Parenthetically Yours

Unfaithful

Dear Internet,

I'm sorry. There I said it. I'm sorry for not spending quality time with you lately, but I promise it's not you, it's me.  I know that sounds cliché, but it's true. You've always been there for me and you have done nothing to cause me to stray. But I think it's best to be honest with you, because if we can't be honest with each other (or at least fake sincerity), what kind of a relationship do we really have. So...here's the truth: there's another woman...and a man...and a few teams of them. Yes, it's true...I've been spending all my time lately with Michael Phelps, Nastia Liukin, Shawn Johnson, Jonathan Horton, Dawn Harper and the entire US Olympic Team and they've got me doing things I would never do before. It's all so exciting! I watched the opening ceremonies (all four hours) with my jaw on the floor and stayed up to the wee hours yesterday to watch table tennis and badminton live. Badminton! And I didn't even know it was spelled badminton until this week! It's bad and I'm afraid only getting worse. I've been crying at VISA commercials and rooting for Russian gymnasts. What? I was a Ronald Reagan/Cold War era kid! How can I root for Russia? As long as they beat China...GO RUSSIA!

I also need to admit that I've been using you, internet. I used you to go here and here. I'm sorry, but I can't promise that I won't do it again. I'm not saying you did anything wrong, but even the Today show is more interesting than you. Is that too harsh? Remember, we promised honesty to each other. And I'm honestly not interested in you. But it's not you, it's me. Maybe it is a little bit you.

Internet, we're not finished, we can work through this. Before you know it, we'll once again be surfing hand in hand to our favorite sites: craigslist, ebay, drudgereport, dooce, consumerist...all the old familiar places. We'll make new memories and have a fresh start. I promise.

I promise I'll come back. But first, the women's water polo team is playing for gold.  Go girls!  U-S-A! U-S-A!  

(rw)

P.S.  I've posted this for all the world to see on Randy Elrod's Watercooler Wednesday post.

The Internet Doesn't Exist Here

I went on a six mile hike yesterday.  I'm sore.

(rw)

Tourist Trapped

Dear readers, you're not going to hear much out of me this week because I'm spending a couple of days off in Montana.  When I’m in places like this (Kalispell this morning, Glacier National Park today, Great Falls on Sat) I wonder why people spend their money vacationing in Orlando or Anaheim or San Antonio.  Oh, I know—when you have kids, you have to hit the theme parks and tourist traps.  But my goodness, this place is beautiful.  Why isn’t it crawling with tourists?  Now, I realize that I’m not very cool and my idea of a good time ranks right up there with toe-stubbing for most people.  But come on.  Shouldn’t a vacation mean getting away from plans and people and stuff?  Maybe it’s the elderly man in me, but this is almost heaven (I say almost because I haven’t found a Starbucks yet).  From my window, I’m looking at a mountain range surrounding the banks of a practically untouched lake.  In most locales, this would be called a state park.  Here, it’s just undeveloped.  This is what a tourist town should be.  There’s a population of around 12,000 and it triples during the summer months.  That’s only 36,000 people.  Nashville gets 36,000 visitors every few hours it seems.  And they’re all wearing the same uniform: a visor with the phrase “Too Blessed to Be Stressed,” a Garth Brooks t-shirt, denim shorts, socks and sandals (the hip ones wear footies and crocs), not enough sunblock and a camera—you know, just in case they see Tim and Faith at Chili’s.

In the hands of an over-aggressive developer, this place would become unbearably crowded and spoiled.  But as it is, it’s perfect for people who want their tourist destinations to be un-crowded, simple, gorgeous.  Perfect for people who just want to be left alone.  Like Tim and Faith.  Get out the camera.

(rw)

Let's Get Physical

Be careful what you ask for.  It was a fairly nondescript weekend so yesterday morning I thought to myself, I wish something funny would happen to blog about.  Children, wishes can come true.

My loving wife decided we needed to get yearly physicals so she scheduled my appointment for 1 p.m.  Since they were doing blood work, I had to fast for at least eight hours before then.  I took this into consideration and had a late dinner.  By the time one o'clock rolled around, though, I was hungry as a hostage.  I tried to keep my gastro-induced emotional state intact but I think I snapped at the receptionist for giving me a pen with no ink and made fun of a fat kid in the lobby.  I was the picture of selflessness.  

A smiling, attentive nurse took me into the first room to get some blood from me.  She was kind and put me at ease right away.  My first clue that something might go awry, though, was the sheer number of vials I was supposed to fill.  I think there were 26, but that could be an exaggeration (it is).  She told me to sit back, assured me that she was a pro at this, and that taking blood was her favorite part of the job.  My first thought was, great, vampires and ticks love taking blood too. This did nothing to comfort me.

At some point during the bloodletting, I felt the needle move in my arm.  Up until this point, I was having a pleasant conversation about the Olympics. Now I could think of nothing else.  There's a needle in my arm, there's a needle in my arm, don't look, don't look, don't...look...I'm...not...doing...so...well.  Out.  Cold.  The next thing I can remember is hearing Mr. Williams!  Mr. Williams?  Can you hear me?  Was my dad in the room?  I'd fainted.  I've NEVER fainted in my life.  When I came to, there were three nurses and a doctor in my room.  From what I was able to gather, my entire face (lips too) went totally white, I stiffened, and slumped over in my chair.  The sweet nurse caring for me apparently screamed--screamed "bloody murder" is how another nurse put it--for help with me.  They got me on a table, got some blood back into my head, gave me some juice and a breakfast bar and I was fine.  That was until the "stress" test.

The stress test should simply be called the "let's see how quickly we can make your heart explode" test.  First, they shaved part of my chest to attach the electrodes.  This only added insult to injury.  I was already embarrassed for having passed out, now my chest hair was shaved into the shape of Homer Simpson's face.  Katie forgot that I needed to bring running shoes with me so I had to run in footies on the treadmill.  Not cool.  Halfway through, one of them started slipping off.  The sight of me running on a treadmill, partially shaved chest, sweating like a sow, one sock half-flopping around like a dead fish on my foot, trying to carry on a conversation with the nurse about when we want to have kids--well, to say it was comical is the understatement of the year.  Once my heart rate reached 180 (it is supposed to do that?) I was finished.  Boy, was I finished.  I sat down and once again, things started closing in on me.  This time, though, I was about to puke my brains out.  Bad idea to eat three Nutri-grain bars and three cups of juice before running uphill for 15 minutes. 

Thankfully, everything stayed in place and the doctor came in to see me.  There were just two more things he needed to do to me.  Since this is a family show, I'll leave those two things to your imagination.  Let me just say, though, that when it was over, I felt as if I had been sodomized with a pine cone.

Turns out, everything was as it should be. The doc even said that on the sonogram my internal organs were incredibly picturesque  (Picturesque?  Like the Grand Canyon?).  Perfect hearing, great lung capacity, low body fat, great cardio response--overall excellent (his words) physical shape.  I just wish they didn't have to nearly kill me to figure that out.

(rw)

A Fair-ly Good Day

I could spend all day at a state fair by myself. I’m not talking about the measly county fairs or traveling carnivals. Those are dangerous. Too many missing teeth. I’m talking about the big shows. We played at the Wisconsin State Fair a couple of days ago and I spent a good bit of the day tooling around the midway in search of nothing but discovering everything.

There are a few things that are universal at state fairs—the rides, corn dogs and funnel cakes, livestock, deep fried everything, unfortunate tattoos, mullets, and hot tub dealers—but there are a few marked differences between a fair in the north and a fair in the south. For instance, you may have a few beer vendors in the south, but in Milwaukee this week, it was every other vendor and there wasn’t a Dr Pepper within 150 miles. Maybe it’s the German and Irish influence. At any rate, from 2-4, there was a happy hour at one of the beverage trailers. Beer: $3. Bottled water: $3.50. This is the town whose baseball team isn’t named after a ferocious animal. They’re brewers.

I was searching for a corn dog and was a little disheartened when I saw a food vendor with a gigantic neon VEGGIES lit up along the midway. It advertised yummy Cauliflower, Broccoli, Tomatoes, Carrots, Zucchini, and Squash in bright red letters and I thought “Oh no…the fair is getting healthy.” My heart was relieved as I got closer and could make out the words Beer Battered and Deep Fried painted on the glass.

There was also the worst Elvis impersonator I’ve ever seen. The guy was super skinny and was giving about 80 percent. In the south, we want our Elvi (plural for Elvis) fat and sweaty. Elvis never phoned it in. Neither should you, beanpole. I stayed for three songs but didn’t recognize them so I hereby propose a new international law for Elvi that requires every third song to be “Suspicious Minds.”

There is always music at these festivals. There are the mainstage acts which consist of washed up rockers (REO Speedwagon, Styx), B-level country acts (Josh Turner, Miranda Lambert), or Christian artists. Then there are the midway bands: local cover bands and/or regional acts. We saw one of my favorites bands from the 90s, The Gin Blossoms, on the midway in Wisconsin, and as much as I hate to say it, they were unbearably awful. I suspected slight inebriation and cynicism. For whatever reason, I’d never seen more cover bands at a fair than I did this week. I know many people love cover bands, but I just can’t take them. To me, cover bands are the sound of crushed dreams and hopes dying. If I ever meet Fred Schneider, I’m going to walk right up to him and slap his face because I can’t bear to hear “Love Shack” one more time.

So, have a great time at the fair and have a corn dog on me!

(rw)

The Girl in the Window

Yesterday Katie sent me an email that simply said "Go read Dooce and watch the video." So without hesitation I went to our favorite blog Dooce.com and her post led me to a story from the St Petersburg Times in FL that is one of the more disturbing AND inspiring stories I've ever heard. It's a story about a little girl found by police in complete and utter neglect (repulsive, total forgotten neglect). It's a story about the healing hand of love and the family that adopted her. Here's the link for the video and story. If you don't want the audio or video, you can click here to simply read the story.

If ever there was a family that deserved an Extreme Makeover Home, this is it. Any of my Los Angeles friends have any connections to the producers of that show? Anyone know where this family goes to church?

Love and Hope and Faith are winning in this story. My pea-sized brain is envisioning this spreading like a virus through the internet and seeing the family cared for in a way they've yet to see happen.

Come back tomorrow for stories from the Wisconsin State Fair...but today, pray for this family.

(rw)

Default Position

Difficult people are, well, difficult. I recently had a minor run-in with a difficult human. It was more annoying than offensive--sort of like a chuihuahua. Lots of barking, little or nothing to back it up.

Of course, there will always be people who try our patience. Mean, ridiculous people. Ticket counter agents. Outsourced customer service people. Frat guys. People who don’t like coffee or kick puppies for pleasure (yeah, I put those two in the same sentence). Even yours truly has been known to say a harsh word or two here and there. What? Can it be? Yep. Apparently I can turn on the condescension like flipping a switch. Of course, it’s an unknown, unlocate-able switch. Otherwise I’d get some Gorilla Glue and affix it to a permanently OFF position. The sad thing is that I’m not even aware of it. I don’t even think I mean anything by it. It’s just an unconscious default. Sort of like my wife picking at my head and face. I swear she can’t control it. Her hands just go there anytime I’m within reaching distance.

So maybe that’s the deal with difficult people. Maybe these are just the unredeemed, default things we all do and say. Maybe it has less to do with them and more to do with how I respond (you think?). My default position is to have no grace for this. Thankfully these are the exact things Grace was designed for.

(rw)

As per the ritual, this is part of Watercooler Wednesday at Randy Elrod's ETHOS blog.

Right Wing Nut Jobs

I used to be so bright-eyed and optimistic, then the information age happened. Since I’m a sucker for information, I’ve soaked in it—and nearly drowned in it. See, I have a problem (surprise) and that is I believe everything I read. Maybe it’s because I grew up with such an appreciation for printed words. For whatever reason, if it’s written, I’ll give it consideration.

This, however, does NOT apply to forwarded emails. I unequivocally doubt the validity of any email that has been forwarded to me claiming things like bottled water will give you cancer or that Starbucks doesn’t send coffee to the troops. Neither are true. If you are a frequent forward-er…please spend a few minutes at Snopes.com. The truth will set you free!

But other than that, I believe most things I read. This is a useful habit when it comes to things like reading the Bible, or Shelby Foote, or Johnny Cash’s autobiography. It is not beneficial or helpful in the least, though, when faced with websites about Federal Reserve conspiracy theories, the supposed illegality of a federal income tax, and the positive teachings of Scientology. I read a few pages of this stuff last night and I was ready to stockpile weapons, move to Montana, and hole up until the rapture.

I also made the mistake of watching a few melodramatic “documentaries” by the conspiracy theorist (read: nutjob) Alex Jones. These films are more slanted than an isosceles triangle and make Michael Moore look like an honest filmmaker. You think The Exorcist is frightening? His take on the Illuminati made me want to sleep with the lights on for three days.

I Thessalonians 5 says to “test everything and hold on to the good.” St. Paul was mainly talking about theology and preachers, but I think there can be a broader application here. In today’s over stimulated cache of information, I think Paul’s saying that we shouldn’t be so idealistic and naïve that we accept everything at face value yet not so cynical that we instantly put up an impenetrable wall of doubt. This comes, unfortunately, with wisdom and maturity—two things I’ve yet to master.

Whether we’re reading up on the IRS, the Emergent Church, forwarded emails, or Britney Spears—we have to know how to filter, how to study, yet never ever throw the baby out with the bathwater.

(rw)

Fraidy Cat

Mrs. Neindorf was a bad teacher. She was my fourth grade teacher and, more than any other educator, had a profound effect on who I am today. She made me a ‘fraidy cat. Because of her, I still can’t pass through a dark house or alley without at some point breaking into a sprint. Or a sweat.

Mrs. Neindorf was (obviously) German and approximately 119 years old. She was intolerant, ungracious, and not to be tried. I still can’t figure out what it was in her personality that wanted to spend her days with a room full of nine year olds. Maybe it was a need to control or some unresolved issues with her parents (who were no doubt Nazis). Mostly, though, I think she was just a mean old lady that wanted to make kids squirm.

Every day she would read to us. These were the pre-video game, pre-MTV days when kids could actually pay attention for more than 3 minutes at a time, so she would read portions of various books to us day after day as we sat on the floor at her feet completely enveloped in the unfolding stories. And what kind of stories do you imagine she fed our minds? Not Encyclopedia Brown or Nancy Drew. Not Dr Suess or Ramona the Pest. No, this old bat would read gruesome ghost stories, tales of alien abductions and UFOs, and other unexplained mysteries! To kids!

Looking back, it seems only natural that my active imagination became acutely sensitive to creaks and cracks in the middle of the night. I already couldn’t sleep with any portion of my body outside the covers (except my head) for fear that a vampire would grab the exposed limb and tickle it. With his pointy fingernails. Death would’ve been preferable. Well, these midday stories did nothing to ease my childish imagination. In fact, I had such a ghastly encounter one night that I couldn’t sleep without tissue in my ears for months. I was awakened to the sound of footsteps in my room that stopped, then turned and walked away. And it kept happening night after night. I literally was scared OUT. OF. MY. MIND. Was I crazy? Was it a ghost? Occasionally this unexplained visitor would knock something over in my room and walk away. Before you write all of this off as just an over-active imagination, let me tell you. It was real. Things were bumped and knocked over often. The morning would show the evidence of the intruder. I was a mess.

I never talked about any of this to my parents because I was afraid they’d think I was nuts. I was already a little different (played music, not sports) so I didn’t want to seal my “weird kid” fate by complaining about the ghosts in my room every night. So I suffered it in silence.

That was 30 years ago. Not too long ago I was at my parents’ visiting and over a card game one night, the subject of childhood fears came up. I hadn’t thought about those nightly visitations in years and mentioned it. These were profound events that had lasting effects into my youth, that effected the way I thought of the supernatural. I still don’t like to sleep in a completely dark room. It was a BIG DEAL.

As casually as one could possibly be, my sister, while searching the hand she’d been dealt, said “Oh, that was probably me. Didn’t you know I used to sleepwalk all the time?”

No. No I did not know that.

(rw)

Tavin Dillard

It's Friday. You need a break. You need a little Tavin Dillard. We all could use a little Tavin Dillard. If you're like me, you have a distant (or not-so-distant) relative a lot like him.

Tavin is the brain-child (without a brain) of my friend Joel Berry from Riverside, California. Joel is an aspiring screenwriter and filmmaker who loves the South (especially Arkansas) and I could always count on the Berrys and the Lamberths to make me feel at home when I lived out there.

Here's his site: Sweet Tea Films. Here's his You Tube Channel. Go ahead, spend some time there.

(rw)