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Someone New

I saw someone I’d never seen before. Not such a strange thing. But to see that someone three times in a single day, was unexpected. But to call it unexpected is maybe not the best term for it, how could one anticipate seeing someone one has never seen?

If this had been Big Foot would I talk more of the frequency of my sightings or of his very existence? Both would matter, but it would certainly be his presence that was most noteworthy. Unless the sightings led to his capture and future study, then the frequency would bear some significance. For such a search, I would certainly be engaged in the hunt. My repeated sightings might lead the experts in these things to the conclusion that Big Foot and I had a certain affinity. I would need to remember what I was doing at the point of being seen, or rather of seeing. Was what I was doing attractive to Big Foot? Do we share similar recreational interests? Or was it my smell, or aura that caused him to appear?

If he exists he has certainly appeared to others previously. We have photographs. Up until now they have been inconclusive, but if I had seen him thrice in a single day, these photographs might have more merit. Perhaps he likes to be photographed but takes a horrible picture. Who among us has not looked at their own image and thought, That doesn’t look anything like me? He’s a big guy, this Big Foot, and the camera is said to add 10 pounds or more. Wouldn’t this necessarily mean that he appears a little huskier than he might actually be? Possibly more people have seen him, but because his photographs are an injustice, he was therefore unrecognizable.

But really, how difficult is it to distinguish between someone who is clothed and one who is unclothed? There are no reports of Big Foot in a t-shirt and sandals. He's a wooly fellow, bear-like and humanoid. I guess that’s something that would stand out. Something you’d remember if you saw it more than once in a single day.

All Gussied Up

I almost lost my teeth last Friday. Provoked by the cruel taunts of friends, I'd been considering giving my car a wash. It had been at least three (maybe seven) years since I'd last sprayed the thing. The grimy build-up, the tumble of seedy carcasses, and the paint from a thousand bird ploppings had become a badge of honor for my 13-year-old Toyota Corolla.

The decision did not come easily. I had enjoyed watching the sooty creep of my exhaust spray as it expanded along the right rear of my bumper. Diagnosed over a year ago as "burning oil", the car looked, according to one giggly colleague, "like it had been through a fire." So why wash it at all? Perhaps it comes in knowing this is my last chance to appreciate the car I have owned since before I married, and before any of my children's lives began. My wife labeled it "a junker" years before I could embrace such a moniker, but once I agreed with her on this, all bets were off and it seemed to amuse me to watch its decline.

The vinyl border around the windows started peeling, I've torn down what I could. The windshield is cracked from a stone that flew up in 2004. My front seat passenger must wait for a valet to open their door as it does not open from the inside. The driver's side door doesn't open from the outside, but now that I've pried off the inner handle, you can grip the mechanical rod through the exposed hole in the door, and pulling it toward the window, release the door. If it doesn't look like rain, I can keep my window down and reach in to open it. And probably worst of all, is the muckety-muck that covers the area between the seats, under the cuprack, and the carpets--no doubt from years of toppled soda cups and coffee splatters.

Its most recent diagnosis was a broken coolant senser (or something like that)--a device that helps the car identify the internal and external temperature. Without it, my engine thinks it's always 30 below zero. Somehow I found a way to pass my Georgia emissions exam this month, and it felt like reason to celebrate with a washing. I wholly expect this to be my car's last year with me, and as we take this victory lap together, I think she should be clean.

Fearless 2011 MLB Predictions

AL East

1. Boston
2. Toronto *
   
3. NY Yankees
   
4. Tampa Bay
5. Baltimore

AL Central

1. Minnesota
2. Detroit
3. ChiSox
4. Kansas City
5. Cleveland

AL West

1. LA Angels
   
2. Texas
3. Seattle
4. Oakland

NL East

1. Atlanta
2. Philadelphia *
   
3. Washington
4. Florida
5. NY Mets
   

NL Central

1. Cincinnati
2. Milwaukee
3. St. Louis
4. ChiCubs
5. Pittsburgh
6. Houston

NL West

1. San Francisco
2. LA Dodgers
   
3. Colorado
4. San Diego
5. Arizona

Playoffs: Division Series

Red Sox over Angels  /  Blue Jays over Twins

Phillies over Reds  /  Braves over Giants

Playoffs: League Championship Series

Red Sox over Blue Jays  /  Phillies over Braves

World Champions: RED SOX

 

"Fearless" - ha! Actually, they're kind of boring predictions. I have the 2010 NL playoff teams back in the 2011 playoffs--just the Braves/Phillies in different spots. I like the Brewers, almost gave them the NL Central, but the Reds look too strong top-to-bottom. I think St. Louis will fall and Pittsburgh will rise (within reason). I see the Dodgers as plucky, but not quite good enough.

In the AL, the Red Sox are clearly the class act. It may be wishful thinking, but I see a Yankee stumble with their pitching corps dragging them just below the rising Blue Jays. The Rangers' pitching gives out and the Angels hold them off (as Seattle regains their form). And watch for the Royals to win 74 games.

Watch Out for Creepy Gurneys

Last night my children and I were entertained by a Plavix commercial.

The ad showed a handsome actor, his hair speckled gray in all the right places, in the role of a night security guard. As he roamed the hallways of an empty facility, an available gurney lurked, trailing his every step. The imagery loudly warned that this seemingly healthy, workmanlike stud could have a dramatic life event at any moment--unless protected by the mysterious wonders of Plavix.

Well the soft tones of the ad's announcer must have had an effect on the guy, because next thing you know the man is in street clothes, walking through the automatic doors of his doctor's office, the gurney catching in the doors as they close. While the man is cheerfully attended to by his physician, the following words appear at the bottom of the screen: "Doctor dramatization."

What? You mean the phantom piece of medical equipment wasn't a dramatization? That can really happen?

Waiting on the Trumpet Blast

Christmas Eve services were absent from my childhood. It's the New Year's Eve service I remember.

Magic dangled over the precipice between today and tomorrow, history about to unfold, with the promise that nothing would never be the same again. I never really cared for change, but I liked staying up late.

The service would have been short, designed so that we'd be on our knees at the stroke of midnight. Though there was no stroke, the hands of the clock ticked silently and far away on the back wall of the sanctuary. I would sneak-a-peek (okay, many peeks), mesmerized by the distant future and determined to see it click alive with my own eyes. I understood being bathed in God's presence as a new year began, but I felt cheated that a year disappear without fanfare, the believers' eyes opening somewhere after 12:05 with a reverent amen.

Fear trapped me there on my knees. I believed God would choose the most obvious time to send His Son back to earth with a trumpet blast. Afraid I wasn't quite ready, I'd worry over my sins, watching and praying. It's silly to think the God who promised an end when we least expected it, would use the nonsynchronized hands of a church clock in Minnesota as his countdown trigger. For goodness sake, we weren't even on eastern standard time.

After a closing song, the faithful watchers were released to the basement for all kinds of sweet goodies. My friends were there, and we filled our bottomless stomachs for a king-of-the-hill match on top of a 15-foot high mound of snow pushed together by city trucks in the parking lot.

All reverance forgotten, we pushed and scraped for supremacy, our mothers calling us to the car before we could ascend the throne. 

Turn and Tell

“Turn and tell someone you’re so glad to see them this morning!!”

If you’ve spent any time in an evangelical church, you’ve surely been assaulted by grinning commands from the platform—instructions that can make even the most social of people cringe.

Telling congregants to swirl to their left and right to shake hands or repeat a trite encouragement is not likely to further the faith. Is the operating assumption here that we can’t make friends, or won’t think to greet people before or after the worship service? Must we be implored to break form within the meeting to glad-hand?

Nearly always it’s the worship leader who is guilty of this schmaltz, typically a guy on super church serum who confuses lifting praises to God with the role of cruise director on The Love Boat.

Often the statements we’re told to repeat are unnaturally long-winded. What is the degree to which I believe the phrase someone is telling me? How many people go off the reservation to say whatever they feel like, to mumble only a “hello”, or say nothing at all?

The next time you’re given these instructions—take note of the room. A handful of charged up congregants will run about, passing out hugs and conspiratorial close-talks; many will dutifully shake, smile, and mumble; even as others stand frozen and forgotten.

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a spontaneous conversation break out between two people who didn’t already know each other. Usually obligatory handshakes are thrown around until one runs out of hands, forced to wait (a bit awkwardly) on the instigator now taking laps around the sanctuary.

It seems we could do a lot better.

Last Sips of an Old Romance

 
Today I missed my last huzzah at the neighborhood Starbucks, a location that let its lease expire. For three years my Corolla’s tires crunched over the gravel lot belonging to this respite on the side of the highway. Perched on top of a music studio, its floors were bare linoleum and existed in three planes—entry floor space, order area, and lakeside view. Often there were artworks or framed photographs from local artists displayed on the walls for purchase. I came here to write my first great novel—sparingly and randomly at first, before finally settling into a three or four days per week morning ritual. Along the way the first great novel was shelved, giving way to book two, the dream adjusted downward from “a million dollar advance” to “let’s just get published.”

My favorite spot was along the lake, back to the front wall, plugged in and facing the customers and serving bar. Sometimes another writer or worker (I didn’t know which) would sit nearby and share an electric outlet. Usually what counted for company were an infrequent pair of early morning Bible study dudes or a lonely young cop who read his Bible along the other wall.

Each day like clockwork, a gaggle of seniors would scoot in for their 7:30 breakfast chat. At times it was comforting, listening to the group read headlines from their morning paper, knowing they had nowhere urgent to be. When I got up to pack my bag somewhere between their arrival and 8:00, I would feel a pang of jealousy at their freedom. Chuck, a soft grump who liked to talk up the Starbucks crew, and his smiling sidekick wife the central players, holding court on the topics of the day.

A Flattop for Christmas

Buzz me short and leave an inch on top

Christmas is coming soon.

Blow dry high

Freeze upright

a gelling compound for the 'do.

I'm dressed for the army or a comfortable sweater

ready for cap or fedora.

I'm an old school track coach with knobby knees,

my head's round but I wear the square proud.

It's the flattop I want back for Christmas.

While

Interfering with the moment

unwelcome space.

Here follows then,

won't hold.

chasing, fleeting

here still there, tomorrow alive.

Living History

When I read history, with the little I know of the subject, I find myself calling silently to the players, warning them of their impending demise. From my comfortable chair, I can usually spot their folly and know when things aren't going to end well.

Usually my wisdom is a cheat--I'm in the future afterall, and their story has only been written because something significant evolved from the mundane. You don't get a cup of coffee knowing the refrigerator's going to fall on you, anymore than a historian would write about it unless it was the instrument of your death, or the impetus for your salvation.

This is why I prefer history to current events. With history I know what's coming, or at the very least, that something significant will form from the described event. But living through history gives no such advantage, offers no absolute warnings, and the mundane can't be diagnosed as significant until much later.

But then enters God. Or more accurately, there God is--with His clear prescience and perfect will. For Him there are no surprises, no miscalculations, no adjustments required. He knows the story, He owns the story, and by trusting Him, He will carry me through the story--safely, purposefully, and lovingly.

Part of me wishes I could sit comfortably as my life unfolds, but then no one gets to read the last page before the book is written.