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