We Interrupt This Blog

For A Little Christmas

I'll be back with more Nebulous thoughts next week. Until then, test your skill with the following.
And Remember: Wise Men Still Seek Him.

Name the Christmas Carol

Christmas Trivia:

1. In Frosty the Snowman, who brought Frosty back to life?
2. Who lost $8,000 in It's a Wonderful Life?
3. In How the Grinch Stole Christmas, what biological shortcoming made the Grinch so mean?
4. Who tells you she's in town by tap, tap, tappin' at your windowpane?
5. What is the biggest selling Christmas single of all time?
6. What was Scrooge's first name?
7. Where was I when I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus?
8. What was the name of Rudolph's dogsled driving friend?
9. Who said "God Bless Us, Every One!"?
10. What carol contains the line "O tidings of comfort and joy"?
11. In The Night Before Christmas I sprang from my bed to see what?
12. Name the three reindeer whose names begin with a "D"?
13. In the song "Grandma Got Run over by a Reindeer" what did Grandma go to get?
14.What was the first gift my true love sent on the sixth day of Christmas?
15. In what city did Miracle on 34th Street take place?
16. In It's a Wonderful Life, how did Clarence cleverly save George's life?
17. Who kept time with the Little Drummer Boy?
18.In The Night Before Christmas, where were the stockings hung?
19. What is the name of the little girl in most versions of The Nutcracker?
20. What is the last ghost called in A Christmas Carol?
21. What color is the Grinch?
22. How many pipers piping did my true love give to me?
23. In the movie The Santa Clause, who starred as the substitute Santa Claus??
24. What was Rudolph's punishment for his red nose? 25. A Charlie Brown Christmas, who plays the dusty innkeeper in the Christmas play?

Answers to Christmas Carols:

1. Jingle Bells 2. Walking in a Winter Wonderland 3. Santa Claus is Coming to Town 4. Joy to the World 5. Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer 6. O' Come All Ye Faithful 7. I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas 8. Oh, Christmas Tree 9. What Child is This? 10. We Three Kings 11. Deck the Halls 12. I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In 13. O' Holy Night 14. Noel 15. Away In a Manger 16. The Twelve Days of Christmas 17. I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus 18. All I Want For Christmas is My Two Front Teeth 19. Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire 20. It Came Upon a Midnight Clear 21. Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow! 22. Silent Night 23. O' Little Town of Bethlehem 24. Silver Bells

Answers to Christmas Trivia:

1 Santa Claus 2 Uncle Billy 3 His heart was two sizes too small 4 Suzy Snowflake 5 "White Christmas" 6 Ebenezer 7 On the Stairs 8 Yukon Cornelius 9 Tiny Tim 10 "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" 11 What was the matter 12 Dasher, Donder, Dancer 13 Her medication 14 Six geese a-laying 15 New York 16 He jumped into the river first 17 The ox and the lamb 18 By the chimney 19 Clara 20 The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come 21 Green 22 Eleven 23 Tim Allen 24 Could not play in reindeer games 25 Pigpen

A Prozac for Your Thoughts

In general, there are two types of people; even-keeled rocks of strength who can meet any challenge with a calm steely reserve, and volcanoes who explode all over everyone and everything. In my opinion, both are good. I have a deep respect for the person who is unwavering and controlled. I understand they might not join the conga line or the group hug. I know they won’t be crying at the end of Big Fish or any movie where Debra Winger dies, but that’s okay. Someone has to describe the spider to the 911 operator or make sure the wild kid doesn’t let go of the piñata bat. Working tear ducts are a small sacrifice. What about the blow hard? He don’t bug me, either. This guy may give ulcers, but he’ll never get them and if the dog pees every time he shouts, so be it. It’s not my carpet. Yes, I actually respect people who are on both of these extremes. Each has her or his place. Be it working in an office cubicle or at the DMV. I believe people are wired a certain way. I’m not going to get into the genetics/environment discussion. That would require a clear thought process and my thinking is far too nebulous for that.

Now, just like when I’m dancing, I’m all over the place. If you have a heart attack, I’m your man. I can notify security, assign an elevator monitor, get the poor suckers emergency card copied while I describe the lovely shade of green he’s turning to the 911 babe or have the courage to say out loud to the paramedic, “No, his skin naturally has that grayish tinge to it.” I bet during all of this my blood pressure remains a constant calm; probably wouldn’t even find a pulse. I can also throw a good rant when necessary. Ignore my phone calls? (I don’t THINK so!) Tell me, “I understand your frustration, but I can’t help you. That's not our policy” (Let's just take a moment and review that policy, okay?!) I’ve made grown men cry and rendered quick talking females speechless. (If nothing else, I am a gentleman.) People actually ask me to make calls for them and “Pull a Mark.” My daughter walked into the room after I hung up with Time Warner Cable and gave me a high-five. (In all fairness, I asked to speak to the supervisor and she said she could solve my problem.)

But the rest of the time I’m all over the place, too. I can’t hear good news without my pulse racing or bad news and not feel my heart in my throat. I can’t look at a picture of my kids for too long and not tear up with joy or worry or excitement or pride…you get my drift. And the problem comes when the good news is immediately followed by the bad, and then the exciting and then the unjust and then the kids.
Have you ever had a shock to your system? I’m not talking about an ice cube down your back or a glimpse of an overweight lady's thong or a big drink of Diet Coke when you think there’s Dr. Pepper in the glass. I’m talking about real system overload. This week I’ve been going through it big time. I’ve heard it all; good news, bad news, happy and sad news. It’s been a wild rollercoaster ride without a seatbelt. I know it’s better to feel all of this than to feel numb or to feel nothing. I don’t necessarily want to change it, but understanding it would be nice. I’d ask for comments, but you’re not ready. That’s okay. It’s enough knowing you’re there.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Years ago, I purchased two CD’s of Christmas music. One was Kenny G’s first collection of Christmas songs and the second was by Mahalia Jackson (I know, eclectic). I liked Kenny and since I played the clarinet myself (before my lip gave out and I started making spitting sounds when I tried for the upper register), I decided to give him a try. I had heard the song, “I wonder as I wander.” (Vanessa Williams sings the song on YouTube, but you didn’t hear that from me.) The words were so hauntingly beautiful; I just had to own a copy. I had heard of Miss Jackson but had never actually heard her sing. Within the first week, I regretted both choices. Shortly after I made the purchase, I read an interview given by Mr. G, where he stated that because he wasn't a Christian and didn’t believe in any of this Christmas stuff, he had to approach the CD from a strictly musical perspective. (GASP!) At that moment, I decided I would only purchase Christmas music from artists who believe in the product. (Why not? I have the same philosophy when buying cars.) The next shock came when I put on Mahalia to help me get over Mr. “I’ll-blow-any-song-through-my-kazoo-for-a-buck.” G. Well, I got over Kenny. I got way over Kenny, past Christmas half way through Lent. I understand that Mahalia Jackson is a legend but when I hear a Christmas song I’m taking a shot at being in a good mood. Her deep baritone voice sounded like a 45 single of the lovely Vanessa Williams played at the speed for a 33 LP. (If you’re old enough, you’ll get the idea. If not, it was slow.) It was depressing. Silent Night was even worst. All may have been calm, but it certainly was not bright. I would love to here her sing, “Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas.” Burl Ives was a baritone and he managed to keep it peppy. I didn’t know what to do. When I listened to Kenny G, I wanted to kill him. When I listened to Mahalia Jackson, I wanted to kill myself. It was at that moment that I made another decision. I decided I would only purchase Christmas music from people who believed in the product and did not make me feel suicidal. (I think that was a good call.)

Thanks to my boss and KOST 103.5, I’ve been listening to Christmas carols since the second week in November and I’ve realized something. I don’t like Christmas music. Don’t get me wrong. I’m the first one to join in a chorus of “Away in a Manger” and nothing brings me to tears faster than “O Holy Night” (Well, maybe Kenny tooting out “What a Friend I have in Jesus” or Mahalia singing “Santa Baby”) But listening to hour after hour of Wham singing “Last Christmas I Gave You My Heart” or No Doubt belting out “Oi to the World” does not bring to mind Mary giving birth in a stable. Two-thirds of Wilson Phillips (the Wilson part) singing “Hey, Santa!” and Rod Stewart trying to convince Dolly Parton into snuggling because “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” doesn’t help me reflect on how Jesus, my Savior did come for to die. (Actually, the visual image of Roddy succeeding makes my stomach queezy.) It makes me wonder, what is the intent of the holiday for those who do not consider it a holy day? The packages, the crowds, the baking, the lights and the tinsel; what does it all mean? Maybe Mahalia expressed it best? Are we wondering and wandering about clueless to all that God has done for us; not with a sense of hope and awe or even amazed puzzlement but with a baritone sense of emptiness. And that’s why I don’t like listening to this type of Christmas music. Because it would be like me giving seminars in how to fix plumbing, or swing a bat, or do a math problem (I can seriously go on.) Things about which I don’t know much (and I’m honestly not interested in learning).but if you give me a wrench or a bat or a pencil and paper I could give you a good impersonation. Eventually, I may even convince myself that I’m committed to something or doing something of meaning. At that point, God help your water pressure or your batting average or your math grade. I honestly hope I do not offend. I'm not judging sincerity. I'm just curious about motivation. To each his own. Let me know what you think. I'll be here. Kicking back, jamming to my latest CD, Kenny G’s "A Very Special Kwanzaa.”

Hello, My Name is Mark. I'm a Tube-aholic

So I’ve got this new monkey on my back. While researching my nebulous musings and teachings I have stumbled on and become addicted to this little gem of a place called YouTube. At this place, you can watch absolutely ANYTHING you want conveniently delivered at the click of your mouse without commercials in cute little 4 minute packages. It’s like cable TV without the infomercials.
Honestly, don’t you just hate that “Set it and Forget it”guy and that lady who talks about making mini-fruit pies with white bread and apple pie filling. (I don't care if you DO sprinkle powdered sugar on it. That’s not pie; just a weird toasted sandwich.) But YouTube, this place is Nirvana. By the way you can watch their music video, “Smells Like Teen Spirit” anytime you want. (I honestly believe if it weren’t for the poor hygiene-thing, Grunge would still be big.) And YouTube is contagious, too. At my last men’s group, one brother’s eyes lit up when I mentioned watching a documentary about Raul Ries and another said, “Really, H.R. Pufnstuf? I remember that song.”
(But Puf‘nStuf was watching, too and knew exactly what to do. He saw the witch's boat attack and as the boy was fighting back…Don’t judge me, I said this was a problem.) And you shouldn't judge. There is valuable information here. YouTube is not just fluff. You can watch stirring discussions on Einstein's Theory of Relativity or the impact of Global Warming on polar bears. (No one ever does, but it's there.) In the course of one YouTube session I watched a behind the scenes look at I Love Lucy (Fred was an alcoholic. Ethel hated him. Ricky was a womanizer); I listened to the lovely and tragic Miss Patsy Cline sing, “Sweet Dreams” (the hair on the back of my neck stood on end) and I shook my tushie to Nancy Sinatra singing, “These Boots Are Made For Walking” on the Ed Sullivan Show (my… never mind) And it didn’t cost me a thing; just my monthly internet bill and two hours of my time. Well, and if you want to get picky about it, 8 hours of my time because I did this every night this week. Oh and while I was doing this I didn’t spend any quality time with kids or work on the short story idea I had in mind (The idea passed) and my wife went to bed… ALONE.
We recently got rid of the television because my family was segmented. Everyone was spending every free minute in a different room of the house and my wife wanted us to reconnect. It worked wonders. Just last week my family was interacting and communicating, or at least that’s what it sounded like they were doing. I was busy watching Suzanne Sugarbaker deal with her weight (They Shoot Fat Chicks, Don’t They?) Ross and Rachel end their relationship (They were on a break.) and Will Truman confuse Anastasia Beaverhausen for his friend Karen Walker. (Makes me laugh just typing it.) What did I miss anyway? Reading my kids a story? Cuddling with my wife? Being an active participant in this God-given life of mine instead of mindless video-viewing blob? (At least I’m not hating so much that I’m spitting up bile anymore, right?)
So there you have it. I admit I’ve got issues but I still don’t think it’s a problem. I can quit whenever I want to. I can do this socially and it won’t take over my life. I’ll just have to take it One Day at a Time. (I wonder what would happen if I typed Valerie Bertinelli?)

With A Grateful Heart

"Thanksgiving Day is coming!”
Oh, Mr. Turkey said.
“How very careful I must be,
Or I will lose my head!”
The Pumpkin heard the turkey.
“How frightening too, Oh My!
They’ll mix me up with sugar and spice.
And I’ll be a pumpkin pie!”

While tragic to large fowls and squash, this song has always been one of the highlights of my Thanksgiving. As far back as I can remember, my mother sang this song every year. Funny thing, a child’s reality; the things you remember so vividly now seem to have taken place in a dream or an old television show. It’s as if my memories are stored in black and white. Only the present takes place in living color. I remember running around the yard with all of my cousins; too many to fit in the house let alone sit around one table. At dinner time, the adults sat in the kitchen. We were served on paper plates and ate outside resting our food and drinks on the hood of the car. As it got late, we plotted how one of us could go home with the other family and spend the night; keep the party going as long as possible. We weren’t concerned about cooking or dirty dishes or gluten or divorce. I remember my dad getting mad when we picked at the skin of the bird, and when I teased him for not being able to reach the pot in the back of the high cupboard. One year, my mom forgot to get punch, so she made a packet of Jell-O and told us to drink it quick. Mijo always made something new; poached pears one year that no one ate; rice pudding another I heard it tasted good (from him, of course) no one else remembers tasting it. Every year he complains we’re eating too early or too late or too fast or too slow. (Do you get my point, here?) One year, my dad put brandy in the yams and ruined them. (I’m still holding that grudge.) The year after he died it wasn’t the same but we went on, some of us cooking, mijo complaining, all of us singing the song.

Things are different now and the idea of picking one day to remember and give thanks seems absurd. Now, I’m in charge of the turkey. I’m avoiding the dishes. I’m concerned about the gluten and coping with the other things. In terms of stopping and being thankful, Thanksgiving is a useless holiday to me; rather redundant actually. I don’t need it. You see, I truly thank my God every day. I look at how He has blessed me with my family, my church, my friends, my home, my job (I can seriously keep going). I know how blessed I am. I don’t need to stop and think. I know who I am, where I’m from, where I deserve to be and where He has placed me and I am very thankful. I’ll take the day anyway because it gives me some time with the people I love dearly. This year we have a new baby and her daddy joining us for the first time. We’ll sing them the song. Maybe, we’ll go outside and eat on the hood of the car. Yes, things are different now.

"OH FECK!"

I’ve always thought the 1st Amendment was terribly overrated. Before you start squawking about how I wouldn’t be able to bless all of you with my Nebulous@best teachings, hear me out. (This is my right, is it not?) It seems to me that current communication standards are not what our forefathers had in mind. Although unconscionable and appalling, I’m not talking about the artist who submerged a crucifix in a bottle of urine or Sarah Silverman’s latest blasphemy. In an almost un-Christian way, I must admit, I am looking forward to peeking out from behind Jesus’ robes when these people stand before Him in judgment, aware of what they’ve said and who they’ve said it about. That’s ATAB (another topic for another blog). I’m talking about the perversion of language and how it festers at the everyday level. I once went to school with a girl who loved the “F-word” (And I’m talking THE BIG F-WORD). So much so, that she would squeeze it into any sentence she could. For example, if asked, “Do you like your bank?” She would reply, “You mean, Wells Fecked-Go!” She didn’t live in the lovely city of Fontana; she had to sell her house and get out of “Fecked-tana.” (I’m assuming you are all making the necessary substitutions.) This is only the beginning. In the short time that I knew her, she told me of being a den mother for the Fecked Scouts. That’s right. She had two little feckers (Her description, not mine). She really didn’t care for the pasta at the “Fecked-ghetti Factory.” And when she was exasperated she even gave Jesus Christ a new middle name. (This chick will be standing in between Sarah and the pee-pee artist.) The breakdown in how people express themselves is happening all around us and no one seems to be bothered.
Someone tell me, what exactly is profane?
On the first night I met my future brother-in-law, he paid me a compliment and then told me, “Mark, I’m not just not packing sand up your @$$.” (I replied, “Thank you.”) When my daughter was 2 years old, my wife told me she dropped something and said the F-word (see the title of this post). Shauna tried to assure me that she didn’t say it to anyone, but used it in its proper context. I asked, “You mean she’s watching porno, too?!!” When we questioned my little poet, she said she heard Nana say the word. Now, although my mother-in-law lived in Beaumont, a town that at the time that had one traffic signal, several trailer parks and cattle at the end of the main road, she was a very intelligent woman.

She did not, however, feel the need to censure her speech. This was a woman whose favorite phrase was, “Wish in one hand, sh!* in the other and see which hand fills up first. (I’ve asked my wife to cross stitch that on a sampler for above the fireplace.) I always judge how intelligent and/or how lazy people are by the adjectives and adverbs they use while speaking. As always, I’m not throwing stones. Anyone who’s seen me hammer a nail or step on a Lego or Happy Meal toy (I hate those things) in my bare feet knows that. I tell my kids that talking is a privilege. People who go for the cheap shock or expression are lazy. There must be a better way to get your point across. When my daughter agreed, I got so excited. I thought, “fan-FECKIN’-tastic”… but I didn’t say it.

The Hating Game

"I hate the way my hair looks,” “I love pizza but I hate anchovies.” The question of the day is “What’s wrong with a little well-placed hate?” Okay, pizza and hair gel are trivial but what about big things? Evil? Shouldn’t we hate evil? Saying I hate the devil can’t be bad. What about an unscrupulous boss or the neighbor who lets his poodle do a doodie in your yard? How about Barney or the Wiggles? Give me a break! If anything should be hated, it’s those guys.

God hates. It says so in the Bible. In Malachi 2:16, God states very clearly, “I hate divorce.” Deuteronomy 12:31 talks about all the detestable things God hates. That verse alone justifies a little bit of Wiggles-hate, don’tcha think? So there! It should be settled. There is a place for hating; be it little fishies on pizza or big purple dinosaurs. Hating is the bomb. “

Right now, you should be sitting at your computer, shouting out a great big, “AMEN!” Except for one major detail, it’s a ticking bomb and it’s strapped to our very souls.

Whatever you do, do not begin to think I’m getting preachy. Believe me; I’m not sitting on my high horse, passing judgment on anyone. At this very moment, I can give you a list of things that create a knot deep in my gut. Things that would easily be classified as "righteous indignation” and stamped, “JUSTIFIED!” I can create a separate, distinct list of things that bug me. The war in Iraq; bone heads that blindly criticize or support the war in Iraq, the way hurting people are falling through the cracks at a mega-church I attended twenty years ago (okay, that’s an old one). I’ve been able to keep so many chips balanced on my shoulder simultaneously that someone should call the newspapers. I’m just getting started. I’ve got a third list (I like to call this my “Barney” list) of things that just drive me crazy; shallow things, like the guy with the dog or the kewpie-doll way a co-worker smiles at me every time I pass his cubicle. How about people who use the word, “irregardless?” If I ever go postal, it will be after I've heard that word twice in the same meeting, I’m sure.

But this doesn’t make sense. If God is Lord of my life, why do I have knots in my stomach? If He is holding me in His arms, why aren’t the chips falling off my shoulders? (Side note: These are not issues of God’s power, but of my submission.) One thing God has revealed to me this week is that the key word in the term “righteous indignation” is the first word not the second and that’s my problem right there.

So I’ve got a big steaming pile of this on my plate and it’s not very tasty. Drop me a comment. I’d love to hear what you have to say. Don’t make me beg. I hate it when people do that.

The Allegory of the Fish keeper

A young girl was entrusted with the care of a beautiful fish that lived in a fragile glass bowl. She didn’t understand why she was chosen. She had no special talents to speak of. She was as ordinary as ordinary could be. Nonetheless, the fish was hers and she loved it dearly. Others thought she was crazy to be so devoted to the fish. “Why do you give so much?” they asked. “It doesn’t swim around. It just floats in one spot. It gives you nothing back. You can never hold it in your hand. It will always be in its own world; separated from you. Just feed it and be done.” The fragile bowl had to be protected also. If it were jostled, or if the water became impure, the fish would grow sickly and pale, and sink to the bottom of the bowl. The keeper had to act quickly to fix whatever was wrong. The keeper’s days were long and tiring. As she worked, the fish just floated unaware of the keeper’s dedication or of the dangers of the world or of the lakes and oceans where other fish swam. Every night she would carefully circle her arms around the fragile bowl and tell the fish, “I love you.” While it would have been nice to hear the fish reply, “I love you, too, dear keeper,” she realized this was asking more than the fish was capable. Still, she dreamt of releasing her fish into a stream or a river and letting it swim away to a large lake or ocean. She wanted her fish to see the world, to experience life, to find a mate; to love and to be loved.

One day, the keeper came across a village of people caring for fish much like hers; each as beautiful; each bowl as fragile. She noticed the keepers. Their arms were open, but their fists where clinched; she was not sure if they had just finished one battle or were preparing to fight another. Their eyes were hopeful, but their brows were furrowed; as if they were hoping and dreaming, calculating and planning all at the same time. They had smiles on their faces but their teeth were clinched with both joy and resolve. As she looked at the keepers, both men and women, she recognized herself. Her arms were indeed always open, surrounding her fish; protecting its bowl. She too, fought one battle after the next and her fists were clinched; ready to defend. Her eyes were filled with love as she looked at her fish, but her brow was furrowed from peering the distance preparing for the next challenge. She had joy in her smile, but her teeth remained clinched; determined to go on with a steely resolve. She suddenly felt weary. She knew if she sat down, she may not get up; if she cried, she may not stop. She was baring the weight of this single fragile bowl. It might as well have been the weight of the world. As she stood there, someone came into view; a keeper walking towards her but his bowl was empty. Then she spotted another walking with his fish towards the river. She stopped the man with the empty bowl. “Was that keeper really going to release her fish? Did you release yours? This can’t be.” He assured her it was true. “Some fish go free, others stay put,” he said. “Some will move about their bowls, others will always just float. But it’s not important that each fish swim out to sea. What matters is that each fish lives a life of purpose; a life filled with love. Don’t loose your focus, dear keeper. Remember, you were not chosen for this journey because of your ability to accomplish but for your capacity to love.”

Hello In There

Ya' know that old trees just grow stronger,
And old rivers grow wilder ev'ry day.
Old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say, "Hello in there..."

I’ve heard that in the Eskimo culture, when an elder member wasn’t able to contribute to the tribe, they were placed on an iceberg and set a drift. Before you judge too harshly, consider two important details. First, Eskimos believed that they were, in fact, sending these elderly people to the afterlife. I’ve read that these senior Eskimos went willingly, not wanting to be a burden or jeopardize the survival of the rest of the tribe. They took this voyage with dignity. I’m not sure if they made the connection that the price of this trip was either starving or freezing to death. But, let’s not throw snow balls at anyone’s belief system; not just yet, at least. Knowing what a moral fan base I have here at Nebulous @ best, I know you’re thinking, “How could they? That’s cruel. They are doing away with people whose very lives have value. How could these people send Grandma on a one-way trip on Penguin Cruise Lines?” This brings me to my second point, what are we doing with the senior members of our own tribe? We’ve become a culture that discards our most prized members; a culture that values profits over people. These people should be cherished not cast away. We live in a time where a man who has worked hard his whole life can’t get the care he needs because of how hard he's worked. We care more about Britney’s bald head or the fight over finding a proper home for Ellen’s dog, than we do about the people who built this country. While sane (?) legislatures in Massachusetts allow birth control pills to be dispensed to 11-year-olds, the senior citizens who were our soldiers, our teachers, our builders and our dreamers are shuffled around for profit. Pro-abortion vegetarians (you know, “Wearing fur should be a crime, but sucking an unborn baby out a vacuum tube is a choice.”) sleep with clear consciences but men and women who lived moral, upright lives, who paid their way and followed the rules have no place to hang a picture or lay their head. Our nation’s homeless problem goes far beyond men on the side of the road holding signs offering to work for food. What about the people the government determines have too much money in their bank accounts and don’t qualify for Medi-Cal? What about the nursing facilities that check their patients into hospitals and then refuse to take them back because of potential financial liability? And through all of this, we say nothing or worse we say, "Medicate them and take the pain away." (Whose pain, I’ve not yet decided.) Don’t judge the Eskimos. They may have deluded themselves into thinking they were doing something noble but we are deluding ourselves also; that this isn’t our problem, that a Democrat can fix this or the Republican plan is even better, that when we grow older this won’t happen to us.

Lord willing and the creeks don’t rise. (Or depending on your faith system, Lord willing and no twinkling of an eye.) It will be interesting to see what happens in the future. This news story states that the first baby boomer has applied for Social Security benefits. I hope she has good insurance and less than $2,000 in the bank. If not, I hope she packs light.

So if you're walking down the street sometime
And spot some hollow ancient eyes,
Please don't just pass 'em by and stare
As if you didn't care, say, "Hello in there, hello."

I’d love to hear what you think. Or you can go here. A new post on Monday.

For A Cure

Fathers be good to your daughters

Daughters will love like you do

Girls become lovers who turn into mothers

So mothers be good to your daughters, too

-John Mayer

Touch Me In The Morning

Every morning at 5:40 a.m., I make my daily one (1) hour forty (40) minute pilgrimage on a Metrolink train followed by a subway, bus or shuttle tour of downtown Los Angeles where it is my job to bring balance to a building that was literally built on a crooked foundation. (this place )
During all of this, when I’m not asleep I people watch. I like to think of this as a sociological or psychological exercise. This sounds much better than “stalker.” I see women enter the train without a speck of make-up and by the time they exit they’re ready for their close-ups. I’ve met a guy that I would swear (if I were a swearing-type of man) was the son of my father’s illegitimate daughter. I considered talking to him, but what would I say? “By the way, you look exactly like my dad. I think your grandma gave it up when she was seventeen and my dad, your grandpa had to choose between going to war and going to prison.” I settled for taking his picture with my cell phone repeatedly while he slept and showing it to everyone I knew. “Do you want to see my nephew?” (It’s only stalking after they tell you to stop, right?)
I’ve seen couples go from introduction to flirting (that’s a hoot) to relationship and sometimes to bitter breakup. For several years, I sat near an ex-priest and his wife. She told me he consecrates the Eucharist every Sunday morning for her in the living room of their house in Banning. (It’s a two bedroom, Mediterranean right on the golf course.) On more than one occasion, I’ve witnessed sympathetic women holding hands with married men as they listen to how the old shrew just doesn’t understand him and how all he wants is to be close to someone. Believe me, my biggest challenge is not yelling, “Hey Juliette, I think Romeo’s wife has a pretty good understanding how her man is and if you’re smart you’ll keep both hands on the table.” Once, I made a point of introducing myself to the bum’s wife as she picked him up at the train station in the afternoon. After a few moments of conversation, I gave Mr. Misunderstood a smile and an “I’m on to you.”-look. He soon found another area of the train to sit. I would have followed him, but again with those darn stalking laws I would be the bad guy. (Go figure.)
There are so many different types of people; knitters and readers; sleepers and talkers; the casual and the constipated. A few weeks ago, I got on a bus that is always standing-room only and takes me to great coffee. I was lucky to get the last seat and even luckier that a woman didn’t come on so I was able to keep it. (My mother raised me right. You should see some of the beasts that won’t get up.) I sat down as people filed past me to stand in the open areas. As I did this, I oh-so-barely brushed the elbow of the stone-faced woman sitting next to me.
Immediately, she jerked away, pulling her arm as close to her as she could. This troubled me deeply. I thought to myself, “This poor woman. What is she feeling? Am I threatening her? Does she think I have an ulterior motive?” I swear it was just my elbow. I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt AND a jacket. There was a good quarter-inch of material between our naked, pulsating bodies. I wondered what happened in this woman’s life that made her recoil like she did. What events in her life damaged her ability to be touched, nay brushed by a freshly-showered, extremely handsome gentleman who was wearing deodorant? I felt the need to say something, to do something. Unfortunately, the bus was very crowded and was just about to pull off from the stop. Something stirred me to act. I did the only thing I could think of doing; the only appropriate thing to do in this situation. I touched her again. And I kept on touching her; every bump in the road, every curve that we took, my elbow tapped her. I bumped her so much; you would have thought we were on the Cyclone at Cooney Island. By the time we got to good coffee, you could have fit three people in the space between us. She was folded into something that looked like a cross between twisted pipe cleaner and an origami crane. I knew that this snotty, rude woman who never said, “Good Morning” was going to immediately go to the washroom at her office, neatly place several layers of paper towels on the counter and wash off my kooties with the individually wrapped wet wipes and bottle of Purell she kept in her top desk drawer right behind the can of Lysol. And you know what? I didn’t regret my actions; not one little bit. Until….
…until this week. I was standing in the same bus and I saw my sanitized friend do the same thing to an overweight woman wearing white stretch pants, an oversize top and large hoop earrings. (I’ guess she didn’t get the memo about wearing white after Labor Day.) “Stretch” must have touched Miss Sunshine at least once because she looked like someone whose back went out in the middle of a game of Twister. But Stretch wasn’t bothered by any of this. It was obvious she was very comfortable with herself. I mean, besides not wearing a bra. Stretch was happy and nothing was going to change that. It was a good day. God gave her the last seat on the bus. (I’m just assuming the seat next to the pickle is always the last seat.) I started to think about the way I reacted to this one person’s bad attitude. Instead of apologizing for molesting (I mean brushing) her elbow with mine and going about my day; or even trying to show her some kindness, I let her bad attitude get me down. I let her steal my joy. Whatever made this person behave the way that she did is really none of my business. God doesn’t call me to correct, or to teach or even to understand her. And He’s not asking me to treat her the way I treat my friends or my family. He’s calling me to love her as much as I love myself; to share just a little bit of the infinite love that He’s shared with me. I sat with that a minute. (Well, stood with that.) I was thankful that God doesn’t treat me the way I treated this person. I thanked God for not nudging me with His elbow and for His grace and His love. And then I became very happy; so happy I had to hug someone. (Is it stalking if you’re doing it because God gave you a revelation?)

Are We There Yet? (Sqeezing the Charmin - Part II)

…So where are we? Before we get going, I need everyone to make an effort. If this bores you, you can go here. The good thing about calling it a “world-wide web” is that there’s a bunch of other places you can be. I hope you stay. This one's important to me.

It turns out the 25¢ question isn’t whether or not we were brought to this place in life. The question that earns the quarter is,

“Who’s going to be doing the driving?”

I can sit and ponder how I got here or I can chart my course for the rest of the trip. (What can I say? Descartes philosophized about wax and the mind and the body, I use metaphors of driving and getting your jollies squeezing toilet paper.)

If it were up to me, I would be in show business. Of course, if I had waited to be discovered, I would be sitting in a warehouse where the Fiesta Four used to sit. One thing for which I am certain is that if life is a roadtrip, it’s a winding one. That frightens some people. You’ve got to be ready for the turns. The bends can bring new challenges or force you to change gears. If you don’t pay attention you can get banged up. If you don't keep your vision focused on the horizon, you can get sick. You’ve got to realize if you’re lost and be willing to make a change of direction. Some people prefer straight highways. But highways are long and boring. It’s tempting to just turn on cruise control and let it carry you. You can get hypnotized by the road and miss the trip all together. Have you ever spaced out on the freeway and when you rejoined reality you didn’t remember driving through certain areas. Maybe the part of the road you’re missing is college because you think you’re too old or too dumb to start (I was 33 and I couldn’t do math). Maybe you’re missing the chance of saying to someone, “I love you, too,” because you won’t humble yourself or make yourself vulnerable. I think in order to truly experience life, you’ve got to be the driver. I learned that late. That’s why I spent 4 years here. (I bet you thought the drive-in was the low point. That’s another blog for another time.)

And the road winds until the very end. My father-in-law is coming up on the last curve. A final stretch of road his fading mind and broken body won’t allow him to take alone. The end of his journey will be a curve in the middle of ours. I think of everything he’s done in his life and how he chose to handle the curves that life brought him; the choice to serve our country through two wars; to raise a small girl whose father died and whose mother drank; to be a man of honor and integrity. I see the roads I have traveled. Some I regret. Some that carried a toll. I see the roads people I love have taken or are taking; some they will regret or that carry a cost. Then suddenly in the middle of all of this, as I started to focus on the road and not the destination, someone I love made a choice I never expected; a choice that reminds me that no man’s destiny is sealed until the journey’s end. People can take control of the wheel, get out of the spin; change their course. Gun it.

Most importantly, I know that I’m not on this road alone. I’ve got someone with me every leg of my journey. And He’s not riding on my dash board; He’s riding in my heart.


If this is way to philosophical for you or if the picture I've painted isn't clear, go here. Then drive back and see me next week.

Squeezing the Charmin - Part I

A friend of mine scolded me. He told me that blogs should be updated daily.

Wait, I mean:

An unmarried friend of mine who has no children scolded me…

Just a little more:

This unmarried guy I work with who has no children and won’t make me a "friend" and give me access to his My Space page (if you read last week’s entry, you know what THAT means… but I digress) scolded me. He said that blogs should be updated daily. I told him, “Yeah, but I have a life.”

While I’m sure that it would be a great thing for all of my fans to be able to come to Nebulous @ best everyday and receive some pearls of wisdom, a poem that would touch their hearts, or a dirty limerick to keep them smiling as they trudge on through the day, it just isn’t meant to be. It would be awesome to spend my days lying on the beach writing the great American novel or the next Academy Award winning screenplay. I’d be happy to just be able to contribute to this blog more than once a week. Heck, I might even settle for enough spare time to write a quick haiku on a friend’s birthday card. But this is not my life.

My life is house payments and crooked teeth; standing in the rain watching a soccer game and trips to Sam’s Club with the WHOLE family to buy bulk toilet paper. I’m up at 5:00 a.m. and three days a week I don’t get back home until almost 9:00 p.m. Fridays, I’m zonked. Saturdays, we’re racing around and Sundays …let’s just say Sunday is a work day not a day of rest. Right now its 10:30 p.m. and I’m writing this to the sound of my wife in the bathroom drying my son’s school books with a blow dryer. (C’mon, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried!) You know, this is not what I had planned. This is not the life I would have pictured for myself. I wonder if I even had a say in all of this or if it just “happened” to me. I look around and there are a lot of people even busier than me; single parents going it alone; married couples struggling to make ends meet.

Is this the life we chose or did this life choose us?

Know what? It really doesn’t matter. This is where I am. This is where you are. What are you going to do about it? As for me, I don’t have a house; my wife is building a home. The braces are coming off next week but it’s not his straight teeth that bring joy to my heart when I see my son’s smile. Hannah is an awesome soccer player and she gives 100% even in the rain. And I must confess nothing gets me hotter than a trip to Sam’s Club. I don’t know if it’s the fact that we’re all together; or that you can buy the good 2-ply bathroom tissue in 18-roll packages; or if it’s the hand signals I’ve worked out with my daughter so I get two free samples of the good stuff. Every time I go to Sam’s Club I regret my vasectomy.

Maybe I did stumble into this life but it's like stumbling into a bowl of peanut M&Ms. I am deeply in love with someone who loves me. My wife knows that no matter what, I’m not leaving. (I’m reasonably sure she finds comfort in that) After I get the plank out of my eye, I’ll start looking for the speck in hers. I spend Monday through Thursday doing things I love with people I cherish. Friday’s I’m zonked but I enjoy a sound sleep at night. I’ve already mentioned what Saturdays do to me. And my Sundays are filled with so many hugs, smiles, giggles and most importantly an understanding of what really matters that I am both humbled and overwhelmed. There's more…

Just one of the crowd

When I was a teenager, I remember one time Uncle Angel and Aunt China came to visit. Aunt China was talking to my mother and my grandmother about someone else’s kid hanging around a person she didn’t deem appropriate. “Show me who you’re with, I’ll show you who you are,” she said. I didn’t like it. Maybe because at that particular moment I was a teenager at home on a Friday night, hanging around with two old ladies, a woman who slept in hair curlers with cold cream on her face, and an old man with hair growing out of his protruding ears (believe me, I’m not throwing that stone). I should have been hanging out with my dad. He was upstairs watching television in his underwear.

For whatever reason, that statement bugged me more than kissing my aunt’s hairy cheek goodbye.

Do I hate this statement because it’s wrong or because I’m in denial about its truth?

Let’s assume it’s true. Since starting this blog, I’ve been poking around looking at other people’s pages. If this statement is true, I’m not as cool as I imagined. There are a lot of stange creatures in the Blogspot zoo I checked myself into. (No cracks) On that same note, do I judge my family by the people I see on their My Space pages? Twenty-five years ago we had the good sense(?) to commit our sins in the dark where they belonged. Today, kids take pictures while they’re in the middle of it and post it for everyone to see.

Now to be fair, this sword should cut both ways. My good friends, Slugger and Jack, own tool belts and can do things with them. Does hanging out with them mean I’m handy? (In reality, I can’t figure out how to work a Dyson and Slugger hung my Christmas lights last year while I held the ladder.) I think there lays the answer. Anyone who knows me knows that if I could do a repair I wouldn’t have had to sell my last house. Hanging around with sinners doesn’t make you one, just like hanging around Christians doesn’t make you one of them either. It does put you in a position where you can be influenced and overcome by your surroundings. (Good in one instance, bad in the other.) It can also get you on someone’s My Space page. It’s best to have your eyes open at all times except when they should be shut tight. (you know what I mean.) I’m reminded of a song sung by Amy Grant.

I looked into the mirror,

Proud as I could be,

And I saw my pointing finger

Pointing back at me,

Saying, "Who named you accuser?

Who gave you the scales?"

I hung my head in sorrow;

I could almost feel the nails.

I said, "This is how it is

To be crucified and judged

Without love."

My reason for being here

That's right web browsing world, I have arrived! There are many reasons for my starting this blog. Funny, I've never even commented on one of these things. I was tempted a few times when viewing the blog of an old (historically not chronologically) pastor at a church I used to attend. Check his spot out www.mikeduran.com. Mike is a man I don't always agree with, but will always respect.

One good reason to start this is the fact that I am a man of many opinions and even more words. My wife has actually looked at me in the middle of one of my ramblings with her eyes almost completely shut and whispered, "You make me tired." The sad part is that she was driving at the time.

Please respond. I need feedback. I'm very needy like that. If no one ever responds, I'll probably just keep posting the message, "helllloooo..." while I sit in the corner and cry. I'm half joking. (which means, sadly, that I'm also half serious.) I've already have lots to talk about; for example, naming this dumb space. You'd be surprised some of the freaky names I considered that were already taken. I'll tell you that story on a later entry.

But (drumroll, please) this is what got me off my bottom (not literally, I'm still sitting) and actually start this thing. View it, share it, realize this is the real deal. I'll comment more about this and a lot of other things later.

http://www.godtube.com/view_video.php?viewkey=ee73e63418003b47d7d5