at the hotel our landlord put us whilst they exterminated for bed bugs. That's right, we recently had our apartment dusted and sprayed and everything-elsed for bed-bugs. The fumes are great and mighty right now as I type. The apartment people were nice enough to put us up in a hotel as they Agent-Oranged the place. Nice enough, that is, after we marched down to their office with a bed bug in a plastic baggie and... asked nicely. (Nice, for New York that is.)

The Hotel where we stayed had a cool restaraunt/bar on the ground floor that opened out to the street. This guy was covered in tatooes and eating a fresh salad. I thought the juxtaposition was nice. I almost asked him if I could take a pic of his arms while eating but decided against. Chicken.

Amsterdam. Our favorite place to chow one block from our apartment. I almost got hit by a bus taking this pic.

Fanfare for the Mexican on my Roof

Dear man in the dusty suite,

How dost though feel this good New York morning?
Dost though know that thine cackling ist so fair?
Dost though know that thy singing is like an angel's prayer?

And when you heckle the ladies walking by
I cans't but imagine that they blush from the high
of being so flattered by your chaste and noble thoughts
or of all the young, noble children your loins would them fraught

My favorite dusty friend, who's hammer pounds so true
who shuts off my cable, and my hot water too
without blinking any eye, because you needed to squat there
so shut off my lights too if they but showed a speck of dirt on your lucky underwear

So cackle and hammer on, my noble foreign friend
you bring me such joy like a hot stinging fart in the wind
What music you'll showed me, in the wee morning hours
my gift is your song, for the next sevenhundredthousand hours.

Snapped.

I've been trying to avoid it. I made a vow to myself that I was going to stay nice. I have smiled at every punk or sucker that has given me abysmally bad service at any given store or shop. (Regular people are nice; it’s the workers that are jerkwads.)

This morning, I crumbled. I fell hard. Much yelling and pounding. Like Tantor or Kong. Like a baby.

To start the day I was awoken by the loud and high-pitched noise of a buzz saw directly above my head. It has been my alarm clock and daily music for past two weeks. Constant, pounding, and slamming and sawing. From 8:00 a.m. till 8:00 p.m. BUT, as far as that goes, I have persevered. Too much beauty in this here city to get mad about people renovating our apartment building so we can have a patio on the roof and cameras to view the people outside who are calling us.

It was the shower that got me.

I stepped in and lathered up nice and put the soap down to rinse form the new and fancy showerhead freshly installed. Without warning, the shower went to a drip, then off. It was just naked-sudsy-me, arse getting colder by the second, and the sweet morning sounds of the pounding and sawing.

I exploded. Erupted. Screamed like a banshee. There was silence. I then said very clearly, "WATER-BACK-ON-NOOOOW." Thinking that my show of brute force and volume had sent fear into the hearts of the workers and imagining them scrambling to retrace their steps and undo what had been done, I watched the faucet with wild eyes, feeling powerful.

Finally after a few seconds, I heard the sound of one faint, latinoesque giggle, then, back to work the men went with renewed vigor.

Only after a phone call to the Super did the water get turned on and I was plenty calm by then, however still soapy wet.

On My Shelf

If I could pick my job in heaven, it would be "Professional Movie Watcher," and or "Professional Book... reader" or something.

I wish I could just sit around all day and do those two things. Some would say you could shorten those titles in to two simple words "a bum."

Here is a random selection of 5 books and films that just so happen to be close together on my shelf.

Books: (turning around to check, right now.)
1. The Grapes of Wrath (One of my favorite first chapters.)
2. Miracles (C.S. Lewis)
3. Huckleberry Finn (Top three fav. books of all time.)
4. The Little Brown Handbook (Not mine, Amber's)
5. The Story of Christianity (Pretty good, nice pictures.)

Movies:
1. As Good as it Gets (Great flick.)
2. A Charlie Brown Christmas (Classic)
3. Citizen Kane (Love it more every time, which is good. I was breathtakingly bored the first time around. Good commentary by Roger Ebert too.)
4. Good Will Hunting (Another Fav.)
5. The Muppets Wizard of Oz (The shrimp is Hilarious okaaay!)

What's on your shelf?

A New York Newcomer

When I walk the streets of New York
I don't see the blazing artistic promise
Of my youthful lust,
I don’t feel like Greenwich Village will turn me into a Dylan.
Neither Bob nor Thomas.

The assault of smell
is the closest thing I have found so far
to carrying my emotions where
the blues is sung or blue is painted.
But nothing smells familiar yet, and sometimes,
that makes me lonely.
I don't how “that” works but it just does.

Some Italian meal,
cooked by a third generation owner,
whose son is waiting the table of a lovely couple
swirling their forks to twist the hand-made noodles
into eddies of weekend dreams and designer shoes.
The waiting son watches the swirl of noodles.
Noodles he made, swirling and spattering his Great grandmother’s sauce.
He smiles and waits for the day
when it will all be his…

All this floats into my long Roman nose,
waters my eyes with the vision and then, its gone.
Swallowed whole by this magnificent street that
bursts with buildings all day until the earth ends.
Gorgeous and stunning really.
Should be enough to make anybody
want to write.

But I find, the best writing comes
in a dark room
where all is quiet
and the hand of the muse feels like
velvet on my back,
my hands, and my eyes.
There I can remember what I saw
and tell myself about it,
in a song or poem, then work it all out in simple
black,
and white.

Most of all, when I walk down the streets of New York,
cobble, concrete, stone or brick, I see faces.
Faces that are empty, sad, strange, elated, happy, crazy, but very few
at peace. Including mine.

I suppose my face fits naturally into the yearning rivers of peace-less faces,
pulsing through the shimmering jeweled veins of Manhattan named:
Amsterdam, Columbus and the OZ of the Apple.

When peace on earth finally comes, I think
the place I might want to be is New York City.
Cause when the so many faces that now mirror,
the lost vacuum of want, are at last filled,
How beautiful it will be in New York.

Treo Trauma

I'm afraid that my Mac brain is too far into the blessed realm to understand the workings of a device of a lesser and trickier software.

So please, can someone still dwelling in the realm of sinful, fleshy, PC... please tell me how to work my Treo??? (Seriously. I'm PC DUMB.)

For instance. It always says that I have ONE message. So, for the first day or two, I check the message to find there are in fact, no messages. Then when someone actually leaves a message I really don't think there is one and I miss C-hammer's frantic plea to rescue, what seems to be, a very valuable shirt or two from the clasps of the evil hotel mongoloids here in NYC. (I hate to tell you this C-ham, but when they pulled up the clothes from under the counter, there were small jumping insects emerging from the bag in which they were placed. They have since been quarantined in a larger bag.)

Or, why won't it show how many missed calls? For instance, half my family thinks I hate them.

Or, how in the H-E-DOUBLE-HOCKEYSTICKS does one email or transfer a little film made with the treo. I can't seem to figure out how to even email/liberate a single ^%#+***@&#^ picture from the clasps of the Treo's strange and flawed inner nerve/software ganglia.

This one thing I know: When I stop feeling guilty for wanting an expensive Iphone I am going to buy one (with the music of Chariots of Fire pumping through my ipod) and smash the said Treo into a billion pieces like Thor of Asgard. Then I will take 20 pictures of the grey, heavy, lumpy, treo-wreckage with my iphone and send them simultaneously to the various Treo sweatshops in Indonesia and China. All from my iphone.

The one thing I do enjoy about the Treo is the long battery life. That alone keeps me from drop-kicking it right into the path of a subway.

Blogs that were too mean to publish, but what the heck: "Bush's Corner"

Hello Amarrca! And thank you Five Cent Ward for this oppornunity to bestow upon you some wisdom that may beseech the hearts among you to spur into the side of the great stallion called "life" and move onward with a crusading battle-cry song that ever red-blooded Christian boy learned in his first boot camp VBS, "Onward Christian Warlords."

My first thought is a question for Five and to each of you that read blogs regular.

1. Why does everthing have to be so spirchal all the dern time? Its kinda like goin' to the rodeo to see a good man get hooked and horned and instead getting a dagdgum sermon. Now, a sermon might be a good thing in all, 'specially after a particular lustful week, but when yer ready to see a cowboy banged up real good and maybe get malled and stomped by a particular bucksome bull that you bet on... well, no offense to the Lord but, it's kind of a bummer. A big bummer. A big bummer with B.O. askin' fer money at the stop-light. I mean, who wants to see Billy Graham Jr. when you payed dang good money fer some bulls and blood and dust and mud?

2. As it states in scripture "I pledge allegience, to the bible, God's Holy word." Well, I do. I do. I also pledge allegience to the Flag. So what did I do to remedie this conumdrumstick? I killed two towel-heads with one stone; I got myself a bible with an Amarrican flag as the cover! So now when I pledge allegience, I don't feel like I'm blasphem'n my country nor my God. I've been working on a combo of John 3:16 and the national anthem but my wife, she said that might be pushin it a bit. I told her to get back to the readin' rainbow and let Christian Amarrcan men do what Christian Amarrcan men were put on this earth to do: [insert wise thing here. Ideas... "rule, kill, war, bible, tell God who to kill"... maybe ask daddy.] I've also been lookin' fer a way to combine the words "Amarrca" and "The Bible." Like, Abibarrca... or, The Bibrica... or jumble up the letters from both and do something like "Ramcarblabile." Oooo that's a goodern. A keeper. I'll have to tell my old former head-warrior Donald Rumplestillskin.

Well that's all fer today. I'd like to thank Five Cent Ward for bringing me here and I'd like to thank the Bible where God is found and America where Jesus is around. (a little poem from me to you!)

God bless you and God bless The Ramcarblabile.

Some Observations 1 Week Inside the Apple.

NYC. What a place.

Things that are different thus far:

1. The close proximity of people.
I always knew this but I never knew how "personal" it would feel. More people randomly talk to me than any place I have ever lived. Not just crazies, just... people. At the supermarket, on the corner, on the subway, people in my apartment building. At first I kept checking for a neon sign flashing above me that said "talk to me, I'm a talker" but now I think its just that there is a unique sort of "togetherness" that New Yorkers feel or have come to accept and expect you to accept as well.

Not necessarily a "lets all hold hands and sing kumbaya togetherness" but just... together. Like, "well buddy, I'm here, you're here and there's nothing we can do about it so we might as well talk." In this togetherness there is a strange paradoxical sociology that permeates the ebb and flow. New Yorkers are reserved but personal. They are rude but very helpful. They want you to mind your own business but are nosey as I’ll-get-out. They are very private but are privately loud- no secret cell phone conversations in this town brother. They can be harsh and indifferent but helpful to the point of heroic if you really need it.

2. The diversity of mental health and the transparency thereof.
I am sure that everywhere I have lived has the same array of diverse mental health hidden away in cul-de-sacs and behind perfect picket fences, but in NYC there are no shades on the mental windows. Walking down any street you are hit in the face with all kinds of attitude: Mean, happy, crying, laughing, yelling, religious, radical and just flat out weird. The subway is the only place where people level their temperaments to a quiet simmer. Maybe its because they are trapped and the confined subway compartment gives them a subconscious chamber to store the inner-demons. Only the truly off-their-rockers cut lose on the subway.

But even there, in that underground chrome juggernaut, you feel that just the wrong bump or word might set anyone off on a tirade. But then again, if you aren’t sure which train to board next, they will volunteer that information freely and kindly as if they’ve known you forever.

One of the most enduring qualities of the New Yorker is the sense of ownership that everyone has. Today, a guy that lives across the street introduced himself to me. I didn't know what the cross street was for my church and he said, "Dude, this is your city! You gotta know it!" His family has lived here since West Side Story Days and he is telling me that this is "my city." Something about that left me a little speechless.

I do know one thing. However much NYC becomes “my city,” an Astros fan, I'll always be. The Yankees can kiss it.

All Set in NYC

Good Lord.

We're in. Moving a bunch of stuff into a small area can be a bit torturous. If I had OCD, I would have slit my wrists and my ankles by now. If my rear didn’t have a slit I would slit it as well.

The constant moving of stuff from one side of the room to another, clearing a place in the middle to build Ikea wardrobes and entertainment centers and losing your screwdriver every 20 seconds can be hellish. It was twilight-zone creepy how fast I lost things.

However, the finished product of our all-purpose studio apartment has turned out to be my favorite thing since funnel cake at Six Flags.

The rate of bogs shall increase once my nose stops running. One of the walls of our apartment is brick. We discovered half way through the unpacking that it was covered in dirt from the construction. We cleaned it and it seems the task was just too much for my one Claritin D to handle. I have a whopping little cold right now but I shant let that stop me from enjoying this freaking incredible place. So if my sinuses regroup and take the hill and after I finish a few honkin' tasks, (major uploading of software and such) the normal standard rate of 1 blog per hour shall commence.

Until then, know that I am surrounded by the most incredible places to eat and drink a man with over-imaginative taste buds can handle. My tastebuds wake me up every morning like little children on Christmas Morn'. My friend Jack Spalding would be floating around laughing and smiling all day like a darn eating-fool.

For instance, I had a good ole fashioned Tuna Melt for lunch at a little corner of eating-heaven called “Good Enough To Eat.” (It was the only time Amber and I have walked by the place when there wasn’t a huge line.) The tuna was so fresh I expected a man with a peg-leg and an eye-patch to appear at anytime from the kitchen to wink his good eye and nod as I chewed the little square of fresh bread, fresh tomato, real cheese and tuna bliss.

Off to bed mates.

The Great Pavarotti

Nessun Dorma


ROME - Luciano Pavarotti, opera's biggest superstar of the late 20th century, died Thursday. He was 71. He was the son of a singing baker and became the king of the high C's.

Pavarotti, who had been diagnosed last year with pancreatic cancer and underwent treatment last month, died at his home in his native Modena at 5 a.m., his manager told The Associated Press in an e-mailed statement.

His wife, Nicoletta, four daughters and sister were among family and friends at his side, manager Terri Robson said.

"The Maestro fought a long, tough battle against the pancreatic cancer," Robson said. "In fitting with the approach that characterised his life and work, he remained positive until finally succumbing to the last stages of his illness."

I'll never forget the first day I herd Pavarotti. I hated Opera. DESPISED it. I thought opera singers were preening egomaniacs with zero knowledge of music outside of something with a massive voice wailing over the orchestration. All that snobbery went down the drain when I herd Pavarotti.

I stood in the Blockbuster Music, classical section and cried as I randomly played Nessun Dorma sung from the Three Tenors concert that everyone was going nuts over. The sound soaked into my soul and has never left. I have been a devoted fan ever since.

I am sad to have never had the chance to see him in concert.

The Hobbit Hole on West 83rd Row

Hello blogging friends, near and far.
Your traveling Wards no longer own a car
for into the city they now dwell
all of their possesions they had to sell

The apartment in which they live is tiny and cute
you cannot get lost or miss each other's toot.
But a block or two from Central Park makes us happy
for that alone, we'd live in a pile of crappy.

We have no internet now just yet.
nor do we have a smelly pet
we will return and tell all there is to tell
about our trip, the drive, the move, until then...
NYC is mighty swell.

Why Make the Kids Suffer For Momma's Sin?

We've all been hearing how Mississippi is the fattest state in the Union. Big surprise. However, if Houston were a state, it would pass the Mississippi like Mario Andredi to an elderly Chinese Lady driving a 72 Honda civic.

So what does the Mississippi State gov. do to solve their straining zipper epidemic? They increase the physical activity of the kids to 150 minutes PER DAY and basically starve them. So now, the kids will go from burgers to a celery sandwich, followed by a billion sit-ups in less than a week. Uh huh. I predict mass chaos and extreme mood swings. Why? Why? you ask... "But Seth, won't a celery sandwich followed by a ton of crunches lead to a much healthier life?"

And I reply, "Yeah, my friend, if it weren't for the grand mound of robed mamma cooking them a pound of fried everything upon their arrival at home."

After the kids finsh their day of total starvation and passing out from excessive situps, they come home to be suddenly be filled with a solid 2 hours of perfect concentration after eating mounds of starch and carbs and fats, which will aid them in their quest to play every video game invented. This will be followed by a huge crash and a comatose sleep, their Twinkie-crusted game controller clutched and nestled to their bosom while they dream of taking baths, nibbling away at their giant half-Twinkie tub.

So what should Mississippi really do, if they really wanted to fix the problem? They should visit every home that cannot afford nutrition and offer them a subsidy. Even though I don't understand the whole "can't afford healthy food" bit; you can grow a garden and save thousands per year on veggies. We did it my whole younger life, in the poor suburbs, during a drought, and bought only the things we couldn't grow or make. Granted, the clothing part sucked. I did wear a few pairs of pants that were less than stylish - try homemade neon blue polyester pants with a white stripe down the side, the left knee oddly tighter than the right- but we were poor and didn't balloon to enormous proportions.

Then, the state government should fine Wal-mart a hundred trillion dollars, running them out of business forever. The government would follow suit with every other food joint that sells nothing but pure sugar and fat for 1 penny per pound.

Unrealistic, I know but hey, maybe in situations like this it's time to coin the phrase, "What would China do?"

All I'm sayin' is when studies show that your state is the king of the junk-in-the-trunk mountain, maybe point your porker gun at someone besides your kids and the school system. To be scriptural, "Before you take the french-fry out of thy kids mouth, remove the Quarter Pounder from your own."

I wonder if the people passing this bill to blame the kids ever stop to think how bizarre it was that where signing the bill, using their stomach as a table?

Look down at thine own belly and take responsibility for yourself and your family. Helpful hint: If you haven't seen where your pee pee comes from in a while, maybe its time to lay off blaming the kids, put down the frying pan and plant a carrot.

Don't forget to eat it. (The carrot, not the frying pan.)

Moving Spiders

It is amazing how much crap one can accumulate in one year. I hauled 12 bags of the heaviest garbage in the universe down 3 flights of stairs tonight, dodging the gigantic spider making a web directly above forehead-line on flight 2. I couldn't bring myself to kill the booger since he had been toiling much longer than me, spinning away for his food.

Usually I kill spiders out of principal. There are some creatures on God's earth that will forever be enemies- Hyenas/Lions, Sea-lions/Great white Sharks, cats/dogs, Rikki Tikki Tavi/king cobra, Rick Warren/Joel Olsteen, Benny Hinn/Dateline, and Seth Ward/any-and-all-spiders.

I am quite Old Testament when it comes to annihilating the arachnid tribe and quite gentle-worship-leader-in-designer-jeans when unexpectedly assailed by one.

Just the other evening my face passed through a spider web the size of tennis net and a big black spider frantically tried to escape the mountain known as my nose. I flailed like an epileptic break-dancer who had just won the lotto. Amber nearly passed out from laughing. It was enjoyable.

Other than avoiding Shelob on the second flight of stairs, I am looking forward to simplifying my life and ousting most of my possessions in order to fit in the very, very small apartment we will soon be calling home in NYC.

Billiosovic Gatesorovitz

MOSCOW (Reuters) - A wealthy Russian tried to buy a U.S. B-52 bomber from a group of shocked American pilots at an air show near Moscow, a Russian newspaper reported on Friday.

The unidentified Russian, wearing sunglasses and surrounded by bodyguards, approached the U.S. delegation and asked to buy the bomber, the Komsomolskaya Pravda newspaper said.

An astounded member of the U.S. delegation said the bomber was not for sale but that it would cost at least $500 million (249.5 million pounds) if it were to be sold on the spot.

"That is no problem. It is such a cool machine," the Russian was quoted as saying by the newspaper, which said its reporter overheard the conversation. The bomber was not sold.

Russia's new rich, who built fantastic fortunes trading commodities and contacts after the fall of the Soviet Union, have made a name for themselves as ostentatious purchasers of everything from British football clubs to Faberge eggs.


How the conversation would have went down if I were the pilot approached by the Rich Russian Billiosovic Gatesorovitz.

Russian: "Good afternoon. That plane is very nica."

Me wearing Top Gun Shades and sounding a bit like George W.: "Not bad, it could bomb the crap outta you guys if you don't do as your told and conform to American ideals and sell us all your oil and lay off the South Pole. We saw it first."

Rich Russian: "Please, please... I don't vant to battle wiz you. I just want to buy the bomber for 500 millions, I think my son might like it for birthday present."

Me: "How old is he and is he a threat to the Country where Jesus is Lord?"

Rich Russian: "No, he is only 2 years old but he is bored destroying deserted town wiz big tank."

Me: (I motion for a large solider to enter the conversation.) "Private... kill him... Scratch that. Read him the 4 Spirit'chl Laws, then kill em."

The End.

White House, here I come.

Too Old for Spicy Numba Tree

We went to our favorite Thai food joint yesterday and my stomach is showing signs of the great battle to come. It has that little constant state of "cramp-rumble" that tells me there will be some rocking and praying going on in the near future. Come on fellas, you know what I'm talking about.

It is a little upsetting because I used to be able to eat Spicy number 7. (Basically pure fire. One could power a small town of Irish immigrants on the nuclear fusion going on in a plate of Chicken Fried Rice, spicy number 7. Or line the highway with sever hundreds of these glowing plates in the dead of night to signal a landing runway for some airplane needing an emergency landing. You get the picture.)

Now I can't even handle number 3. My stomach protests. A storm's a brewin'. I feel like a girl, or a young gentle worship leader in designer jeans.

I saw signs of this weakening of my appetite the last time Amber left town to NYC. It was late and I thought I would order a large pepperoni and sausage pizza from Pizza Hut, sit down and watch myself the Godfather. Because that's what men do that are all-alone and missing their wife. They remind themselves that they are not pathetic piles of primordial putty, pining away for affection. How do we remind ourselves? By watching the Godfather and eating a whole friggin pizza. "Harrumph! *Belch-fart*"

I made it halfway through the Godfather and I dozed off with a piece of pizza crust dangling from my lips. I went to bed and woke up 2 hours later, 4:00 a.m., with a raging heartburn that could rival the grumpiest old man, cursing a dust bowl in June.

I tried to drink Soymilk, take a Rolaids, drink water... nothing could cool the embers flickering in my chest. Finally I made a visit to the local Krusty Mart at 4:30 a.m. and bought a pile of those individually packed Zantacs. It took 4 to cool the raging flame that was my chest.

So now I await the forces of Spicy number three and will beg for mercy when the time comes. So humiliating. It's like being taken over by Canada. Or worse, France.

Something for Trish

I didn't know what it was like to be in your mind. I only saw you drift away.

I scraped a prayer on a bed post for you one night.

I never thought it was right that you suffered and lived through terrors
that woke you in the sweaty night
only to find shadows standing by your bed.

Your laugh disappeared for a while.
Those damned shadows took it.
Like a dark cloth just swallows up light.
But I always new it was there. I hoped it was there.
Sometimes I thought I lost mine too.
I wanted to go there with you I guess.
But it turns out that I coudn't .

I did leave the ball glove out and some tea in the fridge for you.
I'm real sorry that I forgot what you looked like or how you could whip any guy on the ball court.
I didn't even remember what that sounded like anymore.

We sat at the dinner table one night and sombody said something funny.
You rose from the dead like a sleeping princess.

That laugh broke every heart a mile from it.

Something got in my eye and I had to leave the room.

Then you married a fella who is afraid of the mail and loves birds and cats and you the most.

He paints too.
I don't know a book he hasn't read and I guess
you've always had something interesting and funny to say
like a great big library.

Good to see you again Sister.

Yeah, the tea is still good.

Just face it. We want more Harry.

Dear J.K.

I demand another Harry Potter novel. What are you thinking with all this detective nonsense? I know you are British and all and you guys really dig mystery and everything but... more Harry please. I could give a rat's patookey about reading a detective novel if the hero isn't Harry and he isn't a wizard detective.

Besides, I found the ending to the last Harry Potter sentimental and fluffy. We all knew he was going to get together with Jennay and make a bunch of babies. For crying out loud, you did everything but paint a happy tree in the middle of the canvas. And did Harry really need to name his son… Albus Severus Potter? That sounds like some kind of medieval psychotropic drug or... some sort of English rash you might get from using a public toilet in London. Plus the kid is destined to grow up to be a gargantuan nerd with sore ears from all the flicking.

I suppose you will find a way to make your name resemble Sir Arthur Conan Doyle now instead of J.R.R. Tolkien while you're at it.

Possible endings for you Harry Potter book 7 re-write:

1. Harry brandishes his wand and starts killing everyone in sight and becomes the new villain for your next set of books, where his is redeemed by the love of his son not yet born. YEAH!. Then like, Harry doesn't know his unborn kids are twins and accidentally kills Jennay when she doesn't join him. In a dramatic moment later in book 9, after he has been forced to wear a large black suit because of a bad burn, he tells his son that HE is in fact, his father.

2. As young Albus waves goodbye on the Hogwarts express he looks into his father Harry’s eyes. When their loving eyes meet, Harry’s scar burns like never before. The last sentence is maybe something about a set of fangs slightly visible on his son as the train rolled away.

3. Harry dies and Voldemort wins.

4. Dumbledore comes back and tells Harry the he is his Grandfather and they go about the world robbing banks and tipping cows... maybe they take an orangutan with them that gets them out of trouble and end up in a big nation-wide car race.

5. Harry hooks up with Hermione and takes over the Wizarding world, ruling with an iron fist and forcing everyone to become U.S. Citizens.

6. Harry is still sacrificially killed but screams "FREEDOM!!!!" when asked by Voldemort if he wishes to confess to treason.

Seth and Amber Moving to NYC!!!

Well my friends, after many months, days and hours of prayer, Amber and I have decided to take the plunge and move to the big apple. It is a complete move of faith. There is no job for us there, yet we have never been so stinking excited in our whole lives.

We had thought about waiting until it seemed rational to move, like say... a job, but nothing seemed to suffice in our hearts except the blind leap. There have already been so many affirmations that my head is spinning.

For instance...

A year ago, we were visiting a friend in NYC while Amber was auditioning and they live in this particularily beautiful part of NYC around 83rd street, close to central park in Manhattan. We finished our visit and I looked around at the street where so many great films have been shot and prayed, "My gosh Lord... if we ever move here... this street sure would be nice," knowing that it would be near impossible to live there as poor musicians. Its not just the nostalgia, something else just "feeeels" right about it.

A few months later, Amber goes to a church called Redeemer Presbyterian on another visit and tells me about it. Something stirs in me. I "feel" like we are supposed to be there. I ignore it and move on living safe.

Months fly by and the idea of moving to NYC grows and grows. It won't go away. I try to blame a move on NYC on Amber's passion. It doesn't fly with Amber as she could be happy anywhere singing musicals, feeling fullfilled and obedient. After a few days I realize that it's really me that feels we are supposed to be there. So, we pray, and decide to move. The ever-reluctant leader.

Amber goes to NYC and begins the long and arduous task of finding an apartment. We find some on in Brooklyn and Estoria, two perfectly good apartments in perfectly good places and we are ready to sign. Something still isn't right but I let it go. Then Amber tells me what I've been thinking but too afraid to say... "We shouldn't limit where God wants to put us. Lets tell the realator to look in Manhattan since I get the feeling you think we should live there although it is too expensive..."

She says this and I feel that "thing" that one feels when you KNOW its the right attitude. The realator looks and something turns up. They send me pictures of a place that is only a few hundred more a month in Manhattan and much nicer, brand new in fact. It just happens to be on the very street where I uttered the flippant prayer the previous year. Our friend that lives on that street tells us that is a miracle that we found something there at that price.

I do a google earth of the area, located a block from central park and 3 blocks from the Museum of Natural History and find a first Baptist Church. I tell her excited that there is a church near us that is in walking distance. She tells me that is the very place where Redeemer Presbyterian meets. I am sufficiently boggled.

If that wasn't enough, the next day we find out that Redeemer has bought the building accross the street from us and will be building in December.

Accross the street. The church that I couldn't get off my mind, and the street that I prayed for and area that I felt we should be, but couldn't afford.

Now, I'm not a "name it claim it" fellow, but I am a "God knows where you need to be and puts the desire to be there fellow."

I think its time to let go of fear and leap forward, then stand back and watch God work. Pray for us.

Les Adieux

It is an unfortunate fact that when someone decides to move, friends pull away. I have moved around my whole life so I guess you could say the routine is old hat. For me, it is the worst part of moving. When I moved in the 9th grade, I had thought that I wouldn't be moving again. I put my roots down and made the best friends I could. Unfortunately, we had moved to a church that was secretly filled with KKK members and we were out as soon as my dad could get us out.

Being young, and knowing nothing of the pointy-hats in our church, the move was excruciatingly painful for me and I couldn't bear the thought of my friends at school pulling away again. The thought was so painful that I decided not to tell anyone about it. If my homeroom teacher had stayed quiet, no one in my class would have known I was moving.

The worst was when my best friend Jason found out. He had NO idea that I was moving. Needless to say, he was pissed, then he was fine, then he was sad. After I saw how much I hurt my friend, and friends, I decided that if I moved again, I would rather be hurt by their pulling away, then my lack of telling. It still sucked but at least my conscious was clear.

So after many, many months, days, and hours of prayer, Amber and I have decided to move to NYC. I think the move snuck up and bit me on the butt. I am feeling a little bit like I surprised my church family and friends but I can't help but attribute the brevity to God's working it out. Some might call that a cop-out but all I can say is, don't judge a man until you've walked a yard let-alone a mile in his shoes.

The worst part about it all is that friends still pull away. I understand really. It is a protection mechanism. They are hurt and don't want to feel hurt. They shut the origin of the pain out, "you" and try to forget "you" ever really meant that much to them. This is sad to me. I think they will regret it later. Maybe not with me, but later when they realize they are too afraid of being hurt to risk love.

I know I did.

Friends should embrace the sadness and be honest. It sucks, but that's the price of loving someone. What parent would choose to NOT love their child because they knew that someday they would grow up and leave?

When David left Jonathan, they wept, bitterly. Parting sucks because you are leaving a friend, but being ignored by your friends because you are leaving, when you need the most sucks much, much worse.

Friendship is a precious, precious thing to me. I am excited as can be over the move, but heartbroken for leaving people that I love and have grown close to. Like my students. I didn't realize how I had fallen in love with my students. They have impacted me more than anyone since my time here in Houston.

Charlie, John Jr., Brenna, Ashley, Christopher, Mer, Jack, Richie, Matthew, Sarah, Rachel, Lauren, Clay, Rahim, Sohail... thanks for teaching me that God uses me more in the ways and places I don't expect, rather than in my big dreams. I love you guys and I'll miss the heck out of you.

Fun Diversion

Joey and I got a little bored and frustrated with recording so we invented a couple of characters based on both our past history of experiencing evangelical husband/wife "teams" and behold...

The very Reverend Mr. and Mrs Hal Porter, accompanied by Seth Ward.

Poem Excerpt

Gerard Manley Hopkins "As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame"

"I say more: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—
Christ—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces."

Artist, Repent.

What I SAY I'm afraid of:

I'm afraid that if I do what I want, I'll be guilty of not denying myself. But wait... What if denying myself means something different than that? What if God wants us to deny things that are sinful like obsession, porn, greed, guilt, vanity, jealousy, hatred, lust... not necessarily the things that are good and that He has planted in your soul, music, poetry, painting, singing, hiking, swimming, drawing buildings, riding a motorcycle, running a marathon, teaching English, writing stories, making films... Why would I think He wants those things to go? I mean, does He want me to stop eating too? Or does He only want me to eat food in the Church so that people know that I am eating for the Lord? Will starving or eating at Church show God that I love Him?

What I am REALLY afraid of:

I am afraid that if I do what I am passionate about, I will fail and God will abandon me because maybe I secretly wonder sometimes if God is really there and stepping outside the Christian Subcultural Bubble might show me that I isn’t really there. I am afriad that I'll disappoint other Christians who think they know what God's will is for me because of their own fear or needs. Also, doing the thing that I really love would mean that I would have to give up worrying about money, or comparison, at least for a while. But I love to worry about money cause I like to think that somehow, this other thing that I do and call "surrendering to the Lord" pays the bills and its safe. I like to think that I've played major hand in acquiring the cool things in my apartment. Pshaw.

Well maybe God requires more out of me. Maybe he requires that I trust in the basic passions for good and creative things that He has set afire in me and that I am not worry if there are other people doing the same thing that are as good or much better. Maybe He desires that I trust that He is that good. Maybe He is the kind of God that would plant the love to create and want me to delight in the creating of it. Maybe He isn't the cosmic Carrot Dangler that I have grown up to know. Maybe I have thought that because I have been too busy worshiping what and how I am saying it instead of the God that gave me the voice to say it.

And maybe, if I saw it that way, I could be paralyzed from the neck down tomorrow and still be left with Joy inextinguishable and let everything go without regret because I did what I was suppose to do with what I was given.

What if I took Jesus at his word and didn’t worry about tomorrow or what I will eat, or how the bills get paid. (I’m not talking about being a bum here; I know there are a billion things that come to mind when asking this.) I’m talking about being like the Lilies or the Birds. They don’t toil, they aren’t busy trying to be something else because they are afraid that “being a Lilly” or “being a bird” won’t cut the mustard thank you very much God.

Maybe following and doing what you are really passionate about is real faith, and all that other stuff is blaming my lack of faith on God and calling it "sacrifice," or "taking up my cross" or "denying myself."

I have a hunch that I may be a little more thankful for what He has done in me if I actually do what He has set me free to do rather than trying to be thankful for being too afraid to do it.

I think if more Christians would do what they are truly passionate about, the world might actually believe them when they say that they are so thankful for a God who has set them free.

Blogging Sabbatical

I've been away a while but quite productive. I will tell everybody about the projects underway eventually but just know that they would have to be mucho time-consuming for me not to drop by daily and say howdy-doody to you fine folks.

Other than the two humongosarus projects that are consuming my time, I am extremely happy. Probably happier than I have ever been.

Darn tootin happy. Jump-around-in-the pool-with-a-nerf-bat happy.

Here is a picture of my buddy Joey helping me on one of the projects, the project that is paying me.

Blogging may be quite sporadic for next month, but I PROMISE there will be much to tell when September hits. MUCH to tell my precious... Probably 2 blogs a day, old-school-Sethro-style.

I'm gonna blog like you actually want to read what I have to say. I'm gonna blog like a momma yields her nipple to her thirsty babe. I'm gonna blog like a bad rash needs a stout lotion. I'm gonna blog like a lodged boogie needs a good pinkie finger.

I'm gonna blog like it's 1999 (bam bam... bam bam bam)