I like Coldplay. . . just like everyone else

It's true. I like Coldplay. I like Coldplay a lot. I've heard a couple of people state that to say you like Coldplay is to be musically weak. Everyone says they like Coldplay because it's easy to say that. They are a pretty mellow sound with lots of hooks and they're decent people . . . especially for a bunch of British guys (har har). I've long held that I really don't care what other people think about it; if I like it, I like it. I liked Good Charlotte for a while back when everyone else did. Sure, they weren't musically deep, but I liked them. No other reason. I liked Dashboard Confessional before most people did. Then the 14 year old girls of the country discovered him and it was just me and a bunch of 14 year old girls that looked at Chris Carrabba and thought "wow, I totally understand." I still like a lot of emo music. I don't listen to it exclusively (anymore [I went through an emo phase, I think, a little bit before it was trendy and marketable]), but I enjoy it every once in a while.

I think maybe my problem is the fact that I'm a sucker for a good hook. This is probably why I like All-American Rejects (first CD, mostly), Jimmy Eat World, and liked James Blunt (for the shortest time possible).

So. I consider Coldplay to be one of the top bands in my head. I don't really care if everyone else feels the same way.

That's up to them.

I Know Kung Fu

I love Netflix.

I've started a run of Keanu Reeves flicks. Not because I think he's a great actor, but simply because I can. I've started with the Lake House and will move on to Constantine, and probably Bill and Ted after that. A good friend of mine, a guy, enjoyed the Lake House so I did not hesitate to put it first on my list.

I was not let down. I enjoyed the sci-fi/romance slant. For some reason, it received mostly bad reviews. A central vein for the negative reviews was the idea that there were inconsistencies with the plot. Some things were apparently hard to follow as well. My favorite part of this is that suspension of disbelief is steady for the entire premise of the movie "magic mailbox that opens to the future/past", and yet some plot points that weren't fully developed. . . that's just too much, apparently.

I liked it. I really did. The soundtrack had two Nick Drake's and a Paul McCartney. . . how could it be bad?

I can relate in a way. At least to one aspect of it. The idea of waiting, waiting, always waiting is something that seems so very real in my own life.

Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

I have a confession to make.

In middle school it was popular to make your notebooks sparkling silver. To do so, one must carefully peel the paper part of a gum wrapper from the foil part. There's a shiny side and a dull side to the foil and you use your nail to apply the dull side to your notebook. It's silver gum-wrapper foil leafing at its finest.

My confession is this: I still do it.

Several weeks ago I was thinking about cinnamon gum (serious, who sits around and contemplates cinnamon gum?) and how you can lick the gum wrapper and stick it to your forehead. It burns. I found myself wondering what else you could do with gum wrappers. A bright epiphany reawakened this knowledge about gum wrapper leafing. Now I subconsciously slip all of my gum wrappers back into my pocket where I would have thrown them away several weeks ago. One of my notebooks is gleaming with the shiny shininess of something shiny (in this case, gum wrappers).

You'd think I was a thirteen-year-old girl.

Two more confessions: I love watching Frasier and real estate "flipping" shows on TV.

Santa Claus is Coming to Town ( HO HO HO)

Santa Claus is world renown for giving out presents to children all over the planet. Now there are approximately two billion children in the world. However, since Santa does not visit every child in the world, a conservative estimate of those who are good reduces the workload for Christmas night to 15% of the total, or 378 million. At an average rate of 3.5 children per house hold, that comes to 108 million homes, presuming that there is at least one good child in each.
Santa has about 31 hours of Christmas to work with, thanks to the different time zones and the rotation of the earth, assuming that he travels from east to west (which seems logical). This works out to 967.7 visits per second or 1 every 1/1000th of a second.
The sum total distance traveled from house to house (with an average distance from each house being about .78 miles) leaves a total trip of 75.5 million miles, not counting bathroom stops or breaks. This means Santa's sleigh is moving at a staggering 650 miles per second -- approximately 3,000 times the speed of sound.

The payload of the sleigh adds another interesting element. Assuming that each child gets nothing more than a medium sized Lego set (two pounds), the sleigh is carrying over 350 thousand tons, not counting Santa himself. On land, a conventional Reindeer can pull no more than 300 pounds. Even granting that the "flying" Reindeer could pull ten times the normal amount, the job can't be done with eight or even nine of them -- Santa would need 360,000 of them. This increases the payload, not counting the weight of the sleigh, another 54,000 tons.
600,000 tons traveling at 650 miles per second creates enormous air resistance -- this would heat up the Reindeer in the same fashion as a spacecraft re-entering the earth's atmosphere. The lead pair of Reindeer would absorb 14.3 quintillion joules of energy per second each. In short, they would burst into flames almost instantaneously, exposing the Reindeer behind them and creating deafening sonic booms in their wake. The entire Reindeer team would be vaporized within 4.26 thousandths of a second, or right about the time Santa reached the fifth house on his trip. Not that it matters, however, since Santa, as a result of accelerating from a dead stop to 650 miles per second in .001 seconds, would be subjected to forces of 17,500 Gs. A 250 pound Santa (which seems ludicrously slim) would be pinned to the back of the sleigh by 4,315,015 pounds of force, instantly crushing all of his bones and internal organs.

Therefore, if Santa did exist, he's dead now.

Untitled

Jorja loved Peter. She loved him more than any other man she could think of. The only ones that even came close were her dad and grandpa Joe. Her dad was a bit distant but she knew he loved her. Grandpa Joe meant the world to Jorja. She remembered being picked up as a small child in the strong, war-scarred hands. Even still Peter was king of them all. He was the bad boy, the guy that people looked at and shook their head sadly when he flew by on his old motorcycle. Peter believed in living wildly. Always courteous to Jorja’s dad and grandpa, once out of the house his girlfriend could see the switch flip in his mind and he became the man she feared but mostly loved.
Jorja’s dad watched as she stormed out of the front door early in the morning. The low rumbling of Peter’s motorcycle sounded out in the driveway as Jorja’s dad, Ryan, swished the remaining orange juice in his glass.
“We both know that he’s a bad influence on her, Ryan, but we have to let her figure out on her own that he’s a damned fool.” Ryan’s father, Joe, stepped into the kitchen from the study. He continued wiping an oily carburetor from Ryan’s beaten-up LeSabre parked in the driveway.
When Jorja was little she loved watching her dad and Grandpa Joe tinker with cars. She stormed out of the house because her dad had suggested she stay home and help work on the car instead of go see Killer Mutilators 3 at the County 7 Theatre. Ryan rubbed his hands nervously as he thought about what she would be doing during the course of the day. It would be the third time she spent all day and most of the night with Peter.
“I know, dad. I guess I don’t want to lose her too...” Ryan trailed off as he cleared the knot in his throat and chased it with the remaining juice.
“You won’t. She’s smart, that one is.” Joe set the carburetor on the table and started washing the breakfast dishes. “I give her another week and she’ll open her eyes and see him for who he is.”
“I suppose so.” Ryan fiddle with the car part and wiped a single gray tear that collected below his eye.
Ryan had been entertaining a thought that kept his stomach on the verge of becoming unseated. Was he really scared of his daughter’s boyfriend? Surely not! He had ran several missions in Vietnam, saw things that no grown man should ever see, even though he was no more than a child at the time. He had lived in the household of Joseph Ferguson, long-time army combatant that saw action in WWII, Korea, and the beginning of Vietnam. His dad had run a tight ship of a household. Ryan looked back at it and secretly thanked him.

But despite all this, some days when Peter Hopkins came in to call on his daughter there was a look that Ryan caught for a mere moment. A look of icy malice. Was he just being overprotective? Maybe he wasn’t giving Peter enough credit or a chance to disprove his reputation. Ryan knew Peter’s father, the town sheriff. Both were cold men, Peter and Danny Hopkins. But Ryan shouldn’t be personally scared of the young boy. No, he decided, he was only concerned for his daughter. This conclusion helped him sleep at night.

Just as he had expected, Jorja hadn’t come home that night.
It was when she didn’t come home in the morning that Ryan Ferguson began to panic. He had called the theater and all of her favorite haunts. There was no word of her. Her friend that worked at the burger joint down on Washington street said she had come in with Peter at 10 PM and left an hour later. When Ryan called the Hopkins house Danny said that his son had come home around 2 or 2:30.
“Did he say anything when he got home, Danny?”
“Nope, sorry. I fell asleep in front of the TV last night and I heard him come in. He went right to bed and woke up about an hour ago to go play pool at McMurray’s with his stupid friends.” “Thanks for your help, Sheriff.”
“No problem, Ryan. Let me know when she comes home. I’m sure it’s no big deal.”

Ryan’s knuckles went white gripping the hard plastic of the phone. His head buzzed with accusations, theories, and cries to his God for mercy for his sweet little daughter. The screen door slammed much like it did the morning before as he ran to his battered green LeSabre. It fired right up thanks to the clean carburetor from the day before.

A heavy odor of smoke, body sweat and beer hung acridly in the air as Ryan stepped through the door of McMurray’s Tavern. It was 10:30 AM and the doors were open to anyone willing to play pool; even minors were allowed so long as they promised they were only there to shoot pool and not to drink. This of course was not the truth with Peter and his three scabby friends. Four half-empty beer bottles lined the sides of the stained green felt table. Many other bottles had been haphazardly lined up in the same manner and then knocked over in a drunken haze.
Ryan caught himself before speaking to them. All four boys were larger than he was and each had a belly full of drink that would deaden any pain Ryan might be able to inflict if the situation called for it. He expected one of the might have a knife; it was probably Peter himself. Being the Sheriff’s son, he got away with anything and everything, including underage drinking.
“Peter.”
“Hey, pops. Want to play some 9 ball?” Ryan caught a shine in his drunken eyes.
“No. Where’s my daughter? Peter, where’s Jorja?”
Peter snorted and spat in the corner. “I dropped her off around 1 or so. Why?”
“She never came home. What happened last night?”
“We went and saw the movie. It was pretty gay, if you ask me. Let’s see... drove around, ate at a diner, went to the park, came here for a few drinks, went to a burger joint, then, uh, I dropped her off.”
Ryan followed along in his mind. It didn’t add up.
Peter caught Ryan’s attention by offering to ask around.
Ryan nodded silently and pushed his way out the heavy oak door to the parking lot. As the LeSabre’s motor turned over, a tinny ringing started in Ryan’s pocket. He pulled out his phone as he pulled out of the gravel parking lot. The little display read “HOME”. Ryan caught his breath as he hoped desperately to hear his daughter’s voice once he pressed the SEND button.
“They found her, son.” It was Joe, his dad. His voice seemed a bit strained as though it were on the verge of tears.
“What? Who found her? Where? Is she alright?”
“Jerry Jones was driving down 98^th street when he saw something in the ditch.” Joe’s voice wavered. “It was her, son. It was Jorja.”
Ryan nearly swerved into oncoming traffic.
“She’s alive, but she’s in a bad way. They have her at Saint Mary’s. I’ll meet you outside."
Ryan said he was on his way before hanging up the phone but he wasn’t sure if it was aloud or in his head.

If Jorja’s dad had counted, he would have noticed he broke seven traffic laws on his way to the hospital on the other side of town. He wasn’t counting, though, but was thinking in fragments, doing his best to stay on the distorted road that he could barely see through the tears. No... not her too... Cindy, now her... I won’t let her go... Oh, God...
The LeSabre hopped the curb as Ryan Ferguson threw it into park outside St. Mary’s Memorial Hospital. This was one of the few times that Ryan had ever seen his father openly cry. Joe was standing just outside the door with a wrinkled kleenex in his hand and damp tear marks on his sleeve. Ryan caught Joe crying when his dad’s wife had died of breast cancer, When Jorja’s mother lost her battle with leukemia, and now this time with Jorja.

They went up to the second floor, room 17. The sight of all of the tubes that were connected to his little daughter screamed out to Ryan. Desperately he wanted to look away but couldn’t bring himself to do so. A young doctor with a stethoscope and a chart walked in and told the two men how she was faring. She was asleep; the doctor explained that she was most likely in a coma due to strangulation. Deep purple marks hideously crossed her petite neck.
“Will she wake up?”
“We think so. It seems that whoever did this had his way with her and then choked her until she stopped moving.”
Ryan’s knees played at buckling. “I’m sorry, did you say had his way?”
“Yes, I’m sorry to say that your daughter was raped. There was a lot of damage.” The young doctor paused a moment. “She might not be able to bear children in the future.”
Jorja’s dad and Grandpa Joe stood over the white hospital bed listening to what the doctor was telling them. It was hard to take it all in.
Several minutes later a police officer came in and jotted down all the information he needed. He assured them that the assailant would be apprehended with haste and tipped his hat as he backed out the door.
Ryan filled out the proper paperwork. The doctor gave the same assurance and stated that he would leave them with the girl for a moment while he filed the documents.
Joe stood at the foot of the bed, not daring to go nearer, perhaps thinking that the closer he got the more damage might be inflicted. Jorja’s father nearly ran the length of the small room and pressed his flushed face against her own bloodied cheek. He could feel a faint trickling of breath against his skin and mouthed a small prayer, either for her benefit or condemning the God that would let this happen to his baby girl. He half-laid there several minutes more just soaking in her presence.
His stomach gurgled and he realized that he had not eaten yet. The doctor came back to check up on them and soon he found himself heading toward the hospital cafeteria with his father in tow.
Ryan and Joe sat down to plates of snotty mashed potatoes and gravy. The thick metal spoon swirled the gravy and never found itself heading toward Ryan’s mouth.
“Why didn’t we say anything to the doctor or police officer about Peter?”
Ryan let slip the fork with a loud clang. “Where have you been, dad? No one would believe it was the sheriff’s son!”
“Sure they would! No one is above the law, you know that.”
“Remember when that trucker was found nearly beaten to death at the truck stop on I-73? A few people that were there said that Peter was trying to steal the trucker’s rig when the trucker came out of the stop. Those people were hushed quickly and if I remember correctly everyone was okay with the case being unsolved! Don’t you get it? He can get away with murder because everyone is afraid of his dad! He just about got away with murder here, too. With my daughter!” Ryan’s bony fist plowed down onto the table, sending forks flying and eyes in the room darting away.
“Calm down son. Trust in the law. It’s what we can rely on.”
Ryan wiped flung potatoes from his shirt as he shook his head in disbelief, anger, and a little fear.

Several days went by. Jorja was still unconscious but was breathing more steadily and showing signs of recovery, the doctor reassured Ryan. The police had looked into the matter and resolved it quickly with a conjecture that it was a trucker that was passing through. There was nothing on Jorja’s person that could be linked to anybody through DNA. Nothing. The only thing they had was the shape of the hand marks on her neck; the assailant’s large thick hands were the only evidence they could pull from both the body and the scene where she was found. The police were happy with their findings and considered it a closed case. “Just be happy that she’s alive.” The police officer had told Ryan. A fiery furnace burned in Ryan’s core. The man in the blue uniform and the badge might as well have spit in Ryan’s eye.

The pastor from the Lutheran church on Walnut Street stopped by one evening. He had fluffy graying hair that drooped down to his Roman collar and brushed against the big round metal glasses he wore. Jorja had attended the church with a friend rather regularly. Ryan himself never really went but still considered himself a believing man. Well, he did anyway. Pastor Dobbins had tried to console him, saying that we can’t question God’s purpose or the things that happens in the world. By the time Dobbins was quoting from the book of Job Ryan chased the small man out of the house with a nine iron that he had pulled out of the closet. He had had enough. Sitting there listening to the man’s message of loving neighbors and perfect plans had set his insides on fire. The only thing that he could think of doing was wash out that fire with another. He pulled a bottle of cheap brandy from the cupboard and started drinking it without a glass.

Grandpa Joe found Ryan with a half-empty bottle of brandy on the floor by the television. Black and white reflections danced on the bottle as the images from the 50’s music collection infomercial played silently on the TV. Joe pulled his son to the couch and poured him a glass of juice.
Ryan groaned. A huge brandy-flavored jackhammer was pounding in his head. The last thing he remembered was calling out to Jorja and her mother, who were standing in the doorway. Peter came up behind them and cracked both of their skulls with a rusty tire iron. The teen dropped the bloodied metal instrument and it landed with a dull thud on the bodies of the women that Ryan loved. He tried to get up to stop Peter, but the brandy had turned into glue and kept him in place on the floor. The murderous Peter started laughing, showing perfectly white teeth. The grin grew until Ryan was staring at a laughing skull. A howling shriek shot off in his head, then his father had awoken him.
Ryan’s stomach lurched as he remembered the dream. “Dad, what are we gonna do?”
Joe sat there for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe the cops have it right with the trucker theory.”
“No it was Peter. I feel it. More intense than anything I’ve ever known. His story didn’t seem legit.”
“The police thought it did.”
“Of course they did! Sheriff Hopkins can make their life a living hell if he wanted to.”
Ryan’s eyes glanced over to a Harley Davidson magnet on the refrigerator.
“The motorcycle! He said he dropped her off at 1 AM. I was here in the living room waiting up on her. I uh, fell asleep but the motorcycle would have been loud enough to wake me up. He lied about that...what else did he lie about?”
Joe nodded slowly. “Well, while you think about that I’m going to go see Jorja. I pray every morning that today’ll be the day she wakes up. Maybe today’s the day.
Joe Ferguson walked out the door and drove away. Ryan buried his face in his trembling hands. If only he weren’t so petrified of Peter. In his mind he danced around the idea of taking the law into his own hands but when it really came down to it, that wasn’t the sort of man he was. Ryan sobbed into his brandy soaked hands. It was the only thing he could do.

The first thing Joe noticed when he pulled into the parking lot was the old black motorcycle. Peter’s motorcycle. Joe raced up to the second floor and halfway down the hall to room 17. Sure enough Peter was in there, standing over Jorja’s body. The door was cracked and Joe pressed his ear to the door to hear was he was saying.
“Hey baby. How you feeling? We had a pretty crazy night, didn’t we? It was our big night, the night we finally would, well you know. I’ve been waiting months for you to get around to a point where I wouldn’t get slapped for bringing it up. So you see why I just couldn’t take no for an answer when you backed out at the last second? We were there, honey. We were drunk, we were ready, but you go and prude out on me. How could you do that to me, babe?” The teen stopped to brush the matted hair from her face. “I didn’t want to hurt you, but I have needs. I think you’d understand. You know, you squealed a little but you were a good girl after a little while. Becca and Rachel, they never stopped screaming.” Peter’s face shone as a wry grin slid open. “I didn’t tell you about Becca and Rachel? I had them before you came along. I didn’t wait so long for them, damn prude you are, and luckily they stayed quiet. They’re still quiet, actually, out in Green Acres cemetery. Those truckers and their libidos, harming young girls and leaving them for dead. That’s a pretty good story. Shifts the blame pretty well. Either way, nobody’s gonna point a finger at me. That’s the important part. We’re not gonna tell our little secret, are we?” Peter dipped low and whispered into her ear. Joe fought to catch what he said. “You better hope you never wake up.”
A nurse came to the door and Joe stood, motioning for her not to say anything. She walked into the room and greeted Peter, who introduced himself as Jorja’s boyfriend. Joe stood just outside the door, listening. Peter told the nurse that he was going to stay with her for a little while because he was concerned for her. Joe had already seen himself in his mind throwing the door open and rushing the teen, beating him mercilessly. But Joe walked away. Feverish, burning embers threatened to scorch his soul. As he passed nurses and patients in the hall he half expected them to gasp at the flames that poured from his body.
Joe knew that he had driven home because he stood at the front door, though he didn’t remember doing so. Pure hatred ravaged his insides. Its heat seethed through his veins and seemed to billow from both his eyes and the toothy grimace that he now wore. Inside, he passed a mirror that told him that he looked the same as always, but he knew that he was different, forever blighted by rage. He rummaged around in the closet just off his study until he found what he was looking for. He could faintly feel the cold steel against his skin as he walked out to his car.

The motorcycle was still in the parking lot when Grandpa Joe returned to St. Mary’s. He quietly glided up to Jorja’s room and found himself standing above the form of Peter Hopkins. The boy had fallen asleep on the couch by the bed. Only a quiet “wake up” escaped from the old man’s pursed lips but Peter stirred sluggishly. Joe watched from somewhere deep within as he began kicking the leg of the couch until Peter was fully awake. The normally boisterous teen wet himself as an old Colt .45 was pressed against his flat nose. On the other end was Jorja’s grandpa. Peter’s and Joe’s faces were mirrored in the same ugly grimace, Peter’s of sheer terror and Joe’s of ripe bloodlust.
Joe’s lips moved again. “I woked you up because I wanted you to know who killed you.”
Peter would have begged if something cold hadn’t already touched his temple and sprayed blood all over the room.

EXCERPT FROM SHELBYVILLE CHRONICLE

– Joseph Ferguson was arrested today for the shooting death of 19 year-old Peter Hopkins, son of county sheriff Danny Hopkins. Ferguson stepped into the hospital room at St. Mary’s Memorial Hospital where his granddaughter was being treated and Hopkins was sleeping. Ferguson awoke the teen before firing his Army issued semi-automatic pistol that he had carried during his service in WWII, Korea, and Vietnam. Authorities say he stopped to reload the pistol twice, putting 20 bullet holes in the teen and one in the wall. Officer Roy Mendez says that it was a gruesome sight. On-sight security officers came into the room and subdued Ferguson who did not offer any resistance. Ferguson admitted to shooting Hopkins at the scene of the crime. Ferguson accused Hopkins of raping his granddaughter and leaving her to die. Authorities quoted the man saying, “I’ll gladly rot in hell knowing that this son of a [expletive] won’t be doing this to any other girls.” –

P.S. I despise Blogger's formatting system. Why do I spend hours creating indents (why do I have to do this in the first place? Shouldn't indentations typed in Word transfer over easily into Blogger) just for the to disappear when I post?

Kid Games, Zombies, and Terrorists

Being an only child, you develop ways to keep yourself entertained. I had a ton of toys: X-Men, GI Joe, He-Man, Ghostbusters, Pirates of Dark Waters, Exo Squad, and a lot of lesser known toys. Whenever I went over to one of my best friend's house, he and his brother, who had many similar toys, would "play" by banging them together, chest to chest, arms flailing. the image was similar to a caveman slamming two rocks together furiously in a futile attempt to spark a fire. I did not understand what was going on, why they were fighting, what they were trying to accomplish, nor how they stayed intact after long hours of grinding "fighting." They didn't have names, desires, agendas, inventory, anything. They were just man-shaped plastic bricks. When I played, however, I set up intricate scenarios, complete with previously said components (names, desires, agendas, inventory, everything).

In other words, I made up my own RPG games years before I ever knew what one was.

In the car, I'd play another game in my mind. At the time Super Mario Bros. was still a strong column of adolescent pop culture (that and Nickelodeon! Pump Sneakers! Legends of the Hidden Temple! JTT!). As we made our way down the road, I'd see a little Mario-type man running alongside the car. He'd jump from fence to fence, climb hand over hand on power lines, pick up a "stop sign powerup" and use it to hit telephone poles for extra points. After a few years he leveled up and was strong enough to push the telephone poles over and had Spiderman-like abilities that enabled him to stick to the sides of other cars. This opened up a whole new world for him: the entire highway.

Going to the store as a kid was always dreadful. Luckily, I had another mind game to take care of that. Over the course of the two or so hours that we shopped for the week's food, I'd be busy in my mind. The entire store was my playground. I'd pick up cans and throw them. My super strength allowed me to swing shopping carts with ease. Inevitably we'd walk past the outdoor supplies and I'd pick up a rake and go swinging in the next aisle. Everything was usable. Everything was a weapon.

I love video games. I always have. There's a video called Dead Rising that I wish I had. It's only on the latest XBox system, and I only have the last generation XBox so I cannot play it. I have played it at a friend's house and I love it. Did you ever see the movie Dawn of the Dead? It's the same premise. You're stuck inside a mall that's teeming with zombies. Luckily every item in every store can be used to defend yourself. Everything is a weapon. Chairs, CDs, potted plants, baseball bats, shopping carts (!), plates, even cans of soda. When I first played it, I thought to myself:

this is my childhood.

The best part, though, is in a way I still do this. I worked for six months at Sears in the Lawn and Garden section. I was an okay lawnmower salesman. The fact that I had never field-stripped one worked against me because almost every customer was a grizzled old farmer that wanted to know the torque of every tractor or how to remove the solenoid. C'Mon man, look at me. I'm just a punk kid that's been told a very limited list of specs on each tractor. I haven't built one. I just sell them.

On Saturdays, Sears' policy was that everybody employed must have a full shift. In the corporate office this looked like a good way to increase customer service on "busy" Saturdays. In the real world this was anything but productive. While there were more customers on Saturday, the four or five customers would be with salesmen while the other ten or eleven of us would just be standing around. Then every customer that walked through our area would be belted with ten or eleven "can I help you find anything? Trimmer? Chain saw? Something else you don't need?" 's . This does not make for a happy customers.

Needless to say, I had plenty of time to stand around and think on Saturdays. I found myself thinking about September 11th and terrorist attacks. And then I thought "what if terrorists attack us? What if they attack Sears, in Springfield, Missouri?" I decided I'd have to be ready. Luckily, the Lawn and Garden section had much to offer in this way. The little guy in Dead Rising would be right and home here and would be proud of me. I started with the basic axes and sledgehammers, then figured a good swing with a chainsaw would still hurt even though we didn't have any gasoline to fire it up (mental note, buy small can of gasoline to put under counter . . . just in case). Some of the weed trimmers are pretty heavy and would be effective if swung backwards, the engine at the end of a long metal pole. The tillers would be perfect. They're heavy and have a mouth full of jagged tines. I think I could swing one of the push mowers pretty well if I had to.

I may have to level up before I try. I wouldn't want to have a critical failure and lose HP.

TVs and Waterbeds

I've got it in my head that I need a new TV. In the off-chance that someone comes over and watches something on my little TV, they usually comment on one thing.

My speakers buzz like nothing else.

I've gotten used to it. I don't even notice it anymore. Every once in a while there's a pitch that really sets it off. Otherwise, it's a nonissue. Except when other people watch my TV, then it's a conversation starter. But come on, we're watching a movie, don't try to start a conversation, even if it is about the TV itself. Actually, I am generally a talker during movies and such. Unless it's one of those movies where everyone is trying their best to talk in some goofy accent (e.g. the Blood Diamond preview. Oh Leonardo, You're not foreign. You don't even sound foreign) and I'm trying my best to decipher the muddy dialogue. Christmastime a few years ago found us watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer at a friend's house. We were all familiar with it, so we more or less talked through it. I'm particularly found of making quips at the TV (e.g. Mystery Science Theater 3000) so I was in my element. A very good friend of mine (the owner of many awesome quirks and idiosyncrasies) got up near the end citing undone homework as the reason for him leaving. One of the girls, ever the empath, asked if our talking was the real reason.

His response? "No . . . but you were." Translation: "No . . . well, yes."

His tone was impeccable. Agitated yet gracious. Irked but accepting. Classic Knepper.

My little Magnavox TV set shouldn't feel bad. True, it buzzes. But it's old. Not "get up and turn the knob to change the channel" old but old enough. I think I got it for Christmas or my birthday when I was nine or ten. Its sitting there in my mind, right next to the bed. My childhood self flips it on for a few minutes and changes the channels. I stop on CBS and hear myself say in my own, young, lilting voice:

"Wow, I'm up really late. Really late. Letterman's giving his monologue."

I'm not sure what bed it was sitting next to at the time, but at one point it was a waterbed. In retrospect I have to wonder . . . why? Why waterbeds? Nothing good comes from sleeping on a waterbed. Little to no back support, thundering sloshing noises with every move, and the ever-threatening possibility of replicating that scene in Edward Scissorhands. Either way, my parents gave me their old waterbed when they wised up and bought themselves a real bed. The waterbed was a queen, I think. As a kid, queen-sized beds are huge. I was a big kid, but I remember laying down and trying my hardest to stretch my legs and arms as far as possible to reach the edges. We traded that bad boy in and got me a twin-sized bed.

In college, people complained about how small the beds were in the dorm rooms. I always just shook my head; I've been sleeping in a small bed most of my life. A bed just big enough to roll from one side to another. That's all. I got into a strange habit of squeezing myself into the crack between the wall and the side of my bed ( I think this started, though, when I had the waterbed. I would squeeze in between the bed bladder and the wooden bed frame [I'm surprised I never killed myself this way] ). Every once in a while, I'll sit sleeping up. This is mostly when I eat late at night and get heartburn.

I now have a queen-sized bed (technically it's a "full," I think). I can more or less reach the edges now. It's funny though. I'm not married or anything so I only use one side of the bed. I try to utilize the other side as much as possible, but it's a futile effort. I keep my two blankets (a really thin one and a thicker comforter) over there for when it gets cool enough over night to need it. I keep my other pillow there to put against the wall if I sit up and sleep for a bit. If I had a stuffed animal or a real dog (or a wife) they'd probably be there, but I don't, so they're not (okay, not really on the stuffed animal part).

So my point is this: I need a new TV and a wife.

Maybe It's Her Smile

A precedent has been set. The posting of lyrics, most likely assumed to be a one-time event, is near to my heart and I will take this opportunity to run with this idea.

I used to write lyrics down on paper and carry them around in my Trapper Keeper ( yeah! Trapper Keeper! I've missed your velcro music). I think I was hoping people would think that they were mine. This only happened once. I had the lyrics to Here Comes the Rain by the Mavericks, a 50's rock/country fusion song, and I set it gently on top of my Trapper Keeper. One of the most attractive seventh graders ( I think it was in seventh grade) picked it up and read through it. She said she liked it and asked if it was mine. I lied lied lied and said it was. I remember her smile as she asked if she could keep it. Of course you can. I wrote it for you.

Not true.

I've always loved music. My little boombox was on every hour of every day. It was on while I was away at school and it was on while I slept. The fact that the radio was on while I slept presented interesting situations. I would be playing Sega Genesis (or later on, Playstation) and I would hear a commercial come on the radio and I'd have wicked, wicked deja vu. After a few times I realized that the commercials that were playing were also playing at night, and I realized that someone in my dreams had said the exact same words as those being said in the commercial.

Music is a funny thing. I grew up listening to country and oldies. I don't listen to country anymore, but there's a seven year window (or so) where every country song released during that period I could name the singer, name of the song, and album during the intro. Therefore, I still have a lot of old country on my computer for the sole purpose of nostalgia. When I listen to these songs, I am whisked away to an idealized remembrance of my childhood.

None of the horrible times, none of the boring times, only the warm fuzzies.

There are specific songs and CDs (Roy Orbison's Mystery Girl, K. T. Oslin's 80's Ladies, and Huey Lewis and the New's If This is It) that if I listen to it I can close my eyes and quite clearly see my eight-year old self sitting on our old blue couch in the summer. The window is open and a faint, cool breeze is blowing. I feel the curves and angles of the X-men toy in my hand as I look outside and see my dad outside washing the car. My mom, she's in the kitchen cleaning. My dog is still alive and young enough to run circles around the dining room table. My parents probably still loved each other.

Warm fuzzies.

There are some songs that work adversely. For the longest time I couldn't listen to Tim McGraw and Faith Hill's It's Your Love. It was "our song" and it was the longest and oddest relationship I've been in to this day. Elton John's "Candle in the Wind" was one of the songs that played prominently at my brother's memorial service. I still can't bring myself to listen to the whole thing.

So, as mentioned, there's a song that's been nagging on me. It's by a now defunct (to my knowledge) Christian band that never really made it anywhere. I created a myspace music page in order to put it on my own myspace page (forgive me, O wrathful myspace gods).

Doubting Thomas' Maybe It's Her Smile

Maybe it’s her face
No makeup at all
As she tells me she’s not beautiful

Maybe it’s her hair
Soft, golden, and wind-blown
As we drive through the streets of town
It could be all these things
But I think it’s her smile

Maybe it’s her laugh
Or when she throws back and sighs
Or her eyebrows when I do
Something stupid

Maybe it’s her smell
The lotion she wears
Or how my hands smell like
Country Pear for days
You know it could be all these things
But I think mostly it’s her smile

Because I love to see her smile
Back at me
And I know she
Is happy

Maybe it’s her touch
The feel of her hands
When she puts her tiny fingers
In mine
Maybe it’s her eyes
Gently searching my soul
Still nothing stirs me
Like when I see those lips roll
And I see her smile

Because I love to see her smile
Back at me
And I know she
Is happy.

Fünf Jahre

Over five years later, it's odd to think about September 11th. It's strange to think that it was five years ago. One of the things about it personally is the fact that I had graduated the May before it happened. That means it's been over five years since I've graduated high school. Anxiously we spend our whole lives with the goal in mind: that fine, glorious day when we take our last breaths as charges of the local school district (I had considered writing "scool" as a bit of irony, but decided against it [then again, I did just do it] ) and are no longer governed by others concerning our scholastic well-being. I have accomplished the goal. The main effort was simply enduring time and certainly not any amply mental exertion. And yet I took a good deal of pride when I walked across that platform.

Now I am at the crest of college graduation. With a single class left to take and having taken a full time position, I consider myself functionally finished with college. Four or five more years down the road I may very well find myself returning for my Master's, but right now I'm done. I don't plan on going back to school and walking to get my degree documentation. Last year I watched as my class walked and that was good enough for me (when, in fact, was actually the class after mine, but I came in with them [oh the joys of community college] ).

Speaking of September 11th (we were?), it's a bit strange that "September 11th" is the accepted name across the world's collective unconscious (thanks, Jungy). Not "Manhattan attacks," not "the World Trade Center Disaster," or "the day the earth stood still," just simply "September 11th." It was such a momentous occasion that it needs no other clarification. Occasionally it is referred to as September 11th, 2001, but this is mostly unnecessary. Any other past events that happened will forever live in the shadow of this one gargantuan event. C'mon, other Sep. 11th happenings, get with program.

Are there any other events that are so world-shaking they are simply known by the day on which it happened? Nothing comes to mind. December 7th is well known as the day of the bombing of Pearl Harbor (only if you paid attention in your history classes) but the accepted name for this event is "Pearl Harbor" not "December 7th." I of course could be missing some, but my point is this: five years later it's easy to brush it under our mental rugs. It was, after all, five years ago. It is the Pearl Harbor of our generation. But it really trumps Pearl Harbor in the fact that the attack on December 7th, 1941 was on military units, whereas Sep. 11 was an attack on civilian units and rescue workers. Over the course of the past five years we've all heard the observations and comparisons so I won't rehash it.

A few days after it happened, the country was still more or less shut down. Shops were beginning to reopen and the news reports (which we were all watching night and day) advised against travel and going to places with large gatherings of people. My family and I took our lives in our own hands and we went to Silver Dollar City in Southern Missouri (almost an amusement park like Worlds of Fun or Six Flags but with much less rollercoasters and much more food and hillbilly atmosphere). Every year for ten years (maybe longer) we headed down there and that year wasn't going to be any different. The thing I noticed first about the trip were the flags.

Remember when everybody had flags flying? The park had a row of maybe forty or fifty in a row as you walked in. In place of the normal hillbilly music in the loudspeakers, patriotic themes were blasting as the flags waved. I remember feeling my heart swell a bit and a tear came to my eye. I say all of this to bring up the thing that I've actually been thinking about lately:

Remember when patriotism was a fad?

Snap Crackle Pop

Okay. For nearly a year I've wanted a turntable/record player. Not to wicky wicky wicky like a DJ, but to actually play records. I told my dad this and he snickered, "Why would you want a record player? They crack and pop and don't sound as good. Get the CD." Since I was born in 1983 CD's have more or less always been available. They're just not a big deal to me. Yeah, it sounds clear, it always has. But there's something unmistakable about listening to a record. Maybe it's knowing that this is how it was originally heard. Maybe the ambient fuzz adds something. I dunno. But I love it.

I've been blessed by a record player recently. Not only can I play records, but I can also plug my PS2 and XBox into the speakers. You see, I've had the same TV since I was 9 or so. I remember laying down one night and turning it on and seeing that Letterman was starting his monologue and thinking to myself, "wow, I'm up really late." That's how long I've had this TV. The speakers buzz pretty bad but it's been several years since I've noticed it.

It bugs everybody else, though.

So the record player/tape deck/receiver remedy that problem. I can play Guitar Hero without the buzzing (which, incidentally, is different from records because that's not how it's intended to sound).

The first record I bought was a Record Book of Night and Day, the Cole Porter Musical. It has several other Cole Porter songs as well. The only problem with this is it's a 78. . . and my player only jives with 33 and 45 rpm. oh well, I'll save it for some rainy day where I acquire a 78 player.

I just returned from an antique store with several more. Here's what I've scored so far:
Elton John Rocket Man 45
Wings With a Little Luck 45
The Romantic Music of Rachmaninoff (unbelievable. . .but the back side is scratched pretty hardcore)
This Is Broadway's Best (stuff from Bye Bye Birdie, My Fair Lady, The Sound of Music, Kiss Me Kate, etc. But most importantly it has Tonight from West Side Story)
Bing Crosby tells and sings How Lovely Is Christmas (Half spoken story, half Christmas songs... and it's Bing!)
The Jimmy Swaggart Christmas Spirit (I couldn't pass this one up)
The Best of Chuck Mangione
BJ Thomas Raindrops keep falling on my head: from the motion picture Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

I think I'm going to go out again tomorrow and see what I can find.

I really don't have any witty quips tonight. I just want to listen to some Rachmaninoff.

Bratch

No Witty Title

I had planned on visiting my peeps down in the SPR today (that is, my friends in Springfield, MO). It was college days and my old youth Pastor, Doug Reed, the man who helped form the man I am today, is the speaker. Unfortunately, I had coffee with dinner last night (a late dinner) and couldn't go to sleep until after midnight. 3 30 AM (the time that I was to leave in order to have as much SPR time as possible) came very quickly and I knew that even with a ridiculous amount of coffee in my belly (coffee- this is all your fault) I wasn't up to the six hour drive. Plus it was still storming outside and that was a double whammy, so I rolled over and went back to sleep. I now wish that I would have sucked it up and gone anyway, but deep down I feel a bit relieved because I had so much that I was going to try to cram in two days as possible: hearing Doug Reed speak at the college days events, spending quality time with one of my best friends (since one is in China, this is a very small category), getting my yearbook from last year (some people aren't into those, but I can't help myself. . . it's a glimpse into a year of my life . . . even though I'm never in it), shopping for records (I'm a record guy now. . . did I tell you that?), having coffee two different times with two different people (girls) who may not want to have coffee with me in the first place, buying my hair product (Murray's pomade. . . they don't have it at my Walmart here because they don't have an African-American hair care products section . . . racists.), eat at my two favorite restaurants (Thai House, Adobe bar and grill), pick up my deposit money from my old roommate's parents, give my mailbox key back, meet with my mentor (the director of Student ministries @ CBC), maybe flirt with some of the CBC girls (who am I kidding, I didn't do it the three years I was there, I wouldn't do it now), and find the time to play some Guitar Hero 2.

Yeah, I'm okay with sitting here in my jammies watching Scrubs on the internet.

EDIT: Also, I have found candy corn to be quite tasty (and for dinner).

Murphy's Law

About a month ago I went with an acquaintance/friend to St. Louis. It was a Friday and he appeared in the office just before I left and asked if I wanted to go with him to a thing. Seems the St. Louis Christian College (I think that's the name) brought in Ryan Dobson to speak at a pseudo-college days event. I spend a lot of time by myself, so I quickly accepted this invitation and we left. Ryan Dobson, son of famed Pastor/author James Dobson, was pretty interesting to listen to. He's originally from California and it shows. Thick, black plastic fashion glasses (not the Rivers Cuomo type, the "I assume he's secure enough with his image to wear those strangely proportioned glasses" type) were in the middle of his face and giant black plugs stretched his earlobes into little fleshy hula hoops all while wearing a tight button down shirt with some stylish print of a woman's face (no doubt made by Diesel or some other company that looks at the likes of Express clothing with contempt [this is a really long sentence] ). I've known several Californians in college. They all have more or less the same air and attitude, especially when exposed to the Midwest. Which is fine, I actually liked the guy.

But this story isn't about Ryan Dobson.

We were originally going to crash that night at the school with my friend's (we'll call him Matt [mostly because that's his name] )friend. We ended up just leaving that night. The thing was over at 10:30 or so and neither of us had eaten dinner, so we decided to stop and get something to eat somewhere we don't have at home. I suggested Chevy's (my favorite Mexican restaurant [really thin chips and chipotle style salsa {drool} ] ), so we head out trying to get there. I think I made a mistake by suggesting something we weren't immediately near.

It was the little pebble kicked down the hill that starts the avalanche in all the cartoons.

We start in the north side of St. Louis and somehow we end up on the south side heading west. Living in Illinois (and so is Chevy's), this is obviously a problem. I tell Matt to take the next exit, whatever it is, and we'll use it to turn around and undo whatever wrong turns we took.

But of course it is one of those interstate off-ramps that you can get off the highway but you can't get immediately back on. You have to play the "Where the crap is the on-ramp???" game. Being a good two hours away from home still, I tell Matt to find a place we can ask how to get back on the highway. At this point it is well after 11:30 and wherever we are (we literally have no clue where we are) Taco Bell is the only thing still open. So we pull through the drive-thru and ask for directions. The guys working there (bright shining beacons of society that they are) are confused that we didn't order food but still give most of an answer. As we're pulling away, we hear a sharp hiss like air being let out of a really big balloon. Matt looks out the window to see if we ran over some kind of air hose (what???) and doesn't see anything. So we pull away, and sure enough (you've probably seen this coming) there's a metallic ding ding ding and a thwop thwop thwop (this is fun) as we roll. Matt gets out but doesn't see anything. Hoping for the best, we get back onto the side road and Matt gives his little truck some gas. You don't have to be very smart to guess what sound we were still hearing.

I tell Matt to pull over again. We pull over in a little closed K-Mart parking lot. I get out and check the tire myself. In the middle of the tire was embedded a nail with a head the size of a nickel. Great. I think to myself, how could this get any worse?

If I only knew.

A year or so ago I realized that I didn't know how to change a tire, so I asked my dad if he could show me. I thought it would be a good bonding experience since he's a car guy. His response to the question? "You don't need to know how to do that nowadays." Thanks, Dad.

Something worth mentioning is the fact that neither Matt nor I are very "handy." He had never changed a tire before. I did change a tire, but only with a lot of help from my roommate. I get the truck up on the jack somehow and with great effort we get the lug nuts off the tire (apparently you're supposed to take them off while the car's on the ground . . . that would have been much easier.) and Matt gets the spare out of the truck. As I'm about to slide the spare onto the axle, I can't help but think "With the way that everything's been going, I wouldn't be surprised if it didn't fit."

I really wished I hadn't said that.

Sure enough, it didn't fit. I tried it three times, once even backwards just in case. Nope. I can't imagine a scenario where you would end up having the wrong size spare. But somehow Matt did just that.

As simple as that we were stranded.

He calls his dad to come pick us up and we go back to Taco Bell to get something to eat because it is nearly midnight and we have yet to eat dinner. Taco Bell has a policy of not serving you if you walk up to the drive-thru window. Unfortunately, we didn't really have any choice because the lobby was closed. Matt walks up and motions to the guy to open the window. After a few "I'm not supposed to" looks, the guy opens the window. Matt explains our situation to the guy and asks if we could get something to eat. We don't think that this is too much of a stretch. After all, we picked up the giant nail in their parking lot. After a bit of coaxing they let us come in and wash the road grime off our hands and get a burrito. The funny thing is they make us stay by the door because they're afraid this is all a ruse to rob them. Sorry, Bucko, this is for real.

Matt gets a call from his dad telling him that he's not coming and Matt should just get a tow truck. Matt calls information and gets one. He has to hand the phone to one of the employees to tell them where we are because, remember, we have no clue where we are stranded. We kept asking the guy where we were and the best answer he could give us was "St. Louis County." Thanks, buddy. That really narrows it down.

We take the burritos (not Chevy's, but at this point I'd eat anything) and go back to the parking lot where the truck is. One of my favorite things about the night is us sitting by the truck up on a jack and one of those giant street sweeper cars pulls into the other side of the parking lot. After a few minutes it passes by us and I catch eyes with the big Hispanic man that's driving it. I could tell that he could care less about our predicament, especially when he drives right past us without slowing.

The tow truck comes finally and we tell him our situation. Basically, there's nothing he can do. The only thing he can do is tow us to a nearby tire place that will be open in the morning. We do just that, and the guy feels bad for us and doesn't charge us anything. Matt gets the idea to call his buddy at the school to come and get us and we'll just stay the night there like we had originally planned.

His friend calls back and says that he doesn't have access to a car.

At this point we're up against a wall. What are we going to do? Where are we? Is it even 50 degrees out here? I think about calling my friend who lives near the college. I saw her for two or three minutes that night, but other than that I haven't really seen her in two or three years. As I'm about to call (mind you, it's a good 1 or 2 AM at this point) Matt decides to get a cab to the school. We pass the phone off to the tow truck guy and he again tells them where we are. As we wave farewell to the nice tow truck guy, we are told that the taxi will arrive in ten to twenty minutes. so we sit in the cold outside some strange tire place and watch the occasional car drive by.

Forty-five minutes later I just start laughing.

This is ridiculous. I'm afraid to ask "What else could possibly happen?" because I know I will find out. A police car passes and I try to flag him down as he drives by. At this point I'll take anything. I don't really know how much more time passes, but finally a car with "Such-and-Such Taxi company" on the door flies right past us. Of course. I wouldn't expect him to actually stop. He actually does come by after a few more minutes and Matt and I pile in.

Matt and I have been talking and we decide that we should just take the taxi to some motel and stay there. It would cost the same to take the half-hour taxi ride back to the school as it would to rent a room. The lady at the front desk at the nearest inn tells me that there's some kind of convention in town and all of the rooms are booked. I should, though, try Holiday Inn. She tells me where it is, and I relate it back to our taxi driver who doesn't have a clue where it is. I go back in and ask her the directions again. "Your driver doesn't know where Holiday Inn is?"

At this point, the only response I can muster is "I dunno, he's just . . . "

I couldn't come up with any more words. I was completely tapped out. The lady at the front desk interprets this as "I dunno, I think he's been drinking." So she has pity on us and rents us a handicapped room that they rarely let out. I tell Matt that we do indeed have a room and he pays the driver. I look at myself in the mirror for a moment, trying not to relive the evening. Tiredly, I slip off my belt and shoes and fall onto the bed, drained.

The next morning I was supposed to be in the office at 7 AM. The "I'm stranded somewhere south of St. Louis and I won't be able to make it in until later" phone call was a fun one. Another taxi takes us back to the tire place. It's open now and we wait another half hour while they check out the tire and replace it. Matt pays for it and we ask how to get back on the highway.

We finally do find the highway. Twenty hours into this trip, I slouch down in my seat and sigh as I realize the final piece of the puzzle:

After all of this, we're still two hours away from home.

My Heart on my Sleeve. Well, err... My Heart on my Blog.

If I were honest with myself, I'd probably realize that I don't really like poetry. True, there are some amazing, epic poems that are a gift straight from God (or at least, a reasonable representative). You'd think that I, as a romantic covered under a very thin layer of realist, would go wild for poetry. I'm sensitive, I cry at movies, I absorb poetry. Right? Well, for the most part, I read poetry begrudgingly. Maybe I think about my own experiences and toils trying to find the perfect words as I always fall short and end up scribbling rubbish on a leaf of paper instead of the lyrical masterpiece that I see and hear in my mind. That's the thing . . . I don't really like reading poetry, but I write the junk.

I can't help myself.

It's how I order my thoughts. Any time I'm going through a ridiculous situation (there's usually a feminine name attached to the problem) I have all these thoughts and ideas that rocket through my mind. I can barely hear the real world through their deafening roar (this is a bit of a hyperbole, but work with me here). So's I exercise my demons through paper baptism. The result is usually melodramatic, melancholic, and mostly without form, but I at least have all of these thoughts in some semblance of order.

When Email was still a fairly new concept I had a "poetry" address group to which I sent out all of my mental sieve droppings. For some reason, I thought that people might be interested in what's going on in my life (I guess I've replaced "poetry" in this equation with "blog"). Ha.

So here I present a selection of my "poetry" en masse. There's actually a chronological flow to most of it (paralleling developments in "relational situations" [or lack thereof {development and situations both} ] ). I'm not saying it's good, I'm not saying it's readable, I'm not saying it's edifying. I'm only saying it's me. Somewhere. Somewhen.

Fun Fact: I made my first rubber band ball today. This makes me very excited. I put several short bands on the outside that just barely fit around it, so every once in a while I'll bounce it and one of them will zing off to hide somewhere in my office. It's a fun game, almost like a rubbery Russian Roulette with less death.

Fun Fact 2: If you, oh blog lander, have never listened to Iron & Wine, I would highly suggest it. The album Creek Drank the Cradle is okay, but Our Endless Numbered Days consistently surprises me every time I pop it in (or press play on iTunes [always a pleasant surprise on shuffle] ). If you've seen Garden State, He/they're the one(s) that do the song Such Great Heights on the Soundtrack, which is a cover of a Postal Service song (also an immensely amazing band [my number 2 Fav] ).

Okay *ahem*. back to the poetry.

Music Man

If I were a better painter
I'd paint you a mural
Showing Heaven and Earth
Light and Love laid out so fine
You'd gasp, point, and go "oh!"

But I'm not that good
Not at painting anyway
I can, though, paint you
a lopsided doggy that barks
and says "I LOVE YOU" in block letters.

I'd write you a full, long song
One with every instrument you could imagine
If I were a music man I'd do this:
I'd hire all the musicians to play
You'd sit back, relax, and go "oh!"

But I'm not any good at that
No one pushed me to musical greatness
I can't tell Bach from Mozart
But I think I can figure out
"You Are So Beautiful to Me" on the kazoo.

One day, hopefully, I'll have lots of money
Enough to buy your dreams and desires
We'd get old and fat together without money woes
But for now I've got $1.37 to my name
And I hope you'll like this plastic "I Heart U" ring
I got for a quarter out of the machine.

Fragments

These words are all I have
But they’re so useless anymore
I now know I cannot catch your eye
Nor make you laugh
Like I could so long ago.

I can only give you words to read
They’re my heart on paper
But I know they mean little to you.
So a fool am I, wearing my heart away
For naught, it endears me to no one,
Not even myself.

Every word I write is a scream in my mind
Shrieking the truth: No one listens.
But my fingers move
And my heart still bleeds
Forming words no one reads
And words no one feels
And words you shrug off.

With a mere comment
“You’re like a brother.”
Never have such words burned.
Nor have broken me in such a way
As to leave me shattered,
Lying darkly on the ground
Scribbling frail fragments
On dark paper.
Such is life.

#35

The world dies with a slow groan,
God’s sprawling creatures lose their zeal
Dropping steadily the instruments of life,
Death and heartache is their only warmth.

I am not wooed by the new colors;
Brown and yellow are colors of decay.
A pungent smell of the time hangs above the ground,
A new scent betraying burning leaves as a rich aroma.

My heart pangs for the giants looming above,
Autumn is the season of my soul.
I kick up little pieces of my life as I
Stroll across the fields of me.

This heart, once a vibrant green, wilts,
hues turning yellow, brown, and a mockingly vibrant orange.
And the fragrance hanging in the air?
It’s none other than the rising smoke of the bonfire of the
fallen pieces of me.

I pull my jacket tight as I meander longingly across the lawns,
A single brown leaf falls and floats to my feet,
A single grey tear is held back in mourning; it cannot show.
Autumn’s tendrils wrap tightly around my chilled interior
But the exterior only betrays the vibrancy of spring.

Worthless Poets

Everyone.
All want to sing of your love.
There is not a man living
who has not written a song
in your honor.

Hundreds of sonnets bear the simple title
of your name.
Who can resist the crafting of sweet music
to breeze through your amber hair?

Desperate men pine to have your ocean eyes
grace across their prose,
but who can blame them?

The power of one woman is amazing.
Were she a leader of military might
Empires would fall.

But she is no general.
Even still hearts of whole kingdoms are dashed
when she looks away.

Words repeat themselves
and songs slip to monotone
Has there ever been a beautiful word
that hasn’t affixed itself to her?
Most probably not.

A teeming mass of hopefuls gather at her side.
I do join them, these worthless poets,
by writing this very thing.
I can live with that.

But not without her.

Black and White

I've got to get you out of my head
Entertaining a dead future with you
Won't get me anywhere soon
We weren't meant to be anything more
Than friends, just friends, you know
I don't need you to tell me what
I can plainly see in black and white
From here on out I'll hold onto every word from you
They're as close as I'll get to holding you
I'll grow old without your love
I'll be okay, but I doubt it'll be enough
There will never be a "we" or an "us"
The sooner I realize this the better
Someday you'll only be a memory living in this letter.

I think the saddest thing is this:
You'll never be the wiser when
All I can do is try not to think of you.

Dead Letters

You’ve won.
I get it now.
Something about me unnerves you.
You don’t have to go out of your way to avoid me.
I’ll pull myself away.
We’ve had some fun times
But I see that they are dead now.
Did you know that when you laugh
your eyes turn into little triangles?
It’s a very beautiful thing
But I won’t make you laugh anymore.
We talked about doing something
sometime.
Maybe now I should just mail you the money for the meal.
You’ve pitied me but you never said no because you have
a tragically beautiful heart.
You smiled, nodding when I talked to you,
maybe hoping I would leave?

You don’t have to fake it anymore.
To be honest all I wanted was to make you
happy.
To think I thought I could help you with that!
Never have I had a more ridiculous notion.
No, I can make you happy, and I will.
How?
The phone will be silent and the letters will
die.
Kinda like me.

“Remember that one guy you used to know?
No? Me neither.”

Thing Of Dreams

It all started the day you bled out of my dreams
and reformed in the world.
I was fine with this world with all its misgivings,
but then one day I thought of you and you were gone.
I guess running through my thoughts all day
and long, stupid conversations in my dreams weren’t enough
to keep you.
Anytime I thought maybe you didn’t exist, you’d come running to me
and say “here I am, dummy.”

Remember the nights we spent behind closed eyelids?
We talked about the strangest things...
Why you always feel dizzy when you sit up too fast...
That time we walked in the rain and never really dried...

I thought it was funny, but it wasn’t a big deal to me.
You were here with me, that’s all that mattered
That look in your eyes kept me coming back to the
silly topics
you loved so much.

But no longer.
We lived and we loved
in the world of aspirations and desires but all things good must
end.

You seeped from my fancy and ran into the world
there you are, rather
close
but still so far
away.

There for everyone to see and steal
There for the losing of me.

I was meant for you, and so the other way,
but the world is big and those beautiful triangle eyes can’t help but gaze
at the other wonderful things of the world.

So here I wait, doing particularly nothing
until you grow tired of your adventures.
You are a thing of dreams,
you know.

Bratch

Bratch attacks Frenulum Linguae for 10 HP

First let me start this of by saying I am in pain. I stabbed myself.

With a toothbrush.

It's true. I drew blood with a toothbrush. Not gingivitis "I need you to start flossing, Mr. Bratcher" blood, but forceful stabbing induced blood. Somehow I managed to miss all of my teeth and ram Ol' Bristly straight into the flap of skin that connects the underside of my tongue to the rest of my body. Yeah. Go ahead and laugh. Good thing I wasn't clipping coupons, or I'd be typing this with only seven fingers (do people tell the "those are thumbs, not fingers" joke after fifth grade?)So I immediately pull Ol' Bristly out and look at the little flap of skin and, hoo yeah, bleeding. It took less time than I expected for what little toothpaste I managed to get into my mouth before oral hari-kari to mingle with the open wound and cause more pain than you'd think toothpaste could. I mean, c'mon, it's toothpaste. I rinse my mouth out and commence brushing gingerly. Now it stings a bit when I talk and when I eat, but the worst is I keep tonguing it. This feat is surprising to myself because I didn't realize that I could lick the underside of my tongue. But I can, and I've been doing it all day. It reminds me of losing my teeth as a kid. You'd pop one out and for the next few weeks every slow moment you'd find yourself tonguing the hole where the tooth was because something's different. The tongue must get lonely to be so obsessive over every new little thing.

Somehow I don't think this will heal any time soon.

Video Killed the Blogging Star (ouch, that pun hurt)

I've been busy editing video. For some reason, I have maybe 5 or 6 different video editing software packages (including Adobe Premiere) but the only thing that is stable on my system is Windows Movie Maker. Sigh. So, I made these with WMM, which I hope to use as an excuse for their obvious simplicity. The first was more or less a test, using some footage I already had. In a way it chronicles my move from the dorms to the apartment I lived it last year. The end is a joke on one of my friends, so no, I don't have a "crush" on the blonde in the movie. Again, joke.

The Year of the Hanuman


This one is much better, in my opinion. I took my youth group to the Illinois Youth Convention (Momentum to sound cool)and took a lot of footage. This is the result. The end is the best part, so wait for it. And yes, the audio on the guy that's preaching is unintelligible. I like it that way.

Momentum 06
Momentum 06

Add to My Profile | More Videos
Pax,
Aaron

States Having the Honor of Me Being in Them at Some Point in Time

Welcome Freshman

Being a freshman is a humbling experience. The first day of high school brings many emotions, most of which are variations of "terrified." Why do we feel so much anxiety on this noteworthy day? Because just months before we were in eighth grade.

Eighth grade. I remember it well. I was never very popular, but I did have a strong group of friends. When I passed the sixth graders (the youngest at the school) they looked at me with a bit of awe and dread, mostly because I was twice their size. In a way I ruled the school. It took me two whole years to earn the right to be an eighth-grader.

Then I walked into my first class in High school. I hoped to reinvent myself as one of the cool guys, giving everyone "hey, what's up?" looks. When the teacher calls roll and starts on the "C" names without calling mine, I begin to suspect. After a little while I was pretty sure of what was going on.

I walked into the wrong classroom.

I gathered up my stuff and ran out of the room, giving the same people "oops, I'm in the wrong room. . . " looks. I did finally arrive in the correct room. I was so late that everyone turned and looked at me as I wondered.

Something deep inside told me they knew.

I forwent the schmoozing looks that said "how you doin'?" and settled on sitting low in my seat with my hand over my face that said "please don't judge me . . . actually, just don't look at me."

Three years of occasional torment found me as a senior. I was both excited and a little surprised that I had actually made it. You've been working toward this goal since you were eating finger paints in Kindergarten. I mean, come on, they make movies about how cool it is to be a senior. In some ways I had lived down my mockery of a freshman year and was moderately (moderately) popular (known in many circles as "That Christian Guy" [close enough] ). Sooner than I had expected graduation day came and went. I was the proud owner of a shiny new high school diploma. The next step came so fast it seemed to smack me in the face.

I became a freshman in college. I went to community college for a year and let me tell you this: it was the best freshman experience of my life. I was still living at home, meaning I didn't have to pay for rent, food, water, etc. My classes were small and I enjoyed them. After a year of community college, I decided to stress out my mom and go away to college. The thing is, some of the classes I took in Community College didn't transfer to Bible College.

I was a freshman again. It was appropriate, though. The experience of going away to college is very deserving of the freshman label. After moving all your junk that you just couldn't leave at home into your tiny dorm room and attending 35 meetings for incoming students and their parents that are designed to make your parents feel better about leaving you . . . they leave.

And you're alone with hundreds of other new freshman.

It's an exhilarating feeling to wave to your parents as they drive away. You've finally done it. You're out of the house, probably in a different city, and possibly in a different state. I remember when my own parents' taillights had barely faded when I was approached by some upperclassmen who offered to drive me to Andy's Custard, the best ice cream joint in Springfield. I agreed hoping to make friends. Several other freshmen were corralled with me toward the parking lot where I could see other cars with "CBC" parking stickers driving away. We got to the guy's car and it was a truck. The other guys piled into the truck bed and I did so as well. As we drove off, I had two thoughts:

One, I hope I won't regret doing this and/or be found tomorrow in a ditch. . .

Two, It only took thirty seconds for me to do something that my mom would have disapproved of. . .

There was no hazing or initiation (those came later), only ice cream. And it was good.

Being a college freshman is a little different than being a High school freshman. It makes some people go a little crazy. They aren't used to having so much freedom. No one makes you do anything. At some point you're kicked out of school for not attending class and/or being an idiot. But there's much more leeway than you ever had in high school. It's the first step towards the "real world" and many people trip and fall. On the other side, it's the freshman that are still excited about life. They've just come from ruling high school and hit the ground running. They think they're pretty hot stuff and try to change the world. This, unfortunately, is mostly extinguished by junior year.

I took a year off from what would have been my senior year. Many reasons found me remaining in Kansas City but the big idea was this: I needed to regain my focus. So I enrolled in a Master's Commission program there in KC. Even though I had spent three years already in college (two of which were Bible college) I was still considered a First Year Student.

I was a freshman again. (If you haven't figured out by now, this is a recurring theme in my life.)

It was a difficult year. The purpose of Master's Commission is to provide a disciplined environment in which to pursue hands-on ministry. There were a lot of freedoms that I was very much used to that I gave up when going to Master's. I won't list them, but one was particularly painful. There was a girl that, one day, I realized that I cared for her like I'd never cared for anyone before. One of the big rules in Master's (at least ours) was not being able to talk to members of the opposite sex on the phone. Going into the year I was afraid that we would grow apart. And we did. Even when I returned it was different. Regardless, I do look back on that year with warm fuzzies in my stomach, good memories and great friends.

I returned to school to finish up my Bachelor's in Biblical Studies. A very good friend and I got a nice apartment together. Because I had been gone a year and was only on campus for classes, I had become a ghost.

People would introduce themselves, assuming I was a freshman.

I did indeed finish college (well, okay, I have one class left to take) and I find myself looking back at my life. I have been a high school freshman and a college freshman three times.

Now I am a freshman in Life. Just as I looked back at middle school and saw that things weren't really as they seemed, just as I looked back at high school and realized that it really was trivial, I look back at college and think:

"I didn't really learn anything."