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."