I don't believe in angels, but I do believe in maids.

I'm in Dallas, Texas this week...home to JR (and the one who shot him), the grassy knoll, and the first Steak-House/Gas-Station I've ever seen. I'm surrounded by pickup trucks and people who wish they owned bigger pickup trucks in a land so expansive that the office towers seem to be built out long before they're built up, just because they can. Dallas, Texas is also the home to Narrissa, the Ecuadorian Maid, and the closest thing to an angel I think I've met.

I met Narrissa while she scrubbed my tub. I had come back from breakfast to find the door open, her giant-maid-cart (home to villages of tiny soaps) in front of my door, and her feet sticking out of the entrance to my hotel room's bathroom. She was yellow-gloved and scrubbing furiously...working so hard at something nobody would ever, ever thank her for...and unaware of my presence. I cleared my throat, which I gather scared the living @#$# out of her, as she jumped in a way that only a person on their knees can. She immediately turned around and stood, a vision of tiny Latin maternalism, less than five feet tall and with a wholly ambiguous aging that Latin and Asian women seem to have won in the racial-bonuses lottery. (I guessed her somewhere between 30 and 60...turns out she was 62). What got me was the smile...real, deep, proud, humble, and born from somewhere I've never been.

She greeted me with a "hi, sir, do jou wan me to leeb?"

"No," I replied...stumbly and a little taken aback by her grandma's-cookies warmth, "No, not at all."

"OK, I'll be done in a mow-men. Is OK if I pass de bac-ume?"

"Yeah, of course...please."

She pulled off her gloves, started the vacuum, and swept around me while I opened my computer and started to get to work. An email came in from a co-worker that included a picture of a child recently born to (another) co-worker. I opened it to my screen. The sweeper stopped behind me. A confident, quiet, and infinitely cinnamon voice:

"Is your baby?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Is a peek-shur of your baby?"

"Oh...OH, no, no...just a friend's baby."

"You have cheel-drun?"

"No. Not yet."

"How long you haf been married?"

"Five years. Well, just over five years."

"Oh. Good! Cheel-drun come soon."


I paused. I had nothing to say back to this. I hoped so. I hope so now. I want that...we want that. We have for a while. We worry. I said something very, very honest to someone I just met:

"You really think so?"

"Jes. I think so."

Sweeper clicks back on. Engine spins up, carpet meets rotating-bristle-brush, and Narissa goes back to sweeping. I'm left feeling very different than when I woke up...a little stunned, and a bit like I just got half-a-telegram from Jesus, that got cut off right after, "Justin, I've got something important to tell you, but it's good news..."

I turned back to my computer. My heart was thumping a little. I can't tell you why I believed her, but I did.

The sweeper shuts back off. I look into the desk mirror over my shoulder.

"Can I pray for jou?"

Total....stunned...silence.

"Umm, what?"

"Can I pray for jou?"

Yes.

"yes."

"I'm shore. Jour tall...will you seet while I pray?"

I sat, flushed and a little shell-shocked.

"Whas jour name?"

"Justin."

"Ju-stin. Good. I pray in my language. OK?"

Yes. Absolutely, yes.

"Yes."

She stood across from me while I sat on the edge of my (just made) bed, held a hand up in a Christian mudra I'd seen many times but never felt until now, and prayed in Spanish. She prayed for me, for Stacy, for the blessing of a son...she spoke of wombs, and organs, and fruit, and health, and birth...she spoke of something so private that to have done it in English would have been offensive. She spoke with reverence, but with authority, and seasoned with a knowledge so deep of something so deeply unknowable that I shrunk in a kind of humble shame. I felt her prayer rinse over me, starting at the heart and radiating outward, spilling over my gel-hair and polished shoes and just-ironed shirt. She prayed, and she meant it, and I think she actually spoke to God. I don't claim to know how that works, but I think she did it.

She finished praying, said "Amen," and looked at me just long enough to let me know that her prayers were in love, not in plea for my response. She rushed over to the desk drawer, grabbed a Gideon's Bible, opened to Psalm 127, pointed at it, and waited for me to read aloud. I did. She smiled. And then she went back to the bathroom to scrub the tub.

She was done. She wanted nothing...no money, no thanks, no conversion moment, not even a prayer in her favor. She just wanted me to be prayed for, and fully expected me to receive the blessing. It's like she waited...like she was planted there...like she had been there, in my hotel bathroom, in Dallas, Texas, just waiting for me to come. I feel like she was waiting for me to come along, all filled with insecurities about child-bearing and reproduction and would-we-ever-be-able-to and just waited. I came, she prayed, then she was done.

I tried to thank her profusely. Good god, I even tried to give her money to say thank you...it's stupid, but it's all I had to offer. She would have none of it. It didn't fit her somehow...it was far too cheap, it didn't fit the plan. She was there to pray, and she was there to scrub, and that was all.



As you may have noticed, it's been a very long time since I've written. My last post was about an inspiration lost...and I think I've been waiting to find it again. I had no idea I'd find it in a hotel bathroom in Dallas.

Thank you, Narrissa. I can't wait to send you a picture of the blessing some day.

Peace,
Justin

Saying Goodbye...

far away ~
Originally uploaded by Paula Anddrade.

I got a chance to say goodbye to my friend Gaile today.

There was a memorial service for her at our old church. It was unlike any other memorial service I've been to. There were two videos, a live band on the stage singing worship songs, cameras recording the event...and 800+ people in attendance. Oh, and an airplane fly-over and a parachuter tribute. I'm not kidding.

If you're wondering what kind of royalty merits this kind of sendoff celebration...you didn't know Gaile. What made this all made sense is that she never would have believed it was for her.

The 800+ people in that auditorium came because they had been touched by this one woman in some deep way. Think of that...here's a woman who was by no conventional definition "famous"...she held no office, hosted no talk show, owned no corporation. She just loved every single person she came in touch with. Every one. And nearly a thousand came today to try to find some way to say thanks.

To some of us, she was a mother, to some a counselor, to some a sister and peer, and to most a walking example of what we want to be like when we grow up. She felt like love, like light, like the kind of humble shining understanding of God that I only taste on my best days.

As I wrote in my last post, Gaile was truly good, and what an honor it was to be among the hundreds of people who came today to celebrate that.

I don't begin to understand heaven. But if it exists, then Gaile is there. And my guess is the celebration at her arrival is far louder than ours in the wake of her departure. But for one hour, we may have rattled the windows up there a bit...proclaiming that, for whatever her return to God may be like, she sure did a damn fine job down here. And that, for all that heaven will bring her, we miss her like hell.

Goodbye, Gaile. And thank you, from one of the many you loved.

Peace,
Justin

I lost a friend this week, and the world lost something bright.

Gaile Reider was magnificent. She was smart, beautiful, maternal, wise, and...most of all...benevolent. She was, as few are, thoroughly good.

For those of you who knew Gaile, I'm joining you in mourning, and in celebrating her life.

I miss you, Gaile. I know whatever comes next is probably better, but I can't help but feel like we're lesser for your passing. You were good to me...thank you.

Peace,
Justin

For my 100th post, I'd like to offer you...

...the Tao of the Starfish-Thrower.

I remember when I was in high school attending a “motivational speaker” who came to encourage us to stay off of drugs, or stay in school, or don’t drink at the prom, or make the most of ourselves, or something. The speaker was doing pretty well endearing herself to us, for the most part; she had not tried to use “teen language,” she didn’t enter to a canned rap backbeat, and she didn’t fall down. That and the fact that she got you out of history class bought her some credibility.

Just towards the end of her presentation, she began to share a personal story about something that had happened to her on vacation. You see…there she was, on the beaches of North Carolina, enjoying a morning walk…when she happened upon a shore full of at least a thousand beached starfish. If you don’t know where this story is going, you’ve never been to a charity fundraiser or a Christian church, and may want to stop and go here.

It probably goes without saying that the assembly turned into a jeering mass of high-school jadedness shortly thereafter, and, if I remember right, ended with a vice-principal threatening to give us (all 1800 of us) detention if we didn't force ourselves to listen to the speaker's conclusion.

The plight of the speaker isn't the point of this post, however...it just gave me a fun way to talk about starfish...


As I sat on the porch last night with Stacy and my friend Dan, the conversation turned to charity, responsibility, and justice. We had expressed that we all felt guilty about living in a suburb in Ohio, versus in a dump in Mexico, a street in China, a FEMA trailer after Katrina, etc. We all felt bad that we had, while others didn't.

We talked a lot about what we were doing for the world...and, perhaps more emotionally-impactful, what we weren't doing for the world. We talked about giving money, giving time, and the nagging sense that if we were really good people we'd be in Darfur, or Iraq, or Applachia, serving the poor. And maybe that's true. But I also realized something else, and it had everything to do with that starfish story. It is this:



...the guy who threw the starfish back acknowledged two truths:
1. I saved that one.
2. (By implication) I did not save the rest.



The reality is, the Starfish-Thrower knew that the other starfish would die. He had to. The other guy told him so, and his reply denotes agreement. By choosing the 3,418th starfish on the beach, he chose to let the 3,417th starfish die. That starfish was no different than that which he threw, save for its location only inches away. In any given moment, he picked one to throw, and by doing so, doomed all those he would not pick.

I have to realize that every time I spend a dollar on a double cheeseburger or half a beer or 1/3 a gallon of gas, I am not giving it to feed Katrina victims. True. But I also have to realize that every dollar I spend feeding Katrina victims, I am not clothing the children of Afghanistan. And every dollar I spend clothing the children of Afghanistan, I am not releasing the sex-slaves of Malaysia. Every choice I make to save a starfish lets another one die.

So, given this reality...how do we deal?

Here are the options I see:

1. We do nothing, because people will always suffer and starfish will always beach.
2. We try do save all the starfish.
3. We pick a starfish, and let others die.


#1 is tempting. The amount of suffering in the world is absolutely unending (as, for what its worth, the amount of joy), and totally unfathomable. Therefore, it's tempting to shut one's eyes, huddle in the corner and rock oneself in to sleep in a sort of nihlistic possum-catatonia. But it's also a cop out. That's the whole point of the story...save one even if you can't save 'em all.

#2 is stupider. There's no quicker way to assure you're completely ineffective than to dedicate yourself to something you're bound to fail. You'll burn out, become uber-cynical, give up hope of ever accomplishing anything, and drink until it stops hurting.

#3 is hard as hell. OK, great, you throw a starfish back. That's the easy part. You donate to Red Cross, you show up at Ground Zero, and you serve in the Peace Corps. But then what? How do you eat that $7 Quizos while children die of hunger? How do you drink your $4 Starbucks while pregnant women die of cold for lack of blankets?

The answer...as far as last night's thinking would get me...

..you just do.

You accept it as reality. Just like the Starfish-Thrower.

People will suffer. They will always suffer. In unimaginable ways. (Again, just as we will experience joy in lush profundity). That is truth. And that sucks. Somehow, you learn to accept it, and you find the one thing you're going to do about it in that moment.

That one thing.

You contribute to the cause.
You drive to the blast zone.
You parent.
You volunteer.
You hug your mom.
You eat, and laugh to get stronger and revived.
You fight the war against something evil.
You protest the war against something human.
You come home from work because she waits for you.
You write the blog.
You work, to make the money.
You pray.
You hope as much as you can.
You sleep, so that you can do it again.

You do the one thing, and you value that for what it is. It is a drop in the bucket, and until you become present to that reality, I think you will inevitably go to #1 or #2. Let it be your drop in the bucket. The bucket will never fill...true. Live with that. It never will. But that doesn't mean you didn't add your drop. Choose futility; it's forever superior to ambivalence.

I am not a world-saver. I am not even yet a Starfish-Thrower, really. Not really. But I am learning to love those that were saved, and mourn for those that died, and perhaps to do so with equal reverence.

Peace,
Justin

When I started this blog, I made a promise to myself that I would not focus on how "good," "interesting" or even "remotely intelligible" my writing was...that it was about the exercise and thrill of writing, and not what is produced. As a result, I've made it my practice to publish nearly everything that I take the time to sit down and write...knowing that once I start being selective, I'll never publish anything, and then I'll just stop writing.

Notice, I said nearly everything.

Sometimes, I get halfway through a post and realize it's going nowhere. I thought I had something to say; thought I had something to offer the world. Thankfully, at some point, I realized I did, in fact, not.

With that, I'd like to offer you two half-posts for which I have no explanation, and presented with a tone something like apology, and mostly like a confusion: I'm scratching my head as much as you are on these.


#!: My would-have-been gas-price rant. Honestly, I think I actually meant to get to saying something about gas prices on this one. Something about how I hate paying more, but that hopefully it would force Americans to save energy. Unfortunately, I got about 700 words into a nonsensical reminiscent metaphor, and completely derailed. Please join me in a rousing chorus of, "where the hell were you going with that one?":

--

It seems like these days every blog in the country is whining about the price of gas.

Please let me join in the chorus...


This is ridiculous. And it's very, very good for people like me.

Do you remember when you were a kid and you had a Nintendo...and you'd be right in the middle of the 4th-level Big Boss in Rush N' Attack...and your mom would call for dinner. You'd write down your save code ('cause a "hard drive" was nigh unheard of back in the day) and run off to a plate of meat and peas, scarf it down with eager ferocity, and run back to your game...only to find out that turning the power "on" only yields a blinking grey-and-half-title-slide? [Long sentence]. You'd pull the cartridge out, you'd blow in it, you'd stick it back in. Grey-blink-halfscreen-blink. You'd turn it off, push the game up and down a couple dozen times as fast as possible, and try again. Grey-blink-halfscreen-blink. You'd even take out your old dusty Duck Hunt cartridge to jam in on top of the current game, hoping somehow that wedging them together will dislodge the game just enough to confuse the Nintendo fairies into accidentally letting it work...

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#2: 46 Thoughts. I woke up one morning a couple of months ago with thoughts firing through my head so quickly and with such scattered subject matters, I thought it may be cathartic to try to record as many as I could between the time I woke up and the time I had breakfast. Fortunately for you, my last thought of the morning was, "this is a terrible idea." I stopped 46 thoughts in, realizing that virtually nobody would make it past 4 and still care:

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Here are 46 thoughts I had before breakfast this morning:

1. Instead of training me to wake up and start my day, my snooze button has taught me how to sleep comfortably in nine-minute increments.
2. My cats have learned nothing since we got them. Nothing.
3. I don't need a new car.
4. I'd rather have great speakers than a great TV. I'd prefer both, though.
5. "Magik, The Gathering" would have had a chance of being really fun if the uber-dark scary kids hadn't taken it over.
6. It would be really fun to have a wicker-furniture fight with someone.
7. I don't think I could hold the same position/job for more than five years without becoming very bad at it.
8. If you're smelling a fart, does that mean you're actually inhaling little particles of someone else's poo? Scent has to have some vehicle/mass right?
9. We've got about eight more years before Americans start to notice other Americans dying from global climate change.
10. We wash the sheets each week. We change the mattress cover each month-ish. We even dryclean the comforter a couple times a year. But what about the mattress? Isn't it just kind of a giant sponge for grossness?
11. Count Chocula + Milk = purple?
12. I have to pee. But it's warm in bed. I wish I could pee in bed.
13. I wonder if my dreams are being planned all day, or if my brain just makes them up as it goes.
14. I want to be able to drink shower water as it leaves the showerhead...and in theory I should be able to, just like tap water...but I can't bring myself to do it.
15. There's something about pony-tails. I can't explain it. There's just something endearing about them.
16. I constantly feel like I'm late for something.
17. Whitney Houston had nothing but potential.
18. I wish I liked martinis. They seem very cool. And when I order straight whiskey, people assume I'm an alcoholic. If I order a martini, people assume I've read Vogue.
19. I used to like to draw. I wonder if I can still draw? Probably not.
20. Even when I have nothing to worry about, I fill in stuff. If I can't come up with stuff, it drives me nuts that I can't remember what it is I should be worrying about, which opens up the possibility that I'm actually being snuck up on by EVERYTHING now.
21. Twins are creepy. I know, I know. But still.
22. I love using the F-word at just the right time. It makes me feel rebellious.
23. I haven't touched my bass in a long time.
24. Could I bench-press my car if I had to?
25. The Red Hot Chili Peppers were way better when they were on heroin.
26. I'm late for work.
27. I would trust the Church a lot more if they admitted being as confused as I am.
28. My entire life, milk has just "shown up" for me. I've never had to buy it...it's just there when I open the door.
29. I'll never be an adult until something really tragic happens to me.
30. Harry Potter was good, but c'mon. This is getting silly.
31. I wonder what my chin looks like.
32. Chivalry: wonderful old-timey respect for the elegance of women, or subtle form of misogyny?
33. Robert Frost is better than "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening." It's like loving Mr. Big for "Be With You."
34. I'm kind of over fireworks.
35. Is it better to smoke one cigarette a day, or seven on Friday night?
36. Do germs kill each other too?
37. We need a new kitchen floor. But I don't want to do that until we fix the bathroom. But I don't want to do that until we get a shed.
38. Mo' money, mo' problems.
39. I always grab a toothpick when I'm leaving Steak N' Shake, cause it makes me feel nonchalant.
40. I hate the smell of makeup.
41. I loved high school, but I almost never miss it.
42. Really on-the-ball people always have charged phones.
43. Polo shirts don't work for heavy guys.
44. Stacy's voice feels like home.
45. Now I'm really late for work.
46. I used to love the airport. Now it feels mostly like work.

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That's all! Stay tuned for more half-baked crap from the past!

Peace,
Justin

P6200155.JPG
Originally uploaded by Justin Masterson.

It’s absolutely unimaginable that I would be in Moscow.

I remember growing up in the midst of the cold war. I remember fearing nuclear attack from Russia. I remember Ronald Regan’s dramatic demand that Mr. Gorbechav would “tear down that wall.” The Russia that I know is a communist state, ruled with fear and failed idealism in the strength and integrity of the worker, and dedicated to destroying capitalist America with…lord…whatever it was they had aimed at us in War Games.

And yet, I am in a city of full unbridled capitalism, teeming with market-won wealth, and, perhaps most amazingly, me. The immigration process was, of all things, uneventful, consisting of five nervous minutes of an immigration officer oscillating between staring at my visa and staring at me, then finally stamping it with what appears to be “CRMNNICTAR,” but probably does not mean criminal, dictum, nectar, or any combination thereof.

I sped through the city in the back of a taxi, and marveled at how many Mercedes and BMWs I saw, and how very few old wrinkled women in head scarves carrying swaddled babies I saw. (To date, none). There were no huge statues of Stalin or Lenin, no giant communist flags, and no scary soldiers in war-green outfits and sloped hats. Mostly just people who look like white Americans, but with skinnier clothing, bonier cheeks, and far more attention paid to their mustaches. The buildings blurred by in a Germanic theme, colorful remnants of a period of magnificent culture and art before communist rule, many with brand new signs on the front, blazing Cyrillic interpretations of names I know from my local shopping mall…Sbarro, McDonalds, CitiBank.

I ate dinner in a very modern Russo/Euro fusion restaurant, very appropriately named Vogue. It was a European take on Russian favorites…my dinner consisted of Borsch (warm red beet soup), Beef Stroganoff (sautéed beef, noticeably without noodles), black caviar (far more common here than in the US…sometimes spread on toast in casual meals), roasted vegetables (vegetables which have been roasted), and raspberry blini (a pancake blintz with liquid fantastic on the inside).

Magnificent dinner…but, after receiving the bill and running a quick exchange-rate-tally…it became apparent why Moscow was just announced to be the “most expensive city in the world.” Dinners ran over $100 apiece, hotel costs somewhere pushing $680/night, and a bottle of water in the room will cost you just around $12. This a great city to visit if you’re on business, you’re insanely wealthy, or you’ve stolen someone else’s credit card.

If you're interested, you can check out pics at the ol' Flickr site.

Peace,
Justin

I feel a little bit like a scorned wife. And my cheating husband goes by "Fox."

Firefly was canceled due to a "lack of interest" by the Fox Network. I am still angry about that. It was a critically-acclaimed program that, among a sea of reality-TV shows and brainless sitcoms, stood out as a shining beacon of brilliant writing, fine acting, and real storytelling intoning Cino-Western variations on the heart's most ancient themes. I mourned the loss in my own nerdy ways, reading forums and following fan sites and hoping beyond hope that Fox would see the dollar signs painted on the stacks of sold-out DVD sets and high-grossing follow-up movie, and resurrect this gem. It was not to be.

Meanwhile, shows like "The War at Home," "So You Think You Can Dance," and "Bones" continued to live in comfort on the network. "American Idol" continued to thrive, even with a grass-roots effort to have its most talentless pseudo-crooner voted to #1 every week, and "Hell's Kitchen" defied cancellation with episode after episode of sensational screaming Brit. I continued to wash my dishes and set the table for my wandering Fox every night, with fond memories of our early-Simpsons honeymoon and a distant hope of another surprise Firefly romantic weekend.

Then, just when I threatened to pack my bags and leave for the last time to my cousin Netflix's house where I can find safe haven and old episodes of Northern Exposure on DVD, Fox promised me change...Fox promised me renewal...a Bed & Breakfast redemption for a failing marriage...

...it was called Drive

Drive was written and produced by Tim Minear, Joss Whedon's Firefly-writing-partner. It starred Nathan Fillion, the former hero of Firefly/Serenity, as the lead actor. It featured Richard Brooks, who played Firefly's most intriguing and notorious character, Jubal Early. And, more than anything, it had whispers of the clever writing, magic characterization and vortex wit that I had been yearning for since Laura Palmer's dad was exposed, Jim Prufrock disappeared from the streets of Push, and Joel Fleischman boarded a plane for the mainland. It wasn't perfect by any means...several bad actors and a sense that Ford was one memo away from ubiquitous product placement hampered the show...but it was good. Not just "TV good"...like, actually good. It had heart...and it had clever. And, for the first time in a couple of years, it felt like somebody was actually trying to produce something new for network television.

My heart rose. I told everyone I came into contact with. I raved to my bowling league, and I spread the gospel at work. I told the guy next to me on the flight back from Boston. In retrospect, I may as well have been saying, "yeah, but he told me he actually won't cheat this time."

They canceled Drive after two episodes. It was on TV for ten days. Critics loved it. Fans raved. But it was a startup...it was complicated, and nuanced, and it required the better part of your frontal lobe to follow the dialogue. In short, it wasn't "So You Think You Can Dance." They had spent TWO MONTHS promoting this show...dropping enticing ads in American Idol and 24...two of Fox's most highly-rated shows. Ratings were good...but apparently not good enough for a show that cost that much to produce. Fox canceled it. After two episodes.

I found out yesterday. I found a strange thread in a random google search that read "SAVE DRIVE FROM THE AXE." It was lipstick on the collar; a waft of unfamiliar perfume in the laundry. I told myself I probably was jumping to conclusions...I mean, he promised...but I clicked anyway. It was Fox site dedicated to drive...and it was page after page of fans lamenting the loss of this promising show.

I was tricked again. I thought good TV had a chance. I was foolish.

I skipped 24 this week. I think I'm protesting. It's passive-aggression. It's one step closer to calling Netflix back up for a romp...like the old days.

Probably best. I've been watching too much TV for a guy with full-time job and a wife and a house. And now, I've got one less reason.

Peace,
Justin

I owe the Christian Church an apology.

I went to church this morning.

No...let's be more accurate.

Stacy went to church this morning. I followed Stacy because it's Easter and I wanted to be wherever Stacy was. So, I was in a church.

I've had a bit of trouble going to church for the last couple of years. And by, "a little bit of trouble," I mean, I haven't gone. I haven't gone because I'm angry, because I'm a little bitter, and because, deep down, I'm having a hell of a time reconciling my conception of faith with what it is that the churches I've been to spend their weekends talking about. I also haven't gone because I worked in a church...a good church by all accounts...for four years, and I made mistakes that meant prioritizing my job more than my wife and my friends. I didn't want that any more. I didn't want god-sounding-work to mess up my actual life.

So I've been avoiding church pretty adamantly. And being mostly quietly pissed. Walking back into a megachurch this morning, in some ways, felt like crumpling; like walking into an old sore and lying down beneath the loose bits of torn skin.

But I went back because Stacy wanted to go. I'm glad I did. I realized something this morning.

Nothing about this morning's church service was incredible. It was very lightsy-soundy-drama-y, and a lot of people worked really hard to make it happen, but nothing about the service struck me. What struck me was the fact that a lot of people worked really hard to make it happen. People...just like me, just like you. They put a bunch of time and energy and money into putting on this weekend service for me and for Stacy and the other 2000 people there. They created an imperfect service, extolling things I kind of mostly believe in, and sharing ideas they care passionately about and I generally don't buy.

Here's the thing...the Christian Church is a bunch of people. It's me, it's them, it's us.

I've held the Church to such high standards for so long, it was inevitable I would feel let down and disappointed. I built this set of ideals that suggested that other men and women would be able to tell me about the Perfect Unknowable in ways that made sense to me, and that they would do so cleanly, smoothly, and without error, contradiction, or personal foul-ups. I held the Church to an impossible standard, if we're being honest. No one...no human...no group of humans...could possibly meet that standard.

I don't know who to apologize to exactly, so I'm apologizing here. Church, I'm sorry. I'm beginning to realize that my expectations were ridiculous, unrealistic, and more than a little hypocritical. If anyone should understand that the church is just a group of people, it would be a guy who worked at a church for all that time. I'm flawed just as deeply as anyone else, and I'm certain I screwed up the church experience for others during my tenure there. Perhaps even now. And yet, I expected the other people to rise to a standard much higher than that which I can meet. I sought perfection, because, at some level, I didn't distinguish between a Perfect God, and those who are doing their best to follow Him.

I'm sorry, Church. I would never hold others to the standard that I've held you. I wouldn't even hold myself to that standard. It was unfair, and my anger and bitterness are my own product and responsibility, not yours. You deserve the same leeway that all of us flawed and wonderful humans do. Again, I'm sorry.

I have no reason to expect I'm going to be cool with the Church overnight. I certainly don't expect I'm going to start going again right away. Honestly, going to church isn't an end-goal for me...growing in my pursuit of understanding whatever little bits I can about God is. Maybe I'll get there in a church, and maybe I won't. But I hope today adds a bit of much-needed perspective to my criticism of the group of people who claim a knowledge of God through Jesus Christ. They deserve the same grace I do. I will continue to rage, critique, and complain...I know I will. But hopefully I'll at least consider the people before I rail the institution, and hopefully I can continue my search for truth from a more honest and graceful place.

I think the Church deserves at least that. I think I do.

Peace,
Justin

I’m in a list mood. (I think Clinton from Zombie Fights Shark is inspiring me). SO, here is a list of five things I’ve learned in my two days in Mexico:

1. Tacos are genuine Mexican food, but burritos make Mexicans laugh when you try to order them, as they’re apparently something Gringos made up. (Note to self: consult Wikipedia before going anywhere, ever).
2. Fried worms, while entirely disgusting looking, are actually entirely disgusting tasting. (I’ll post the picture as soon as I can find a cable and D/L it to my computer).
3. The people of Mexico City, in great contrast to those bastards in Paris and Milan, are very happy to speak English with you, and are delighted when you give Spanish your very best shot.
4. No, it’s cool, just park that anywhere.
5. Nobody likes it when you correct their spelling or grammar, regardless of how relevant that correction might be. (This has nothing to do with being in Mexico, other than the fact that I just corrected the grammar of the one of my team-mates, and he smiled the kind of polite smile that, if you look deep enough, says, “I went to Harvard Business, and you’re telling me about a misplaced ‘a’?” Point well taken.

There's nothing like a little perspective to give you some perspective...

This is a shot of Seattle at 6:30 this morning, taken from my terrifically crappy mobile phone camera, taken from my terrifically terrific hotel room on the 43rd floor of the North tower of the Westin, Seattle. You can see Puget sound and even a little bit of the mountain ranges. And some buildings. But somehow, even those are pretty.

If you're a long-time blog reader, and you happen to be a mutant with the power to remember even the smallest of details, you may recall that I've been to Seattle for my work before. Just about two years ago, I was in this very spot, writing about the hope and possibility of things to come, and pleased as punch to be leaving my old gig to try something new.

Now, a bit less than two years later, I'm back here, and it feels poetic. I spent the six-hour plane ride out here lamenting the fact that I've been on the road for three out of the last four weeks, and away from Stacy. I've been a bit down about that...feeling like I travel too much...and, in the way only the truly short-sighted can...not taking the time to look back and figure out what's so great about exactly where I am.

Then, this morning, I found that old post. And I marveled at my own capacity to forget the past, and to ignore the clear and obvious signs of blessing on me.

Here I am, eighteen months after my previous post, sitting in the same hotel room, with thousands of miles, dozens of cities, several countries, and a bunch of money between this me and that me. I also have memories of places I never would have gone, conversations with people in cultures I never would have gotten to explore, chances to stretch myself in ways I never would have dared, and the chance to taste food no one should ever eat. I love my job, and, in some kind of moderation, I love to travel. To sit and ruminate about the one down-side of my job while flying to my favorite visiting-city in the US where I'll lodge in my favorite hotel and overlook one of the most beautiful sights in the country...again, short-sighted.

I'm very happy this morning. I woke up at 6:30 (woke up in Newark yesterday...big time difference), opened my curtains and gaped at the Sound. I will drink my Starbucks, and perhaps even play some Indie music while I workout, just to get the Seattle feel. I will be where I am for today, and look forward to what is, rather than wish for what isn't, what was, or what I think should have been.

Starting to sound like a Daily Affirmation, isn't it? Don't mean to get corny, but the view from up here made me want to do something taller.

I had Pacific Oysters for dinner, and they were delicious. Here's to the good things.

Peace,
Justin

I've not made a lot of universal rules. Those I've made have been neither widely disseminated, nor routinely abided. Among those rules nobody seems to follow:

- Orders at Starbucks must be limited to fourteen syllables or less. You came for coffee. You ordered an in-ground pool. Stop it.

- People must show .006 seconds of concern for your well-being after you've told them you just had a bout with food poisoning before they're allowed to ask, "where did you eat?"

- Shut up, cats.

- Martin Lawrence, before being allowed to make a new movie, must sit and watch any of his other movies. If he can still see, he's allowed to make one more.



But now I’d like to make a new rule, and if this one doesn’t stick, damnit if I’m not going to…I dunno…sit and bitch about it some more. Here is my new rule:

- No leaning back in airplane seats if you’re in Coach.

I fly Coach. For those of you who fly Business Class or First Class, let me give you a sense of what us Coach flyers are experiencing back behind that Iron Curtain.

Let’s have an activity…



What I want you to do is to go to your nearest elementary school and steal two chairs. (Don’t worry, you’ll get to put them back when you’re done, and if anyone stops you, just tell them it’s for science). Take these tiny chairs home and put them in the crawlspace of your home, facing a wall, and about seven inches from it.

Then I want you to invite your wife, husband, or domestic partner to sit in that chair, and to rest his/her arm on the armrest of your elementary-school-chair.

Next, I want you to grab a briefcase, a laptop bag, and an old Brookstone plastic bag (The Sharper Image or Chic-Fil-A may be substituted), and fill them with rocks. Once this is accomplished, please re-enter your crawlspace while carrying all three, and work your way back to the elementary school chair without touching any other items or boxes with any of the bags. (If you touch one, please yell “Hey, watch out” at yourself and then glare angrily at yourself, and then start over). Once next to your Significant-Other, you must push your way past your SO to the empty chair without touching your SO with any of the bags, or your butt, or your crotch; then sit in the elementary-school chair and find a way to stow all three bags of rocks under the elementary school chair (or, if you’re an overhead-bin kind of person, in a shoebox nearby).

Sit in that chair, facing the wall, with seven inches of clearance between your chair and the wall, for four hours. If you feel you need to pee, please cram yourself in a ventilation duct to do so, then return to your seat immediately.

You are permitted one snack of eleven peanuts and four ounces of generic spring water at the two-hour mark, but you must refer to them as “refreshments and beverage service,” and can only store them on your lap on top of a tray the size of a graduation cap.



…Now…


Let’s do this…let’s now presume the guy in front of you put his seat back.

…approximately ten minutes into your four-hour journey, I want you to scoot your chair closer to the wall by four of your seven inches.

You now have three inches left.

Your shoulders are pushed back into the elementary school chair, your legs are arched with your shins digging into the wall, and your hands are stuck helplessly at your side as you try to imagine how much better it will feel when the lack of blood in your feet moves from “pins and needles” to “totally numb.”

For additional hilarity, please have your SO, at that very moment, turn to you and say, “ladies and gentlemen, you are now permitted to take out your laptop computers.”



Here’s the thing…

If you’re in an airplane seat, and you lean back, you get MAYBE four degrees of lean. MAYBE. Let’s face it…you’re not any happier…if anything, you’ve just shattered hope that this ride could get more comfortable by eliminating the one option you had to make it so.

Moreover, the guy behind you loses four inches. This may not seem like much, but remember, he only had seven. You’ve just taken away 60% of his space.

I know you’re allowed to lean back in airplane seats. I know that. I’m not saying you’re not. You’re also allowed to fart in small cars, and allowed to use the bathroom on busses for #2. But if you’re any kind of a reasonable, sensible person, you don’t. Because that’s what makes us human.

Can we all agree to this new rule?

So it is written, so shall it be done.

Peace,
Justin

IMG_3062.JPG
Originally uploaded by Justin Masterson.

I am writing this from the comfort of my living room, back here in the good ol' US-of-A.

(I feel like I should give my best Toby Keith sneer when I say "US-of-A." And then maybe there should be beer).

My trip to China was incredible. I lived as a minority in a city older than my own language. I ate food that my culture would eschew as dangerous, or gross or pets. I got to spend time in the homes of very kind and very polite people with deep spiritual convictions, intense dedication to family values, and a household yearly income lower than my monthly salary. I walked the streets and talked with the people and bought a handbag for my wife. I loved my time there as a tourist, as an outsider, and as a curious observer.

One thing I learned is that getting into China is much, much easier than getting out of China. Do you remember how they tell you to get to the airport 3 hours before an international flight, and how you always wonder why when you get through customs and security and still have 2 hours and 45 minutes left to wait?

Apparently, China is the reason they made that rule.

Greg and I got there 2.5 hours before our flight. We spent the first 20 minutes or so being misdirected to several locations in the huge Pudong airport by airport-staff who meant well, but who had apparently been hired some time that morning. Once finding the proper check-in site, we were able to breeze up to the front of the line in about ten minutes. Upon getting to the front of the line, we were greeted by a very smiley and very polite Korean Air woman, who, while very kind, wasn't really in a great position to do business with a couple of Americans trying to get back home.

(Please don't hear this as me being angry at her...we are the Americans who don't speak her language...and she tried very hard to speak ours. She worked very hard to make it work, but it didn't).

After she had called over another woman and checked in our bags to make sure they would follow us to Seoul, then Los Angeles, then Laguardia, then finally to Cincinnati, we began the process of explaining that we were not, in fact, going to LAX or Laguardia, which began a good 15-minute conversation on how Chicago and New York are not the same place, and that CVG (Cincinnati's airport) and PVG (Seoul's airport), despite having similar 3-letter-codes, have several important geographical differences.

I'm still not sure where she got the Los Angeles part from.

After we had sorted out the bag-destination piece, she sent me to the counter where I was meant to pay for the baggage-shipping. This counter was manned by one very very old lady and five teenagers who, it can be presumed, were there as some sort of detention. I waited in line until I got to the front, where I watched a very nervous-looking girl try unsuccessfully to fill out the required baggage paperwork. Several times. Nine, actually. Nine times. She tried nine times. I counted. Nine. There were no computers, so when I say "paperwork," I mean ancient-looking Chinese-government forms which must be filled out in triplicate in Chinese. She would work through each set of three forms all the way before deciding something about them wasn't working for her, then crumple and throw away and start over. Nine times. 30 minutes. Watching her fill out one form.

When she finally had filled it out to her satisfaction, she passed it to the very old woman, who I gather was a cashier. The old woman looked at the ticket and handed it back to the girl, muttering something in Chinese.

The girl threw the form away and started over.

She must have gotten it right on the tenth try, because the old woman took the form, read it over, and pulled out an abacus. As in, "welcome to the museum of natural history, please take a moment to look at this abacus and marvel at its ancientness. Now, on to the stalactite collection..." I'll give you, she was a whiz at the abacus, but still. She wrote out my receipt in Chinese and sent me on my way.

I returned to the counter, where they promptly sent me to security to verify that my electric toothbrush was not a bomb. It was, in fact, not.

We jumped on the plane and went to Seoul. It was a great flight, and very relaxing. Somewhere around midnight, we got off the plane in Seoul and headed out the gate to the "Transit Hotel" which is a hotel cleverly built into the airport, intended to allow international travelers who are simply laying over in Seoul to a place to rest without having to collect their bags and go through customs and immigration.

Aaah, the best laid plans of mice and men...

Apparently, when they built the transit hotel into the Incheon International Airport, they neglected to tell the staff of the Incheon International Airport that they had built the transit hotel. The woman whose job it was to make sure we got directed to the right place had actually never heard of the transit hotel, which was weird because it was her job to send people there. She even had a list of people who had reserved rooms in the hotel in her hand, which ended up becoming the focal point of a very confusing debate between us and her as to whether or not the hotel exists. (She maintains no).

She sent us through immigration (despite a letter in my hand from the hotel which says "DO NOT GO THROUGH IMMIGRATION OR CUSTOMS") and out to Customs before we finally got fed up enough to find someone else to help us. By the fourth person we asked about the hotel, we finally found someone who had heard of it. As it turns out, it's right next to the gate. Aaaaah. Damn sneaky hotel. 90 minutes after beginning our quest to get to our "easy and convenient" hotel, we were able to convince the one employee left in the airport at 1:30 in the morning to allow us through to the hotel. I tried to sleep that night...but honestly, I was pissed enough that I didn't sleep. I did, however, watch the movie "Honey," with Jessica Alba, which, mercifully, had all of its dialogue over-dubbed in Korean.

The rest of the trip home was relatively peaceful, with another magnficent flight on Korean Air. I was sick for the last few days of my visit, and knocked myself out with cold medicine for most of the flight, but my few waking hours were spent munching on great Korean food and playing Tetris with Greg. (He came out the big winner...won twice as many as I did in the end). I got home somewhere around 3:30 on Friday, exhausted and very, very grateful for my trip.

As wonderful as the trip was, though, I will tell you that I'm very, very happy to be home. Upon my return, I got home, fired off a couple of quick emails, and joyously waited for Stacy to get home. She had cleaned the entire house, and made me my very favorite dinner, which was entirely meat-and-potatoes, and undeniably American. She made my favorite dessert and even lit candles. It was magic. I hit the couch immediately afterward, and have slept for 26 of the last 44 hours.

I will upload the final pics Greg and I took (mostly Greg, he has the nice camera) to the ol' Flickr account shortly, and hopefully share a couple more stories. Thanks for prayers and interest throughout my trip...it was really great knowing that my friends back here in the States were following the journey; it made home feel close, and that was very good. I look forward to having slideshows, and catching up on what's going on here. A week's not a long time to be gone...but I was very far away, and really out of touch with American media...so you'll have to let me know if anything really crazy happened.

It's been a fun journey. Thanks for being a part of it. I may head back in April for some follow-up work...I'll keep you posted.

Peace,
Justin

The Cod That Refused to Be...

P2110010.JPG
Originally uploaded by Justin Masterson.

I have been in research all day for two straight days. As a result, I have no pictures to share. In lieu of pictures of those days, I offer you this picture from my first day here, when we ate a fish whose head joined the rest of itself on our dinner table.

I'm learning that "ordering" in Shanghai, China is not what it is in the U.S. in the US, when you "order" something, whether it's a dish in a restaurant or asking to buy a jacket in a store, the employees generally consider this a mandate of sorts to provide you with the thing you asked for.

In China, it seems, "ordering" is actually just an opportunity to open up a dialogue in which the server/shopkeeper gets to tell you what it is you REALLY wanted, and then bring it to you.

Greg ordered a cod. The picture you're looking at is very not a cod. It's some kind of very weird Mandarin fish dish. Greg pointed at the cod on the menu. The waiter pointed at a dish on the other page. Greg said, "No," and pointed back at the cod. More enthusiastically, the waiter pointed at the dish on the other page. Clearly thinking the waiter was simply misunderstanding where he was pointing (I assumed pointing was an international language of sorts), Greg pointed vehemently at the cod. Even more vehemently, and somewhat nonplussed at Greg's refusal to speak Chinese Point-Finger, the waiter pointed at the cod, took the menu, and walked away.

Fifteen minutes later, out came this thing.

It was a fish. A whole fish. They were kind enough to separate the fish's head from it's body, as is traditional in Western fish-eating, but did not go so far as to actually remove the head from the plate. Instead, they deep-fried the head along with the fish, and then doused it in vegetables and some kind of mung-sauce.

We ate a lot of bread.

Some of the Chinese food has been really good. Some has been really not good. Most has just been very exotic, and I'm glad to have the option to try it. Here are a few of the dishes I've tried in the last couple of days:

1. Loose grass-clipping tea
2. Raw "black chicken" (chicken whose skin is naturally black)
3. Pumpkin rind
4. Teriaki eel strips
5. Drunken fish
6. Raw beef
7. Sino-Italian Grapa moonshine
8. Bulgur wheat tea
9. Pork-tofu
10. Unnamed animal on a stick

So, last night, in the middle of the NYC of China, I ordered up my favorite Chinese dish yet.

It was a cheeseburger. And it was delicious.

i have loved this country. But I'm looking forward to my return home.

I'm heading back to the Yu Yuan gardens tomorrow...the thought of having visited such a place without taking pictures made me ill. (Well, that and the raw chicken). So, Greg and I head out tomorrow morning to shoot some shots of the Gardens. I hope to post 'em before I get home on Fri afternoon.

Please pray for our safe return if you find the time and the spirit, and I'll keep ya'll posted.

Peace,
Justin

My Day As an Asian Man...

Yu Yuan Gardens Chinese Archt
Originally uploaded by silverlinedwinnebago.

It's kinda hard to blend into Shanghai, China when you're 6'2", pale as a blister, and wearing a solid white button-up.

Because of overcrowding on our research team, I "subbed out" today while the rest of the team went to do the research throughout greater Shanghai. So, I'm left at the facility in the middle of the city by myself, with 9 or so hours to kill. So, I did what any self-respecting white guy with a nigh-paralyzing fear of the unknown would do...

...I went out.

For those of you who are naturally oriented towards world-exploring in strange and unfamiliar cultures, this story will seem stupid and banal. For those of you who land somewhere in the middle, this story will just seem banal. But, for those of you like me, who automatically think "I wonder if I can find an English-language gameshow network on the hotel room TV" when you have spare time in an unfamiliar country, this story may be slightly inspiring.

...I spent the last five hours, by myself, wandering around downtown Shanghai.

Unfortunately, I sent all four of the cameras that I brought with me out with the research teams, so I don't have any photos to share of my adventures. So, I'll have to use my rapier wit, my cunning language, and my "descriptive words for dummies" tome to paint the picture for you.

As I stood in the elevator of the research facility, I knew I had a choice to make...I was either going to take the easy road and go back to the air-conditioned comfort of the Westin, or I was going to go it alone. I breathed deeply, walked out the front door of the World Trade Tower, and just started walking.

I walked for nearly an hour, peeking into shops and repeatedly saying "Bou Yow" (no thanks) to people who kept yelling "Hello sir! DVD, Bag, Watch, Gucci, Prada?" (The fake stuff black market is alive, well, and downright ubiquitous here). I navigated the streets, I figured out how the crosswalks work, and I dodged entire families piled high on little motorscooters as they weaved in and out of traffic without regard for signals or right-of-way. I exchanged currency, bought water, and asked for directions...all fairly complicated tasks when you don't speak Chinese and the vendors don't speak English. I meandered down the narrow alleys and back roads, ducking under laundry lines and passing fruit stands and lots of men smoking. I got pointed at and laughed at by little Chinese children, which is the furthest thing from offensive and actually quite endearing. (BTW: Chinese children may be the cutest children on the planet. If you have a degree in advanced genetic manipulation so Stacy and I can have one, please let me know). I chatted with old men who spoke English, I admired the waterfront and massive Chinese tugboats at the Huangpu river, and I met a guy who cuts paper and sells it to tourists (again, more interesting than it sounds).
I eventually picked a destination, the Yu Yuan Gardens, and spent another good hour looking for it. I eventually found it, after trading odd directional hand-gestures with several polite Chinese policemen, and paid my 30RMB (US $3.50) to go inside.

I can't possibly do it justice here.

The gardens were built during the Ming dynasty, and have continued virtually unchanged ever since. They are pristine, stunning, and intensely Chinese. It was like walking into a rice-paper painting...every bit as delicate and intricate. The halls and gardens had names which translated to "Hall of Mildness," and "Thoughts While in Silence." The goldfish were huge and odd and, somehow, just as Chinese as their surroundings. People were quiet and respectful, and the loud, bustling city around disappeared among this architectural and horticultural masterwork. My eyes watered with awe throughout...I literally dumb-struck...I didn't speak a word for nearly two hours as I wandered the gardens. It stung deep to not have my camera with me, but the experience will showcase in my brain-movies for years and years to come.

I left the gardens in a sort of Buddhisty trance, and felt lifted and washed.

I was also hungry and desperate to pee...and toilets and English-friendly restaurants have both been a bit elusive here. I pushed and excuse-me'd my way through the throngs of Chinese New Year celebrants in the Yuan district, and eventually found a cafeteria-ish thing with tons of food and a restroom. Score.

I have no idea what I ate. I'd like to guess, but it would be pure speculation. The meat thing seemed to be cooked-animal-kabob, but it didn't taste like any animal I've eaten before. The soup involved a grain, and the drink was either watermelon juice or some kind of coffee. I had the honor of coining the international symbol for "where can I sit to where I'm not looking directly into the sun," and, again, got laughed at by Chinese children. I ate in courage, and, in some ways, I ate in victory.

As I walked back to the hotel, I met a Chinese "friend" (read: guy who pretends to be interested in Americans so he can take you to a hole-in-the-wall store in order to sell you cheap crap), followed him to a tea shop, and chatted for some time about Buddhism, communism, and what a great deal I could get on a genuine Rolex.

(I am now the proud owner of a $40 "genuine" Rolex...it was more about the experience than the having).

As I walked back to the hotel, my feet hurting and my chintz-bag in tow, I felt victorious. I had, in some ways, beaten my fear and done something scary. I couldn't wait to get here and share it with you.

Today was a big day for me. I'm growing.

Peace,
Justin

Fruity Oaty Bars...

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Originally uploaded by Justin Masterson.

Doesn't this billboard just make you wonder, "what's in the bowl?" The little girl seems to know...in kind of a sly way, at that.

Wow. This morning, Greg and I wandered around Shanghai, shopping and exploring. Wow. This is a very very different place.

I can't wait to tell you stories. We're running out the door now, but I'll write tonight, which will be your this morning.

If I didn't write about it in the next entry, please remind me to tell you about the quest for the black jacket, how to say no to a watch salesman, and the cod that refuses to be.

Peace,
Justin

Fri 743 p.m. (US)

As I write this, I'm eight hours into a 14-hour flight from Chicago to Seoul, South Korea (the good Korea)...and the little map in front of me tells me we're somewhere over Alaska.

I’m flying on a Korean Air 747-400…the double-decker kind of jet…and I’m up on the upper-deck. We took a Comair puddle-jumper from Cincy to Chicago…Delta (sigh)…and I couldn’t help but laugh when they announced that, due to our imminent approach to Chicago, “service would be discontinued in the cabin.” By “service,” I’m assuming they mean the surly woman who grumbled by me with a six-ounce (not kidding) Dasani water bottle and said “want water?” with the same enthusiasm a polite man in a downpour asks, “want my umbrella?” They also offered a tacky piece of dried biscotti in a Delta cello-wrap. Frankly, I was pleased to see it discontinued.

This is compared with Korean Air, where, after being escorted to the upper-deck and shown our all-in-one-music-TV-movie-videogame-shopping-massage-phonecall-vibrating-recliner-seat (with about four feet of legroom), we were given slippers, a glass of wine, a glass of fresh watermelon juice, and a plate of warm cookies. This was followed by two four-course meals during the course of our flight, any number of liquor, wine, beer and coffee services, a bunch of random foods, 65 napkin-replacements, and about 46,000 bows. (Read as in “bow at the waist” not as in “nice bow in your hair). God help me, they even gave us face-spray.

If you read my last blog entry, you'll know that I'm afraid of Asia. Not Asians, mind you...who doesn't like Asians?....but Asia itself. I don't know if you've watched much National Geographic Channel, Travel Channel or anything else at all, but if you have, you may have noticed that Asia is very different than the US.

In China, they speak languages which sound nothing like ours. They write with strokes that look more to me like beautiful little sketches of houses than letters. They don't wear shoes inside. And they eat ducks.

Yes, quite different.

And that kinda freaks me out. I know virtually nothing of China. I can say "hello" in Mandarin, and have learned a number of very dirty curse words from Firefly, but that's about the extent of it. I'm going to be helping out on a project in the middle of a culture I can't possibly understand. I'm nervous.

I miss Stacy already. She always makes me feel comfortable. She's great at that.

I'm REALLY looking forward to this week, but it's a really healthy blend of fear and joyful anticipation.

I'll post pictures. I'll describe things. I'll probably fall asleep fairly early by their clocks, but I'll do my best to post what I can.

China man....freaking China.

Cool. (Slow, slightly shuddery breath). Cool.

Peace,
Justin







Sat 3:48 a.m. (US) 5:48 p.m. (Korea)

I am writing to you from the Sky Lounge from the airport in Seoul, South Korea. Since I’ve been in Korea (which has been about an hour now), and given only the evidence that one can gather from one’s plane at gate 17 to one’s Sky Lounge near gate 26, I have learned several things about South Korea:

1. Koreans are very clean.
2. Koreans are very polite..
3. Koreans are very, very sweet and helpful, even to stupid Americans.
4. Koreans spend a lot of time in airports.

If China is half as clean and kind as Korea, I’m set. (In fact, the rumor is that China is exactly half as clean and kind as Korea). In the 22 hours that I’ve been on this trip so far, I’ve yet to see my fears realized. No attempts to thieve my passport, no communist prisons, no bird flu or SARS, and very little kung-fu battling. Greg and I have gotten along just fine, as everyone seems to speak at least a little English, and we smile and bow our heads a lot.

I’m starting to get tired…as you can see, it’s 4:00 in the morning by my standards, and sleeping on the plane, while pleasant by comparison to most airplane experiences, was still far from restful. I’ve just downed 12 oz of some Korean drink called “Pocari Sweat” which, according to the English side of its label, “is quickly absorbed into the body tissues due to its fine osmoalaity and contains electrolytes.” I also picked up a carton of “Seoul Milk,” which, despite the great opportunity for a heart-inspiring play on words, is actually just milk from Seoul.

I’ve half a day tomorrow to attempt to catch up on sleep…but I think I’d rather spend it out and about. We’re not really going to have any touristy time during our stay in China, so I’ve got to get whatever shopping/tourism in tomorrow morning. For me, this means going to Shanghai’s shopping district, and trying to find something pretty to buy for Stacy. I hope I find something cool…I am very, very far away, so I want to bring back something that feels exotic. I’ll keep you posted.

We’re off to our quick flight to Pudong airport in Shanghai.

There was a time when I would have called in sick, and I would have missed it.


Last night, I stopped by a bachelor party for a friend in my bowling league. ("Bowling league?" you ask. "Yes, my bowling league." I reply, scowling a little at you for your tone). It was a surprise for him...the party, not the marriage...and it was held at a bar down on Main Street.

I'd been in a work-related-social-meeting-thing-with-beer in Newport until about 9:00 or so, and picked up a ride from a friend over the bridge into downtown. I walked into the bar on Main Street where, apparently, everybody but me knows the owner. I was greeted with a rousing chorus of guy-heeey! and about two-dozen handshake-into-hugs. (Hyphens were on sale this Wednesday, you'll have to forgive me). I've seen these guys 35 out of 52 Thursdays a year for the last two years, and they greeted me like I've been in their group of friends since high school.

In my khaki pants, blue ox-cloth button-up, and dark brown blazer, I stood among a sea of ripped jeans, pierced what-have-yous, and t-shirts with cuss words on 'em. I felt grossly out-of-place, and very naively dopey. I felt like a whitewashed condo built in the cool-brick arts district, the new Hyundai you regret trading your beat-up college car for. I really like these guys, and though they accept me as one of them, last night it was clear to me that I am still not...not because of them, but because of me.

You see, I'm still afraid of things...things I don't know much about. Included in this category are (but not limited to): poverty, manual labor, dance clubs, perpetually-hot cities, alternative sex, real illness, hard drugs, and most of Asia. And strippers.

For a long time, things like drugs and strippers and hard drinking and smoking and [insert your favorite un-Christian-sounding vice here] were just plain wrong as far as I was concerned, and therefore deserved no further exploration or learning. But I'm starting to think that's not the case. Are strippers/prostitutes/random hookups wrong? Jeez, I don't know. They're pretty damn wrong for me; I'd prefer to be married, and to be married I need to not be doing those things. Hence, wrong.

Are they wrong for everybody? I'm guessing they feel kinda gross for most of the strippers and prostitutes and people who are being used. Or not, I don't know, I'm not them. Maybe it's not wrong at all for them. Maybe the strippers who showed up at last night's bachelor party (OK, "showed up" is euphemistic...as if my friends hadn't paid hundreds of dollars for them to be there) are confident, self-actualized women who feel free to express their sexuality and make a ton of money at the same time. Again, I don't know, I'm not them.

Whether it's wrong for the strippers, or wrong for the guys who paid them to come, or the guys who stayed to watch, I don't know, and it's not the point. I hope all had fun, and that my buddy felt well-loved by his friends as he got ready to get married. I like him, and I want him to be happy. The point is that, a few years ago, I wouldn't have gone down there to begin with. For me, as ridiculous as it may sound, even going to the bar on Main Street to meet up with a bunch of guys having a raucous bachelor party was pretty risky...pretty scary. It's not my world...at least, it never has been. But I've been afraid of things for a long time, and while it may have saved me from doing things I might later regret; I've also missed a lot of good learning experiences...and I regret that, too.

I think I made a good choice last night. I stopped in and drank with these guys until the strippers showed up, then I took off. I wished them a great evening, gave 'em a goodbye-man-hug, and headed off. That was probably a really good choice for me. [Again: married and happy]. I'm proud of the way I was raised, and I'm proud that I keep to one woman. At the same time, I'm proud that I went down there. I stretched myself a little, and in some ways I aspire to be a little more like them. Without judgement, without condemnation...and in spite of the fear of the unknown that would have prompted both...I went down there to an unfamiliar place and a more unfamiliar situation to celebrate with my friend.

I hope everyone had a good time last night...the guys, the strippers, the bartenders. I hope all wrapped up well, and I'm looking forward to seeing everyone again next Thursday. And when I do, I'm going to go in knowing these guys just a little better; and, more importantly, knowing a little more about the world.

That's just slightly less to be scared of, and that's good.

Peace,
Justin

It's not often that American Idol gets profound.

But tonight, somehow, it got there.

The picture you're looking at is a guy named Jonathon. Jonathon is, without a doubt, mentally retarded. I don't mean that as a rude figure of speech...he actually was mentally retarded. Jonathon tried out to be the next American Idol.

He was horrible.

But...

Jeez, I can't help it, I was really touched. Jonathon could barely put a sentence together...he was awkward, overweight, and sung very poorly...but he was so excited. He really believed he could do it. Like, not in a manic "I'm so hot, I'm 'bout it, so step off" kind of way...like in a "why couldn't I do it?" kind of way. It had never really occured to him that he couldn't do it.

Something tells me that his parents and family told him to go do it, and that something was a big poster he brought with him that said "Go Jonathon!" and "Follow Your Dreams!" He made friends with the very creepy-looking guy next to him, and the two of them, in all of their ignorance and total lack of self-awareness, supported each other through the whole waiting, auditioning, and failure process.

They hugged each other before they went in. They listened intently to the door as the other one sung poorly for the judges. They encouraged each other as they walked out without a gold slip. They railed against the judges together, and told each other that they would make it.

It was sad, and it was beautiful. I got sad because some people are mentally retarded, and I got sad because I wonder what it would be like to have friendship like that. Seriously. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but it was pretty incredible. It was pure love...simple, stupid, and kind of perfect. It's probably most what friendship should look like, at its very best.

I'm not going to write more about that. But if you get a chance, watch it.

Peace,
Justin

A murderer of millions was killed a few days ago.





My friend Keith wrote a blog entry linking to a list of 11 reasons not to support the death penalty.

I wrote a response to his post...and I wanted to post it on my blog as well.

So, here it is.

---

Keith,

I was deeply satisfied to watch Saddam Hussein face the gallows. He was hung, without ceremony or fanfare, in a building that he used as a base of operations for his genocidal regime. He is a murderer on a mass scale, and he committed unimaginable crimes for which no punishment could possibly atone. He deserved death at the hands of those he oppressed.

And yet, I believe killing Saddam Hussein was a mistake. I think the death penalty is wrong.

Throughout nearly every philosophy and idealogy that I am attracted to, the notion of killing an unarmed person who poses no threat to others is deplorable. Saddam Hussein deserves death, yes...but that justice is not ours to mete out. We should stop him, and if killing him is the only way to do that, fine. But we did it without killing him. We caught him, desheveled and dirty, hiding in a spiderhole. We disarmed him, we cut off his communications with his regime and network, and we put him in jail where he can't hurt anybody. We didn't have to kill him to neutralize him.

Killing Saddam Hussein felt very, very right. But we made a martyr of him...the same way we did to Timothy McVeigh, and to David Koresh. They can't get old and weird looking and publicly nutzo like Charlie Manson is. They die "at the hands of [insert anti-American derogatory term (i.e. - Western Devil, Great Satan, etc.) here]," and it gives them an immortality that growing old and batty wouldn't. Dying by noose in the prime of your megalomaniacal tyranny is romantic and strong; dying of bladder cancer in your late 80's isn't.

I read a bumper sticker a while back that I liked. It said, "Why are we killing people who kill people to show other people that killing people is wrong?"

I wanted Saddam to die, because it makes me feel better. But I think it's the wrong choice.

Peace,
Justin