questions I asked myself today

1. How does cheese melt in a quesadilla when it wasn't frozen in the first place?
2. Has anyone actually read the ingredients in toothpaste? Does it scare anyone else that it says, "Do not swallow?"
3. Once everyone our age gets married, what exactly will everyone talk about?

Bon nuit.

A staggering night of heartwarming genius

This is Matt. Matt is an intrepid Austrian hiker.

















Matt is enthralled by a note jotted in Galen's little black book.















Galen and Trevor want some time to think about this.


















Apparently Matt thinks the note is amusing.


















Galen and Trevor are relieved.






















Now Matt is a city slicker and Trevor is a graduated artist. Trevor has grown a moustache in the past seven minutes.















Then Matt changed clothes and died.















Galen died too.




















Trevor is dismayed by these developments.
















Matt resurrected to find out he is wearing a pink boa.

















Kayla is incredulous.



















And now for something completely different.















"Change... the channel..."
- Uncle Bill

Click.

Cheers!

The fog, like fish and visitors, begins to stink after five days.

oh, the decisions

Apple Pie, Pumpkin Pie, Cranberry Pie or Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie?

Thank you, Nordstrom

Posted at the Southcenter Nordstrom

The Wizard's Winter (updated)

And there was another time, when we went to Mr. Saintpatrick's house. Laura's mom never let us visit Mr. Saintpatrick's. She said we shouldn't go to stranger's houses. But I saw them talking once, and they waved at each other a lot, so I guess he wasn't a stranger, really.

That afternoon, we only went into his house because Amber had slipped on the gravel in front of his house. We were running away from this kidnapper who kept driving by getting ready to steal us, and we turned around the corner in front of Mr. Saintpatrick's house and Amber bought the farm. She scratched up her whole body, and the kidnapper was still chasing us in his car, so I knocked on Mr. Saintpatrick's door.

He looked scared when he opened the door; I think I knocked really hard. He looked both ways while he asked me what I wanted. I explained the situation to him and pointed to Amber limping up the sidewalk. When he saw her, he didn't look so scared anymore. He told me to go inside and call Laura's mom, to tell her to come as fast as possible. She said she'd be right over and to not let him feed us anything, but I forgot that part, because when I got off the phone, I saw Amber on the couch and Mr. Saintpatrick was taking off her coat. He wasn't doing anything dirty. He just put bandaids on all of her scratches, and told her he'd make her some chocolate milk with his secret recipe to make her bruises go away. He made some for me and Laura too.

We sat on the couch next to the patient, and he stood by the fireplace with his back to the fire. Across from the fireplace, the news was playing really quiet on his TV. He looked scary with his face flashing colors in the TV light, but when he turned to stoke the fire, he looked a lot like my Grandpa. He had a belly and eyebrows like my grandpa, so I felt safe. He asked us about school, and riding bikes, and did we like our chocolate milk. We forgot about the kidnappers pretty soon. He sat down in a rocking chair next to the fire, and finished his chocolate milk that he was drinking out of a metal bottle with a very short neck.

Amber asked him to tell us a story. He told us about when he was a kid and his uncle taught him how to make it snow. Laura didn't believe him, so she double-dared him to prove it. He laughed a big laugh, like Danny Kaye in White Christmas, and he went to the window and rubbed his chin at the clouds. He looked over his shoulder at us on the couch, and at the news. He smiled at the clouds for a few seconds, like he saw an old friend flying by, and then maybe he did see a friend, because he waved at the clouds a few times and he laughed again. He said to the window, loud enough for us to hear, "Just wait -- it'll snow tonight. It'll snow. Your mom is here now." He opened the door for her, and she thanked him for taking care of us and she almost died when she saw us drinking chocolate milk from a secret recipe. We walked home very fast and she squeezed my hand and Laura's hand really hard. I tried to get my hand away, but Laura's mom wouldn't let go. She was very nice to Amber that afternoon, but not me or Laura. She told us not to go into stranger's houses, and especially not Mr. Saintpatrick, because he was a bad man. I thought about her waving at him a lot when they talked, and him waving at her, and I couldn't understand. I thought about it all afternoon. We were having pancakes for dinner, so I forgot about him until the next morning. When I woke up I had to squint when I looked out the window, because the everything was so bright. There was snow on the lawn and the neighbor's roof, and there were tracks from the neighbor's car. Laura's mom might not like Mr. Saintpatrick, but I don't think he's bad. I don't think he's bad at all. I think he's a good man who knows a recipe for secret hot chocolate and I think he's a wizard who can make it snow.

I want to curl up in a little ball and never have to think of this again.

and you hated prepositions most

about. over. upon. without. for. to. with. under. below. inside. outside. within. regarding. against. across. alongside. within. as. between. from. except. down. like. minus. off. up. past. near. less. save. plus. per. till. unlike. until. while. toward. and on.

A tribute to prepositions, the words that let us have relationships.

can you imagine?

I think the first time we did it was when I was four. We all had Mickey Mouse ears on. Not mine of course. I've never been to Disney Land. My parents wanted to wait till I could remember. By the time I could I was too old to care. Bad idea, waiting for anything. Like working hard all year for two weeks of pleasure. Why not enjoy the work? Then you don't need a vacation.

So we had these Mickey Mouse ears on, from when Laura went to Disney Land. And we're sitting on a brick wall that's holding back a bajillion tons of dirt and probably the whole house too. There's gravel in the flowerbed, and a tree we used to climb leaning out over the grass, and us. It's not rare for the three of us to be together, or sitting in Laura's back yard like we are. But there's this look in our eyes, and you know we're not there right now. I mean, we are. We're posing for a picture, and we're smiling and all. But we weren't there. Our eyes have that glazed look, like a kid who walks in a department store, touching all the coats with his hand as he walks circles around the women's department. You know he's touching the coats because the coats are moving, but you know he's not there. He's probably an actor and he's running his hand along the curtain after a performance. He's waiting for his girl to change, and he's the hero. Boys always make themselves a hero, when they're there and not here. She'll tell him he was wonderful, and the janitor will look at him enviously as they kiss. He'll be envied; he'll have what they want.

And perhaps that's what we had, what we wanted, the first time we did it. In the hedge behind Laura's house we stockpiled the swords, and the treasure that took us all Saturday to bury. Golden goblets, chests of Spanish coins, rubies, probably iguanas and dogs and kangaroo rats because we liked them more than jewels. It was back to the ship, which the others called the swingset, but that was ok with us, because they couldn't see the treasure like they couldn't see the sails. We swung higher than any other kids, because the faster we swung, the sooner we'd catch that merchant ship. The sooner we'd be safe in our fort, spending stuffy summer afternoons counting our treasure in the shade of our imaginations.

I think when I was eight, it happened again, in the rafters above my friend's garage. Construction sites are inspirational to kids like sunsets are to lovers. Every unfinished wall is an excuse to invent something new. This isn't a loft, it's the Olympics, and the American gymnasts will beat the Russians once and for all. And on the ground, a hockey game will begin, as soon as Dad moves the car. But how strong are you? How long can you hold yourself on the parallel bars, and can you turn around? Are you scared? And skinny arms flex like sapplings and we don't fall. Or we're mobsters, and here in the insulation we'll hide our contraband. And then we have to stop doing it when the sheetrock goes up, and there aren't any holes cut into the Olympics. They wouldn't. Adults are so practical. Heating costs and all. Who heats a garage? But never fear, because we'll fight the Texans from our fort in the back yard. Because the Texans are the enemy today, why else? And do you think you could throw a water balloon into the road? Of course I can. I did once, and it hit a police car. No it didn't! Yes I did! Even ask... and now we're fighting ourselves. The Texans go back to Texas becuase it's the Swedish we hate now, and the Swedish hate the Scottish now. And they'll hate the Cherokee later, because everyone has a bit of Indian in them. We shoot bow and arrow too. Because we hunt bears and deer between the fort and the fences. Bears live in gardens these days. But it's dinner time and while we eat macaroni and cheese and hotdogs, the deer will recover their energy, because we'll hunt them until it's time to ride my bike home, where I can't do it, because I can't do it alone.

Now, I can't do it at all. Sex is permissible, but it isn't. Adults can have sex, but adults can't do it. It's not realistic. Condoms are realistic, but flying kites off the back of motorhomes is stupid. Waking up next to him is allowable, but don't associate with dragons. Porn is creative, but pirate ships aren't powered by swings. Grow up? Screw you! You don't know where Laura lived. You don't know where I hid my treasure!

Do you Flickr?

I have a Flickr account now! Six of my zoo pictures are posted there. And maybe more once I develop the second roll.

Click to see my Flickr!

2:30 and it's time for our morning epiphany

I was going to write a post about how annoyed I am with the laziness of Christian musicians (and other artists -- how they all label their work "Christian" to get it sold in Christian bookstores, where otherwise no one would buy it).

But then I realized, I don't have a problem with Christian artists, really. I am glad I'm not one of them, but I realize some have talent, some are creative, and many produce good, edifying material, when they aren't writing in cliches. The only reason I wanted to attack them is because they were easy to fault. I needed a cause, and they were the easiest available. Talk about ironic. I was lazy and uncreative, so I planned to attack the lazy and uncreative.

But I still won't buy their stuff.

Anyway, what I'm thinking about now is similar to what Raj has been mulling. How much criticism is good, and effective? At what point do we become a cause of the disease, instead of the doctor diagnosing it? Is it pleasing to God when we find fault with mediocre artists making mediocre art? Doesn't he judge the heart, while we're stuck criticizing the appearance? Maybe their art is pleasing to him, and maybe their hearts aren't mediocre. In fact, I'm sure they aren't. People generally can't be labeled mediocre. There are mediocre artists and students, and teachers, and pastors, and prophets, but there are no mediocre people.

I'm at a loss of what to do now. It's so easy to criticize the facets of the commercial church. It's such an obvious cause. Any cause I undertake now will require more effort. But maybe by undertaking any cause harder than this one -- maybe when we take on harder causes, we grow, and become stronger, and thereby strengthen the church. Maybe all this criticism is a two edged sword: it cuts down those we criticize, and it leaves us weak and unpracticed as well. And so the weak church attacks its weak. If we leave off attacking each other, perhaps we'll have time to attack things that matter, and thereby we'll matter, and thereby the church, too, will matter.

Oh the things we think of at 2:40am.

My house, hallowed in moonlight,
Like Jesus in a Cathedral
of trees.
Your house,
planets and moons
and stars,
blink like video camera lights,
and I remember you watch the tapes
again and again,
since you like how it ends
so much

I see you and my house,
at the same time.
I see both,
without moving my eyes.

So this is Christmas?

It's November 10th. Azina is playing Christmas music. And her sister, Amber, authorized this. Nicole is all for it. Kayla is talking about Christmas ornaments, and OrnamentTrees she got yesterday. Amber is talking about how much she loves giving gifts. I'm sure if Matt had blogged recently, it would have been about Christmas; he's like that. The mall has lights up. Sears is having a three day Christmas sale. A three day Christmas sale. It's November 10th.

Am I making myself clear? And please don't say "Crystal clear" because that reminds me of my Mom's favorite ornaments, which reminds me of Christmas, which is something I'm just not ready to think about. So stop. Please. All of you. As Mrs. Dashwood put it, "If you can't find something un-Christmasey to say, you'll kindly restrict your remarks to the weather."

Steve. I need you now.

to Ali and others

I wrote in a journal for the first time in months. I wrote not for anyone else, but for me. I wrote as if no one would read it. It started off like a puppy on a hardwood floor. Then it looked like a hamster in a wheel. Then it looked like a religion textbook -- as if mentioning God means we don't need his help. But then it ended. And it ended like a horse finally in the gate. Now it's ready to run. The horse is focused and now it's ready to run. It was a mess of a start, but here's how it ends:

"Now is time for friendships that don't go away. Now is time for friends who say they're glad to see you even when they're tired; because they know you need to hear it now, in case they forget next time. Because they know, and they want you to know, there will be a next time. This isn't contingent on you anymore. This isn't worried about being afraid of being clingy anymore. This doesn't care how tired you were last night. This doesn't mind when you cry because so-and-so did such-and-such. And this doesn't forget, even after a year. It hugs like cashmere, and calls when it is lonely, because it knows -- the hug told it -- this friendship knows it's safe all the time, and that being lonely and saying so isn't the same as being clingy. Because everyone is needy."

"I can think of friends I didn't think of before. The void isn't the only option. Real people will listen. And for the friends not ready to pick up gems and hold them to the light -- those not ready to bear with imperfections -- give them time. Because the friends that can hug even when they are tired used to be people you were afraid to tell."