As I write, I sit.
As I sit, I stare.
I am looking at a wall of books in front of me...nine feet tall, about five-and-a-half feet wide. They sit on white shelves, colorful and silent, inviting and intimidating.
And the best part is...they're in my living room.
About three months ago, a very generous friend of mine made me a giant bookcase for my house. It was made to fit right inside of the wall of my living room. It is made of what my carpenter-friend calls MDF, which I can only assume stands for "Multi-Dimensional Foam," which is odd considering it is nothing like foam and a great deal like wood. It can, however, boast that it exists in all three dimensions.
...that was three months ago.
For the last 90 days, give or take, it has been sitting in pieces in the corner of my living room. The day after I got it, in my new-bookcase zeal, I primed it with white primer paint. (For the uninitiated, primer paint is a lot like regular paint except you can put it on with a great deal less care, as you're just going to paint over it anyway. I think it is less a painting technique and more just a right of passage). Then, I stacked the shelves inside the empty case, and put my painting and sealing materials down below the bottom shelf.
...and then I walked away.
...and I haven't touched it in three months.
...until yesterday.
...(forgive me, but ellipses were on sale again this week, so I stocked up).
Yesterday, I got tired of staring at the barren shelves stacked up inside of the empty bookcase...so I did what any responsible homeowning husband would do with a disassembled half-painted bookcase would do...
I just hung the damn shelves and put books on them.
Sure, sure...I could have painted them. I could have dragged them outside in the 35-degree afternoon, painted one side, waited for it to dry, painted the other side, and re-caulked the half-caulked bookcase in the meantime. Then I could have waited for it to dry. Then I could have sanded it, repainted, waited for that to dry, and then hung the shelves.
And I could have perhaps invented a cure for square-toe, baked a pineapple bundt cake, and called my mom just to chat. But I didn't. I just hung the damn shelves and put books on them.
And, if you don't mind me saying so, they look awfully nice, thank you very much.
At some point I had to be realistic with myself. I'm not going to paint those shelves. Not soon, anyway. I'm searching for time to do the things I love and that I absolutely need to do, and painting my bookshelf falls in neither category. However, my poor wife has had to stare at the half-assembled bookshelf long enough. So, I took a long, hard, honest look at myself, and I saw a man who does not paint bookshelves. At least, not right now.
So, I dug a few boxes of my books out of the basement and stuck 'em up there. I would guess I've got 400 or so up there...just random selections from the boxes...and stuck 'em up there in no particular order at all.
And as I sit, staring at this bookshelf...I am very, very pleased. There is so much potential up there. I haven't read all those books...there are still some left to read. And that is potential. If you'd like to borrow something, let me know...I'll see if I have it.
And if I do, I'm going to just reach up and grab it off of my bookshelf.
Because I can.
Peace,
Justin
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Saturday, November 12, 2005
50th blog entry.
Moving on...
Here is a nonsense poem I wrote this morning during a long, long, long meeting.
It sits. Silently. Slipping beneath the slithering words off the tongue,
Thundering, stumbling under its own clumsy lumbering.
It's a misogynist. An optimist.
An offering offered for providents,
Proffered beyond its own aspirations,
Taciturn nations betraying relations
For longstanding vows of promoted vocations.
And then I stopped writing because it was my turn to say something in the meeting. I think it's a poem about sound. Or the war in Iraq. Or summer camp. I'm not really sure. I only kind of like it, but I really enjoyed writing it down. It was a little like blowing your nose...messy and stealthy, but relieving. I'm sure I would have written more nonsense on it, but I had to stop.
The point of this blog entry is threefold: 1) To get over the intimidation of writing entry #50. 2) To share that 5-minute train-of-thought poem with you. 3) To say this:
I've discovered that I learn best when I'm doing something other than listening.
What I mean is this...if I sit down and try to make listening to someone talk my primary activity, I won't hear much. I'll have an overflow of energy...a desire to shift around...a need to look around a lot...a restlessness in my legs and arms and chest. They call it Attention Deficit Disorder. I don't agree. I think it is an over-abundance of attention...it just needs to be multi-directed. I think I've got more attention to go around than I have things to pay attention to. That's not a deficit, it just needs more than one focus.
So...I've discovered that I learn best when I'm doing something else. Here's how I figured it out. I was at the Willow Creek Leadership Summit at the Vineyard back in August. I sat through the first three hours of white men in colorful shirts telling me about leadership...and probably retained about 8-10% for more than a few minutes. And that was the peak...the first 45 minutes or so. After that, I started to go downhill...and my guess is that by the end, though my eyes were locked on the speaker...I was really only hearing about 2% of what was being said, and retaining nothing but the stuff immediately after something loud happened onstage. So...in a moment of martyrdom, I made a tough decision on how to use my time.
I decided to go play X-Box.
I went in the back room, called Robbie, and started a game of Halo 2 with him. In an effort to at least give the impression that we were working, I put the live audio from the Summit on the overhead speakers while we played. I kept on shooting Robbie and he kept on shooting me, and more than a few grenades were exchanged. And...in the meantime...without trying or even recognizing it...I learned a lot about leadership. I absorbed, I would guess...about 80% of what was being said. I'm serious...I'd say I actually heard (sound goes to ears, ears change sound to electrical impulses, impulses go to brain, brain turns them back into words, heart understands words) about 80%. After the session was over, I had retained a good half of what was said. That's huge for me, and I would imagine it beats the heck out of whatever that human average is for that sort of thing. Robbie and I continued to play as we discussed what the speaker said...we went deep, and went comprehensive. And we didn't even mean to...it's just what made sense to talk about...after all, it was what we had listened to for the last hour or so while we bloodied each other up with rifles and plasma guns and the like. We heard it, and we kept it. And it was a secondary activity.
I learn best that way. I am writing this blog while a co-worker presents a bunch of her findings on new opportunities for my company to break into new markets. And I can all but guarantee that, if you ask me two days from now what she said, I'll be able to tell you at least half of it. And, by my standards, that's incredible.
Peace,
Justin
Moving on...
Here is a nonsense poem I wrote this morning during a long, long, long meeting.
It sits. Silently. Slipping beneath the slithering words off the tongue,
Thundering, stumbling under its own clumsy lumbering.
It's a misogynist. An optimist.
An offering offered for providents,
Proffered beyond its own aspirations,
Taciturn nations betraying relations
For longstanding vows of promoted vocations.
And then I stopped writing because it was my turn to say something in the meeting. I think it's a poem about sound. Or the war in Iraq. Or summer camp. I'm not really sure. I only kind of like it, but I really enjoyed writing it down. It was a little like blowing your nose...messy and stealthy, but relieving. I'm sure I would have written more nonsense on it, but I had to stop.
The point of this blog entry is threefold: 1) To get over the intimidation of writing entry #50. 2) To share that 5-minute train-of-thought poem with you. 3) To say this:
I've discovered that I learn best when I'm doing something other than listening.
What I mean is this...if I sit down and try to make listening to someone talk my primary activity, I won't hear much. I'll have an overflow of energy...a desire to shift around...a need to look around a lot...a restlessness in my legs and arms and chest. They call it Attention Deficit Disorder. I don't agree. I think it is an over-abundance of attention...it just needs to be multi-directed. I think I've got more attention to go around than I have things to pay attention to. That's not a deficit, it just needs more than one focus.
So...I've discovered that I learn best when I'm doing something else. Here's how I figured it out. I was at the Willow Creek Leadership Summit at the Vineyard back in August. I sat through the first three hours of white men in colorful shirts telling me about leadership...and probably retained about 8-10% for more than a few minutes. And that was the peak...the first 45 minutes or so. After that, I started to go downhill...and my guess is that by the end, though my eyes were locked on the speaker...I was really only hearing about 2% of what was being said, and retaining nothing but the stuff immediately after something loud happened onstage. So...in a moment of martyrdom, I made a tough decision on how to use my time.
I decided to go play X-Box.
I went in the back room, called Robbie, and started a game of Halo 2 with him. In an effort to at least give the impression that we were working, I put the live audio from the Summit on the overhead speakers while we played. I kept on shooting Robbie and he kept on shooting me, and more than a few grenades were exchanged. And...in the meantime...without trying or even recognizing it...I learned a lot about leadership. I absorbed, I would guess...about 80% of what was being said. I'm serious...I'd say I actually heard (sound goes to ears, ears change sound to electrical impulses, impulses go to brain, brain turns them back into words, heart understands words) about 80%. After the session was over, I had retained a good half of what was said. That's huge for me, and I would imagine it beats the heck out of whatever that human average is for that sort of thing. Robbie and I continued to play as we discussed what the speaker said...we went deep, and went comprehensive. And we didn't even mean to...it's just what made sense to talk about...after all, it was what we had listened to for the last hour or so while we bloodied each other up with rifles and plasma guns and the like. We heard it, and we kept it. And it was a secondary activity.
I learn best that way. I am writing this blog while a co-worker presents a bunch of her findings on new opportunities for my company to break into new markets. And I can all but guarantee that, if you ask me two days from now what she said, I'll be able to tell you at least half of it. And, by my standards, that's incredible.
Peace,
Justin
Friday, November 04, 2005
Let me tell you of God’s goodness…
Nevermind. I can’t. I can’t begin to understand what goodness is. Or justice. Or mercy.
But this week I got one thing a little clearer.
Let me tell you of God’s grace.
This week, I had the biggest single business-related moment of my life…and I almost blew it all.
I had a thing for P&G. It was important to me, and to the people who showed up, and entirely irrelevant and unimpressive for your life. So we’ll move on. Suffice to say, it meant a lot to me, and it meant a lot to all the people who paid a bunch of money for it.
And, after a good three weeks or so of working on it for 12 hours a day, the time came to present it…and I wasn’t ready. I stayed up for three days (I’m not exaggerating…if I were, I would have come up with a more impressive number) to get it done…and time came, and I wasn’t ready. I did everything I could, I worked as hard as I could, and I wasn’t ready. I showed up at the meeting with holes in my presentation, missing links in my media, and two entire videos that had gone AWOL.
Then the timer started, the suits started filing in…the countdown got up on the screen…and it was time to present.
And here’s the grace-y part…
Everything went without a hitch.
I’m not kidding. Stuff was there that shouldn’t have been, videos played that hadn’t worked only an hour before, and I swear to you there were slides and video commands I don’t remember putting in. It went brilliantly, and a whole bunch of people who are used to speaking in corporate acronyms told me I did a really nice job and that they wanted me to do it some more. It worked out great…and I have no good reason to believe it was because I did great work.
This was grace.
Don’t get me wrong…I did a lot of work. A bunch of us did…Stacy put a bunch of time and energy in, my brother Brian bravely worked through the night with me…we did a ton of work. But not enough. God showed up and filled in the gaps. Got stuff working that shouldn’t have. Made things go.
I’m not delusional enough to presume that God gives a damn about whether or not P&G sells more of whatever it was I was helping them sell. I don’t think he gives a damn about whether or not Seek gets more work with P&G, either. I do think, however, that he hates to see me hurt. And I was hurting. I was scared out of my mind…crying to my wife at 3:00 in the morning, hadn’t slept in days, and it wasn’t going to get done. I cried out to God, and he listened. And he chose to make it better…to make it go.
I don’t understand goodness. It is too complicated. Somehow, God’s goodness includes both the birth of babies and the death of them. I can’t understand that, not ever. I can’t understand God’s bigness either, nor his mercy. These things are outside of my reach. But this week, I understood his grace in a tangible way. In a simple way. In a way that saved me at a very tough time. In a way I didn’t deserve.
I cried all the way home. I cry now as I write this, four days later. It is unthinkable, and it is wonderful.
Glory be to God; He is Graceful.
Peace,
Justin
Nevermind. I can’t. I can’t begin to understand what goodness is. Or justice. Or mercy.
But this week I got one thing a little clearer.
Let me tell you of God’s grace.
This week, I had the biggest single business-related moment of my life…and I almost blew it all.
I had a thing for P&G. It was important to me, and to the people who showed up, and entirely irrelevant and unimpressive for your life. So we’ll move on. Suffice to say, it meant a lot to me, and it meant a lot to all the people who paid a bunch of money for it.
And, after a good three weeks or so of working on it for 12 hours a day, the time came to present it…and I wasn’t ready. I stayed up for three days (I’m not exaggerating…if I were, I would have come up with a more impressive number) to get it done…and time came, and I wasn’t ready. I did everything I could, I worked as hard as I could, and I wasn’t ready. I showed up at the meeting with holes in my presentation, missing links in my media, and two entire videos that had gone AWOL.
Then the timer started, the suits started filing in…the countdown got up on the screen…and it was time to present.
And here’s the grace-y part…
Everything went without a hitch.
I’m not kidding. Stuff was there that shouldn’t have been, videos played that hadn’t worked only an hour before, and I swear to you there were slides and video commands I don’t remember putting in. It went brilliantly, and a whole bunch of people who are used to speaking in corporate acronyms told me I did a really nice job and that they wanted me to do it some more. It worked out great…and I have no good reason to believe it was because I did great work.
This was grace.
Don’t get me wrong…I did a lot of work. A bunch of us did…Stacy put a bunch of time and energy in, my brother Brian bravely worked through the night with me…we did a ton of work. But not enough. God showed up and filled in the gaps. Got stuff working that shouldn’t have. Made things go.
I’m not delusional enough to presume that God gives a damn about whether or not P&G sells more of whatever it was I was helping them sell. I don’t think he gives a damn about whether or not Seek gets more work with P&G, either. I do think, however, that he hates to see me hurt. And I was hurting. I was scared out of my mind…crying to my wife at 3:00 in the morning, hadn’t slept in days, and it wasn’t going to get done. I cried out to God, and he listened. And he chose to make it better…to make it go.
I don’t understand goodness. It is too complicated. Somehow, God’s goodness includes both the birth of babies and the death of them. I can’t understand that, not ever. I can’t understand God’s bigness either, nor his mercy. These things are outside of my reach. But this week, I understood his grace in a tangible way. In a simple way. In a way that saved me at a very tough time. In a way I didn’t deserve.
I cried all the way home. I cry now as I write this, four days later. It is unthinkable, and it is wonderful.
Glory be to God; He is Graceful.
Peace,
Justin
Friday, October 21, 2005
When you stop and look at your favorite films, books, poems, songs...whatever it is that does it for you...you can learn a little bit about yourself.
For instance...this afternoon, I learned something about me.
...I'm a dark, cynical, and semi-horrible person.
And I'm just proud enough of that fact to qualify as pretentious.
Here's what I mean:
My favorite films? Fight Club. Pi. The Apostle. The Story of Us. Pleasantville. Requiem for a Dream.
My favorite poets? Edgar Allen Poe. Emily Dickinson. Byron, Shelley, Browning.
My favorite contemporary writers? Chuck Palahunik, Stephen King.
My favorite books in the Bible? Job. Ecclesiastes.
OK, enough of listing stuff. The point is, I tend to gravitate toward the darker side of things, I think. I don't wear the white makeup with the black lipstick, I don't light candles and sit in the center of pentagrams, and I've yet to slaughter a live animal for any reason other than damnit, that cat had it coming. I'm not a goth kind of guy. However, I think I find a lot of satisfaction, contentment, peace and sometimes even beauty in the darker things of life.
I think suffering is powerful, just like joy. Somewhere along the line, our Western minds became convinced that our lives should, for the most part, be dedicated to erradicating as much pain and discomfort as possible in our lives. If we're self-serving, it's about eliminating our pain (see: free refills, heated car seats, antibacterial dish soap) . If we're altruistic, it's about eliminating the pain of others (see: Hurricane Katrina relief, medicare, consoling a crying friend). Either way, the problem is, after a while I think we fail to see the beauty and progress of pain. Don't get me wrong, the things above can be great things...Lord knows I take full advantage of the free refills thing, and if it weren't for wireless internet access, I probably would have stopped writing long ago). Joy can be a wonderful experience...it can teach, it can change, it can inspire. But so can misery. There is very little good in the world that didn't come out of something either thriving or dying, or often both. It's just kind of how things are done...it's entropy, it's fertilizer, it's the Crucifixion. Somehow, pain brings joy, anguish brings ecstacy, death brings life.
I wrote a piece of advice to a friend who was in a rough time and was tired of being told "things will get better." Here's what I wrote...I'd love to know if you agree...or if I just made a bad thing worse:
---
Dear [Friend's Name],
I'm not going to tell you to cheer up. Or that it's going to get better. Or that life doesn't suck.
Life does suck. Sometimes. Sometimes it f@#$ing hurts, in fact. Is it going to get better? I hope so. I don't know. It seems like it should. But it didn't for everybody...there is no happy ending for this life guaranteed. In fact, some of the people who loved God the most and served God the best ended up dying miserable, drunk, naked and/or bleeding. That sucks. Life can really suck.
I don't want to cheer you up. That's the really fun part...I don't think you need to feel better. In our culture, we look for the remedy. Our primary concern is our comfort (and I am no different, it's my primary concern if I'm truly honest with myself), and part of comfort is finding ways to quell discomfort. We want to feel better...it's how we're built, perhaps...but it's equally about how we're taught. Comfort is king in the States...go anywhere else for any length of time, and you'll see what I mean.
So, we value what we see as healing... that is to say, we value feeling better. I know I do. But that's not necessarily the answer, and it sure as heck isn't necessarily healing.
Hurt. Cry. Sob, and put your head in your hands, and ask God why. Regret. Writhe, even. Pain is real, and is very, very human. At the same time, please know that we know what pain is because we know it's opposite. For each hurt, there is comfort. For each mourning, there is celebration. For each anguish-ridden moment, there is an ecstasy. And each side of each of these dualities is equally valuable. You will not recognize joy if you have not known pain. You will not recognize comfort if you haven't known hurt.
I'm not trying to sound Eastern here. I'm a fat American like anybody else. I've just found this truth in my life...pain is life, just like joy. And that, in itself, makes pain sacred. Your regret means your heart continues to beat, and that makes you way better off than most of the people who have walked the Earth. Embrace this pain. Your tears are real, and they hurt, and it sucks...and thank God that's true. You are truly alive.
I hope it doesn't get better. I hope it just feels more like reality, and that reality makes you feel more alive...joyous or miserable...more alive.
Peace,
Justin
For instance...this afternoon, I learned something about me.
...I'm a dark, cynical, and semi-horrible person.
And I'm just proud enough of that fact to qualify as pretentious.
Here's what I mean:
My favorite films? Fight Club. Pi. The Apostle. The Story of Us. Pleasantville. Requiem for a Dream.
My favorite poets? Edgar Allen Poe. Emily Dickinson. Byron, Shelley, Browning.
My favorite contemporary writers? Chuck Palahunik, Stephen King.
My favorite books in the Bible? Job. Ecclesiastes.
OK, enough of listing stuff. The point is, I tend to gravitate toward the darker side of things, I think. I don't wear the white makeup with the black lipstick, I don't light candles and sit in the center of pentagrams, and I've yet to slaughter a live animal for any reason other than damnit, that cat had it coming. I'm not a goth kind of guy. However, I think I find a lot of satisfaction, contentment, peace and sometimes even beauty in the darker things of life.
I think suffering is powerful, just like joy. Somewhere along the line, our Western minds became convinced that our lives should, for the most part, be dedicated to erradicating as much pain and discomfort as possible in our lives. If we're self-serving, it's about eliminating our pain (see: free refills, heated car seats, antibacterial dish soap) . If we're altruistic, it's about eliminating the pain of others (see: Hurricane Katrina relief, medicare, consoling a crying friend). Either way, the problem is, after a while I think we fail to see the beauty and progress of pain. Don't get me wrong, the things above can be great things...Lord knows I take full advantage of the free refills thing, and if it weren't for wireless internet access, I probably would have stopped writing long ago). Joy can be a wonderful experience...it can teach, it can change, it can inspire. But so can misery. There is very little good in the world that didn't come out of something either thriving or dying, or often both. It's just kind of how things are done...it's entropy, it's fertilizer, it's the Crucifixion. Somehow, pain brings joy, anguish brings ecstacy, death brings life.
I wrote a piece of advice to a friend who was in a rough time and was tired of being told "things will get better." Here's what I wrote...I'd love to know if you agree...or if I just made a bad thing worse:
---
Dear [Friend's Name],
I'm not going to tell you to cheer up. Or that it's going to get better. Or that life doesn't suck.
Life does suck. Sometimes. Sometimes it f@#$ing hurts, in fact. Is it going to get better? I hope so. I don't know. It seems like it should. But it didn't for everybody...there is no happy ending for this life guaranteed. In fact, some of the people who loved God the most and served God the best ended up dying miserable, drunk, naked and/or bleeding. That sucks. Life can really suck.
I don't want to cheer you up. That's the really fun part...I don't think you need to feel better. In our culture, we look for the remedy. Our primary concern is our comfort (and I am no different, it's my primary concern if I'm truly honest with myself), and part of comfort is finding ways to quell discomfort. We want to feel better...it's how we're built, perhaps...but it's equally about how we're taught. Comfort is king in the States...go anywhere else for any length of time, and you'll see what I mean.
So, we value what we see as healing... that is to say, we value feeling better. I know I do. But that's not necessarily the answer, and it sure as heck isn't necessarily healing.
Hurt. Cry. Sob, and put your head in your hands, and ask God why. Regret. Writhe, even. Pain is real, and is very, very human. At the same time, please know that we know what pain is because we know it's opposite. For each hurt, there is comfort. For each mourning, there is celebration. For each anguish-ridden moment, there is an ecstasy. And each side of each of these dualities is equally valuable. You will not recognize joy if you have not known pain. You will not recognize comfort if you haven't known hurt.
I'm not trying to sound Eastern here. I'm a fat American like anybody else. I've just found this truth in my life...pain is life, just like joy. And that, in itself, makes pain sacred. Your regret means your heart continues to beat, and that makes you way better off than most of the people who have walked the Earth. Embrace this pain. Your tears are real, and they hurt, and it sucks...and thank God that's true. You are truly alive.
I hope it doesn't get better. I hope it just feels more like reality, and that reality makes you feel more alive...joyous or miserable...more alive.
Peace,
Justin
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Baby, I hear the blues a’calling…
Tossed salads and scrambled eggs.
I’m writing this blog entry from the 23rd floor of a hotel in downtown Seattle. This is my first visit to…umm…(does Seattle have a nickname?)….the ol’ “Big Grungy.” And I learned a few things about this amazing city.
1. I kind of want to live here. The best part is the weather. The temperature peaks out at around 80-degrees during the summer, and bottoms out at around 35 (on average) during the coldest days of winter. This, of course, as compared to Cincinnati, where the temperature peaks out somewhere in the middle of July at around 1,168-degrees (with heat index, of course), and bottoms out around –40 somewhere the-day-after-that-day-in-mid-July. Sure it rains a lot, but there is plenty of coffee to keep you perky, and if for some reason you manage to get yourself into the murky depths of serious depression, you can always buy a flannel shirt, start a rock band and do very well here.
2. Starbucks is quite popular here. Let me tell you a very brief anecdote about that quaint little coffee franchise. I got done making some copies at FedEx/Kinkos (does anybody remember when these two merged? It’s a little creepy…like finding out your uncle married your sister, and you didn’t know until you saw her new last name on her mailbox), and made the grave mistake of asking the clerk, “Do you know if there is a Starbucks around here?” I’m not kidding, this was her actual reply…
ME: Hey, do you know if there is a Starbucks around here?
KINKOS LADY: Sure, there’s one across the street, about two stores North.
ME: Oh great, I’ll just—
KINKOS LADY: That one gets kind of busy sometimes, though…so you might want to try the one half a block down the street to the right
ME: OK…thanks for the—
KINKOS LADY: Actually, now that I think about it, your best bet is probably to go to the one on the first floor of the Wells Fargo building on the corner.
ME: Right, I’ll just—
KINKOS LADY: Nevermind, that one never has anywhere to sit. Go to the one on the third floor.
ME: Third floor of what?
KINKOS LADY: (Blank stare) …of the Wells Fargo building.
ME: I thought you said it was on the first floor.
KINKOS LADY: (Blanker stare) …No, that’s the older one. The newer one is on the third floor.
ME: There are two Starbucks in the same building?
KINKOS LADY: (Black-hole-ish stare) ….ummm….yeah…but if you want it really quick, just go to the one in the lobby.
ME: Of…the Wells Fargo Building?
KINKOS LADY: Yeah, the selection of pastries and stuff isn’t as good, but the service is quicker. I’d go to that one.
ME: ----.
I’m not making this up. I really felt like asking her if perhaps the owners of the FedEx/Kinkos/Wheaties/UnitedOilConsortium I was standing in had considered putting a Starbucks franchise in the men’s room to save us all a lot of unnecessary walking. I didn’t though, as it would have been rude…or worse, would have just encouraged her to do just such a thing. You gotta admit, though…it’s damn fine coffee.
3. If you’re going to live on a coast, live on a giant sound in the Pacific Northwest. Man, it is stunning up here. Rocky beaches, sure…but where else can you see rippling ocean waters, majestic snow-capped mountain peaks, towering jagged rows of distant pines, and, for the love of crap, a giant building shaped like a needle that somebody tried to a string a UFO through. This place is gorgeous, friendly, and well planned. Traffic is manageable, sirens are few and far between, and it’s just overpriced enough to make a guy feel really cosmopolitan.
Don’t get me wrong here…I’m not leaving Cincy any time soon. But it is nice to see a little more of the USA. I expect I’ll be doing a lot of that in the coming months, and I’m really looking forward to it.
I took a job at a market research firm in Cincinnati called Seek, Inc. I’d point you to the website, but it ain’t much to look at now, as it’s in the middle of a huge redesign. It is a small company…12 employees last I counted…which makes company picnics as easy as a Ford Econoline and a $75 gift certificate to Chipotle. I love the work, and I’ll tell you more about it soon. In the meantime, suffice to say I think this gig will use a lot of the things God built me to do, and hopefully I will be good enough at it to do it for a while. We’ll see, and I’ll keep you posted.
As for things at VCC…I am going part-time there starting on Monday of next week. We’re interviewing for my replacement now. Why I left is a topic for another post, but I’ll tell you that I left on excellent terms…that I still love my church, that there is absolutely no scandal or behind-the-scenes ugliness involved, and that I have never enjoyed my job more than I have in the last six months. It was just time to go…nothing too fancy, nothing secretive…it was just time to move on. So I am. I am really looking forward to finding someone to replace me who shines in totally different ways, and I’m looking forward to volunteering for him/her some day. In the meantime, I’m going to help out at VCC on a 15-hour-per-week basis, and hopefully I can continue to contribute something of value in the coming months.
I’m looking forward to telling you about the new gig. I’m hoping that all the airplane time and hotel-room time that I’ll be spending with this new job will afford me the opportunity to blog a bit more often…we’ll see. Either way, if you’re the praying type, please put in a few for Stacy and I as we figure out how to live as Stacy the teacher and Justin the qualitative research guy…I have no idea what that means, but I reckon I better figure it out soon. Better yet, let’s just hope we learn to live as Justin and Stacy in a way that we never have before, and that this new job becomes my first job to remain just that.
Peace,
Justin
Tossed salads and scrambled eggs.
I’m writing this blog entry from the 23rd floor of a hotel in downtown Seattle. This is my first visit to…umm…(does Seattle have a nickname?)….the ol’ “Big Grungy.” And I learned a few things about this amazing city.
1. I kind of want to live here. The best part is the weather. The temperature peaks out at around 80-degrees during the summer, and bottoms out at around 35 (on average) during the coldest days of winter. This, of course, as compared to Cincinnati, where the temperature peaks out somewhere in the middle of July at around 1,168-degrees (with heat index, of course), and bottoms out around –40 somewhere the-day-after-that-day-in-mid-July. Sure it rains a lot, but there is plenty of coffee to keep you perky, and if for some reason you manage to get yourself into the murky depths of serious depression, you can always buy a flannel shirt, start a rock band and do very well here.
2. Starbucks is quite popular here. Let me tell you a very brief anecdote about that quaint little coffee franchise. I got done making some copies at FedEx/Kinkos (does anybody remember when these two merged? It’s a little creepy…like finding out your uncle married your sister, and you didn’t know until you saw her new last name on her mailbox), and made the grave mistake of asking the clerk, “Do you know if there is a Starbucks around here?” I’m not kidding, this was her actual reply…
ME: Hey, do you know if there is a Starbucks around here?
KINKOS LADY: Sure, there’s one across the street, about two stores North.
ME: Oh great, I’ll just—
KINKOS LADY: That one gets kind of busy sometimes, though…so you might want to try the one half a block down the street to the right
ME: OK…thanks for the—
KINKOS LADY: Actually, now that I think about it, your best bet is probably to go to the one on the first floor of the Wells Fargo building on the corner.
ME: Right, I’ll just—
KINKOS LADY: Nevermind, that one never has anywhere to sit. Go to the one on the third floor.
ME: Third floor of what?
KINKOS LADY: (Blank stare) …of the Wells Fargo building.
ME: I thought you said it was on the first floor.
KINKOS LADY: (Blanker stare) …No, that’s the older one. The newer one is on the third floor.
ME: There are two Starbucks in the same building?
KINKOS LADY: (Black-hole-ish stare) ….ummm….yeah…but if you want it really quick, just go to the one in the lobby.
ME: Of…the Wells Fargo Building?
KINKOS LADY: Yeah, the selection of pastries and stuff isn’t as good, but the service is quicker. I’d go to that one.
ME: ----.
I’m not making this up. I really felt like asking her if perhaps the owners of the FedEx/Kinkos/Wheaties/UnitedOilConsortium I was standing in had considered putting a Starbucks franchise in the men’s room to save us all a lot of unnecessary walking. I didn’t though, as it would have been rude…or worse, would have just encouraged her to do just such a thing. You gotta admit, though…it’s damn fine coffee.
3. If you’re going to live on a coast, live on a giant sound in the Pacific Northwest. Man, it is stunning up here. Rocky beaches, sure…but where else can you see rippling ocean waters, majestic snow-capped mountain peaks, towering jagged rows of distant pines, and, for the love of crap, a giant building shaped like a needle that somebody tried to a string a UFO through. This place is gorgeous, friendly, and well planned. Traffic is manageable, sirens are few and far between, and it’s just overpriced enough to make a guy feel really cosmopolitan.
Don’t get me wrong here…I’m not leaving Cincy any time soon. But it is nice to see a little more of the USA. I expect I’ll be doing a lot of that in the coming months, and I’m really looking forward to it.
I took a job at a market research firm in Cincinnati called Seek, Inc. I’d point you to the website, but it ain’t much to look at now, as it’s in the middle of a huge redesign. It is a small company…12 employees last I counted…which makes company picnics as easy as a Ford Econoline and a $75 gift certificate to Chipotle. I love the work, and I’ll tell you more about it soon. In the meantime, suffice to say I think this gig will use a lot of the things God built me to do, and hopefully I will be good enough at it to do it for a while. We’ll see, and I’ll keep you posted.
As for things at VCC…I am going part-time there starting on Monday of next week. We’re interviewing for my replacement now. Why I left is a topic for another post, but I’ll tell you that I left on excellent terms…that I still love my church, that there is absolutely no scandal or behind-the-scenes ugliness involved, and that I have never enjoyed my job more than I have in the last six months. It was just time to go…nothing too fancy, nothing secretive…it was just time to move on. So I am. I am really looking forward to finding someone to replace me who shines in totally different ways, and I’m looking forward to volunteering for him/her some day. In the meantime, I’m going to help out at VCC on a 15-hour-per-week basis, and hopefully I can continue to contribute something of value in the coming months.
I’m looking forward to telling you about the new gig. I’m hoping that all the airplane time and hotel-room time that I’ll be spending with this new job will afford me the opportunity to blog a bit more often…we’ll see. Either way, if you’re the praying type, please put in a few for Stacy and I as we figure out how to live as Stacy the teacher and Justin the qualitative research guy…I have no idea what that means, but I reckon I better figure it out soon. Better yet, let’s just hope we learn to live as Justin and Stacy in a way that we never have before, and that this new job becomes my first job to remain just that.
Peace,
Justin
Saturday, August 20, 2005
I'm tired of talking about my job.
If you've never met me in person, and for some reason you've taken to just reading my blog (which I am both flattered an utterly dumfounded by), you're probably wondering, "when have you been talking about your job?" I haven't...not much on here, anyway. However, if you're a friend of mine...or even an acquaintence of mine...or even just that guy with the funny mustache that I frequently pass on the way to work...you've heard me talk about work. I talk about it a lot. I think it's because I find so much of my identity in what I do. I do so because it's what my dad did, it's what his dad did, and I can only assume it's what his dad did. It's a sickness that Americans seem prone to the way the way RPG gamers seem prone to nosebleeds. And I'm tired of talking about it.
So, I'm going to talk about something else.
So....umm...how was your day?
Mmm-hmmm.
And...ummm...isn't this nice weather?
Yup. Mmmm-hmm...oh yes. Yes, I see. No, not for ducks, not for ducks, indeed. Mm-hm. Yes. That high, and all without the aid of pneumatic power, eh? Wow. Yes, it's really something.
Hmmm.
OK, I've run out of things to talk about.
So, I will talk about my job.
Here's the thing about my job: I won't have it much longer. I've actually turned in my 6-week notice. (2-weeks seemed a little to quick for a church to try to find a new video guy). I'm leaving the staff of VCC, and going to a new job.
I'm not going to tell you what the new job is. You have to guess.
Sure...
...OK, go.
Nope.
Haha, yeah that would have been good.
OK, try again.
...No, but it's a good guess.
One more try...
...yes, it's slightly larger than a breadbox.
...no, it's not a tank.
OK, want me to just tell you?
Alright. I'm going to Seek, a Qualitative Market Research Consulting group located right here in beautiful Cincinnati, OH. I have to put the words "Qualitative Market Research Consulting" in proper caps...because I have no idea what it means yet, and so it becomes a title. It may as well be, "Seek: A Glooglemock McTrudenbloob Conflageration." However, I'm told it has something to do with getting inside the heads of consumers and finding out why they buy the products they buy and use them. I'm also assured that this requires very little experience with a scapel, and usually does not involve fire or actuarial tables, both of which I have not had good luck with.
I'm really really really excited about the job. Seems to be something I'll be good at. We'll see. I love to get to meet new people, I love to try to figure people out, and I really like making lots of money. Don't know how much of that third one will happen, but here's hoping. If I do make a bunch of money, you can have some. It's more fun to make it than to keep it or even to spend it. Once you've got your basics covered (shelter, food, guitar strings), it's actually usually more fun to give it away than anything. It just does something to a person, I think.
'Nuff digressing. The point is, I'm really hoping that a change of employment will enable me to serve the church better than before, to serve Stacy better than before, and to take care of myself more than I have in the past. You can't work 65 hour weeks at any job for any length of time before you start to lose little bits of yourself, and you sure as hell can't work that much for a church without losing a part of your spiritual depth and joy. I hope to regain these things, and that, much like the lining of my acid-happy esophagus, the damage will be un-done in time.
I've even given some very serious thought to asking the Board at VCC to put me on the Board with them. Don't think they'll go for it, but I'd love to be able to make some very positive changes in the church I love enough to quit from, and I think the Board would be a great place to do that.
In the meantime, I'm dunking my cookies and drinking the milk afterward on the porch of my little house as we enter the twilight of a beautiful fall night. All is well, all is well.
Peace,
Justin
If you've never met me in person, and for some reason you've taken to just reading my blog (which I am both flattered an utterly dumfounded by), you're probably wondering, "when have you been talking about your job?" I haven't...not much on here, anyway. However, if you're a friend of mine...or even an acquaintence of mine...or even just that guy with the funny mustache that I frequently pass on the way to work...you've heard me talk about work. I talk about it a lot. I think it's because I find so much of my identity in what I do. I do so because it's what my dad did, it's what his dad did, and I can only assume it's what his dad did. It's a sickness that Americans seem prone to the way the way RPG gamers seem prone to nosebleeds. And I'm tired of talking about it.
So, I'm going to talk about something else.
So....umm...how was your day?
Mmm-hmmm.
And...ummm...isn't this nice weather?
Yup. Mmmm-hmm...oh yes. Yes, I see. No, not for ducks, not for ducks, indeed. Mm-hm. Yes. That high, and all without the aid of pneumatic power, eh? Wow. Yes, it's really something.
Hmmm.
OK, I've run out of things to talk about.
So, I will talk about my job.
Here's the thing about my job: I won't have it much longer. I've actually turned in my 6-week notice. (2-weeks seemed a little to quick for a church to try to find a new video guy). I'm leaving the staff of VCC, and going to a new job.
I'm not going to tell you what the new job is. You have to guess.
Sure...
...OK, go.
Nope.
Haha, yeah that would have been good.
OK, try again.
...No, but it's a good guess.
One more try...
...yes, it's slightly larger than a breadbox.
...no, it's not a tank.
OK, want me to just tell you?
Alright. I'm going to Seek
I'm really really really excited about the job. Seems to be something I'll be good at. We'll see. I love to get to meet new people, I love to try to figure people out, and I really like making lots of money. Don't know how much of that third one will happen, but here's hoping. If I do make a bunch of money, you can have some. It's more fun to make it than to keep it or even to spend it. Once you've got your basics covered (shelter, food, guitar strings), it's actually usually more fun to give it away than anything. It just does something to a person, I think.
'Nuff digressing. The point is, I'm really hoping that a change of employment will enable me to serve the church better than before, to serve Stacy better than before, and to take care of myself more than I have in the past. You can't work 65 hour weeks at any job for any length of time before you start to lose little bits of yourself, and you sure as hell can't work that much for a church without losing a part of your spiritual depth and joy. I hope to regain these things, and that, much like the lining of my acid-happy esophagus, the damage will be un-done in time.
I've even given some very serious thought to asking the Board at VCC to put me on the Board with them. Don't think they'll go for it, but I'd love to be able to make some very positive changes in the church I love enough to quit from, and I think the Board would be a great place to do that.
In the meantime, I'm dunking my cookies and drinking the milk afterward on the porch of my little house as we enter the twilight of a beautiful fall night. All is well, all is well.
Peace,
Justin
Sunday, April 24, 2005
This week, I finally taped what I know best....
For the first time in my life, I brought a video camera on vacation. If you find it surprising that a professional video guy has never recorded his own family or vacation exploits, then you're not alone...my wife has been wondering the same thing for a couple of years now.
It's like this: after a full day of planning video, scripting video, shooting video, editing video and talking video, the last thing I want to do is go home and roll tape. I'm sure any middle-school teacher who comes home to her own teenagers and any accountant that files an extension for his own taxes can understand that...like they say, the cobbler's kids go barefoot. However, with a town like Las Vegas, it's difficult to really capture the experience with the few really good words that I know, so I brought the camera along.
I was surprised by how much I enjoyed having that little camera around. Stacy and I took some really cool video...and more than anything, it was relaxing. I found that I was less concerned about creating those unforgettable vacation moments when I knew I had a way to remember them later. I may make a habit out of it...we'll see. I'm tempted to run back home and edit it into a nice, polished fifteen-minute video...but I think that may ruin it. (A college professor of mine wrote her doctoral thesis on the folkloric value of home movies...she sees an incredible beauty in their rawness, and when her book comes out, I will buy it. Her name is Judi Hetrick, and I intend to read it cover to cover). If I do edit it, I'll see if I can put a two-minute version on the blog.
We had a wonderful time in Las Vegas. Somewhere over the course of the four non-working days that I spent with Stacy in Vegas, Stacy and I made the switch from noctural to diurnal living. And I don't mean that as an exaggerated way of saying we stayed up late...I mean we actually began to sleep during the sunlight hours and remain awake during the darkened ones. We started coming in somewhere around 7:30 a.m. and waking up around 4 p.m. After a couple of days, we discovered that Las Vegas is a very different place at 4:30 in the morning. Most of the revelers have fallen asleep or passed out by this point...and the streets are sparsely populated, mostly by gambling addicts moving from casino to casino, and prostitutes who haven't called it a night yet. The prostitutes are easy to spot...and if you just thought, "how?" then I think you owe yourself a pat on the back and a cup of hot chocolate. The compulsive gamblers can be spotted by their shifty, droning, joyless playing of slots, roulette, blackjack. They aren't necessarily poor, they're just joyless. They may even be doing well, but they don't seem to be alive. They just keep doing it.
There are signs and pamphlets all over the casino advertising help numbers for gambling addiction. It seems to me a little like putting the number to the Mayo Clinic on every pack of cigarettes. We're handing people the loaded gun, and daring them to play with it without getting shot. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying gambling is a bad idea...in fact, I did quite a lot of it this week, enjoyed almost every minute, and ended up about $100 ahead. It's just amazing how the very things that God built us to be attracted to (risk, gain, sport, food, sex, etc.) are the things which, if we are weak in our ability to manage that enjoyment, will destroy us. We have the wonderful taste and stress-relieving effects of our pilsners, stouts and heffeweizens, and AA meetings and rehab clinics to help repair their damage. We have the profound pleasure and soul-sharing of sex, and porn recovery programs and VD clinics to help repair the damage. We have the thrill of risking a little bit of our hard-earned income on the chance that we may leave with more than we walked in with, and we have gamblers anonymous and the NV Trouble Gaming Helpline to help repair the damage. (BTW: "Gaming" is now the correct word to use in Las Vegas...apparently "gambling" sounded too much like "gambling.")
All it tells me is that God was very right in making some very key demands of man. These demands don't ask for joy or even understanding of God's will...just obedience. Man is a brilliant design, but it seems to me that while we are capable of astonishing innovation and acts of absolute genius, we may not, on the whole, be trusted to know ourselves deeply. We seem to be able to understand both the fantastically minute and awesomely large...but some of our most brilliant minds have also been our most tragic biographies. (Hemingway had his drink, Plath her drugs, and Byron his sex, to name a few). God knows our beautiful strengths, to be sure...and I'm confident that He revels in them. But if He is omniscient, then He also knows our weaknesses, and He knows that they would reveal themselves most readily under the pressure of our pleasures. That's why, I think, He tried to beat us to the problem by offering those key commandments. At the risk of sounding preachy, I think the big idea was that, when our weakness impairs our ability to make rational decisions, we can choose simple obedience as our rationale.
Now, obviously, the big questions then come in how to interpret what God's commandments for our lives are. That's a topic far too big to handle here....probably to handle anywhere. But my hope lies in my belief that our earnest effort to follow that which we truly believe is God's will is, in itself, pleasing to God...for our sake, it had better be, anyhow.
Peace,
Justin
For the first time in my life, I brought a video camera on vacation. If you find it surprising that a professional video guy has never recorded his own family or vacation exploits, then you're not alone...my wife has been wondering the same thing for a couple of years now.
It's like this: after a full day of planning video, scripting video, shooting video, editing video and talking video, the last thing I want to do is go home and roll tape. I'm sure any middle-school teacher who comes home to her own teenagers and any accountant that files an extension for his own taxes can understand that...like they say, the cobbler's kids go barefoot. However, with a town like Las Vegas, it's difficult to really capture the experience with the few really good words that I know, so I brought the camera along.
I was surprised by how much I enjoyed having that little camera around. Stacy and I took some really cool video...and more than anything, it was relaxing. I found that I was less concerned about creating those unforgettable vacation moments when I knew I had a way to remember them later. I may make a habit out of it...we'll see. I'm tempted to run back home and edit it into a nice, polished fifteen-minute video...but I think that may ruin it. (A college professor of mine wrote her doctoral thesis on the folkloric value of home movies...she sees an incredible beauty in their rawness, and when her book comes out, I will buy it. Her name is Judi Hetrick, and I intend to read it cover to cover). If I do edit it, I'll see if I can put a two-minute version on the blog.
We had a wonderful time in Las Vegas. Somewhere over the course of the four non-working days that I spent with Stacy in Vegas, Stacy and I made the switch from noctural to diurnal living. And I don't mean that as an exaggerated way of saying we stayed up late...I mean we actually began to sleep during the sunlight hours and remain awake during the darkened ones. We started coming in somewhere around 7:30 a.m. and waking up around 4 p.m. After a couple of days, we discovered that Las Vegas is a very different place at 4:30 in the morning. Most of the revelers have fallen asleep or passed out by this point...and the streets are sparsely populated, mostly by gambling addicts moving from casino to casino, and prostitutes who haven't called it a night yet. The prostitutes are easy to spot...and if you just thought, "how?" then I think you owe yourself a pat on the back and a cup of hot chocolate. The compulsive gamblers can be spotted by their shifty, droning, joyless playing of slots, roulette, blackjack. They aren't necessarily poor, they're just joyless. They may even be doing well, but they don't seem to be alive. They just keep doing it.
There are signs and pamphlets all over the casino advertising help numbers for gambling addiction. It seems to me a little like putting the number to the Mayo Clinic on every pack of cigarettes. We're handing people the loaded gun, and daring them to play with it without getting shot. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying gambling is a bad idea...in fact, I did quite a lot of it this week, enjoyed almost every minute, and ended up about $100 ahead. It's just amazing how the very things that God built us to be attracted to (risk, gain, sport, food, sex, etc.) are the things which, if we are weak in our ability to manage that enjoyment, will destroy us. We have the wonderful taste and stress-relieving effects of our pilsners, stouts and heffeweizens, and AA meetings and rehab clinics to help repair their damage. We have the profound pleasure and soul-sharing of sex, and porn recovery programs and VD clinics to help repair the damage. We have the thrill of risking a little bit of our hard-earned income on the chance that we may leave with more than we walked in with, and we have gamblers anonymous and the NV Trouble Gaming Helpline to help repair the damage. (BTW: "Gaming" is now the correct word to use in Las Vegas...apparently "gambling" sounded too much like "gambling.")
All it tells me is that God was very right in making some very key demands of man. These demands don't ask for joy or even understanding of God's will...just obedience. Man is a brilliant design, but it seems to me that while we are capable of astonishing innovation and acts of absolute genius, we may not, on the whole, be trusted to know ourselves deeply. We seem to be able to understand both the fantastically minute and awesomely large...but some of our most brilliant minds have also been our most tragic biographies. (Hemingway had his drink, Plath her drugs, and Byron his sex, to name a few). God knows our beautiful strengths, to be sure...and I'm confident that He revels in them. But if He is omniscient, then He also knows our weaknesses, and He knows that they would reveal themselves most readily under the pressure of our pleasures. That's why, I think, He tried to beat us to the problem by offering those key commandments. At the risk of sounding preachy, I think the big idea was that, when our weakness impairs our ability to make rational decisions, we can choose simple obedience as our rationale.
Now, obviously, the big questions then come in how to interpret what God's commandments for our lives are. That's a topic far too big to handle here....probably to handle anywhere. But my hope lies in my belief that our earnest effort to follow that which we truly believe is God's will is, in itself, pleasing to God...for our sake, it had better be, anyhow.
Peace,
Justin
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
The blisters on my feet have organized, and their leader is demanding paid coffee breaks.
Craig Spinks and I (see: www.quadrid.com) have been traversing the surprisingly clean streets of the Las Vegas strip at the rate of three blisters a mile, five miles a day. The Strip is approximately three miles long, two blocks wide, and four inches deep. Everything is gilded, shiny, opulent and blinking. I really like Las Vegas...in our trip to the Sahara last night, we passed by New York, Paris, Egypt and Rome...we heard screams from two rollercoasters mounted atop gigantic hotels, watched Caesar as he watched us pass his Palace, and saw a pillar of light extending from the top of a shaded glass pyramid into the midnight sky. We saw gamblers, revelers and honeymooners; drunkards, lovers and those who sell love. We spent almost three hours (starting just after midnight) tossing our silver coins onto blackjack tables in the hopes that our jacks would meet our aces. At one-dollar per hand (you've got to walk a long way in Vegas to find tables that cheap), I ended up drinking terrific cocktails for three hours and getting paid $20 to do it.
We spent our day wandering the labyrinth of exhibitions at the NAB floor show...an amazing collection of what seems like every media and tech company in the world, each showing off their latest innovations and next greatest inventions. I heard words today that I've never heard before, (words like "datacast," "info parity," and "bitstream") that I have no idea what they mean, but I'm pretty sure they all mean the same thing. Sometimes I wonder if tech companies have a machine similar to slot machine, with words like like "data" "media" "info" and "tele" on the first wheel, words like "flow," "rendering," "logic" and "infra" on the second wheel, and words like "engine" "processor" and "solution" on the third wheel...and when they need a new product, well, they just pull the handle. I saw some unbelievable feats of technology today...it made me really excited to try some new video stuff. I was excited in a way I haven't been in a while about making videos...it's great to get a boost like that every once in a while. I look forward to going back tomorrow.
We're in the LAS-McCarren International Airport right now, waiting for my lovely bride to arrive in Sin City. She's joining me just as the business end of my trip ends and the vacation end begins. I have really been looking forward to having her here...it's hard to have so many fun experiences and not be able to share it with her. Most everybody who is married for any length of time tries to remember what life was like as a single person...if these last couple of days are any indication, it reminds me of one of the reasons I love being married. My thoughts, my reactions, and my experiences just don't feel complete anymore unless I get to share them with her. Is that weird, do you think? I guess that's the closest thing I'll ever come to being Jerry MacGuire, which is probably for the best.
I'm looking forward to seeing her get off the plane. It's a giddy kind of anticipation.
Peace,
Justin
Craig Spinks and I (see: www.quadrid.com) have been traversing the surprisingly clean streets of the Las Vegas strip at the rate of three blisters a mile, five miles a day. The Strip is approximately three miles long, two blocks wide, and four inches deep. Everything is gilded, shiny, opulent and blinking. I really like Las Vegas...in our trip to the Sahara last night, we passed by New York, Paris, Egypt and Rome...we heard screams from two rollercoasters mounted atop gigantic hotels, watched Caesar as he watched us pass his Palace, and saw a pillar of light extending from the top of a shaded glass pyramid into the midnight sky. We saw gamblers, revelers and honeymooners; drunkards, lovers and those who sell love. We spent almost three hours (starting just after midnight) tossing our silver coins onto blackjack tables in the hopes that our jacks would meet our aces. At one-dollar per hand (you've got to walk a long way in Vegas to find tables that cheap), I ended up drinking terrific cocktails for three hours and getting paid $20 to do it.
We spent our day wandering the labyrinth of exhibitions at the NAB floor show...an amazing collection of what seems like every media and tech company in the world, each showing off their latest innovations and next greatest inventions. I heard words today that I've never heard before, (words like "datacast," "info parity," and "bitstream") that I have no idea what they mean, but I'm pretty sure they all mean the same thing. Sometimes I wonder if tech companies have a machine similar to slot machine, with words like like "data" "media" "info" and "tele" on the first wheel, words like "flow," "rendering," "logic" and "infra" on the second wheel, and words like "engine" "processor" and "solution" on the third wheel...and when they need a new product, well, they just pull the handle. I saw some unbelievable feats of technology today...it made me really excited to try some new video stuff. I was excited in a way I haven't been in a while about making videos...it's great to get a boost like that every once in a while. I look forward to going back tomorrow.
We're in the LAS-McCarren International Airport right now, waiting for my lovely bride to arrive in Sin City. She's joining me just as the business end of my trip ends and the vacation end begins. I have really been looking forward to having her here...it's hard to have so many fun experiences and not be able to share it with her. Most everybody who is married for any length of time tries to remember what life was like as a single person...if these last couple of days are any indication, it reminds me of one of the reasons I love being married. My thoughts, my reactions, and my experiences just don't feel complete anymore unless I get to share them with her. Is that weird, do you think? I guess that's the closest thing I'll ever come to being Jerry MacGuire, which is probably for the best.
I'm looking forward to seeing her get off the plane. It's a giddy kind of anticipation.
Peace,
Justin
Monday, April 18, 2005
As every stand-up comic in America has noted, airports are funny places....
I look around the airport terminal before we board. It's 5:25 a.m. Business folk in rumpled jackets slump over their laptops, lazily fingering their touchpads like a disinterested lover who is just buying time until the football simulcast. Total strangers are sitting next to each other in faux leather chairs colored like you might imagine a candle called "Blueberry and Jasmine" might be. They sit, six inches apart, reading their books or newspapers or staring at their boarding passes...clinging to their boarding passes...perhaps hoping that staring long or squeezing hard enough will magicaly rearrange the letters in "business class" to read something more favorable. They sit, six inches apart, awkwardly wondering whether or not to strike up a conversation. You never know, this may be your friend for the next three hours.
As we board the plane, we slowly shuffle by the pilot, who greets everyone as they walk in the door. Unfortunately, the line moves slowly enough that once he greets you, you've still got a good 25 seconds of standing next to him before you can move on. It's hard to imagine what to say to a pilot at 6:00 in the morning. I want to ask him questions like, "So, how are you feeling this morning? Alert? Well-rested? Steady-handed? Sober?" Instead, I ask, "how's the weather look for takeoff?" "Just fine, just fine," he responds, in a tone that sounds both authoritative and surprisingly distant. We now have 15 seconds left to kill, and I've run out of appropriate pilot fodder. I'll just stare ahead blankly at the line of people trying to shove oversized bags into undersized overheads.
Getting seated is a little bit like a microcosm of high school. You come in, unsteady and unsure of your surroundings, just hoping to find your locker and your seat without looking stupid. You're a freshman, and those already seated are the sophomores. But...once you get your stuff jammed into your overhead compartment, your smaller luggage stowed under your seat, and your tray tables in the upright and locked position, man, you've graduated. You're now the sophomore, and you get to sit and look fed up with those greenies just coming in the door.
As the freshman class passes by my seat, I see them looking at each row number and seat diagram (A,B,C on the left, D,E,F on the right) carefully, as if the ascending sequence of row numbers might suddenly skip a few, work backwards, or go to decimals. They'll be pleased to find that row 13 comes directly after row 12, and that D, E and F are still on the right side of the plane. Here's to consistency.
I sit down, and try to read a bit from "Dr. Zhivago" by Boris Pasternak. It's a brilliant read...absolutely brilliant...but it's a bit much to handle at 6:10 on a Monday morning. I fold the book closed. The passenger on my right is a very pleasant accountant in a floral shirt on his way to Cozumel. He's reading a book called "The Conspiracy Theory," which I hope is a bit more manageable at this time than "Dr. Zhivago." I hope he doesn't notice as I write about him...we're so close that our arms are touching, and you hate to make things awkward at that proximity.
Our captain comes on the PA and announces the vitals. 2-hour-fifteen-minute flight. 32,000 feet. Good weather both places. Please listen to your flight attendants. Enjoy the excellent in-flight service, including a "breakfast snack." Don't smoke. Don't tamper with the lavatory smoke detectors...and if you do, for the love of god don't lie about it, 'cause we'll know. I'm encouraged to close my laptop to prepare for departure. Apparently the screen of my 12-inch iBook produces too much drag. I'll be back in half-an-hour.
7:30 now. Once we takeoff and reach altitude, we're handed our "breakfast snack," which consists of a muffin the approximate size of my adrenal gland and a choice of beverage. I want a bloody mary. I order water. Five dollars seems a lot to pay for a bloody mary. I drink my water. I wish I had ordered a bloody mary. Now the flight attendant is gone...she's already three rows down and, worst of all, she's on the far side of the cart. Short of a tremendous gymnastic display on her part, there's no chance I'm going to get my bloody mary for quite some time.
11:52 - It's amazing how much a guy can write when he doesn't have anything else to do. On a plane from Houston to Las Vegas now. People seem a lot more aware...I'm certain that has everything to do with the fact that it's no longer 6 in the morning. "Finding Neverland" is playing on the in-flight movie. I'd like to tune in, but I'm rejecting it on the principle that movies that are free to view shouldn't cost five bucks to listen to. Plus, Stacy and I have been waiting to see it together.
I can't help but be a little nervous that I won't be able to relax in Las Vegas. Let's face it, that's what history would indicate. I dream of vacation, I plan vacation, I pack for vacation, I get to vacation, and my brain doesn't slow down throughout the duration. (Seriously, I didn't mean that to rhyme). Then, I get home and I walk into work, and everybody says, "welcome home, I"m glad you finally got a chance to rest!" and I feel just as tired as before, and now it's another six months until I get to try again. Maybe I'm just not cut out for vacation. Or, I've got to figure out a better way to do it....something that will get me out of my head long enough to be in Bermuda, or New Orleans, or Colorado, or, in this case, Las Vegas. I think the fact that I'm actually still at work will help...that is to say, I'm on church business for the first couple of days. That will provide a proper transition....brain says: "I can still work, but I can be on vacation at the same time." Should alleviate the pressure of enjoying myself a little bit.
Its my first time carrying a laptop, and I've got my iTunes playing. Elvis Costello is a fine, fine song writer.
I'm sitting next to a delightful retired Texas middle-school teacher...haven't caught her name yet, but I'll find out shortly. BTW: The guy on the last flight was named Ken, and I"m pretty sure the friend that he's heading to Cozumel with is a special friend. Ken seemed remarkably comfortable with long periods of silence without something to occupy his eyes, and I respect that a lot. Anyway, our Texas schoolteacher has a great story about teaching a remedial middle school class back in the late 60's...she says she kept plants around the room so it didn't feel "so institutional." One day, she noticed sprouts coming up through the soil around her potted plants. As the sprouts budded she realized that her seventh-period students had been planting marijuana in her class, in the hopes of harvesting it at maturity. Knowing it would do no good to say, "Stop growing pot in my class," she instead encouraged them to only plant "those little plants" (playing ignorant) in spots in the soil where it wouldn't choke out her plants...and then after all the students had gone she would poison the little sprouts one-by-one. When the kids came back and the plants were dead, she simply explained that many plants don't grow well in a classroom setting, and that they would be better off doing their little horticulture project outside. Her name is Harriet, and I get the sense it's a lot harder than it sounds to outsmart a classroom full of remedial junior high students.
That's a story worth writing down, I thought.
Plane lands...a strong list to the left on touch-down...and we exit. Welcome to Las Vegas.
Peace,
Justin
I look around the airport terminal before we board. It's 5:25 a.m. Business folk in rumpled jackets slump over their laptops, lazily fingering their touchpads like a disinterested lover who is just buying time until the football simulcast. Total strangers are sitting next to each other in faux leather chairs colored like you might imagine a candle called "Blueberry and Jasmine" might be. They sit, six inches apart, reading their books or newspapers or staring at their boarding passes...clinging to their boarding passes...perhaps hoping that staring long or squeezing hard enough will magicaly rearrange the letters in "business class" to read something more favorable. They sit, six inches apart, awkwardly wondering whether or not to strike up a conversation. You never know, this may be your friend for the next three hours.
As we board the plane, we slowly shuffle by the pilot, who greets everyone as they walk in the door. Unfortunately, the line moves slowly enough that once he greets you, you've still got a good 25 seconds of standing next to him before you can move on. It's hard to imagine what to say to a pilot at 6:00 in the morning. I want to ask him questions like, "So, how are you feeling this morning? Alert? Well-rested? Steady-handed? Sober?" Instead, I ask, "how's the weather look for takeoff?" "Just fine, just fine," he responds, in a tone that sounds both authoritative and surprisingly distant. We now have 15 seconds left to kill, and I've run out of appropriate pilot fodder. I'll just stare ahead blankly at the line of people trying to shove oversized bags into undersized overheads.
Getting seated is a little bit like a microcosm of high school. You come in, unsteady and unsure of your surroundings, just hoping to find your locker and your seat without looking stupid. You're a freshman, and those already seated are the sophomores. But...once you get your stuff jammed into your overhead compartment, your smaller luggage stowed under your seat, and your tray tables in the upright and locked position, man, you've graduated. You're now the sophomore, and you get to sit and look fed up with those greenies just coming in the door.
As the freshman class passes by my seat, I see them looking at each row number and seat diagram (A,B,C on the left, D,E,F on the right) carefully, as if the ascending sequence of row numbers might suddenly skip a few, work backwards, or go to decimals. They'll be pleased to find that row 13 comes directly after row 12, and that D, E and F are still on the right side of the plane. Here's to consistency.
I sit down, and try to read a bit from "Dr. Zhivago" by Boris Pasternak. It's a brilliant read...absolutely brilliant...but it's a bit much to handle at 6:10 on a Monday morning. I fold the book closed. The passenger on my right is a very pleasant accountant in a floral shirt on his way to Cozumel. He's reading a book called "The Conspiracy Theory," which I hope is a bit more manageable at this time than "Dr. Zhivago." I hope he doesn't notice as I write about him...we're so close that our arms are touching, and you hate to make things awkward at that proximity.
Our captain comes on the PA and announces the vitals. 2-hour-fifteen-minute flight. 32,000 feet. Good weather both places. Please listen to your flight attendants. Enjoy the excellent in-flight service, including a "breakfast snack." Don't smoke. Don't tamper with the lavatory smoke detectors...and if you do, for the love of god don't lie about it, 'cause we'll know. I'm encouraged to close my laptop to prepare for departure. Apparently the screen of my 12-inch iBook produces too much drag. I'll be back in half-an-hour.
7:30 now. Once we takeoff and reach altitude, we're handed our "breakfast snack," which consists of a muffin the approximate size of my adrenal gland and a choice of beverage. I want a bloody mary. I order water. Five dollars seems a lot to pay for a bloody mary. I drink my water. I wish I had ordered a bloody mary. Now the flight attendant is gone...she's already three rows down and, worst of all, she's on the far side of the cart. Short of a tremendous gymnastic display on her part, there's no chance I'm going to get my bloody mary for quite some time.
11:52 - It's amazing how much a guy can write when he doesn't have anything else to do. On a plane from Houston to Las Vegas now. People seem a lot more aware...I'm certain that has everything to do with the fact that it's no longer 6 in the morning. "Finding Neverland" is playing on the in-flight movie. I'd like to tune in, but I'm rejecting it on the principle that movies that are free to view shouldn't cost five bucks to listen to. Plus, Stacy and I have been waiting to see it together.
I can't help but be a little nervous that I won't be able to relax in Las Vegas. Let's face it, that's what history would indicate. I dream of vacation, I plan vacation, I pack for vacation, I get to vacation, and my brain doesn't slow down throughout the duration. (Seriously, I didn't mean that to rhyme). Then, I get home and I walk into work, and everybody says, "welcome home, I"m glad you finally got a chance to rest!" and I feel just as tired as before, and now it's another six months until I get to try again. Maybe I'm just not cut out for vacation. Or, I've got to figure out a better way to do it....something that will get me out of my head long enough to be in Bermuda, or New Orleans, or Colorado, or, in this case, Las Vegas. I think the fact that I'm actually still at work will help...that is to say, I'm on church business for the first couple of days. That will provide a proper transition....brain says: "I can still work, but I can be on vacation at the same time." Should alleviate the pressure of enjoying myself a little bit.
Its my first time carrying a laptop, and I've got my iTunes playing. Elvis Costello is a fine, fine song writer.
I'm sitting next to a delightful retired Texas middle-school teacher...haven't caught her name yet, but I'll find out shortly. BTW: The guy on the last flight was named Ken, and I"m pretty sure the friend that he's heading to Cozumel with is a special friend. Ken seemed remarkably comfortable with long periods of silence without something to occupy his eyes, and I respect that a lot. Anyway, our Texas schoolteacher has a great story about teaching a remedial middle school class back in the late 60's...she says she kept plants around the room so it didn't feel "so institutional." One day, she noticed sprouts coming up through the soil around her potted plants. As the sprouts budded she realized that her seventh-period students had been planting marijuana in her class, in the hopes of harvesting it at maturity. Knowing it would do no good to say, "Stop growing pot in my class," she instead encouraged them to only plant "those little plants" (playing ignorant) in spots in the soil where it wouldn't choke out her plants...and then after all the students had gone she would poison the little sprouts one-by-one. When the kids came back and the plants were dead, she simply explained that many plants don't grow well in a classroom setting, and that they would be better off doing their little horticulture project outside. Her name is Harriet, and I get the sense it's a lot harder than it sounds to outsmart a classroom full of remedial junior high students.
That's a story worth writing down, I thought.
Plane lands...a strong list to the left on touch-down...and we exit. Welcome to Las Vegas.
Peace,
Justin
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Somebody emailed me a terrific question about God...I answered it today. I hope I'm right.
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What exactly does fear of God mean applied to the New Testament and to revivals in the church? Exactly how do you have fear of God in our times? Why is the term fear applied to God when the New Testament emphasizes the love of God??
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Dear XXXXXX,
Thanks for sending in your question about “Fear of God.” This is a question that I struggled with for a long time, and this dilemma of how to understand both a God who loves us and a God to be feared is one that has had theologians scratching their heads for centuries.
I have read where many pastors have advised that the term “fear,” when applied to God in the context of the New Testament (that is to say, under the understanding that our sin is forgiven by Jesus’ death on the cross), is best understood to mean “respect,” or “reverence.” The idea conveyed here is that, because we are forgiven by God for all of our sins, that we are not to fear God anymore, but rather to revere and respect Him.
Frankly, I think this is a mistake, and, while a very pleasant thought, a misinterpretation. I think that “fear” is exactly the right word...and it’s not a proper translation to equate “fear” with “respect” or “reverence.” (Can you imagine Abraham willingly slaying his own son because he respected God? [Genesis 22]). Throughout the Bible, we see the word fear used to mean exactly that...a reaction of awe and even terror at God’s supreme power.
I think that fear of God is, when you think about it, a pretty natural outcropping of understanding His power. Have you ever been to Niagra Falls? I had the good fortune to visit the falls in the dead of winter at about 3:00 a.m. when I was a child. I was about nine years old, and we swung by Niagra on the long journey home from our Christmas vacation in Maine. My dad woke me as I slept in the back of our old Pontiac station wagon, and told me to get my coat on. I stepped out of our dark and silent car, and was startled to hear a low rumble off in the distance. We passed pine trees laden with thick coats of ice as we moved closer and closer to the rumbling sound. After about ten minutes of walking, with the rumbling now almost ear-piercing, we stepped through a break in the trees and I saw a sight I will never forget: millions of gallons of water thundering over the majestic Niagra Falls. I clung to my Dad’s side and gaped open-mouth at the Falls...even though there was a guard rail, a chain fence and 100 yards between the falls and me, I couldn’t help but feel like I was going to be sucked in. I was in a the sort of awe and fear that only an encounter with incomprehensible power can conjure.
This, I think, is what the fear of God is about. It is not a choice...you don’t choose to fear God...any more than you choose to be loved by Him. I think you fear God as a very natural outcropping of realizing, even in small part, His enormous power and incomprehensible sovereignty. The choice for each human is whether or not to pursue the kind of wisdom and humility it takes to begin that realization. When the Bible talks about God-fearing people, it is describing powerful humans (such as Abraham, Moses and Ruth) who have come to recognize how infinitely more powerful God is.
How do we balance that with the idea of a loving God? That’s my favorite part. My fear of God couples with my understanding of His love for me in such a beautiful paradox...the all-powerful Creator of all things, who is mighty and deserves our fear and awe, actually loves me with a love so profound that he chose to sacrifice Himself instead of me. That’s the amazing thing...we should fear God, and yet the ultimate sacrifice came from Him.
Does this help? Does this answer your question? Please let me know if I can shed any more light here, or if I can help you with anything else.
Peace,
Justin
---
What do you guys think...is this close to truth?
Peace,
Justin
---
---------------------------------------------------------
What exactly does fear of God mean applied to the New Testament and to revivals in the church? Exactly how do you have fear of God in our times? Why is the term fear applied to God when the New Testament emphasizes the love of God??
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear XXXXXX,
Thanks for sending in your question about “Fear of God.” This is a question that I struggled with for a long time, and this dilemma of how to understand both a God who loves us and a God to be feared is one that has had theologians scratching their heads for centuries.
I have read where many pastors have advised that the term “fear,” when applied to God in the context of the New Testament (that is to say, under the understanding that our sin is forgiven by Jesus’ death on the cross), is best understood to mean “respect,” or “reverence.” The idea conveyed here is that, because we are forgiven by God for all of our sins, that we are not to fear God anymore, but rather to revere and respect Him.
Frankly, I think this is a mistake, and, while a very pleasant thought, a misinterpretation. I think that “fear” is exactly the right word...and it’s not a proper translation to equate “fear” with “respect” or “reverence.” (Can you imagine Abraham willingly slaying his own son because he respected God? [Genesis 22]). Throughout the Bible, we see the word fear used to mean exactly that...a reaction of awe and even terror at God’s supreme power.
I think that fear of God is, when you think about it, a pretty natural outcropping of understanding His power. Have you ever been to Niagra Falls? I had the good fortune to visit the falls in the dead of winter at about 3:00 a.m. when I was a child. I was about nine years old, and we swung by Niagra on the long journey home from our Christmas vacation in Maine. My dad woke me as I slept in the back of our old Pontiac station wagon, and told me to get my coat on. I stepped out of our dark and silent car, and was startled to hear a low rumble off in the distance. We passed pine trees laden with thick coats of ice as we moved closer and closer to the rumbling sound. After about ten minutes of walking, with the rumbling now almost ear-piercing, we stepped through a break in the trees and I saw a sight I will never forget: millions of gallons of water thundering over the majestic Niagra Falls. I clung to my Dad’s side and gaped open-mouth at the Falls...even though there was a guard rail, a chain fence and 100 yards between the falls and me, I couldn’t help but feel like I was going to be sucked in. I was in a the sort of awe and fear that only an encounter with incomprehensible power can conjure.
This, I think, is what the fear of God is about. It is not a choice...you don’t choose to fear God...any more than you choose to be loved by Him. I think you fear God as a very natural outcropping of realizing, even in small part, His enormous power and incomprehensible sovereignty. The choice for each human is whether or not to pursue the kind of wisdom and humility it takes to begin that realization. When the Bible talks about God-fearing people, it is describing powerful humans (such as Abraham, Moses and Ruth) who have come to recognize how infinitely more powerful God is.
How do we balance that with the idea of a loving God? That’s my favorite part. My fear of God couples with my understanding of His love for me in such a beautiful paradox...the all-powerful Creator of all things, who is mighty and deserves our fear and awe, actually loves me with a love so profound that he chose to sacrifice Himself instead of me. That’s the amazing thing...we should fear God, and yet the ultimate sacrifice came from Him.
Does this help? Does this answer your question? Please let me know if I can shed any more light here, or if I can help you with anything else.
Peace,
Justin
---
What do you guys think...is this close to truth?
Peace,
Justin
Monday, February 21, 2005
There is no easier way to encourage me to ignore a particular cultural phenomenon then for every Christian I know to tell me that I absolutely have to engage it.
To list a few: "The Purpose Driven Life," "Saving Private Ryan," the Cornerstone Festival, Billy Graham's travelling roadshow, "Body for Life," Switchfoot, anything Bill Hybels wrote, "The Passion of the Christ," Icthus, "A New Kind of Christian," and "Wild at Heart."
This is not say that these are all bad creations...The Vineyard sent me to a compulsory viewing of "The Passion of the Christ" and I found it to be an extremely powerful and beautifully horrific adaptation of the story of Christ's death and resurrection. In fact, for all I know, these are all amazing pieces of work...I just hate it when every Christian I know decides that if Jesus were here and He had a gift certificate to Borders, this is fer sure what He'd spend it on.
I never said I wasn't a bit of a jerk.
Anyhow, I ended up taking a gamble on a couple of these. I ended up really liking Switchfoot (though I'm still not certain they are, as I was told, 'like Radiohead for Christians'...I'm pretty sure that Radiohead was Radiohead for Christians). I started to read "The Purpose Driven Life" to see what all the fuss was about, and put it down after 15 pages or so, because I was tired of Rick Warren telling me that my life could now begin to carry some real meaning because I had bought his book.
I am also just finishing "Wild At Heart," which was another compulsory Vineyard thing...and I am really glad that it was. "Wild at Heart," for all of its hype and overselling, has turned out to be a fantastic read. I plan to write a bit more about the book as soon as I finish it. I can't say for sure, but I think it may actually change the way I choose to live in some ways...we'll see...I'll keep you posted.
But may I share with you three books that changed my life? Strangely enough, all three are not only not Christian books...but they are distinctly counter-Christian...at least as I read them. But it was these three that gave me some incredible lessons in both the power and weakness of humanity, and gave me a perspective on my own place in the universe that pointed me toward a God who is manifested in an impossible triad of Sovereign, Benevolent and Unchanging.
1. The Fountainhead. Ayn Rand's seminal humanistic tome, this book both empowered me to know my own strength and forced me to reconcile it with my inability to account for it's genesis.
2. Siddhartha. German philospher Herman Hesse's fictional retelling of the life of the Buddha, this book was a two-hour read that continues to challenge everything my body and my mind tell me will offer me lasting fulfillment.
3. The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia. Restoration kingpin Samuel Johnson's profound tale of a young prince's search for meaning, this short book echoes many of the themes that I had read in Siddhartha four years earlier, but left me with a nagging sense of despondence at man's search for purpose and meaning apart from a divine power. (See: Ecclesiastes).
I don't know if these texts will do it for everybody...each person has his or her own art that will speak to him or her...but they did it for me. I hope you get time to give one, two or all of them a read, though...if nothing else, it will give you one more option when the Final Jepoardy category is, "Relatively Obscure English Literature."
And I'm sure I'll see "Saving Private Ryan" someday...I'm told I need to be sure not to eat beforehand.
Peace,
Justin
To list a few: "The Purpose Driven Life," "Saving Private Ryan," the Cornerstone Festival, Billy Graham's travelling roadshow, "Body for Life," Switchfoot, anything Bill Hybels wrote, "The Passion of the Christ," Icthus, "A New Kind of Christian," and "Wild at Heart."
This is not say that these are all bad creations...The Vineyard sent me to a compulsory viewing of "The Passion of the Christ" and I found it to be an extremely powerful and beautifully horrific adaptation of the story of Christ's death and resurrection. In fact, for all I know, these are all amazing pieces of work...I just hate it when every Christian I know decides that if Jesus were here and He had a gift certificate to Borders, this is fer sure what He'd spend it on.
I never said I wasn't a bit of a jerk.
Anyhow, I ended up taking a gamble on a couple of these. I ended up really liking Switchfoot (though I'm still not certain they are, as I was told, 'like Radiohead for Christians'...I'm pretty sure that Radiohead was Radiohead for Christians). I started to read "The Purpose Driven Life" to see what all the fuss was about, and put it down after 15 pages or so, because I was tired of Rick Warren telling me that my life could now begin to carry some real meaning because I had bought his book.
I am also just finishing "Wild At Heart," which was another compulsory Vineyard thing...and I am really glad that it was. "Wild at Heart," for all of its hype and overselling, has turned out to be a fantastic read. I plan to write a bit more about the book as soon as I finish it. I can't say for sure, but I think it may actually change the way I choose to live in some ways...we'll see...I'll keep you posted.
But may I share with you three books that changed my life? Strangely enough, all three are not only not Christian books...but they are distinctly counter-Christian...at least as I read them. But it was these three that gave me some incredible lessons in both the power and weakness of humanity, and gave me a perspective on my own place in the universe that pointed me toward a God who is manifested in an impossible triad of Sovereign, Benevolent and Unchanging.
1. The Fountainhead. Ayn Rand's seminal humanistic tome, this book both empowered me to know my own strength and forced me to reconcile it with my inability to account for it's genesis.
2. Siddhartha. German philospher Herman Hesse's fictional retelling of the life of the Buddha, this book was a two-hour read that continues to challenge everything my body and my mind tell me will offer me lasting fulfillment.
3. The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia. Restoration kingpin Samuel Johnson's profound tale of a young prince's search for meaning, this short book echoes many of the themes that I had read in Siddhartha four years earlier, but left me with a nagging sense of despondence at man's search for purpose and meaning apart from a divine power. (See: Ecclesiastes).
I don't know if these texts will do it for everybody...each person has his or her own art that will speak to him or her...but they did it for me. I hope you get time to give one, two or all of them a read, though...if nothing else, it will give you one more option when the Final Jepoardy category is, "Relatively Obscure English Literature."
And I'm sure I'll see "Saving Private Ryan" someday...I'm told I need to be sure not to eat beforehand.
Peace,
Justin
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Men should be able to fix cars.
That's kinda what I always figured...men should be able to fix cars. They should also be able to use whatever a router is (the wood-cutting kind, not the cable-modem kind), be able to tell the difference between a Camaro and a Firebird from the back, know who drives #32 in NASCAR, and be able to spot a nickel prevent defense from the blimp-cam.
By these standards, I am not only not a man...I may actually be a woman. It took me a good 20 minutes to put new wiper blades on my Toyota yesterday, I wouldn't know a router if I were holding one, I'm fairly certain that I could tell a Camaro from a Hummer but that's as much as I'll claim, I can only assume #32 is driven by a mustachioed man named "Darryl" or "Cole," and...I think I made up the term "nickel prevent defense."
This is the part of the blog where I am supposed to stick my digital finger (seems redudant, doesn't it?) in the air and say "But no! These are outdated, archaic ideas of manhood! The modern man isn't constrained to these kinds of criteria to achieve manhood!"
...but I'm not so sure.
I've went to the "Fight for Freedom" weekend last weekend, which is based on the perversely popular "Wild At Heart" by John Eldredge. To summarize way too briefly: the idea is that men must reclaim their masculinity from a society that tells us that men are to be docile, soft and tractable. That we spend the rest of our lives fighting the desires that God built us with...the desire to know that, in the end, we are strong enough to come through when the time comes for us to fight.
Now, don't get me wrong here...I'm not convinced that watching NASCAR has something to do with being a real man. But I think there is an element of our culture that tells me that I need to be calm, pleasant and an all-around nice guy to everybody I come in contact with...and that the more carnal, visceral nature of manhood is something to be tamed and eventually extinguished. It's one of the reasons that Fight Club speaks so powerfully to me...the idea that we can meet God somewhere between burning, acidic breaths in the middle of a fight with another man. You don't have to be mad at him...you don't even have to know him...you just have to fight him, and let that be your entrance to the Cathedral. It's an intriguing idea for me...not because it's strange and violently subversive, but because I think that, deep down, I long to connect with the carnal Justin that lies somewhere between layers of 50/50 poly-cotton plaid.
What is a man? How do you know? I think you're supposed to learn from your father...what if you don't remember him telling you anything about it? I think he's teaching you regardless, either in his presence or in his absence. But the question for me becomes, what did I learn from that absence, and is it really truth?
Peace,
Justin
That's kinda what I always figured...men should be able to fix cars. They should also be able to use whatever a router is (the wood-cutting kind, not the cable-modem kind), be able to tell the difference between a Camaro and a Firebird from the back, know who drives #32 in NASCAR, and be able to spot a nickel prevent defense from the blimp-cam.
By these standards, I am not only not a man...I may actually be a woman. It took me a good 20 minutes to put new wiper blades on my Toyota yesterday, I wouldn't know a router if I were holding one, I'm fairly certain that I could tell a Camaro from a Hummer but that's as much as I'll claim, I can only assume #32 is driven by a mustachioed man named "Darryl" or "Cole," and...I think I made up the term "nickel prevent defense."
This is the part of the blog where I am supposed to stick my digital finger (seems redudant, doesn't it?) in the air and say "But no! These are outdated, archaic ideas of manhood! The modern man isn't constrained to these kinds of criteria to achieve manhood!"
...but I'm not so sure.
I've went to the "Fight for Freedom" weekend last weekend, which is based on the perversely popular "Wild At Heart" by John Eldredge. To summarize way too briefly: the idea is that men must reclaim their masculinity from a society that tells us that men are to be docile, soft and tractable. That we spend the rest of our lives fighting the desires that God built us with...the desire to know that, in the end, we are strong enough to come through when the time comes for us to fight.
Now, don't get me wrong here...I'm not convinced that watching NASCAR has something to do with being a real man. But I think there is an element of our culture that tells me that I need to be calm, pleasant and an all-around nice guy to everybody I come in contact with...and that the more carnal, visceral nature of manhood is something to be tamed and eventually extinguished. It's one of the reasons that Fight Club speaks so powerfully to me...the idea that we can meet God somewhere between burning, acidic breaths in the middle of a fight with another man. You don't have to be mad at him...you don't even have to know him...you just have to fight him, and let that be your entrance to the Cathedral. It's an intriguing idea for me...not because it's strange and violently subversive, but because I think that, deep down, I long to connect with the carnal Justin that lies somewhere between layers of 50/50 poly-cotton plaid.
What is a man? How do you know? I think you're supposed to learn from your father...what if you don't remember him telling you anything about it? I think he's teaching you regardless, either in his presence or in his absence. But the question for me becomes, what did I learn from that absence, and is it really truth?
Peace,
Justin
Friday, February 04, 2005
I have spent the last couple of months doing everything but writing on my blog, which I silently, but emphatically, chalked up to having nothing to say.
That's bullshit.
Verbal discretion has never been my strong suit, and I am foolish to think that all of a sudden I came down with a case of quiet humility. It's just not me. I think I had plenty to say over the last couple of months...the same half-formed opinions on topics I barely understand that comprise the bulk of my conversations. I like to opine more than I like most things, and that certainly didn't change. I think what happened is that I got depressed. For whatever reason, I got down. And when I get down, I start to lose inspiration to create much of anything.
The truth is, I think part of me started to believe that my thoughts weren't worth putting up on the blog...that they didn't meet whatever standards for public discourse govern the blog world. But that's just it...there are no standards. I've read many brilliant blogs (see: c-change.blogspot.com) and many very very stupid blogs (see: 1spframes.blogspot.com/). and many inbetween. And yet I held on to this idea that every sentence I post has to meet some standard for decent writing...that I have some plumb-line of inspiration to meet, and should I fall short, I will lose 10 charisma points, be sent a written reprimand by the "counsel to make sure everything Justin Masterson does is OK," and be kicked squarely in the small of my back.
This idea raises two questions for me...why do I think I'm so damn terrible...and why do I think I'm so damn important?
It's like I hold these expectations for myself...that I constantly have to live up to some kind of standard, or people will notice. Exactly which people do I think are watching? I don't know. I can't boast the kind of paranoid delusions that, say, John Nash can...but I still can't shake the feeling that everything has to be done perfectly, or somehow everybody will find out that I'm not all that great a dude.
If I can shake my own Justincentric perspective long enough, I can see the reality that most people are far too busy monitoring themselves to pay any attention to me. But I can't stay in that perspective for very long...I tend to drop back into this mindset that I'm not allowed to fail.
My parents weren't terribly perfectionistic, I don't think. Though my mom did like to vaccuum...but that may have just been because it drowned out the 80's hair-metal-glam-rock blaring from my older brother's room. My dad kept a comb with him most of the time...but I still don't think that qualifies as perfectionistic. We had wire hangers. We had clothes on the floor sometimes. We even had socks that didn't match.
So how does a guy end up thinking that if he doesn't do well at everything the world will fall apart?
I don't know. Do you have any guesses?
Either way, I'm glad to post again.
Peace,
Justin
That's bullshit.
Verbal discretion has never been my strong suit, and I am foolish to think that all of a sudden I came down with a case of quiet humility. It's just not me. I think I had plenty to say over the last couple of months...the same half-formed opinions on topics I barely understand that comprise the bulk of my conversations. I like to opine more than I like most things, and that certainly didn't change. I think what happened is that I got depressed. For whatever reason, I got down. And when I get down, I start to lose inspiration to create much of anything.
The truth is, I think part of me started to believe that my thoughts weren't worth putting up on the blog...that they didn't meet whatever standards for public discourse govern the blog world. But that's just it...there are no standards. I've read many brilliant blogs (see: c-change.blogspot.com) and many very very stupid blogs (see: 1spframes.blogspot.com/). and many inbetween. And yet I held on to this idea that every sentence I post has to meet some standard for decent writing...that I have some plumb-line of inspiration to meet, and should I fall short, I will lose 10 charisma points, be sent a written reprimand by the "counsel to make sure everything Justin Masterson does is OK," and be kicked squarely in the small of my back.
This idea raises two questions for me...why do I think I'm so damn terrible...and why do I think I'm so damn important?
It's like I hold these expectations for myself...that I constantly have to live up to some kind of standard, or people will notice. Exactly which people do I think are watching? I don't know. I can't boast the kind of paranoid delusions that, say, John Nash can...but I still can't shake the feeling that everything has to be done perfectly, or somehow everybody will find out that I'm not all that great a dude.
If I can shake my own Justincentric perspective long enough, I can see the reality that most people are far too busy monitoring themselves to pay any attention to me. But I can't stay in that perspective for very long...I tend to drop back into this mindset that I'm not allowed to fail.
My parents weren't terribly perfectionistic, I don't think. Though my mom did like to vaccuum...but that may have just been because it drowned out the 80's hair-metal-glam-rock blaring from my older brother's room. My dad kept a comb with him most of the time...but I still don't think that qualifies as perfectionistic. We had wire hangers. We had clothes on the floor sometimes. We even had socks that didn't match.
So how does a guy end up thinking that if he doesn't do well at everything the world will fall apart?
I don't know. Do you have any guesses?
Either way, I'm glad to post again.
Peace,
Justin
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
I watched a drunk girl dance with a couple of guys last night.
It was a little like anebriated pinball...the men stood as two rubber bumpers, one in front of her and one behind, and she dully bounced between them like a pinball might if it had a few too many and turned to Jell-O. (There's a mixed metaphor if I've ever seen one). Her eyes were 70% closed the whole time, and she had the half-smile of a dental patient just before he succumbs the anesthetic cocktail. It was that look...that face that got me. It was a spooky mix of distance and relief, and I suspect that the former caused the latter.
Please don't hear this as a judgement thing...I have spent many nights in just such a state, and I enjoyed most of them. It's just that...for whatever reason, as I stood next to a couple of my friends at a tavern last night, I noticed this trio, and I felt bad. I didn't feel pity for them...I didn't feel like I needed to throw a Bible at their heads and offer them saving grace right there next to the subbed-out speakers blaring Eminem. I felt bad that, lots of the time, this feels like the best that things can get.
Our salon commercials talk about "escape." Our vacation packages are called "getaways." Our bath bottles advertise that with their products you can "slip away" into a bubbly abyss. It seems that the best thing we can hope for is to not be where we are. We want to get out of our heads...to get out of our bodies...to feel less...to be lighter, to diminish.
What are we escaping from? Why have we been created to inhabit our bodies and carry about our brains, only to wish nothing more than to relieve ourselves of each? Why do I want the same thing?
I want more for our species than to hope for non-existence. Though that may be our end, it bothers me that escape...numbness...seems to be a highly desireable and heavily marketed quality. I want to hope for a true consciousness marked by presence, not by absence.
Do you remember that scene in Fight Club where Tyler pours lye on Jack's hand...and forces him to keep present to the pain? I wonder if this is where they were headed with that.
Peace,
Justin
It was a little like anebriated pinball...the men stood as two rubber bumpers, one in front of her and one behind, and she dully bounced between them like a pinball might if it had a few too many and turned to Jell-O. (There's a mixed metaphor if I've ever seen one). Her eyes were 70% closed the whole time, and she had the half-smile of a dental patient just before he succumbs the anesthetic cocktail. It was that look...that face that got me. It was a spooky mix of distance and relief, and I suspect that the former caused the latter.
Please don't hear this as a judgement thing...I have spent many nights in just such a state, and I enjoyed most of them. It's just that...for whatever reason, as I stood next to a couple of my friends at a tavern last night, I noticed this trio, and I felt bad. I didn't feel pity for them...I didn't feel like I needed to throw a Bible at their heads and offer them saving grace right there next to the subbed-out speakers blaring Eminem. I felt bad that, lots of the time, this feels like the best that things can get.
Our salon commercials talk about "escape." Our vacation packages are called "getaways." Our bath bottles advertise that with their products you can "slip away" into a bubbly abyss. It seems that the best thing we can hope for is to not be where we are. We want to get out of our heads...to get out of our bodies...to feel less...to be lighter, to diminish.
What are we escaping from? Why have we been created to inhabit our bodies and carry about our brains, only to wish nothing more than to relieve ourselves of each? Why do I want the same thing?
I want more for our species than to hope for non-existence. Though that may be our end, it bothers me that escape...numbness...seems to be a highly desireable and heavily marketed quality. I want to hope for a true consciousness marked by presence, not by absence.
Do you remember that scene in Fight Club where Tyler pours lye on Jack's hand...and forces him to keep present to the pain? I wonder if this is where they were headed with that.
Peace,
Justin
Friday, December 17, 2004
Sometimes it's the art that gets me, and sometimes it's the palette.
I don't know if you ever have these palette wonder experiences...but I imagine all of us do...and I love them. I was sitting in my living room yesterday, remarkably underwhelmed, and zoning out to what I remember as "Nanny 911," but what may well have been some other banal waste of my time, such as "Meet Your New Mommy," "Survivor: Vanuatu," or "Cold Case." As my brain steam-bathed luxiuriously in its color-stim stew, a commercial for shampoo came on. A blond woman hocking the latest innovation in personal home hair solutions used the word "soothing." I love that word. It is an emotional onomatopoeia...its very sound makes me feel what it denotes. The word is thick like whole milk, and warm like tomato soup. I wore it as a sweater for a second or two, and then marveled at its effect on me. And then I realized...that was just the one word.
Here's where I'm headed with this: we have many, many, many words. My delight in the word "soothing" was pleasant, but the palette wonder came in the overwhelming reality that I have so many more words to choose from. Did you ever go down into your grandma's basement and find that ancient stack of National Geographics? Did you pick one out (probably from the middle), and open it to find a beautiful, exotic photo on the page before you? That was the art. Then, did you step back and realize that each of those yellow magazine spines with black print sitting in front of you meant another whole collection of such beauty? That was the palette. I love that feeling...it's overwhelming...it's immersive...and it feels reverent.
It works in libraries for me. It works with colors. It works with music. I love that feeling.
It's nice to post again.
Peace,
Justin
I don't know if you ever have these palette wonder experiences...but I imagine all of us do...and I love them. I was sitting in my living room yesterday, remarkably underwhelmed, and zoning out to what I remember as "Nanny 911," but what may well have been some other banal waste of my time, such as "Meet Your New Mommy," "Survivor: Vanuatu," or "Cold Case." As my brain steam-bathed luxiuriously in its color-stim stew, a commercial for shampoo came on. A blond woman hocking the latest innovation in personal home hair solutions used the word "soothing." I love that word. It is an emotional onomatopoeia...its very sound makes me feel what it denotes. The word is thick like whole milk, and warm like tomato soup. I wore it as a sweater for a second or two, and then marveled at its effect on me. And then I realized...that was just the one word.
Here's where I'm headed with this: we have many, many, many words. My delight in the word "soothing" was pleasant, but the palette wonder came in the overwhelming reality that I have so many more words to choose from. Did you ever go down into your grandma's basement and find that ancient stack of National Geographics? Did you pick one out (probably from the middle), and open it to find a beautiful, exotic photo on the page before you? That was the art. Then, did you step back and realize that each of those yellow magazine spines with black print sitting in front of you meant another whole collection of such beauty? That was the palette. I love that feeling...it's overwhelming...it's immersive...and it feels reverent.
It works in libraries for me. It works with colors. It works with music. I love that feeling.
It's nice to post again.
Peace,
Justin
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
I haven't had much to say lately...
...it's one of the most written-about topics by novelists, columnists and, in time I imagine, bloggers. It's that feeling that, regardless of how much is going on in your head, on your radio, in your life...that you've got no way to get it down on paper. Writer's block.
Fortunately, I have no deadlines, no fans, no J. Jonah Jamieson standing over me barking, "Where's that copy I asked you for?"
Which is nice.
I look forward to having more to write about.
Peace,
Justin
...it's one of the most written-about topics by novelists, columnists and, in time I imagine, bloggers. It's that feeling that, regardless of how much is going on in your head, on your radio, in your life...that you've got no way to get it down on paper. Writer's block.
Fortunately, I have no deadlines, no fans, no J. Jonah Jamieson standing over me barking, "Where's that copy I asked you for?"
Which is nice.
I look forward to having more to write about.
Peace,
Justin
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
An old friend wrote to me this weekend...
To be precise, she's not really old...she's 25...and at my age it's not safe to call anybody "an old friend," as when I'm 65 I won't have any proper way to describe friends who really have held out that long. Either way, this old friend has recently married a bearded fellow with a gift for writing named Ben, and she wrote to tell me that Ben recently won a writing contest in Nashville. Ben wrote about what it was like to meet his hero, Mr. Tobias Wolff.
(By the way, that was first time I've inserted a link in HTML code. It feels a little bit like going on the big-boy potty).
In his piece, Ben asked, "What is it about our encounters with people we idolize that reduces us to nimrods?"
Another gifted writer, Dave Barry, asked the same question when he spoke at Miami. He told us of the time he ran into Barbara Bush at an important socialite function, and the best thing he could think of to say to then First Lady was, "I shop at the same grocery store as your son." Her reply was simply, "oh."
I relay this to you because I, too, have been inflicted with idol-proximity-nimrod-tongue. For me, it struck when I had the chance to meet my favorite band-leader on the planet, Mr. Bela Fleck. (Say "BAY-lah"...I would have put the accent in the right place, but that would be akin to not only using the big boy potty but also finding a way to engineer it to use 25% less water without a loss in functionality).
I was just outside of Nashville, in the wooded beauty of Montgomery-Belle State Park, where Victor Wooten was holding his first Bass-Nature Camp. I was reporting on the camp for NPR (a thin excuse to spend a few days with the best bass player I've ever heard), and on the third day, Victor invited his bandmates from the Flecktones to join the campers for a jam session. Bela showed up, banjo in tow, and sat down for a bit of lunch (root soup, as I recall...it's only marginally better than it sounds). Bela Fleck, my hero...sitting just a few feet away all by himself at a picnic table. What's a musical sycophant like me to do?
I did the only thing that made any sense...I got myself a bowl of root soup and sat down across from him. With my hands trembling and my breath in short, deliberately quiet spurts, I sat down next to Bela Freaking Fleck and His Freaking Bowl of Freaking Root Soup. Holy crap...how can I eat? What if I spill a little? What if I dribble soup on my shirt? What if I miss my mouth entirely with my spoon and accidentally render the best banjo player in the world blind in both eyes? I focused a great deal of energy on getting my spoon into the soup and DIRECTLY into my mouth, so as not to allow that fiendish soup the opportunity to run. I was doing pretty well...too well, in fact, as I was concentrating solely on the soup, and not communicating with Bela Freaking Fleck.
I had to say something...but what? I mean, what do you say to the guy that you've been waiting for years to say something to? Shoot...I've had plenty of time to think about this...WHY DIDN'T I COME UP WITH SOME WITTY REMARK? I had eight hours in the car on the way down...certainly something very funny rhymes with "banjo," and fits the limerick meter. Damn...time is wasting...quick...come up with something...Justin, you've got to have something unique to offer...something that nobody else could possibly offer...
...something totally unique...
...something regional, perhaps...or indigenous to Cincinnati...
...OF COURSE! PIE! Why yes...that's it indeed! I've never had a pie better (or taller) than the Banana Coconut Cream Pecan Pie that Cherrington's used to make....and I know the owner! Why, I could even provide such a pie for Mr. Fleck, should his discriminating tastes require it! Why yes, that's perfect...I'll have a pie sent to him. Next time he's in Cincinnati, I'll have a Banana Coconut Cream Pecan Pie sent to the good boys of the Flecktones, for them to eat and enjoy! Victory is mine!
Wait...no...there's still one obstacle. How do I voice this? How do I give voice to this singular act of generosity that I intend to offer to the world's best banjo player? Why, Justin, just get straight to the point! Certainly nobody wants to delay the acquisition of PIE! Yes, that's it...just offer it.
(To unabashedly borrow a literary device from Mr. Ben Vore): BACK TO THE ROOT SOUP TABLE:
Nothing has been said for a good 45 seconds now. I've been slurping my soup as Bela Fleck slurps his. Not a word spoken....but now I've got a plan. To break the silence, I present my first words to my musical hero....
"...Hey Bela?"
"Yeah?"
"....umm....do you like pie?"
Bela stares at me with a bizarre mixture of heard-from-stupid-drooling-fans-a-million-times jadedness and did-he-just-ask-me-if-I-liked-pie novelty. He answers...
"Sure...yeah, I guess."
Now what? Man, THROW OUT YOUR OFFER! WHO IN HIS RIGHT MIND WOULD TURN DOWN FREE PIE?
But wait...what if he doesn't like coconut. It's a pretty divisive fruit, coconut. It's why Mounds haven't really hit the mainstream. What if he doesn't like it...this whole pie venture hinges on the coconut now...and you can't afford to lose the sale on the coconut element.
But...without the coconut, what have you got? Everybody has had a banana cream pie...and pecan crust is standard pie-foundation. It's the COCONUT that unlocks the Pie-ey goodness...damn you, controversial coconut! I've got nothing to offer this guy. I have nothing to offer!
So, I replied.
"OK...great."
Then, I picked up my bowl of root soup, and walked away.
This marks my last substantial encounter with Bela Fleck. It may very well come to pass that either Bela or I will pass away some day, never having improved on our pie conversation. We will never break the post-pie barrier...never jump over the hurdle that I erected with my nimrod-mouthed pieatribe.
...and I'm certain that Mr. Bela Fleck will be the lesser for it.
Peace,
Justin
To be precise, she's not really old...she's 25...and at my age it's not safe to call anybody "an old friend," as when I'm 65 I won't have any proper way to describe friends who really have held out that long. Either way, this old friend has recently married a bearded fellow with a gift for writing named Ben, and she wrote to tell me that Ben recently won a writing contest in Nashville. Ben wrote about what it was like to meet his hero, Mr. Tobias Wolff.
(By the way, that was first time I've inserted a link in HTML code. It feels a little bit like going on the big-boy potty).
In his piece, Ben asked, "What is it about our encounters with people we idolize that reduces us to nimrods?"
Another gifted writer, Dave Barry, asked the same question when he spoke at Miami. He told us of the time he ran into Barbara Bush at an important socialite function, and the best thing he could think of to say to then
I relay this to you because I, too, have been inflicted with idol-proximity-nimrod-tongue. For me, it struck when I had the chance to meet my favorite band-leader on the planet, Mr. Bela Fleck. (Say "BAY-lah"...I would have put the accent in the right place, but that would be akin to not only using the big boy potty but also finding a way to engineer it to use 25% less water without a loss in functionality).
I was just outside of Nashville, in the wooded beauty of Montgomery-Belle State Park, where Victor Wooten was holding his first Bass-Nature Camp. I was reporting on the camp for NPR (a thin excuse to spend a few days with the best bass player I've ever heard), and on the third day, Victor invited his bandmates from the Flecktones to join the campers for a jam session. Bela showed up, banjo in tow, and sat down for a bit of lunch (root soup, as I recall...it's only marginally better than it sounds). Bela Fleck, my hero...sitting just a few feet away all by himself at a picnic table. What's a musical sycophant like me to do?
I did the only thing that made any sense...I got myself a bowl of root soup and sat down across from him. With my hands trembling and my breath in short, deliberately quiet spurts, I sat down next to Bela Freaking Fleck and His Freaking Bowl of Freaking Root Soup. Holy crap...how can I eat? What if I spill a little? What if I dribble soup on my shirt? What if I miss my mouth entirely with my spoon and accidentally render the best banjo player in the world blind in both eyes? I focused a great deal of energy on getting my spoon into the soup and DIRECTLY into my mouth, so as not to allow that fiendish soup the opportunity to run. I was doing pretty well...too well, in fact, as I was concentrating solely on the soup, and not communicating with Bela Freaking Fleck.
I had to say something...but what? I mean, what do you say to the guy that you've been waiting for years to say something to? Shoot...I've had plenty of time to think about this...WHY DIDN'T I COME UP WITH SOME WITTY REMARK? I had eight hours in the car on the way down...certainly something very funny rhymes with "banjo," and fits the limerick meter. Damn...time is wasting...quick...come up with something...Justin, you've got to have something unique to offer...something that nobody else could possibly offer...
...something totally unique...
...something regional, perhaps...or indigenous to Cincinnati...
...OF COURSE! PIE! Why yes...that's it indeed! I've never had a pie better (or taller) than the Banana Coconut Cream Pecan Pie that Cherrington's used to make....and I know the owner! Why, I could even provide such a pie for Mr. Fleck, should his discriminating tastes require it! Why yes, that's perfect...I'll have a pie sent to him. Next time he's in Cincinnati, I'll have a Banana Coconut Cream Pecan Pie sent to the good boys of the Flecktones, for them to eat and enjoy! Victory is mine!
Wait...no...there's still one obstacle. How do I voice this? How do I give voice to this singular act of generosity that I intend to offer to the world's best banjo player? Why, Justin, just get straight to the point! Certainly nobody wants to delay the acquisition of PIE! Yes, that's it...just offer it.
(To unabashedly borrow a literary device from Mr. Ben Vore): BACK TO THE ROOT SOUP TABLE:
Nothing has been said for a good 45 seconds now. I've been slurping my soup as Bela Fleck slurps his. Not a word spoken....but now I've got a plan. To break the silence, I present my first words to my musical hero....
"...Hey Bela?"
"Yeah?"
"....umm....do you like pie?"
Bela stares at me with a bizarre mixture of heard-from-stupid-drooling-fans-a-million-times jadedness and did-he-just-ask-me-if-I-liked-pie novelty. He answers...
"Sure...yeah, I guess."
Now what? Man, THROW OUT YOUR OFFER! WHO IN HIS RIGHT MIND WOULD TURN DOWN FREE PIE?
But wait...what if he doesn't like coconut. It's a pretty divisive fruit, coconut. It's why Mounds haven't really hit the mainstream. What if he doesn't like it...this whole pie venture hinges on the coconut now...and you can't afford to lose the sale on the coconut element.
But...without the coconut, what have you got? Everybody has had a banana cream pie...and pecan crust is standard pie-foundation. It's the COCONUT that unlocks the Pie-ey goodness...damn you, controversial coconut! I've got nothing to offer this guy. I have nothing to offer!
So, I replied.
"OK...great."
Then, I picked up my bowl of root soup, and walked away.
This marks my last substantial encounter with Bela Fleck. It may very well come to pass that either Bela or I will pass away some day, never having improved on our pie conversation. We will never break the post-pie barrier...never jump over the hurdle that I erected with my nimrod-mouthed pieatribe.
...and I'm certain that Mr. Bela Fleck will be the lesser for it.
Peace,
Justin
Sunday, November 14, 2004
I am conducting a highly scientific research experiment, and I will require your support.
I am writing to solicit your donations to a grant that will fund my highly scientific research experiment. My experiment is already in progress, so a portion of the grant will reimburse me for charges incurred in its exercise. My highly scientific research experiment is very cost-effective, and may change the future of medicine, technology and the consumer home plastics industry.
If you are not already convinced to contribute, let me explain my highly scientific research experiment:
Eighteen months ago, I began a specimen collection. My collection consists of various sizes, shapes and colors of Rubbermaid and Tupperware, which, at one point or another, each housed leftovers of a meal that my wife made. Each of these specimen containers was transported to the church where I work, and left in highly scientific refridgeration for about four hours, next to some cans of Diet Rite and an old half-eaten Wendy's salad. Then, right around noon on the day they were introduced into the church environment, they were removed from refridgeration, had the lid removed to expose the specimen to the elements, and the large majority of contents were shoveled into my mouth. Chew, swallow, digest. We will no longer follow the story of these particular contents, as they are scientifically irrelevant, and had a rather nasty end.
The remainder of the specimen...that is to say, those morsels which were stuck to the side of the container, huddled together along the bottom of the container, or were just too plentiful to eat...were then re-sealed in the container, and the container was left on my desk for the rest of the afternoon, (often with the plastic fork I had used...just a reminder to the remaining morsels not to try anything funny).
This is where things get really scientific...
After a day or so, I would, in a highly scientific manner, get disgusted by the mostly-eaten leftovers sitting on my desk in a tinted polypropylene container. I would then, with great care and precision, move said container into a large pile of similar containers, which grew ever larger in the corner of my office. I would then, with equal care and precision, tell my wife that I fully intended to take them home and wash them, and do so with a straight face. (Environmentalists are always trying to thwart scientific innovation).
After several months of such behavior, my specimen collection was complete...each container exhibiting a different stage of bacterial and fungal growth. It was at this point that we moved into stage 2...or the "Chrysalis" stage. Annoyed by the ever-growing pile of multi-colored specimen containers, I brought a large cardboard box to work, piled all of the specimen containers in, and drove home with my windows open. Upon arriving at home (and being harshly lobbied by the environmentalists to shut down the experiment and clean up the site), I highly scientifically snuck the cardboard box around to the side of the house, closed it up, and taped it shut. Thus begins the Chrysalis stage, and this is where you come in.
I am seeking reimbursement for the cardboard box (40 cents), the tape (1 cent) and the various specimen containers (25 dollars). I am also seeking adequate funds to pacify the environmentalists (pretty earrings = $39.95), so that the experiment may continue. I will also require 1lb (one pound) of Chuck Roast Sumatran Blend coffee ($7.95), a well-padded lawn chair ($15) and a good book about glass blowing or interpersonal conflict ($7-$10), in order that I might sit and observe the progress of the Chrysalis stage. Finally, I will require the sum of $200 for a three-day-stay at the Red Roof Inn down the street when the environmentalist faction decides that until I get that mess cleaned up, I can no longer live at home.
Thank you for your support. I look forward to receiving your checks, made out to me, in the mail or by PayPal. I thank you...and the future of technology thanks you.
Peace,
Justin
I am writing to solicit your donations to a grant that will fund my highly scientific research experiment. My experiment is already in progress, so a portion of the grant will reimburse me for charges incurred in its exercise. My highly scientific research experiment is very cost-effective, and may change the future of medicine, technology and the consumer home plastics industry.
If you are not already convinced to contribute, let me explain my highly scientific research experiment:
Eighteen months ago, I began a specimen collection. My collection consists of various sizes, shapes and colors of Rubbermaid and Tupperware, which, at one point or another, each housed leftovers of a meal that my wife made. Each of these specimen containers was transported to the church where I work, and left in highly scientific refridgeration for about four hours, next to some cans of Diet Rite and an old half-eaten Wendy's salad. Then, right around noon on the day they were introduced into the church environment, they were removed from refridgeration, had the lid removed to expose the specimen to the elements, and the large majority of contents were shoveled into my mouth. Chew, swallow, digest. We will no longer follow the story of these particular contents, as they are scientifically irrelevant, and had a rather nasty end.
The remainder of the specimen...that is to say, those morsels which were stuck to the side of the container, huddled together along the bottom of the container, or were just too plentiful to eat...were then re-sealed in the container, and the container was left on my desk for the rest of the afternoon, (often with the plastic fork I had used...just a reminder to the remaining morsels not to try anything funny).
This is where things get really scientific...
After a day or so, I would, in a highly scientific manner, get disgusted by the mostly-eaten leftovers sitting on my desk in a tinted polypropylene container. I would then, with great care and precision, move said container into a large pile of similar containers, which grew ever larger in the corner of my office. I would then, with equal care and precision, tell my wife that I fully intended to take them home and wash them, and do so with a straight face. (Environmentalists are always trying to thwart scientific innovation).
After several months of such behavior, my specimen collection was complete...each container exhibiting a different stage of bacterial and fungal growth. It was at this point that we moved into stage 2...or the "Chrysalis" stage. Annoyed by the ever-growing pile of multi-colored specimen containers, I brought a large cardboard box to work, piled all of the specimen containers in, and drove home with my windows open. Upon arriving at home (and being harshly lobbied by the environmentalists to shut down the experiment and clean up the site), I highly scientifically snuck the cardboard box around to the side of the house, closed it up, and taped it shut. Thus begins the Chrysalis stage, and this is where you come in.
I am seeking reimbursement for the cardboard box (40 cents), the tape (1 cent) and the various specimen containers (25 dollars). I am also seeking adequate funds to pacify the environmentalists (pretty earrings = $39.95), so that the experiment may continue. I will also require 1lb (one pound) of Chuck Roast Sumatran Blend coffee ($7.95), a well-padded lawn chair ($15) and a good book about glass blowing or interpersonal conflict ($7-$10), in order that I might sit and observe the progress of the Chrysalis stage. Finally, I will require the sum of $200 for a three-day-stay at the Red Roof Inn down the street when the environmentalist faction decides that until I get that mess cleaned up, I can no longer live at home.
Thank you for your support. I look forward to receiving your checks, made out to me, in the mail or by PayPal. I thank you...and the future of technology thanks you.
Peace,
Justin
Friday, November 05, 2004
I have decided to open up an electronics store.
...but not just any electronics store. The most EXPENSIVE of all electronics stores. It'll be called PriceyWires, and we will charge 15% more than our competitors. We will mark up EVERYTHING, and unashamedly add extra taxes and fees at every turn. Our prices will soar over those of Circuit City, Best Buy and H.H. Gregg, and we'll have the biggest, fanciest price tags on the market.
...and the people will come.
"Why?" you ask? Well, because of my special innovation in consumer electronics retailing: I'm going to call it "Customer Service," and it's going to take the nation by storm. Here's how it will work:
1. You will enter through the gigantic sliding PriceyWires doors, and you will see uniformed sales people all over the sales floor, waiting to talk with any customers who might need assistance
2. All sales people will be required to pass a basic skills test, which will include arduous criteria such as "Must be over 14," "Must have a basic command of the English language" and "Must be able to competently identify and understand the products you are selling."
3. Our sales people will be paid solely on a commission-based basis, and will therefore be more motivated to help customers choose products. Also, a series of genital-and-car-battery-based punishments will be incurred if salesperson stands and talks to other salesperson while local church video guy stands 16 inches away, waiting for a simple answer to a very basic question about an audio adapter. (Scenario may be adapted for various situations).
I know, it's crazy...but I think it just may work. My thought is this: deep down, people really want to be treated promptly and with respect and knowledgeability when they go to purchase thousands of dollars in electronics equipment. Despite the popular notion in consumer electronics, I think that, in their heart of hearts, people actually want to be well informed by a competent sales associate when they make major purchases.
Yessir, this "customer service" thing will sweep the world.
Peace,
Justin
P.S. - Yes, this post demonstrates the exact lack of perspective on my part that I wrote about a few weeks ago...but man, dude just needed a headset for his phone, man.
...but not just any electronics store. The most EXPENSIVE of all electronics stores. It'll be called PriceyWires, and we will charge 15% more than our competitors. We will mark up EVERYTHING, and unashamedly add extra taxes and fees at every turn. Our prices will soar over those of Circuit City, Best Buy and H.H. Gregg, and we'll have the biggest, fanciest price tags on the market.
...and the people will come.
"Why?" you ask? Well, because of my special innovation in consumer electronics retailing: I'm going to call it "Customer Service," and it's going to take the nation by storm. Here's how it will work:
1. You will enter through the gigantic sliding PriceyWires doors, and you will see uniformed sales people all over the sales floor, waiting to talk with any customers who might need assistance
2. All sales people will be required to pass a basic skills test, which will include arduous criteria such as "Must be over 14," "Must have a basic command of the English language" and "Must be able to competently identify and understand the products you are selling."
3. Our sales people will be paid solely on a commission-based basis, and will therefore be more motivated to help customers choose products. Also, a series of genital-and-car-battery-based punishments will be incurred if salesperson stands and talks to other salesperson while local church video guy stands 16 inches away, waiting for a simple answer to a very basic question about an audio adapter. (Scenario may be adapted for various situations).
I know, it's crazy...but I think it just may work. My thought is this: deep down, people really want to be treated promptly and with respect and knowledgeability when they go to purchase thousands of dollars in electronics equipment. Despite the popular notion in consumer electronics, I think that, in their heart of hearts, people actually want to be well informed by a competent sales associate when they make major purchases.
Yessir, this "customer service" thing will sweep the world.
Peace,
Justin
P.S. - Yes, this post demonstrates the exact lack of perspective on my part that I wrote about a few weeks ago...but man, dude just needed a headset for his phone, man.
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
I've seen many an American walking around today with an "I voted today!" sticker stuck to his or her chest.
Most of them look happy. That may be for one of two reasons:
1. Participating in the single most powerful act of democracy available to the individual fills their hearts with pride, consequently filling their faces with smile.
2. They like stickers as much as the rest of us.
I am guessing the majority would agree with #1. I, myself, am not so happy about the whole thing. Don't get me wrong...I love voting...sharing my opinion is among my favorite pastimes, as evidenced by my blog, my epinions account, and my ever-shrinking pool of sympathetic friends. I think that the ability to vote is to democracy what the Resurrection is to Christianity and what the brown-sugar apples are to Boston Market. My problem is that the system allowed me to vote for one of three people: 1. An intellectual Lilliputian with an ideology that seems more based on loosely Christian hunches than on hard facts, 2. SuperChin, the six-foot-three New England Python with a sharp wit, a forked tongue, and enough vague promises to make Herbert Hoover blush, and 3. A whole bunch of write-ins that nobody has ever heard of and who don't include the only guy I could stand to vote for four years ago: Ralph Nader.
It amazes me that, out of the 260 million Americans who make hot dogs and run banks pick up trash and provide versatile furniture solutions for modern living, THIS is the best we can come up with. All of all the men, women and brighter squirrels in this country, these two guys are the best we can think of to run the country. At the risk of being too forward, I think that should bother you too.
It's frustrating to think that I am left with the option to vote for one of two men that I don't like to have more political power than anyone else on the planet.
But...I made my vote. And no, I'm not telling you who I voted for. I want to keep the few blog-readers that I have. :)
Peace,
Justin
Most of them look happy. That may be for one of two reasons:
1. Participating in the single most powerful act of democracy available to the individual fills their hearts with pride, consequently filling their faces with smile.
2. They like stickers as much as the rest of us.
I am guessing the majority would agree with #1. I, myself, am not so happy about the whole thing. Don't get me wrong...I love voting...sharing my opinion is among my favorite pastimes, as evidenced by my blog, my epinions account, and my ever-shrinking pool of sympathetic friends. I think that the ability to vote is to democracy what the Resurrection is to Christianity and what the brown-sugar apples are to Boston Market. My problem is that the system allowed me to vote for one of three people: 1. An intellectual Lilliputian with an ideology that seems more based on loosely Christian hunches than on hard facts, 2. SuperChin, the six-foot-three New England Python with a sharp wit, a forked tongue, and enough vague promises to make Herbert Hoover blush, and 3. A whole bunch of write-ins that nobody has ever heard of and who don't include the only guy I could stand to vote for four years ago: Ralph Nader.
It amazes me that, out of the 260 million Americans who make hot dogs and run banks pick up trash and provide versatile furniture solutions for modern living, THIS is the best we can come up with. All of all the men, women and brighter squirrels in this country, these two guys are the best we can think of to run the country. At the risk of being too forward, I think that should bother you too.
It's frustrating to think that I am left with the option to vote for one of two men that I don't like to have more political power than anyone else on the planet.
But...I made my vote. And no, I'm not telling you who I voted for. I want to keep the few blog-readers that I have. :)
Peace,
Justin
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