Keeping up with The Jones

I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink

2010-07-22T16:53:00.005-04:00

We're back in Rome for our last week in Italy. We've been helping run a children's program each day here. As you would expect from these sorts of things, the children are very energetic and a lot of fun. The other day one of the boys came up to me as I was standing by the snack/craft table.

"Ho sete."

At least, I'm pretty sure that's what he said. I'm still not entirely certain. My Italian has progressed from non-existent to laughably American. All I knew in that moment was that I didn't know what he was saying. Plan A: ask him to repeat.

"Ho sete."

Nope, still nothing. It's not bathroom, I know that one. Now that he'd repeated, I realized that the sounds coming out of his mouth had no meaning to me. I momentarily considered plan B: smile and nod. I looked down at this little boy looking back up at me, thoroughly expecting that as the adult I would act on his words. Plan B was not going to work. It's time to swallow the pride, accept my limitations, and go with plan C: just admit I don't understand.

No capito.

Upon hearing this, the boy took me by the hand, pulled me down a little, and leaned in.

"HO, SETE."

So I guess it's true. Slower and louder really doesn't make foreign languages understandable.

Super Santos

2010-07-12T15:11:00.004-04:00

This ball is nothing short of amazing. Not in its performance, mind you. Its genius lies in its marketing. I have no idea exactly what this entails. I only know that every kid I have seen lately has one. Everywhere we go we see one. Not since the red Spaulding kickball from the '80s have I seen a playground ball this prolific.

Of course, we see lots of more authentic soccer balls as well. It's amazing to see what some of these kids can do with their feet and a ball. One kid we've been playing with is an incredible striker. He can rip off powerful shots from distance with great accuracy. Today he took off his shoes and then took the ball the length of the field through defenders and scored a goal. He dances with the ball, left, right, over and back.

Of course, before the game, when someone lobbed the ball to him from five feet away, he caught it like a two year old. His arms flailed around like he had no idea what to do with them. He had to cradle the thing with his whole body like his hands had been cut off.

And that is why America will never win a World Cup.

A walk in the park

2010-07-07T09:58:00.005-04:00

They have merry-go-rounds here in Italy.

I realize this isn't the deep, insightful, cultural observation you may have hoped for from someone spending a summer on another continent, but it jumped out at me. When I was a kid, I absolutely loved merry-go-rounds. They were my favorite piece of playground equipment, hands down.

Somewhere along the way in our country, someone decided that "fun" was synonymous with "unsafe." We no longer have seesaws, high dives, earth balls or giant hamster wheels. We no longer have merry-go-rounds.

So when I stumbled upon this beauty, I took it for a ride. Like most things, it's not quite what I remember. Getting spun in circles gives me a bit of a headache these days. But I'm not too old to remember the boundless joy simply spinning in circles once brought. Just the thought of it made my day.

4th of July

2010-07-04T03:53:00.003-04:00

I'm in another country on our nation's independence day, which is not quite as strange as the time I was flying over the Atlantic Ocean in who knows what time zone when the clock struck midnight in a new year.

This day is actually more significant to me because it is my dog's birthday, or at least the day we picked as such. We got him when he was a little more than a year old, so we just guessed, really. By our count, he is 15 years old today.

A few years ago I wrote about how we almost got a dog when I was seven or eight. After the Commodore 64 debacle, we were successfully stonewalled for the next decade. We just accepted that we were not a pet family. The question was hardly ever raised, and on the rare occasion that it even began to surface, my mother squashed it quickly.

The story of how we finally got a dog is somewhat remarkable in its unremarkability. In September of 1996, our family went to a local orchard to go apple picking, an annual tradition. My brother happened to see two dogs in a cage on the property. I have no idea what possessed him, but I guess he just decided the time had come for us to have a dog. As we walked through the orchard he lagged behind slightly with Mom. I still don't know how he did it, but by the time we left the orchard, we were on our way to the pound to get a dog. I still think Mom might have thought that she hadn't fully committed to anything, but she had stepped out onto that slippery slope, and we were going to take full advantage.

We found Radar at the shelter. He wasn't too big, and he was already house-trained. It was almost my birthday, so Matt decided that he would pay the $20 shelter fee and get me a dog for my birthday (then Mom and Dad payed the $200 vet fee, and all the subsequent vet fees, and for all his food, and so on. Matt still gets credit for buying the dog). It's still the best birthday present I've ever gotten.

Mom was still determined to keep control of her clean house, but like I said, it's a slippery slope. First Radar was supposed to be just an outside dog. Then he was supposed to live in the garage. Then he was only allowed downstairs. It wasn't long before he ruled the house.

The irony is that I think Mom ended up loving that dog the most. When he hurt his shoulder, she was the one who gave him his physical therapy. When he got out during that fluke snow storm on April Fools Day, and we couldn't find him for an hour, she was beside herself. Even after she broke her leg tripping over him, she still loved him.

Yesterday I got an email from Mom letting me know that tomorrow, they are putting Radar down. He's no puppy anymore. His legendary house-training has long since left him. The dog that once could leap over the wall in our driveway can hardly climb stairs, and usually falls down them. The cruelest joke of all is a dog named Radar that can't even locate a doggie treat dropped directly in front of him. So I guess the time has come.

We had hoped that perhaps we wouldn't have to make the decision, that his sleep would take him one night. I told myself that if we had to do it, that I would be the one to take him, but that is now impossible. Once again, I entrust him to the care of my parents.

I always said that someday, when I got in the right situation, I would come and take my dog to live with me. Deep down, I knew there was no way that would happen. But whenever I would go home, Radar was my dog again. Uncle Clark once described him as "the most hand-lickingest dog in the world," and I would sit with him and just let him lick my hand for half an hour or so, until he was satisfied. I'll miss that.

I know he's just a dog, but after tomorrow, our family will be down by one. We had one shot at this pet thing. Radar made it count.

This one's for you Mom

2010-06-29T05:17:00.001-04:00

Outside St. Peter's

2010-06-21T02:40:00.002-04:00

Some signs you don't think are even necessary...

...then you look down.

The Vatican

2010-06-21T02:15:00.003-04:00

I had a chance on Saturday to see St. Peter's Basilica and the Vatican Museums, including the Sistine Chapel. It's really quite overwhelming to see the collection of art and artifacts that they have there. I'm not sure one day or one visit is anywhere near enough to take it all in, but I'm glad I got to see it. I tried to take as many pictures as I could, but there is no way I could have captured everything. Room after room, the walls, the ceilings, even the floors - all of it is priceless.

Still learning

2010-06-17T14:44:00.001-04:00

Last night after a service we put on for residents of the social center, we went out for a late night tour of Rome. One of the soldiers took us around from sight to sight in the corps minibus, getting out at various points and giving us historical background. It took a while, as he required translation, so we got back quite late, but it was well worth it. I learned more than I could process last night, but today was a day of learning as well.

I learned what Italian coffee tastes like. I’ve actually been drinking a lot of cappuccino since I’ve been here, particularly when it is served cold (as a kid from New Bedford, it reminds me of coffee milk). But this was straight coffee, as they take it. It is viscous and strong and persistent. I understand why they take it in small shots.

I learned that there are few things more humbling than four year old girls laughing at your attempts to speak Italian.

I learned how to drive a stick (sort of)…stay tuned for more adventures on that front.

Rome

2010-06-15T02:42:00.008-04:00

I'm in Rome, safe and sound. Check out 2italyand beyond.blogspot.com for our group blog. I'll post a few personal pictures and thoughts here periodically. You can also see our group facebook at to italy and beyond.

Home

2007-10-11T14:57:00.000-04:00

I’ve had no less than ten full time legal residences in my twenty nine years, not to mention various summer camps and college. The question of where I am from has never been one I’ve had a good answer for (presently? formerly? originally?) but this has in no way lessened, and perhaps increased, the importance of the idea of home. One place that will always be home, no matter how long - or even if - I’ve ever lived there is my parents’ house. And so upon the realization that I’d not been there since last Christmas, I decided to go home for Columbus Day.

My Mom was away for the day, but this afforded me the opportunity to cram in a full 24 hours of father/son activities. Watching football, checking our fantasy teams, playing horse, cribbage and Settlers, shooting some pool, playing some Nintendo (incidentally, I must pause to acknowledge the genius that is RBI baseball – the first baseball game with real player names, stats, even a four man bench, with plenty of offensive firepower – it’s not called ERA baseball for a reason. And despite being made in the mid eighties, not only does it hold up as a gaming experience, there are even two players from that game that still played in the majors this year. Can you name them?).

I won some, I lost some, I sat suffering with my kindred western New Yorkers as the Bills blew a game to the loathsome Cowboys. Even if Mom didn’t have time to bake a cake, it was still good to be home.

A: Roger Clemens, Julio Franco

So I guess that was just a suggestion

2007-09-29T15:31:00.000-04:00

As mentioned by Captain Steve in the comments section, I’ve been spending a lot of time in the Stapleton houses lately. I even planned to write about it. Of course, I’ve been meaning to write about a lot of things lately.

Anyway, the primary reason for my increased presence in the projects has been our corps recent outreach campaign. We’ve purchased flyers in the form of door hangers and have been putting them on as many of our neighbors’ doors as possible. It’s my goal to hit every door in the Stapleton houses.

My second day there this week I noticed a sign that read:

NO BARBECUING
ALLOWED ON DEVELOPMENT
GROUNDS OR TERRACE AREAS
ALL VIOLATERS WILL BE SUMMONSED BY NYPD

I was surprised I had not noticed these signs earlier, since there are at least four prominently displayed on every floor. Apparently I was not the only one who overlooked this directive, since one thing I had noticed was that many people (at least a dozen so far) keep grills right out on the terrace. I’m sure they’re not for barbecuing.

Carrying slightly more authority was the creature I encountered in the doorway of one apartment. Normally when I find a door open – as many are on hot days – I poke my head in and speak to whoever’s home. This door, although open, was blocked by a large black dog. He looked to be at least part pit, and his head popped up and one ear perked the moment he saw me. He sized me up; I backed down. I’m usually a dog guy, but I’m no fool. Protect your turf. I’ll get your door another day.

In the meantime, I’ll address this to whoever lives on the third floor with the large dog blocking the door: in case you’re interested, we have worship services every Sunday at The Salvation Army – 10 AM, Sunday School, 11AM Morning Worship, 5 PM Evening Praise.

Hope to see you there.

Catching up (again)

2007-09-12T16:11:00.000-04:00

Okay, it’s time to pull this thing back together.

First off, some of you may have noticed a reference in the last post, authored by Capt Steve, to my “new apartment.” So the first bit of news, and the closest thing I have to an excuse for blogging inactivity, is that I’ve moved. Only two blocks, mind you. But I moved everything myself, excluding the pull out love seat, the only item I had help with, and the old gray recliner I’ve love so much since junior year. I’m afraid the mice have loved the stuffing even more, so it's gone.

The reasons for the move included a shady power struggle between my landlords (a tale for another time), and more beneficially, a friend moving to the area interested in splitting expenses (Chris, also our new youth director). There’s nothing quite like more than tripling your floor space while simultaneously lowering your monthly expenses.

Seriously, come visit me. There’s room now.

Today I went to the bank and my auto insurance company to update my address. Knowing the difficulty both these institutions have given me about this information in the past, I brought plenty of ammo: my apartment lease, a recent pay stub with the new address, and my electric bill. Guess how many of these things I needed.

If you guessed none, you’re apparently qualified to run a bank. Just to clarify, if you open an account one day, and then come back to the very same bank the very next day to open a linked account, you will need to establish your address all over again with two separate documents. But if you wait six months you can come back and transfer both of those accounts to any address you can make up, and open any new accounts at that same address.

At least my car insurance now takes my word that I don’t live in Massachusetts. I think.

Perhaps the biggest news: for those of you that don’t already know, my sister is currently spending her final collegiate semester in Romania, fulfilling her social work practicum. You can read all about her adventures, as well as drop her encouraging notes, at:

shannoninromania.blogspot.com

Right now she’s blogging circles around me. Check it out.

Bank on it

2007-08-09T11:29:00.000-04:00

I’ve been back from vacation for about a week and a half, and nothing inspires a return to the blogosphere like a trip to the bank.

On Tuesday, one of our teens came into my office. He had recently returned from a summer working at camp and needed help cashing his paycheck. He has no bank account of his own, and the way most people in this neighborhood can cash their checks is by giving up 10% to the local check cashing business (a business whose proprietors will surely spend eternity next door to the people who brought you Rent-A-Center).

I agreed to deposit his check in my account and withdraw the funds for him. When we got to the front of the line I explained our situation.

“Well, then you’ll both need to sign the back of the check…”

I signed under his name.

“…and I’ll need your friend to show me two pieces of ID.”

Two? He’s a high school student with no license. All he carries is his school ID.

“Well then all I can tell you is to go deposit the check at the ATM and withdraw the funds that way.”

So in here we need not one but two forms of ID,

“Yes.”

But ten feet away we can deposit the same check at the same bank without having to prove his ID at all.

“Well, we can’t control what you do at the ATM.”

Really? You limit the amount of funds I’m allowed to withdraw from an ATM in a day, and even count the period ranging from closing time Friday to opening time Tuesday as one day. But you can’t have an ATM policy disallowing the deposit of a check made out to a party other than the account holder? And in here you must insist on two forms of ID, why exactly?

“The woman at the service desk can show you how to make this deposit at the ATM.”

Who runs these banks?

Gone to Carolina

2007-07-12T14:29:00.001-04:00

I’m getting ready to depart for North Carolina tonight. I’ll be gone for two weeks, but the way this blog has been going of late, I doubt anyone will notice.

I’m really looking forward to getting down there. My family goes every summer, but this is the first time in the past four years that I have been able to join them.

(Likewise, this past weekend was the first time in four years that I’ve made it to Utica for our family reunion. Of all the years to make it, it was great to be there this year as my brother won our family golf tournament, getting to inscribe his name below those of the winners from the past thirty or so years).

One tradition I’m keenly looking forward to is the purchasing of our annual football preview magazine. We’ve been buying one our first day down in N.C. for as long as I can remember. There are always plenty to choose from, particularly now that fantasy football is such a huge industry. Our method for choosing which one we will buy is relatively simple – we grab whichever one predicts the highest finish for the only team that matters:

Go Giants!

2007, Happy New Year!

2007-07-05T15:40:00.000-04:00

This greeting courtesy of my friend Deanna, who last night mused that she wished the fireworks we were watching would spell that out. My sister and I gleefully snapped her out of her explosion watching stupor by reminding her what holiday we were actually celebrating. But aside from Happy Fourth of July and a misplaced Happy New Year, there is one other greeting I feel compelled to make:

Happy Birthday Radar

Yesterday was my dog’s twelfth birthday. That’s a number most dogs don’t reach, and an occasion worthy of retelling the tale of how I got a dog.

When I was eight years old, my brother and I decided that what we wanted most in all the world was a dog. We had never had a pet, but my parents seemed to agree that we were ready. That Christmas, the only thing on our wish list was a puppy. My mom had decided we would get a cocker spaniel, since they were small and a favorite of hers. We went to pet stores to find the right one. We told the Santa at the mall that we wanted a puppy. We told everyone that we wanted a puppy.

Christmas morning we came out of our room, and there was the collar and leash, right next to the food and water bowls. Then my parents told us to go into the next room. We ran in and there it was…..

A Commodore 64!!!

So we didn’t get our dog for another ten years. But that’s a tale for another time. I’m off to play Zaxxon.

,8,1

Order in the court

2007-06-22T12:35:00.000-04:00

The other day I had my first experience with the Family Court system. While I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of the case in this forum, I wanted to share a little of my day.

8:50 – I arrive at the courthouse for my nine o’clock appointment. As I enter the screening area and prepare to go through the metal detector, I give them the name of the young person whose case I am there for. They have no record of any such case. Oh.

8:55 – I go outside and unsuccessfully try to contact the family.

9:00 – I reenter the building and am told I can go check with Records.

9:02 – “Well, I don’t have any record of it here, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be happening today.”

Oh. So the term “records” is only meant to be understood rather loosely here.

“You can go downstairs and someone in B4 should be able to help you.”

9:05 – I find the door to B4 closed and locked, and after knocking, unanswered. I sit down in a chair outside the door.

9:07 – I ask a man passing by if someone is coming.

“Oh yes, they should be here very soon. They usually get in sometime between 9 and 10.”

That’s right - they usually get in sometime between 9 and 10. So, like any minute now. Thanks for narrowing that down.

9:20 – I decide I’m not waiting for any longer undetermined amount of time for someone who may or may not have any idea what’s going on. Especially since it’s 20 minutes past when I was supposed to be wherever I am supposed to be. I head upstairs to look around in the front area for any sign of the people I’m supposed to meet. Nothing. I consider leaving, having seemingly exhausted my options. The woman behind the records counter sees me.

“They’re waiting for you on the upper level.”

Oh. Thanks for letting me know. Exactly how long were you going to let me sit downstairs?

“The case should be called momentarily.”

Momentarily? I hurry up the stairs.

12:30 – Well, I guess it depends on your definition of momentarily.

Happy Father's Day

2007-06-18T10:06:00.000-04:00

Yes, I noticed it's now father's day. I even remembered to call, which considering I forgot on his birthday was pivotal to letting dad know I still love him and hadn't just forgotten about him.

Anyway, after taking a month off for a variety of reasons including my brother's wedding, a busy work schedule, and downright laziness, it's time to resume. These last two greetings will serve as bookends to a period of time that, for the purposes of this blog, never existed, except in flashback mode.

Happy Mother's Day!

2007-05-13T19:31:00.000-04:00

To all the mothers, but especially to the one who took on the task of raising me. I love you Mom.

I can't believe I ate the whole thing

2007-05-09T21:59:00.000-04:00

I don’t often overeat anymore. But tonight I just couldn’t help myself. We were celebrating Capt Steve’s birthday, and we ate out at the Southern Smokehouse, an all you can eat buffet with great variety and quality. It’s the kind of restaurant that once seemed created just for me, and on nights like tonight can still carry me back to that time. Here’s what I had to eat:

Strip Steak
Ribs
Fried Chicken
Barbecue Chicken
Salmon
Shrimp
Hot wings
Macaroni and cheese
Rice
Pierogis
Green beans
Collard greens
Broccoli
Black eyed peas
Yams
Plantains
Fried Okra
Mushrooms

And that’s before dessert. I haven’t been this full in a long time. Happy Birthday Steve.

It finally happened

2007-05-02T19:30:00.000-04:00

It had to eventually.

I got dunked on. Hard. We’re talking posterized. And I never even saw it coming.

I was guarding him on the perimeter and he dribbled by to his right. I closed out as he smoothly took his steps and effortlessly elevated, like Clyde the glide, and he just kept going up, and up, and up, and what I once assumed might be a reasonably difficult lay-up turned into a powerful jam, right on me.

And you know what? It wasn’t that bad. I almost wish I could buy that poster.

Proverbs 16:31

2007-05-01T21:58:00.000-04:00

This afternoon I went out to play some basketball. The park where I normally play was deserted except for three young kids, ranging from 6-11. Wanting a more serious game, I almost turned and went to the park a block away. But since I try to go to this park regularly to develop relationships, I stopped in to shoot around for awhile. The kids were all kids I knew, and they challenged me to a game of knockout. I never say no to a game of knockout.

Once they got tired I headed over to the other park, and eventually ended up in a game of everyman (21). The players here were older and much better, although still apparently unaccustomed to someone actually playing defense. There was no one here I had played with before, leading to the following exchange:

“From across the park, I thought you were fifteen.”

Really?

“Yeah, but then I got closer and you look like you’re fifty. How old are you anyway?”

I’m twenty eight.

“Whoa, twenty eight!”

I have no idea how to take this. I can’t quite grasp if they were amazed that I was that old and out on the court with younger guys, or that I was that young despite my celebrated gray hair. I don’t really look like I’m fifteen or fifty (again, despite the gray hair).

One hand in my pocket

2007-04-26T22:44:00.000-04:00

A while back when my grandfather passed away, I inherited several pair of his pants. To the untrained eye, this may not immediately seem like the greatest inheritance. I was certainly grateful; it was a piece of him to take with me and had real practical value. But even I didn’t realize the true value of these pants – until today.

This morning I slipped on a pair of uniform pants. They felt as if they were brand new. I reached my hand into the pocket, and sure enough, there was the inspector slip. I pulled it out to check it and couldn’t believe my eyes:

Inspector No. 1

Read it and weep, baby! Number one! I didn’t think any pants inspected by the original had been preserved. And these things are in mint condition. I just hope I haven’t damaged their value by wearing them today. I didn’t get anything on them or anything. I need to go home and seal them in one of those vacuum storage bags. Someday, my grandson will thank me.

Emergency! Disaster!

2007-04-22T21:15:00.000-04:00

Here’s a rundown of my schedule the past three days:

6:30 AM– Get up to brew a cambro full of coffee (first time I’ve ever made coffee, but was told several times – unsolicited – that it was good. I hope so) and load our EDS canteen.

8:00 AM– Depart on a traffic filled journey to Jersey.

9:30 AM– Arrive in Bound Brook, NJ, a town that was badly flooded during a recent storm. Jersey EDS called GNY for extra help on this one, so we got called into duty Thursday and Friday, and eventually Saturday as well.

9:31 AM-7:30 PM – Serve sandwiches, snacks, the aforementioned coffee, water and Gatorade to policemen, firefighters, and utility workers trying to clean up the area and restore electricity. The residents had evacuated, but by Friday and Saturday they were back in force to clean out their homes and businesses.

8:00 PM – Depart for home.

9:00 PM – Arrive back at the corps, unload, clean up

10:00 PM – Get some rest and get ready to do it again.

When I got the call Wednesday night, I was not looking forward to taking care of all this. For one, I was already tired. For another, I needed to find someone to go with me, and all the usual suspects were away or otherwise unavailable.

But then John, one of our soldiers, called me late Wednesday night and told me he’d gotten the two days off from work and could come with me. We went and were blessed by the opportunity to serve and by the fellowship we shared together. Despite being physically tired we both readily accepted the opportunity to return yesterday, and although John had to back out because of a family commitment, I thank God for the chance to be used to serve others.

But I’m definitely sleeping in tomorrow.

Vision

2007-04-19T22:30:00.000-04:00

There are times when I cannot help but acknowledge the providence of God. Times when I feel very, very small, and inadequate, because of my shortsightedness. Times when I’m just thankful He’s got a plan, and He factors me in.

Mail time – repeat offenders

2007-04-14T16:01:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I got a letter in the mail from my car insurance company. Since I’ve already received my insurance cards, and my coverage is paid in full through September, I really can’t think of any good reason to get correspondence from them. Sure enough, it was bad news. Worse yet, it was bad news I’ve already addressed.

A while back I mentioned that I tried to apply for car insurance online but was turned down due to the company’s inability to “confirm the garaging location” (proof of address). For some reason, they thought I still lived in Massachusetts, where I haven’t lived for nearly six years. At the time, the list of items acceptable as proof was too narrow for my purposes. So I had to go and actually apply with a broker, who accepted my pay stub as proof and actually managed to save me even more money.

As I opened the letter yesterday, I was less than thrilled to see a request to “confirm the garaging location,” within the week or risk premium increase or cancellation of my policy. Interestingly, this list of proof items was broader, and included pay stubs 60 days old or less. Not only does the broker have a copy of my pay stub on file that was less than 60 days old at the time of the policy issue, it’s still less than 60 days old now. So what’s the problem?

(Side note: would not the fact that I received the very letter in question at that address suggest that is indeed where I live?)

“Hello, insurance.”

Blah, blah, blah, garaging location.

“Did you provide us with proof of address.”

There’s a pay stub on file.

“Okay, yes. We sent this to them. I don’t understand, this is your address.”

Yes, yes it is. I don’t understand either.

“Well, it says here they think the vehicle is in Massachusetts. That’s what the credit check showed.”

Uh huh.

Here’s the thing. I’m dying to know what incompetent credit check company thinks I live in Massachusetts. Apparently their profile shows a 28 year old man who has spent the past six years paying no bills, maintaining no bank accounts, accruing no debt, having no employment, having no license in the state, and this is most important, having no legally registered motor vehicle.

Because there is literally nothing that tethers me to the address they have listed. My parents haven't lived there in six years either. The car I’m trying to insure, to my knowledge, has only ever been registered at three addresses, all of them in New York.

They re-sent the pay stub. This better be the last I hear of this. Next step is a dinner party at my house, and I just don’t have the space for that sort of thing.

Delayed gratification

2007-04-12T12:54:00.000-04:00

Last night I was able to check another item off of my list of athletic achievements to accomplish before I die. Actually, no such list exists, but if one did, this would most certainly be on it: played pickup basketball with a Harlem Globetrotter.

The game in question didn’t occur last night, and the Globetrotter in question wasn’t actually a Globetrotter at the time of the game. But last night it was brought to my attention that a guy I once played pickup ball with in college went on to become a Harlem Globetrotter in 2003.

If you know anything about Houghton basketball, you know the extreme unlikelihood that anyone associated with it would go on to achieve such lofty heights. I attended every home game I could during my four years and witnessed exactly one victory.

I still remember playing that pickup game. I remember being very excited about the prospect of watching this guy play for the Highlanders. He was easily the best ball handler I’ve ever seen, pulling moves I never even thought physically possible, much less legal. He could often be seen running around the track, honing his craft by dribbling two tennis balls between his legs with each alternating step. Unfortunately, I think he got injured, because I never once saw him play for the team.

But today we salute Seth Franco, the pride of Houghton basketball.

Mail Time – Special Edition

2007-04-11T20:12:00.000-04:00

It was a big day for the Jones mailbox – a wedding invitation and a birth announcement. Neither of the items were a surprise; I’m the best man in the wedding and I regularly read the blog of the new father. But it’s still the kind of mail day that gets me thinking (especially when compared to the usual contents of my mailbox: nothing).

First off, this is the fifth time I’ve been privileged to be in a wedding party, and I’m always amused when I get the mailed invite to these weddings. I know it’s mostly a formality at that point, but should I RSVP? I think they already know I’m coming.

(Important note: in my case, this question is largely hypothetical, since I don’t think I’ve ever RSVPed. I realize this is rather problematic, but I just can’t help myself. I figure it’s okay if I’m not going, and if I am, I make sure they know some other way. Anyway, if you’re planning to invite me to your wedding, at the very least you may want to save yourself the extra enclosed stamp. Just a heads up.)

Of course, of far greater significance is that the groom in question just so happens to be my brother. That’s right: in a month and a half, my kid brother will be a married man. Again, this wasn’t exactly news, but there’s just something about holding it in your hands, in black and white, that really hammers it home.

As for the birth, recently old friend Aaron Guest became a proud papa to his first, a son Isaac. The lovely announcement reminded me just how weird it is every time a guy you grew up with suddenly qualifies as daddy.

So congratulations all around, maybe a little early, maybe a little late, but days like today I lose all sense of time.

Catching up

2007-04-08T20:17:00.000-04:00

My blog was dormant all last week while my brother was in town with three Houghton students for a mission trip here in Staten Island. I'll try to post some happenings from their stay soon. But first...

During kettle season I derived a great deal of entertainment from watching commuters sprint across the ferry terminal trying to catch the boat. A week ago Friday, I understood their desperation for the first time.

That night our entire corps was joining corps from across the division at Madison Square Garden for the Greatest Show on Earth. I love the circus and was looking forward to going. The only problem: that was the very night my brother was to arrive with the students. I wanted to be here to meet them.

Luckily they were scheduled to get in late enough that I could go to the show and only have to leave a little early to get back in time. When it got to be about 9:40, I decided I should probably leave and try to catch the 10 o’clock ferry. I slipped out of my section and headed for the nearest escalator. The only problem: both escalators connecting my floor to the one below were running up. I quickly headed to the next escalator section: One running up, one turned off.

I ran down the one that was off only to be greeted by two upward running escalators the next floor down. I quickly sought help. The first usher mumbled something about elevator D. While in search of the perhaps mythical elevator, I encountered another usher who wondered why I would want to leave before the show was over. Apparently you need a note from your mom to leave the circus early. I offered the most succinct explanation I could and was directed to a nearby staircase.

The staircase eventually led me to an exit on a different side of the Garden from the one I entered, and I had no idea where the subway was. I glance at my watch: 9:45. I ran two blocks and started to give up hope of catching the boat. Then I looked to my right and saw the station. I ran inside just as the express train arrived.

Riding the express I kept checking my watch. I knew it would be close. We pulled up to the stop where I needed to transfer to the local at 9:55. Less than a minute later the train arrived. As we pulled up to South Ferry station, it was 10:00 on the dot. Everyone shifted towards the doors in anticipation.

The doors opened and pandemonium ensued. We bottlenecked to the bottom of the first staircase where one obese gentleman was moving as fast as he could, clearly stood no chance of catching the boat, but was nonetheless blocking half the staircase. I swerved around him and hit the main floor running. I bounced through the turnstile and headed for the stairs up to the ferry. Everyone was sprinting, but some were running out of gas. I flew up the stairs behind an erratic gentleman a half step slower, trying to keep my pace and balance.

As we approached the counters, this same gent swerved back and forth, unable to pick a path as I tried to navigate behind him. Still going full force, I saw that one door had already closed, and the other was two thirds there. Halfway across the terminal, I saw the giant digital clock tick to 10:01. The DOT doorman looked at us and shrugged.

DON’T CLOSE THE DOOR!
DON’T CLOSE THE DOOR!!
DON’T CLOSE THE DOOR!!!

Made it.

Come on down

2007-03-29T13:02:00.000-04:00

I was enjoying a rare lunch at home this morning and fulfilling my duty as an American to watch The Price is Right. There was the typical commercial lineup: Liberty Medical (free diabetes testing supplies!), Colonial Penn (who would have thought I’d be able to get affordable life insurance at my age?), and of course, the Scooter Store (I never expected them to be so nice).

In the middle of all of this came an ad for a product I had not yet seen: Pringles Minis. Apparently Pringles has jumped onto the bandwagon of companies shrinking their products and passing them off as new and exciting. Nothing earth-shattering there.

Except…

They come in a bag. Pringles. In a bag. Their entire marketing history is based on the can. It’s what sets them apart. “Once you pop, you can’t stop!” Over and over, they’ve championed the superiority of the can. The lid locks in freshness. The cylinder protects the chips from crumbling. And of course, once you get halfway down, your hand is too fat to get the chips out anymore.

Without the can, what’s the point?

Round 2

2007-03-23T15:30:00.000-04:00

Months ago I wrote about a man who called me, among other things, a hypocrite. I’ve seen him around occasionally, although not regularly, in the time since. Each time I’ve tried to be friendly, just as I am with everyone, but especially with him. I would smile and offer a greeting, but inwardly I would brace just a little bit, not because my love wasn’t genuine, but because I wanted to be prepared lest a situation arise that would make it harder to show.

There has been no incident since that time, but also no indication that he feels any different. Today he approached me. I braced. And then…

He apologized.

And he shook my hand.

And we talked.

Not that I meant it yesterday, but I am most definitely not in the wrong business.

I warned you

2007-03-22T21:12:00.000-04:00

Don’t say I didn’t.

First we had Deal or No Deal, awarding hundreds of thousands of dollars on the basis of dumb luck, removing any possibility of strategic game-play by seeking out contestants with “personality.”

Now we have Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader. I’ll be honest: I haven’t really watched much of this show. I figure if you need this show to answer that question, it’s probably a no. But tonight I flipped over during a commercial from the Tourney, and witnessed what I hope will be looked back upon as rock bottom. A woman was awarded $100,000 for knowing – actually, that’s putting it too strongly – for correctly guessing that the word “yak” has three letters.

I’m in the wrong business.

Bweinh.com

2007-03-21T11:59:00.000-04:00

I realize I’ve been neglecting this blog a bit. My posts are shorter and less frequent. I’m still trying to keep up with it, but the fact is I’m now writing a lot more for Bweinh.com. Incidentally, if you haven’t checked it out yet, or if you’re like my uncle and only checked the first day when there wasn’t much up yet, you should go. I’m specifically mentioning this on a Wednesday, because that’s the day we have our Bible Discussion, which is perhaps my favorite part of Bweinh.com. I also write a regular article every Friday. But there’s new content up every day. There’s even a wave file that demonstrates how to pronounce “bweinh.” So there’s really no excuse not to go.

Overheard in Penn Station

2007-03-19T13:36:00.000-04:00

“I beat up Jon Bon Jovi’s little brother.”

I was bringing my sister to the catch her train back home after her week’s visit. We were sitting on the floor playing gin rummy and watching the departure board update. The claimant was following a too attractive for him female through the station.

It was difficult to tell for sure if he was accompanying her or merely trying to. If it was a pick-up line, it didn’t seem to land cleanly, since she turned around and walked the other way. He followed her back past us.

“It’s pretty much my claim to fame.”

Congratulations, sir!

Weather man

2007-03-18T21:13:00.000-04:00

This past week the weather was so beautiful I boldly declared it spring. I deflected any suggestion that cold weather could return and unilaterally decreed that warmth would reign unabated.

It seemed real: a week straight of pure sunshine and 60+ temperatures. Wednesday, the warmest day of the year saw my return (and that of junior Nowitzki) to the local basketball court. I was wearing shorts!

So Thursday night I proudly made my proclamation. Of course, Friday ice was falling from the sky and yesterday I helped shovel the corps out from the most snow we’ve seen all year.

Welcome to Spring!

(e)Mail time

2007-03-13T14:09:00.000-04:00

I recently went online to purchase car insurance from Progressive. Geico was getting to be so expensive, only a caveman would pay for it. Yesterday in my inbox I received notice that while Progressive would love to insure me, they were “unable to confirm the garaging location provided on the application.” Basically, they needed proof of address.

Today I called the 1-800 number provided and was informed of the very narrow list of items this office could accept as proof. Not included on the list: pay stubs, cell phone bills, bank statements. I’ve had enough trouble proving my address even when these things were acceptable. Also not on the list: car registration, which would seem to be the one document that would matter, since this car is what I’m trying to insure.

Further prodding revealed that the address their background check provided was in Dartmouth, MA. This seemed entirely reasonable, since it’s only been almost six years since I lived there and I’m only living in my fourth home since that time. I won’t even begin to list all the bills I’ve paid and organizations I’ve registered with at these various other addresses during that time.

The good news is that I am now insured. I had to drive across town to a real person who would accept a pay stub and repeat the entire application process, but it actually saved me an additional $10. I don’t like to be troubled like this, but I’m a generous fellow, so I’ll just call us even.

An excellent waste of time

2007-03-11T15:02:00.001-04:00

I’m tired. And not just because of springing forward. I’m tired because last night Shannon and I got entranced with a video game and lost track of time.

For those of you who don’t know my sister, this is not exactly a common occurrence. By my figuring, the last video game she willingly spent a significant amount of her free time playing was Donkey Kong Country, which came out roughly ten years and three systems ago.

But there is a game that combines two of our great loves, indeed, two of the great entertainment forces known to man:

Lego Star Wars!

Since part two of this particular game just recently came out, it was of course time for me to go purchase the original at a much more affordable price. And it has not disappointed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for some sibling bonding.

Pardon me Roy

2007-03-10T12:22:00.000-05:00

Last night my sister arrived at Penn Station. She’s here to visit me for the next week during her spring break. I met her at the station to guide her safely back to Staten Island, but first we stopped at the in-station Roy Rogers so she could get some supper.

“Do you think I can ask for no ice?”

I assured Shannon that I had full confidence in her abilities to make a request for ice to be omitted from her drink.

“I’ll have a #4, with fries, and a pepsi, no ice.”

“Pepsi, no ice,” repeated Roy’s representative.

I reached out to mockingly pat her on the back, even as the man scooped ice into her cup.

Yes you can

2007-03-07T16:59:00.000-05:00

One day Capt Steve’s almost three year old son was hanging out in the drop-in center, before it was time for the teens to arrive, watching Noggin (for those like me with no children and thus no reason to know any better, Noggin is a TV channel with children’s programming). One of our teens showed up early and was rather enthralled with the show “Lazy Town.” I’m sure his enjoyment was meant to be rather sarcastic or ironic, but he’s been showing up early to watch the show everyday since.

Today after the show was over the weird yellow moose that comes on between programs with songs and lessons was at it again. His song really caught our attention. And so, in the grand blogging trendition of posting lyrics to songs one finds enjoyable or profound, here’s a brief window into the soundtrack of my life:

Days are the sunniest
Jokes are the funniest
Rabbits are the bunny-est
Hives are the honey-est
Elephants the ton–iest
Troubles, they’re the none–iest
Everywhere I go

Straws are the bendy-est
Time is the spend-iest
Cards are the send-iest
Books are the lend-iest
Fun’s the pretend-iest
Friends are the friend-iest
Everywhere I go

Berries are the fruitiest
Shoes are the boot-iest
Puppies are the cute-iest
Treasure is the loot-iest
Teams are the root-iest
Horns are the toot-iest
Everywhere I go

Birds are the tweet-iest
Candy is the sweet-iest
Socks are the feet-iest
Tricks are the treat-iest
Drums are the beat-iest
Lunch is the eat-iest
Everywhere I go

Flowers are the smelliest
Jams are the jelly-est
Rain’s the umbrelliest
Tales are the tell-iest
Wishing is the well-iest
Buttons are the belly-est
Everywhere I go

Skies are the blue-iest
Cows are the moo-iest
Gum is the chewiest
Ghosts are the boo-iest
Goop is the goo-iest
You can be your you-iest
Everywhere I go

These words may have wreaked havoc on my spell checker, but I think they pretty much say it all.

Coffee makers

2007-03-05T19:38:00.000-05:00

I don’t really know how to make coffee. I understand the basics, of course. I just don’t have any reason to acquire the necessary field experience to work out the details.

This became an issue for the first time ever today when Captain Steve called me at the corps and told me to make some coffee. There was a three alarm fire on the south part of the island, and we needed to load up our emergency canteen to go provide for the firefighters.

As I stood lamely looking at the coffee maker, two of our younger teen boys eagerly offered their assistance. They assured me that they knew what they were doing. I figured they couldn’t mess things up any worse than I would, so I put them to work while I started boiling water for hot chocolate.

The boys were absolutely delighted. They gleefully got to work and kept saying things like, “This is fun! I like making coffee!”

As I watched them fill the cambro one pot at a time, I couldn’t help but wonder what the coffee would taste like (wondering was all I could do; I don’t drink coffee so a taste test would be useless). I figured I just had to trust them; I needed to have as much as I could ready by the time Capt arrived so our response time would be as swift as possible.

At one point while I was readying some things in the next room, I overheard the following exchange between the two:

“Come on. We’ve got a job to do.”

“This isn’t really a job. I mean, we don’t get paid or anything.”

“Who cares if we don’t get paid? We get to know that we’re helping people.”

So who cares if the fire was taken care of by the time we arrived, leaving us nothing to do but turn around and come back. That was still the best coffee I’ve never tasted.

They are the Duke Blue DEVILS after all

2007-03-04T21:06:00.000-05:00

Tonight I explained to Captain Steve that missing the second half of the Duke-UNC game to lead the evening praise meeting proved how much I love Jesus. I told him I expect rewards in heaven for my sacrifice.

“Well, in heaven, you’ll be able to see all the games. Of course, you may already know who wins…”

Don’t be silly, Captain Steve. In heaven, the Tarheels always win.

Not quite Sunday School

2007-03-02T17:30:00.000-05:00

Captain Steve and I have recently started forming our own material for the weekly Thursday night Bible Study at our corps. We basically strive to take on passages that are obscure, uncomfortable, and bizarre, and try to glean what we can. It’s all the inspired word of God, so anything goes. Some of the themes and topics might be a bit mature, but it’s an adult Bible Study. The awkward, the hard to explain, the oft avoided, all sit in our crosshairs as we try to deal perhaps most of all with why they are in the Scriptures to begin with. So far it has really produced some lively and edifying discussion.

One of our regulars is an older woman. She is basically the grandmother of our corps. She supports the church wholeheartedly and commands universal respect. She is one of those people who can be stern and loving at the same time. She is a strong woman of faith and a prayer warrior.

Last night I was leading a study on Genesis 38. As the reader got to the passage about Onan, I tried to keep my composure even as this dear old woman just started giggling like a teenager.

I guess I understand why most people avoid this stuff.

Bweinh.com

2007-03-01T15:02:00.000-05:00

Recently a regular reader of this blog contacted me and asked me to be one of the writers for a new website. The fact that this reader was good friend and former roommate Steve Maxon in no way decreased my excitement at the offer.

So today we launch Bweinh.com. I’ll be posting individual articles about once a week, in addition to my contributions to various Bible discussions, polls, and debates (both serious and trivial) the site will feature.

Check it out. I promise you won’t be disappointed. Or I can at least state that I’m pretty sure your level of disappointment will be indiscernible from what you experience after a visit to this blog.

My only disappointment so far: we’re using our real names. Admittedly, if we weren’t I probably wouldn’t be making this announcement in this forum. And don’t get me wrong; I love my name. But I’ve always wanted to write under a pseudonym. There’s just something about it that makes one’s exploits seem more intriguing. I even have a name picked out.

Donald Igwebuike.

Is that a great name or what? Some of you may even recognize it (although I doubt it).

There's the real Donald Igwebuike. His was quite possibly my favorite football card when I was younger, almost assuredly because of the name. I certainly never watched him play, and have no idea about him at all. But what a name!

So in the future, if you ever read something witty and persuasive by Donald Igwebuike…um, well, I have no idea who could have written it.

And go visit Bweinh.com.

Tape delay

2007-02-27T12:48:00.000-05:00

I love the NBA’s annual slam dunk contest. I know some consider it outdated and boring, past the point of innovation and novelty. I don’t care; I look forward to it every year. Sure, some years offer less creativity, talent, and showmanship than others, but you still never know what these spectacular athletes will pull off. Despite the claims of some that it will never be as good as ‘Nique versus Jordan, it was just a few years ago that Vince Carter pulled off the greatest all around performance I’ve ever seen. And just last year Iguodala pulled off what might have been the most amazing dunk ever.

This year I had two problems. One, I was going to be away the Saturday the contest took place and might not be home in time to catch it. And two, I don’t have access to TNT, even if I made it home. So I asked Frannie to tape it for me. She’s one of the few people I know who still relies heavily on VHS, and she’s perhaps an even bigger NBA fan than I am, so I knew she wouldn’t miss it. Since Frannie doesn’t live near me, I just had to wait a while for the tape to arrive in the mail.

In the meantime, I was determined to avoid learning anything about what had transpired: who won, who flopped, what crazy dunks were busted out. First step, no sports internet sites. This was a bit of a sacrifice, but the beauty of the 24 hour sports news culture is that within a day or so it was all old news. Next step, no Monday sports recap shows (Horn, PTI). And finally, avoid the dreaded human element. This was a bit tricky, since I spend most afternoons with a bunch of teenage boys who thought it was hilarious to shout out the names of the contestants while acting out their dunks as I ran from the room.

By the end of the week I figured I was in the clear. The contest was ancient history in the sports world, even to my drop-in guys. Saturday, while I was hanging out with Pierre and Jackie, we went to her parents’ house. I love her dad because every time I walk in the door he has a game on. This time as I took my seat in the living room, I realized too late that the sports program he was watching was leading into a dunk contest recap. There was no escape. A week’s worth of dodging bullets and now all I could do was politely sit through ninety seconds of spoilers.

So congratulations Gerald Green, 2007 Dunk Champion. I still look forward to actually watching your victory.

Praises

2007-02-25T20:32:00.000-05:00

My friend Pierre is dating a girl who lives in Jersey City. He comes down from Framingham, Mass, every other weekend to see her and crashes at my place when he does. It’s a free place to stay and a good excuse to see an old friend.

Pierre and Jackie are Egyptian and they worship in the Coptic church. Yesterday the three of us were hanging out and last night we went to their church for a service that in English means “praises.” Once before I’ve had the opportunity to go with Pierre to a Coptic service, and it is quite an interesting experience for the English speaking protestant.

The last time I accompanied Pierre, it was during Holy week, the Tuesday before Easter. Consequently, the sanctuary was packed, and out of all the people in attendance, I may have been the only one that didn’t speak Arabic. Most of the liturgy was laid out side by side in Coptic, Arabic, and English. All in all, my biggest language barrier came from the priest who gave the lecture and would jump back and forth between Arabic and English, not always translating himself, but often in one stream of consciousness. At one point he hopped back into English and made a statement that by itself would amount to heresy; Pierre saw the look on my face and quickly explained the preceding Arabic.

This time my experience was vastly different. The Saturday evening praises are sparsely attended, mostly by young males. When we walked in (in typical Pierre fashion: late) to the nearly empty sanctuary, there were a handful of females on their side of the aisle, one man on the other, and several men standing on the platform singing and chanting. Pierre and I split from Jackie and slid between the pews a few rows back.

I tried to follow along, but again, I speak no Arabic and have forgotten most of the Coptic I picked up last time. Then I noticed one of the young men on the platform motioning in our direction. Naturally, I assumed he was signaling someone else and I focused on the screen where the words were posted. A moment later, I glanced behind me and realized there was no one there for the young man to have been signaling. Then I saw him say something to one of the others, who then walked off the platform. And right into our row. And right up to Pierre.

The next thing I know I’m kicking off my shoes and joining the others on the platform. Luckily, about half the singing was in English, so I wasn’t just standing there with my hands in my pocket the whole time. It was a bit surreal, but these experiences are always a blessing, both culturally and spiritually.

Sender Unknown

2007-02-21T10:49:00.000-05:00

I am intrigued by spam. Not the “meat”; that’s just disgusting. I mean I am intrigued by the strategies and purposes of junk email. It seems as though there are a good number of people who waste a good deal of their time accomplishing nothing more than wasting a whole bunch of other people’s time.

Some are clearly pranks, with no real end-game other than a laugh. But most spam seems designed with the hope and intent of making a buck, whether by scam or legit product. To do this they must usually get you to visit their website. To do this they must get you to click on a link within the email they send. To do this, they must get you to open the email. This is where the process usually breaks down.

So what I am most intrigued by is spam subject lines. This is a 25 character audition to convince me to open an email. I have a friend (Maxon) who literally treats it as such: he will “reward” spammers by simply opening their email if the subject line is sufficiently intriguing and creative (I, on the other hand, like to play a little game where every email I send him has a subject line that I hope will be mistaken for spam, just to see if he’s paying attention).

Many spammers try hooking me with something they’re sure I’ll want: male enhancement, ED medication, naked ladies. I’m sure someone must open those at some point, but it’s not me. So their other tried and true tactic is masquerading as the old personal email from a friend non-spam. In my case, their strategy is half-done for them: my name is the primary part of my email address. Throw in an innocuous greeting (hey, hi, what’s up) and a common sender name and you might just get me.

For some reason, most spam subject lines are still miserable failures, with misspellings and numbers in the middle of words rampant throughout. I really enjoyed one I got today. The subject started out “For Josh.” Hey, that’s me. So far, so good. The very next word: fraud. Uh huh. And then a bunch of misspelled words.

Delete forever?

I wish.

Be Mine

2007-02-15T20:49:00.000-05:00

I was single this Valentine’s Day, as I have been for 27 of the 29 Valentine’s Days I have encountered. For one of the two times this day fell during a period of time when I was romantically entangled, my significant other was out of town at a conference, relieving me of my Valentine duties. For the other, my performance as a Valentine would be self-rated as sub-par, but hey, I was a rookie.

The point is, for me, Valentine’s Day is a holiday still nearly wholly defined by childhood memories, with no significant later experiences to reprogram my view. This day still makes me think of a time when everybody loved everybody, at least according to the mass-produced cards we were required to give to everyone in the class. And while some may think these cards too vapid and repetitive to communicate anything more substantial than the givers preference of Garfield over Snoopy, I disagree. Even though the boxes came with the same six to eight cards repeated several times over, I would carefully consider which one fit each of my classmate’s personality best. So if anyone reading ever received a Valentine from me, the way Scooby was winking comes straight from the heart.

And if you’ve never gotten a Valentine from me, I’m sorry. Next time I’ll bring enough for the whole class.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Translation, please

2007-02-13T21:18:00.000-05:00

We have an Albanian ESL class that meets in our building several nights a week. I’m often hanging around in the evenings while they’re here. I’ll chat with the leaders and help them with the tricky back door and lock up for them if I’m still here when they leave.

Tonight as I walked past the room where the class was in session, I heard the instructor say,

“Insult.”

“Insult.”

A student repeated after him. As the instructor explained a bit in Albanian, I glanced at the board and saw the word written out. It struck me as a bit odd; insult doesn’t seem like one of the more commonly used words, certainly not imperative for learning the basics of a language. I took six years of Spanish, and although I’ve forgotten a fair bit of what I learned, I don’t think I ever knew the word for insult.

Then as I walked back I heard the instructor explaining a related phrase:

“Don’t make fun of me.”

And then I realized: For an immigrant with a noticeable accent, limited vocabulary and streaky grammar, trying to learn the language on the go, these are regrettably words he may need to know early and often.

Locks of love

2007-02-11T16:25:00.000-05:00

I haven’t paid for a haircut in over 5 ½ years. The last actual professional haircut I received was in June of 2001, just before Steve Carroll’s wedding. I was actually taking a Nazirite vow for the summer, but started it off clean since I was standing in the wedding. Over these past five plus years, there have been three different occasions where I have simply let my hair grow for ten to eleven months at a time. The rest of the time I’ve had various amateurs take clippers and just buzz it down.

Why? Well, it’s not just to save a dime, although even a conservative estimate would put my savings at hundreds of dollars by this time. There’s also the matter of comfort: I moved away from my barber of several years (the Clipper Ship) right about that time, and haven’t been able to motivate myself to hunt for a suitable replacement. And one should never overlook the entertainment value of an amateur haircut.

The first time was after one of my ten month hiatuses from cutting my hair. I let two of the teens from my church sculpt it into a fantastic mullet, complete with racing stripes, for one day. I’ve never felt so alive as I did walking around with that on my head. A couple years later, after another ten month grow-out, I actually made cutting my hair the teen group program for the week. It did not disappoint.

Over the past year or so I’ve settled into a pattern of having my sister cut my hair. I only see her every couple months at irregular intervals, but whenever I’m going to see her is when it’s time for a haircut. It takes all the subjective thinking out of the equation: just pack the clippers whenever I’m going where she’ll be.

This past week in North Carolina was one of those times. We were at my grandmother’s house, and she is very particular about her housekeeping, so there was no way we were dropping my hair inside. Luckily it was a nice enough day, so I took off my shirt and went out into the backyard. Granny told me not to worry about the hair in the yard, since the birds used to take Granddad’s hair for their nests when she would trim his hair out there. But Granny’s yard is as immaculate as her house. And I didn’t want to get hair on myself, either. So I grabbed a garbage can and put my head over it and Shannon began cutting my hair in our usual fashion.

A couple minutes later there was a knock on the back door and I heard Granny’s muffled voice from inside,

“You don’t need that garbage can. The birds will take your hair. They like it for their nests.”

I assured her that we were alright and continued on as we were. A moment later, Shannon saw what appeared to be a white ball falling off the roof. In actuality, it had fallen from a much greater height, and wasn’t exactly a ball.

As I felt the sticky splat on my bare back, all I could do was concede: you win, birds. I’ll leave my hair for your nest.

I'm back from North Carolina

2007-02-10T17:57:00.000-05:00

This past Wednesday we laid my Grandfather to rest. It was a beautiful service. I know it’s a bit of a cliché, but it truly was. Funerals often make me uncomfortable; not so much because of the death and grieving, although it’s often a factor. I’m often more troubled by the tendency of some to laud deceased individuals they thought so little of in life, and to speak of a better place for those whose eternal destination is at best ambiguous. I understand why it happens; I’m just thankful that phoniness and embellishment were unnecessary here.

Later that afternoon we went with Granny to buy a new TV. Hers had recently broken down and she wanted family help picking it out and getting it set up. Later that night it was rather appropriately christened with a Duke/UNC game. My mom is a UNC graduate. I’ve been raised to root Carolina blue since birth. Every time UNC plays Duke I watch not just for the game, but for the comfort of knowing that somewhere my family is watching along with me.

This rivalry is considered by many to be one of the best in sports, the most hyped in college basketball. No other team brings out the emotion in these two that they bring out in each other. Every time they play, they have a thousand reasons to do everything in their power to beat the other.

Still, I choose to believe our Tarheels won this one for Granddad.

I’m a Tarheel born,
And I’m a Tarheel bred,
And when I die I’ll be a Tarheel dead.

Graham Barnes Mills, October 10, 1916 - February 4, 2007

2007-02-04T23:35:00.000-05:00

My earliest and most enduring memory of Granddaddy comes from my childhood family vacations to the beach. The whole family would wade out into the surf and do what we called “jumping waves.” Everyone had their own style for this activity. When I was very small and the waves seemed mountainous, my strategy was having my mighty Granddad toss me up over the top. I would sail through the air, always amazed at his seeming superhuman strength, always clearing the crest of the wave. When I would land on the other side, buoyed by my lifejacket, for a moment I would look around and be all alone. Then Granddad would pop up from under the passing wave, accompanied by everyone else, and we’d do it all over again.

Granddad would wake you each morning with a slice of freshly cooked bacon. He would make gallon after gallon of his homemade ice tea: equal parts tea and sugar. He would laugh time and again at his doppelganger, Matlock. He would tickle your feet whenever your guard was down. He would turn off his whistling ears and settle in for his beloved afternoon siesta. He would greet you with one of his world famous belly bumps.

He would tell you how much he loved you.

Granddaddy was patient. He was honest. He was generous. He was a man of unshakable faith. Other than my own father, there has been no one who has more defined for me how to be a man, how to love your family, how to love the Lord.

So it is with as much joy as grief that I face his passing. Granddad was ninety years old, and although it often seemed he would live forever, his time on this earth had come. My only disappointment comes from this disproving of Granddad’s oft professed belief that he was going with the uppertaker, not the undertaker. I’m not entirely convinced that Christ didn’t return sometime early this afternoon and I missed it.

Then again, the undertaker isn’t really taking him.

Godspeed, Granddad. I’ll see you on the other side.

Who is this Mr. Josh anyway

2007-02-04T17:39:00.000-05:00

This morning I glanced at the bulletin and saw words I haven’t seen in the seven months I’ve worked here:

**All children 6 years and younger can meet Mr. Josh now to go upstairs**

I had forgotten that I agreed to be added to the nursery rotation, but it was no big deal because I’m pretty much a kid magnet. I took the four of them upstairs and watched them play.

I found myself trying to reason with them, “Let’s not make too much of a mess. We’ll have to pick it all up in a few minutes, so only pull out what you’ll use,” even though I knew it would be in vain. I thought back to my own childhood, when I would intentionally and strategically begin every play session by pulling every single toy off the shelves onto the floor and then wade through my playroom grabbing whatever caught my fancy and conveniently dropping it when I was done.

I remembered the philosophical battle my parents would wage each evening: teach my brother and me responsibility and accountability by making us pick everything up ourselves, or help us so we’d actually finish sometime that week. This usually didn’t turn out in their favor.

Knowing all this, when I heard the closing song playing downstairs I sprang into action. I used the old, “who can pick up the most toys the fastest” clean-up game. It worked to near perfection, with three of the four flying around the room picking up toys, while the fourth stood mesmerized saying, “that’s not a game.”

Luckily the rest were undeterred. Based on the information below, can you guess which child didn’t buy into my game:

A) a 2 year old boy, the pastor’s son
B) a 3 year old boy, sporadic attendance
C) a 4 year old girl, regular attendance
D) a 5 year old boy, the older brother of “C”

Busted

2007-02-02T13:57:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I went back to Commerce with another chunk of change. A couple more weeks of this and we’re home free. As I approached the machine I felt someone come up behind me.

“Excuse me sir, are you familiar with how to operate our Penny Arcade?”

Yeah, I’m all set, so…

“Oh, I’m not sure we can take this money with all that debris.”

Um, well…

“Did this money come from a fountain?”

(Bingo)

“Let me just check. No we can’t accept this.”

Well, we’ve done it before. We just kind of sift through. It works okay…

“Eventually this could cause damage to our machines.”

(That's more or less why we're looking for someone else's machine to count it)

“You’ll have to hose it off, or something. My apologies.”

Thanks.

Back to the drawing board. Or a Commerce Bank location finder.

Lost and found

2007-01-31T16:14:00.000-05:00

“You wanna go for a ride?”

Capt Steve was psyched to show me the next and (hopefully) final strategy for getting rid of all our dirty money. It turns out Commerce Bank has machines called Penny Arcades. They are like Coinstar only they don’t charge a percentage and they actually work (so I guess they’re nothing like Coinstar). Steve’s been bringing a little bit each day and assured me we could get through $100 in about 10 minutes. Sounds good to me.

When we first got there one of the two machines was occupied, so Steve showed me how to operate the available machine with his half of the money while I waited for the other one to open up. Eventually, the three teenage girls finished up with their buckets and were on their way.

I approached the machine and dumped in some of my coin. I pressed the GO button. And I heard nothing.

The machine asked me if I had more to count. I said yes. I dumped in a little more. And I heard nothing.

The machine again asked me if I had more to count. I said yes. I peered down the coin chute. And I heard nothing.

This time when the machine asked if I had more to count, I said no and asked for my receipt. The machine informed me that I hadn’t put any money in.

Great.

I prodded around a bit and discovered that the chute was removable. Beneath it sat all my money, still not having entered the counter mechanism. Strangely, I also noticed a high density of quarters, whereas our change has had a penny/ quarter ratio of about 100/1. Anyway, the machine was full or jammed, so I went for help.

While the teller was emptying the bags under the machine, Capt had counted all of his half and the rest of mine, all totaling about $80. When the teller had fixed the machine, it very quickly flew through the waiting coin; all $174.

Um, what?

We’re pretty sure most of that money belonged to the girls who used the machine before us. Since the machine doesn’t give you a running total, they probably didn’t notice that it stopped with money still to count and just printed their receipt.

It’s like when you walk up to a real arcade machine and find it already has a credit waiting to be played. Only multiplied by 696 and instead of excitement you just feel rotten.

There was nothing we could do. The girls were long gone, with no way of knowing they had been shortchanged and thus no reason to return. The process is completely anonymous: no account number to use the machine or any other way to track them. And we weren’t about to let the bank have a bonus.

At least the money is going to charity.

Expect something extra

2007-01-29T16:01:00.000-05:00

Today I went down to CVS to drop off three rolls of film to be developed (yes, I am a bit tardy joining the digital age). Quite frankly, I have no idea what is on them, other than most recently pictures from Bermuda last May. Everything before that will be a surprise.

This happens to me a lot. For one thing, I take pictures so infrequently that one roll can span a period of over a year. For another, I’m the kind of procrastinator that often forgets or puts off getting rolls developed. This particular case was exacerbated by several months of unemployment when photos were not high enough on the list of priorities to crack the wallet.

As I was standing at the counter filling out a separate envelope for each roll, the photo woman waited on two or three customers, each time asking,

“Do you have a CVS card?”

Something you should know about me: I hate store savings cards. I hate that I have to remember to bring my card each time I go to qualify for $0.20 in savings. I hate searching for bargains and realizing the posted sale prices won’t apply to me, the lowly cardless. Most of all, I hate a policy that was created to increase store loyalty while simultaneously inconveniencing customers that is then presented as a benefit to those same customers.

How exactly is it beneficial to me to qualify for savings only if I have my card? How is this more practical for me than receiving the posted savings simply by shopping there?

I realize this is all a bit over the top. It is, after all a mild inconvenience: a brief form and then yet another card to carry in your wallet. But it’s the principle of the thing. For this reason, I generally strike back by patronizing stores that don’t have such policies. When I lived in Wellsville, I used to love Giant Food Mart, the chief competition of Topps, one of the early forerunners of this insidious trend. Giant used to have their registers tally your sales price savings and instruct their cashiers to say, “your cardless savings today is $X.” I loved that.

I had already submitted two of my rolls by the time I realized the battle of principle versus practicality I would have to wage: avoid paperwork, keep my wallet clutter free and fight the power, or potentially save some money on my photos.

My new card promises me that “ExtraCare pays you back.” I hope they realize I’m going to hold them to it.

While you were out

2007-01-26T15:28:00.000-05:00

Our drop in center is just about completed. The murals are pretty much done, and all the new equipment has been purchased and installed. We’ll be reopening shortly, and hopefully we’ll be more effective than ever reaching the teens in our neighborhood.

One of the last items to be brought in was a replacement couch. Yesterday we went down to the ARC to pick one out. I’m a substance over style kind of guy, so my priorities in picking the couch went something like this:

1. Maximum seating
2. Minimal excess bulk
3. Ability to take a beating
4. Reasonable comfort
.
.
.
57. Aesthetically pleasing

Most of the couches were just too fancy for this venue. Many were either too bulky or offered too little seating. Then I saw one that was just right.

Seating for an uncommon four, efficiently sized, pleasant to sit on, and nothing we’d be scared to ruin. I’m just thankful there weren’t any women with us, or we never would have been allowed to get it out the door.

Penny for your thoughts on how to fix this mess

2007-01-25T16:58:00.000-05:00

I may have hinted at this before, but it bears reiterating: hundreds of dollars in filthy change (90% pennies) is a logistical nightmare (a quick side note to all you turkeys who like to throw non-monetary debris – beads, paperclips, gum – into the fountain: I’m coming for you). Yesterday we set out to make it go away.

First Capt Steve decided to try and bathe it all in a large garbage can and then spread it all out on towels to dry. It became apparent after about half a bucket that this would be far too time and space consuming to be effective. We didn’t want to risk counting the money in our machine in its filthy state, to say nothing of our worries of drawing the ire of the bank during deposit. Then we had an idea:

Coinstar!

Sure, they take a percentage but it would be worth it to transfer our problems to them. We loaded our buckets into the van (again) and set out for the nearest machine. When we got their, the genius of our idea began to fade.

For one thing, the machine counts money very slowly. The opening for the coins is very small. Its mechanism is self-described as “very sensitive.” It jams up frequently. After about an hour and $70 we had required store assistance twice and a line was forming behind us.

Still determined to make this work, we found another machine. Same problems. We got through another $30 before the machine’s temperamental nature sent us on our way again.

We’ll have to rethink our strategy, but I’ve got a beef with Coinstar. Okay, maybe you’re not intending to accommodate fourteen gallons of change, but we couldn’t even get through twenty bucks in a timely fashion without complications. And if not for fairly sizable amounts of money, what purpose do you serve. I certainly don’t need to pay you 8%, or whatever you take, to help me turn $5 in change back into bills. There are hundreds of other ways I could get rid of that small an amount on my own.

I could roll it and bring it to the bank. I could use it in vending machines. I could keep a bit in my pocket to pay the change portion of my bill at the store. I could keep it in the car for tolls.

I could throw it in the fountain at the mall.

Money laundering

2007-01-22T19:50:00.000-05:00

Today Capt Steve, Aaron and I ran around town shopping for new furniture and equipment for the remodeled drop-in center. During the course of our errands we stopped by the mall to pick up a donation.

This was no ordinary donation. Local mall management had promised us all the money thrown into the fountain during the months of November and December (in part to help offset the loss caused by their corporate office refusing to let us stand kettles). They support a number of different charities with this money from month to month. But they don’t deposit the money and write a check. They keep all the change in four-gallon buckets in a closet until you come pick it up.

In case you’re wondering, a four gallon bucket most of the way full of loose change weighs about a million pounds. We picked up four. When we made our next stop we felt perfectly comfortable leaving what should amount to a couple thousand dollars just sitting in the van. We actually kind of hoped someone would try to steal it, just so we could emerge twenty minutes later and still watch them trying to waddle their escape.

Loose change pulled from a fountain is also filthy. I know money in general is very unsanitary, but this was the grungiest money I’ve ever seen, still wet and caked in grime. Better yet, when we got back to the corps, Capt Steve opened the van door and out fell two buckets. Several hundred dollars in change strewn about the ground looks a good deal less impressive than you might think. It’s actually quite depressing.

By the time we had swept and shoveled the money up it was certainly no less filthy than before. And now we have to count it. And carry it to the bank.

The next time I throw money in a fountain I know what I’m wishing.

Let it snow

2007-01-19T14:38:00.000-05:00

Yesterday afternoon I saw my first Staten Island snowfall. It was rather modest really, but still put a hop in my step.

I’ve always loved snow. A good snowfall is unique in that it simultaneously carries the promise of more play and less work. If you don’t like playing in the snow, I feel for you. Sledding, skiing, snowboarding, snowball fights, snowman building, snow angels, snow football, snow forts; the possibilities are endless. And all the worries that would preclude such activities vanish with two little words: snow day.

There’s nothing quite like staring out a window as the flakes fly, rooting for them to mount. I remember school nights watching before bed, hoping that I could trust them to continue their work while I slept. I remember school days staring out classroom windows in unison, praying for the announcement that the day was truncated. And of course, I remember feeling the same way about work just last winter.

This long overdue snow didn’t amount to two snowball’s worth. But it was still worth those five minutes staring out the window.

The impossible dream

2007-01-18T16:22:00.000-05:00

It’s certainly nothing new to say that people in our society take great pleasure from watching the misfortunes of others, particularly those that qualify as hilarious or embarrassing (if this is not redundant). So it is no surprise that every season of American Idol begins with several episodes highlighting painfully untalented "singers" trying to impress the judges.

It’s also no revelation to say that people in our society esteem the famous; we idolize them. So I suppose it should also be no surprise that the producers of this show are able to find so many who are willing (if not able) to put themselves on the line for their shot – however long – at glory.

And yet I can’t help but wonder: where do they find these people? And how can they possibly believe that they have a legitimate shot at a record deal? Some of them are incredibly bad.

Some will posit that these folks know they aren’t up to snuff and are merely looking for their fifteen minutes, content to live with William Hung inspired infamy. And for some, I buy it. But for most I listen to their pleas, and I look into their eyes.

They believe.

There’s one thing in particular that strikes me about all this. When asked why they should be the next American Idol, the most common reply of the hopeless is, “because I’m different.” Not, “because I’m incredibly talented musically and have the kind of beautiful voice that would inspire millions to pay to listen to it.”

“Because I’m different.”
(This reminds me of one of my favorite one-liners: Always remember that you are special and unique, just like everyone else.)

So here it is: I’m not looking to tear you down. You do have great worth as an individual. I’m not being insincere when I say that God loves you for you and so do I. But it’s going to take more than that to convince people to shell out fifteen bucks for a recording of your voice to play over and over again while they drive around. You’d have to be really good at singing (to say nothing of being very lucky to catch your break). And you’re not. There’s no shame in that. Be you.

Go ahead and believe you can fly if you want. Just don’t go jumping off any buildings.

I paid my rent today

2007-01-16T18:02:00.000-05:00

I got a call on Sunday from my landlord’s wife looking for the rent. I explained that I couldn’t give it to her on the spot because the bank was closed and $X was the most I could take out from an ATM in a day. For this reason I would need to know a day in advance (only because I was paying two months’ rent, since X is an amount greater than one month's rent but less than two) so I could take out half that day and half the next. She agreed to come today to get the rent.

Sunday I withdrew half the money. I went back on Monday for the rest and was informed by the machine that this would put me over my limit. Hmm. Having withdrawn nothing yet that day, how could I have gone over my daily limit? Do holidays not count? Is not the point of an ATM that it is available when the human tellers are not?

I went back this morning and was again informed by the machine that I was attempting to surpass my daily withdrawal limit. I went inside to investigate, and the woman informed me that days when the bank is closed (weekends, holidays, any combination thereof) count as one day for ATM purposes. The best part was the rationale she offered: this is to protect me so that in the event someone steals my card they won’t get all my money before the next time the bank graces us by opening its doors.

Here’s the thing: banks are businesses. I understand that. It’s in their best interest to get as much of my money as they can and then make it as difficult as possible for me to take it back. Their entire business model is based on doing this, while simultaneously pretending they’re not. I understand all of that. Sometimes I just wish someone would say,

“Listen, I know this is less than convenient for you, but we have to remain financially viable. Measures such as this allow us to offer you the services we do while remaining profitable ourselves.”

No need to convince me you’re not self-interested, or that I’m always getting something for nothing from you. Let’s just talk turkey.

The best part of the whole ordeal was that I found out the $X (business)daily limit is $X per account. So all I had to do was withdraw half from the interest-bearing account I just set up (yield so far: $0.81) and then transfer the other half to my checking account and immediately withdraw it. All while standing at the same ATM. On the same day (business or otherwise).

I just hope the guy who steals my ATM card doesn’t think of that.

Not quite ready for primetime

2007-01-15T12:16:00.000-05:00

Yesterday afternoon I helped one of our teens film a project for school. She wanted to do a short film about a hoodlum who turns his life around. The first several scenes involved our protagonist stealing and brawling and generally acting like a ne’er do well. I suggested enlisting the help of one of our neighborhood stores for a shoplifting scene. The teens were a bit skeptical, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.

I went next door to negotiate with the Mexicans. I knew some shopkeepers would be nervous about having a camera in their store, and also might be concerned about interference with their normal business. What hadn’t occurred to me for some reason was perhaps the biggest roadblock: I was asking to bring in a couple of teenagers and “pretend” to shoplift. This was obviously a delicate situation that needed to be explained carefully. The nervous looks they gave me let me know the communication gap was too wide to bridge here.

Time to try the corner store. I explain what we want to do: purchase some small snack item in advance, put it back on the shelf, film someone pretending to shoplift it and running out, with the shopkeeper yelling at him to stop. I get the nervous look again. I’m ready to move on, but he explains,

“I don’t care if you film here. You can film here, I just don’t want to be filmed.”

Simple case of stage fright. No problem. I just recruited our cook to play the part of the shopkeeper instead. I overpay by a few dollars for the small bag of chips we'll use as a thank you for his help and we film our scene. After we were done filming the inside and outside portions, I went back inside to let the man know we were done and thank him one last time for his cooperation. It was only then that I noticed he had spent the entire time wedged in a corner standing on a stool hiding behind a sign.

Man, that guy really didn’t want to be on camera.

Those that can do

2007-01-13T11:50:00.000-05:00

In a strange and unforeseen development, I’ve been getting several requests recently to teach people how to play guitar. Stranger still, these requests come from people who actually have heard me playing the guitar. But perhaps strangest of all, I’ve gotten a request to teach someone piano.

I really enjoy playing the guitar, despite my modest abilities. I consider it a gift; not in the sense that I consider myself gifted, but rather that I feel blessed to have this outlet of expression, particularly in worship. I play to make a joyful noise. And there’s also in some ways a sense of relief at having some small return on my mother’s years of investment in music lessons, to know that it wasn’t all wasted. Because while my guitar playing is quite basic, I can’t play the piano worth a lick.

I wish I could. I love the piano, more than the guitar, more than any other instrument. To sit down and have control over all that musical potential at my fingertips would be surreal. Every now and again I’ll sit down and hack through a hymn far more slowly than anyone could ever sing it (my old piano teacher used to say I had two speeds: slow and way too slow). I tell myself that someday I’ll commit to learning this beautiful instrument.

Despite all this, I have said yes to any and all requests for lessons, including the one for piano. My disclaimers of incompetence do nothing to dull the enthusiasm of the inquiring parties. I will do my best to pass on my limited knowledge of theory and technique. And above all I will pass on the same advice every instructor has given me, the one that matters most yet is rarely heeded:

Practice.

Way, way, way over the rainbow

2007-01-11T17:56:00.000-05:00

Dark Secret
Woodhaven
Riding Hood
Regatta Bay
Hot Pepper
That 70’s Color
Fiesta Orange *

I went back to the Home Depot today (the second time in 2 weeks; that meets my quota for the next decade) to pick up some more supplies for the teen drop-in center remodeling project. Specifically we were shopping for paint for some of our teens to add their artistic touch to the walls. It was quite an educational process.

First off, there are apparently few things in this world more pretentious than the naming of paint colors (the ones named above are just some of the ones we purchased; we also could have gone with Little Linda, Obsidian Glass, Sizzle, Theatre Lights, Quiet Storm, etc). Good luck finding your basic primaries and secondaries. I blame Crayola.

And every brand has their own original and extravagant name for virtually the exact same colors and shades. Each one has displayed its samples strategically and named them poetically to convince you that they alone have somehow unlocked the true secrets and beauty of the color wheel.

But the most educational portion of our shopping experience was watching the paint get mixed. Things have changed a bit since the last time I watched Mr. Rogers buy paint. It is no longer mixed by hand and judged by eye. Now they have a computer where they type in the code for the shade you have chosen, hold your corresponding brand’s can of white paint under a spigot that shoots out a precisely measured blend of coloring, then seal the whole thing up and put it in a special paint can centrifuge. Very cool.

But it got me thinking about what’s going on under that machine counter where the special coloring for five brands of paint is housed. One theory is that there are actually 5 different compartments of red, and five different of blue, and every other color that is exactly the same as the one next to it. Of course another theory is that there is just one large vat of each color to draw from, regardless of brand. And while the base may be qualitatively different, whether you are inspired by Treehouse or Lady Luck, you still just end up with a can of green paint.

*Otherwise known as: black, brown, red, blue, green, yellow, and um, orange.

Very, very, very rewarding

2007-01-10T18:14:00.000-05:00

I have a strange landlord. Two of them actually. They are very nice guys, and they take care of any problems I have in a timely and thorough manner. They just don’t show up to collect my rent on time, and they don’t provide any way of paying other than them showing up to take it.

Right now I still haven’t paid my rent for December.

Not just January.

December.

This isn’t really a problem for me. Luckily I’m not the kind of person who loses track of his funds or spends compulsively. Once I’ve earmarked the money for rent, it’s not going anywhere until my landlords decide they actually want it.

But it’s occurred to me that I’m basically given the equivalent of an interest free loan of several hundred dollars for several weeks at a time, with the one caveat being that any day I can be called to pay the balance in full. Being a bit of a pragmatist, I’ve decided this money can work slightly harder than sitting in my sock drawer.

It can’t work too hard. It has to be completely liquid and risk-free, for obvious reasons, meaning it’s tough to get much of a return. But it can get something.

So yesterday I went down to my bank to open some kind of interest bearing account to link with my current checking account. For some reason I was completely sure this would be a hassle free experience, despite my history to the contrary. Consider: when I opened said checking account in September, they would not allow me to open it at my current address because I had no proof of address (until my verizon bill finally arrived, as documented in a post in November). But they would let me open an account under an address that I freely admitted was not my actual address (my old address) and then change it later. All this is supposed to prevent terrorism somehow.

The bank representative had scanned my bank card and was all set to open the new account when he noticed the date on my original account. He then explained that any additional account opened within 6 months of the original account must be verified with ID like a new account. After 6 months you’re all good for some reason, even though the information you’re giving (particularly the address) would seem to become less reliable with the passing of time.

So even though I already had an account with them, I had to prove I was okay to open an account with two forms of ID and proof of address. Items that they already had copies of on file under my already opened account.

No problem. I hand the man my license. Apparently the debit card they saw fit to issue me is not acceptable as the second ID. They’d take a pay check, but not the insurance reimbursement check I had to deposit. They’d take a phone bill, but not the rebate check from the phone company I had to deposit. Both these checks bore my name and address.

“Do you have a bank statement?”

You mean the bank statement you sent me? The one you could bring up on your screen right now by scanning that card you won’t accept? The one you keep sending me emails about trying to convince me not to receive anymore (“less paper means safer banking”)?

As a matter of fact, no. I’m at the bank. Why would I bring my bank statement to the bank?

So I ran home and got the statement (along with my phone bill just in case) and went back and opened the account. All this for 2%.

I'd better be getting extra reward points.

Back again

2007-01-10T10:21:00.000-05:00

We’ve been remodeling our teen center for the last couple weeks. This has caused me to be without internet access (and cable TV) for the last several days. (Special thanks to Steve Maxon for managing my fantasy basketball team while I was incapacitated. When we win the title, you will get a full share of the championship monies, as well as that elusive ring you've been chasing your whole career).

Saturday was a ridiculously beautiful day, so I went for a walk. During the course of this walk a truck passed me with its windows down and its radio up, and I heard, “Vinatieri makes the kick and the Colts are ahead 3 – 0.”

The playoffs! How could I have forgotten the playoffs?! I rushed home to watch. Again, I don’t have cable at home but I’ve had a $2 antenna since shortly after I moved in. One of the antennae recently snapped in half but it still gets the same two channels it always did: CBS and Fox. Otherwise known as the two channels on which most football broadcasts are televised.

No dice. I knew the game must be on NBC or ESPN. I decided it was time.

Time to call my cable provider? No way.

Time to call 1-800-directv? Not hardly.

It was time for a new antenna.

It’s a decision I’ve been considering for a while. I knew I could get more channels with a better antenna. Understand that when I moved here I was broker than broke, so a $2 antenna was quite a splurge at the time. But now I’m doing okay, so it was time to upgrade. Time to go top of the line.

Time for the RCA ANT401.

It’s a thing of beauty really: amplified with a six foot coaxial cable and it reaches almost all the way to the ceiling. And it only cost me twenty-some-odd dollars.

I brought it home and searched for the new channels. Numerous, including the two missing networks, most importantly NBC and a certain football game(s).

That night I sat in the comfort of my own home and watched the Dallas Cowboys go down in flames. It was a good night indeed.

Give a Hoot

2007-01-04T18:30:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and all that…

It’s been quite a while since I’ve had a chance to post. I tried to keep up during kettles, I really did. But that was one fight I was destined to lose. Then I spent a restful week with my family, much of it in New Hampshire with no internet access (or snow, unfortunately). I’ve been back for a few days, waiting for the inspiration to post. It came today in all too common form.

I was walking down Broad St. toward my apartment when I noticed a woman about twenty feet ahead of me drop something. I scooped up what appeared to be an airline luggage routing label, or something of the like. It seemed more than safe to simply throw it away, but that was not a chance I was willing to take.

Ma’am, you dropped something.

“Oh. Yeah, I meant to drop that.”

Oh.

You meant to drop it.

As in, I’m sorry for the confusion sir, but lest you think otherwise that piece of trash did not slip from my bag without my knowledge or intent. Rather, I just put it on the sidewalk because I’m too ignorant and lazy to dispose of it properly.

As in, you meant to drop it.

Oh.

I didn’t say anything. I just continued on my way carrying this one piece of trash through a neighborhood filled with it, where littering is quite literally a way of life, where people do not think twice about using the street as a garbage can. And when I got home, I threw it away. I’d love to look at this as an inspirational, starfish on the beach, “it makes a difference to this one” piece of trash kind of tale, but that’s a bit implausible. My only real hope is that this woman felt the slightest twinge of embarrassment, so that she will think twice, if only for a second, before she means to drop something else. Considering I’m up against a probable lifetime of counter-conditioning, this may be a bit ambitious.

Sing like the saved

2006-12-20T10:22:00.000-05:00

I’ve been getting up at 5:30 every day this week to go to the SI ferry terminal with Capt Steve and sing carols from a little after 6 to 9. This has made for some very long days, but has also been very rewarding.

I’ve been singing carols at Salvation Army kettles since I was 12. My dad is a big proponent of it. Even as I’ve gotten older and been away, he and I have maintained our tradition of singing on the last day of kettles (a tradition that will regrettably be broken this year).

The value of singing is quite obvious and fairly quantifiable: we raise more money (yes, believe it or not, people put money in the kettle when I sing). It also makes the time seem to pass more quickly, no small feat when you are stuck in one place for several hours.

But only in recent years have I realized the real value in singing these carols: we are preaching the gospel. In years past it’s been something I’ve often taken for granted, or at times even shied away from. I admit with some regret that years ago I was embarrassed to sing some of the extra stanzas. The first verses are so familiar, and everyone pretty much accepts them as christmasy. But some of those carols have other verses that get downright “religious”! Maybe even Christmasy!

“…our heavenly Lord, that hath made heaven and earth of naught, and with his blood mankind hath bought…”

“….from depths of hell thy people save, and give them victory over the grave…”

“….so God imparts to human hearts the blessing of His heaven. No ear may hear his coming but in this world of sin, where meek souls will receive him still the dear Christ enters in….”

“….cast out our sin and enter in, be born in us today….”

“….Holy Jesus every day, keep us in the narrow way…”

“….for sinners the silent Word is pleading. Nails, spear shall pierce him through, the cross be borne for me, for you…”

Today a security guard who has seen us the last few days made a donation and thanked me for the music. Then he made a comment whose full truth and significance may have been lost on him.

“You guys are singing your hearts out.”

Yes, we are.

Chivalry is not dead

2006-12-10T23:23:00.000-05:00

I’ve had a lot of long days of late. Yesterday I was standing kettles at The Christmas Tree Shop, one of our coldest and windiest stands. At one point, a woman exited the store and her receipt blew right out of her hands. Since I’m the nicest guy you’re ever going to meet, I immediately sprang into pursuit. I was having some difficulty rescuing the damsels purchase record due to a number of factors:

1) The wind was strong but gusty, causing the paper to move quickly but unpredictably.
2) I was wearing thick gloves, reducing dexterity.
3) I was wearing ill-fitting dress shoes, reducing agility (I was in uniform for another stand later that night that required it, but crammed in double socks to keep warm in the mean time).
4) Even during the chase, I found the whole thing quite hilarious and couldn’t stop laughing.

Every time I thought I had it, it would skirt just past my grasp. I felt quite a bit like Wimpy trying to pick up his hat. Eventually I was too far from the kettle to continue, and had been passed by her male companion who eventually caught the paper prey. I’d like to tell you that my hustle at least secured me a donation, but the woman was already planning to give. In fact, it was in opening her wallet to do so that the receipt escaped in the first place.

This can't be what Henry Ford intended

2006-12-06T19:38:00.000-05:00

Today I was supposed to go to the annual luncheon in Manhattan. We arrived at the hotel right at the noon start time and then I had to go park the van. A 15 passenger van. In Manhattan.

One of my worst memories from childhood is the time when we still lived in Maine and decided to take a day trip to the Boston Aquarium. We only had a 15 passenger van to take, and my dad drove around for what seemed to me like an eternity (about an hour as I recall now) trying to find a place that would let us park. Let’s just say that the availability of van parking in major cities has not improved since that time.

I kept circling the various blocks, seeing over and over “no full size vans.” Eventually I passed the point of no return, time-wise, and just resigned myself to my fate: I would not be getting any lunch.

During my 2 ½ hours circling the area one thought was constant: why would anyone drive in Manhattan? It is literally faster to walk, to say nothing of taking the train. Unless you absolutely had to, why would you choose a mode of transportation that lets you travel a mere 2 blocks in half an hour? When you throw in the fact that everyone, including the pedestrians, is constantly cutting you off, or beeping at you as you sit helplessly boxed in on all sides (sometimes as the first car at a green light even), it just seems like a no-brainer. Driving in Manhattan is for suckers (I realize there is a contingent that claims to like this brand of city driving. This is posturing, and it is absurd).

All in all it wasn’t too stressful once I accepted the impossibility of my task. I just stopped trying to get anywhere, which is the one way to succeed at what you’re attempting in Manhattan traffic. I was already getting nowhere; once I changed that to my goal I was blissful.

And I didn’t go hungry either. When I picked everyone up, Capt Steve was thoughtful enough to sneak my dinner out in a league of mercy bag. And after all this, if you think I was too proud to eat out of a bag, you’re crazy.

A great day for football

2006-12-04T21:18:00.000-05:00

I officially give up on this batch of Giants (particularly the coach). But yesterday was not a complete waste for football. I taught my teens the hook and ladder.

I remember when I was much younger, Kyle Townsend and I would take on our dads every year in a game of touch football. We were always psyched to try and beat them. They had been playing together for years, but we wanted to prove we could rival their connection. Each year as we got bigger and faster, our dads would dig deeper into their bag of tricks to beat us. The flea flicker, the halfback pass, the double pass; they pulled them all. But I will always remember the first time they pulled the hook and ladder. We were dumbfounded, and we were toast.

Yesterday was my turn to pass on some backyard wisdom. Even as the play was being executed for a length of the field touchdown, players on both teams were going nuts. For my money, it doesn’t get any better than that.

Go Gadget! Go!

2006-12-02T22:25:00.000-05:00

I was just thinking today of this one episode of Inspector Gadget. It went something like this:

The Chief was camouflaged in a trash can (or it may have been a tree. Or a locker. I can’t remember for sure). He passed Gadget the paper with his top secret mission, the last lines of which read “this message will self-destruct…” Seemingly oblivious, Gadget crumpled it up and tossed it back right before it exploded on the Chief.

Inspector Gadget began investigating and soon ran into some of evil Doctor Claw’s agents, who he mistakenly thought were on his side. Then he ran into his dog Brain, who was in disguise and Gadget mistook him for an evil agent. The Inspector quickly tried one of his many “go-go-gadget” tricks, which malfunctioned but ended up accidentally hurting the real Claw agents. Then, unbeknownst to Gadget, his niece Penny came in with her computer book and solved the caper. The Chief arrived with reinforcements and said, “Well done, Gadget” while Doctor Claw pounded the table next to his frightened cat and escaped vowing, “I’ll get you next time Gadget, next time!”

That was a really good episode. Probably my favorite one.

Full House

2006-12-02T21:41:00.000-05:00

Last night my roommate for December (Eli, the Project 117 intern) moved in, and was soon treated to a bonus surprise: my friend Pierre was also crashing for the night. There’s always room for one more.

Eli will be sleeping on the futon underneath the loft bed. I normally sleep on the loft, but last night told Pierre to take it and I would take the pullout couch. This way, when Eli and I rose before him, he could keep sleeping.

After a brief chat, we began readying for bed, since it was late and we had kettles today. I went in the bathroom and when I emerged a few moments later I was greeted by the spectacle of Pierre trying to scale the loft.

Pierre is many things: generous, hilarious, level-headed, faithful, and one of my best friends in the world. One thing he is not: agile. Or graceful for that matter. Needless to say, Pierre would not be sleeping in the loft bed.

This sight harkened back a memory for me of when we were young and foolish and at Youth Councils. One night, Pierre, Cornejo and I were roaming the grounds of the Frank Davis Sunrise Resort with one other companion when we encountered a building whose roof was sufficiently low to the ground to invite mischief (It may have been the Frog, I don’t remember). We of course decided to climb on top, for no real reason other than the fact that we were teenage boys and we could. Three of us got up without significant difficulty, but Pierre was dangling. Try as we could, we could not pull him up. Before we could devise another plan, we were spotted by security.

We all hurried down before they drove over and tried to pretend nothing had happened. They gave us the obligatory “Don’t do that again or there will be trouble” lecture while we nodded gravely and silently waited for them to finish yapping so we could walk away with no repercussions. We kept our game faces on and were ready to escape without discussion, when Pierre (remember him? The guy who wasn’t even on the roof?) decided he needed to “talk his way out of this one.”

“We went up there to investigate because we heard there was some guy up there.”

Oh, boy. At this point the authorities rightly asked why it took four of us to “investigate” this “guy.”

“We heard he was really big.”

Thanks, Pierre.

Panic!

2006-11-30T19:40:00.000-05:00

Last night I accidentally pushed the panic button on the key of the car I was getting ready to drive. It got me thinking, why do they even put these panic buttons on these things? Or car alarms at all for that matter?

Is any potential thief or assailant scared off by the noise? Has anyone ever had their person or property saved by someone running out to investigate the noise? The last time you heard a car alarm, did you call 911 to report a potential crime in progress?

The fact of the matter is these alarms long ago became the boy who cried wolf. The sound brings far more annoyance than concern. I remember in New Bedford we had a soldier whose car alarm seemingly went off every time she was at the corps, and she would walk towards the nearest wall pressing her button until the noise stopped. Never – not once – did she go outside to check if someone was messing with her car.

So the next time you’re in a dark parking lot, and a stranger menacingly approaches you, I hope you have a back-up plan.

Panic!

You can do it. We can help.

2006-11-29T12:18:00.000-05:00

One thing (among many) that I can’t do without considerable help is make a key. I realize that this is largely an equipment based problem, but there’s also some basic skills knowledge that I am lacking. Needing copies of my house keys, I went with Captain Steve to Home Depot yesterday to pick up some things for the corps.

I don’t spend a lot of time in Home Depot. I’m just not that guy. I went once with Uncle Clark to get an electrical adaptor and once with my friend Nicole to get some supplies for remodeling a teen center, but that’s about it. When I walk in, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer volume of things I don’t remotely recognize or understand.

I eventually found my way to the key counter but there was no employee present. I was pretty sure this wasn’t a do-it-yourself counter, and again, it’s not like I’d know what I was doing anyway. So I started looking for an orange apron.

Directly across from the key counter I found one who told me he’d take care of it. But then he hopped on one of those beeping go-cart/forklift contraptions and disappeared. I looked around and saw no more orange aprons in my vicinity. So I tried standing at the counter in an “I’m a customer in need of assistance” kind of way, hoping maybe someone would be checking. No luck. Another orange apron hurriedly walked by and when I got his attention he assured me he’d send someone to take care of it. The look on his face told me that he had more pressing concerns. Yet another orange apron wandered into my section helping another customer. I got his attention, hoping when he was done he could help me, or at least tell me he’d get someone and then not do it.

Finally a customer a bit less patient came up behind me and asked if I could make him a key. I assume he thought I was an employee, despite my lacking an orange apron, but either way we’ve already covered that I couldn’t help him. So he went and got the guy who had been helping someone else and got him to come over.

I normally only use the top lock on my door, but keys are cheap enough and I’d gone to enough trouble that I went ahead and made copies of both keys. And then I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

I went home to test the keys, and of course, the one for the bottom lock didn’t even work. But there’s no way I’m going back for $1.25 or a key I don’t really need. So congratulations, Home Depot. You’ve made an extra dollar by making my shopping experience so difficult that I won’t come back.

Find it if you can

2006-11-27T22:32:00.000-05:00

Today I actually caught the 3:30 ferry to Manhattan to stand kettles. On the train to the ferry I was reminded that sometimes laziness pays off. As we pulled into St. George (last stop) many folks got ready to get off. I was in a bit of a daze and just sat waiting. When the train came to a complete stop, nearly everyone jumped up to get out the door first, but I was still zoning. A second later the train lurched forward again, having stopped prematurely. Catching the passengers completely off guard, they all went flying backwards while I finally snapped out of my stupor and watched, at first bemused but quickly amused and still firmly and comfortably seated. One terribly embarrassed girl flew into some guy’s lap and spent the rest of the time before the doors opened alternating between apologizing profusely to him and telling her friend to stop laughing so hard.

Another benefit to this laziness, besides not landing on a stranger, is that it can easily be disguised as patience, making me seem more virtuous. It makes me wonder how many people who seem patient are really just too tired to be pushy like everyone else.

Mom would be proud

2006-11-27T21:28:00.000-05:00

I cleaned my bathroom today. It had been a while. We’re not talking gas station quality or anything, but it needed the cleaning. I just happen to have the unfortunate combination of not caring much about cleaning and not having many folks over who might care themselves. That’s about to change though, since starting Friday I’ll be having a guest for a few weeks, an intern from Project 117. The size (or more accurately, the lack thereof) of my apartment will be daunting enough, so I figured I should at least get the place cleaned up a bit.

This points to a big part of why I appreciate the idea of spiritual accountability. If we only ever answer to ourselves we can get comfortable in our own filth. Living right isn’t just about personal desire; I like the idea of a clean bathroom, but sometimes it’s easier to overlook the problem than address it. And accountability isn’t about doing something just to impress someone else. It’s about perspective. It’s too easy for us to become desensitized to our own surroundings, behavior and attitudes. Often it’s only when we take a step back and look at things from someone else’s perspective that we see the unfortunate consequences of our failure to hit on target.

Happy Thanksgiving

2006-11-26T22:03:00.000-05:00

I spent the last few days at one of my favorite places in all the world, my Aunt Betty’s house. Last year on my birthday I referred to it as a place where I’m pretty much always treated like it’s my birthday, but a similar contention could be made that it’s a very Thanksgivingy place: there’s always plenty of good food, hardly a waking hour goes by when a game isn’t being watched or (more likely) played, and you’re with people you care about. All these factors increase when it actually is Thanksgiving. For instance:

*Baked Goods Available*

Apple Squares
Pecan Pie
Pumpkin Pie
Tarheel Pie
Lemon cake
Chocolate Chip Cookies
Peanut Butter Pie
Banana Cream Pie
Chocolate Pie
Brownies (okay, these weren’t actually available till two days after Thanksgiving, but still)

*People I care about that I hadn’t seen in a while, how long it had been since I’d seen them, and how long it had been since I’d gone that long without seeing them*

Mom, Dad, Shannon – 2 months – um, that’s pretty standard actually
Steve Maxon – 3 months – at least 2 years
Frannie – 4 months – at least 3 years
Aunt Betty, Uncle Clark – 5 months – 3 years (I think)
Matt and Hilary – 6 months – I’ve only really known Hil a little over a year, so she can’t really count, but that is the longest I’ve gone in my entire life without seeing my brother. I know I’m blessed to be able to say that. And it was good to see everyone.

And all hail the Lord of Catan!

Don't leave home without it

2006-11-20T22:38:00.000-05:00

Today I went back to the Manhattan terminal to stand kettles again. When I got to the Staten Island terminal, all ready to catch the 3:30 boat, I realized I had forgotten to bring a copy of our permit. My choices at this point were three-fold:
1) Take the boat to Manhattan without it and hope security doesn’t ask me about it. This is the quickest but riskiest option, because I’d catch the 3:30 but might have to come right back.
2) Take the train all the way back to Stapleton to get the permit. This is the slowest option and really is only viable if no one is available for #3.
3) Get someone to bring me a copy in time to at least catch the 3:50 boat.

I decided not to risk #1 and got Steve to come bring me the permit. He got it to me in time to catch the 3:50, but I still needed to get the wheeling kettle stand out of the locked closet. Now I couldn’t find anyone to let me in. We’re not supposed to ask security as they have far more pressing concerns. The only terminal employee I could find was a woman sweeping up who spoke no English. I tried to figure which would be quicker: finding another employee myself or finding a way to communicate what I needed to this one. My first thought was the former, but soon realized the latter, or at least a compromise, was my only hope.

There was a time when I was actually functional speaking Spanish. Not fluent, mind you, but I could communicate and even converse a little. Five years of complete nonuse have left me more than a bit rusty.

Es un otra persona que limpia y habla ingles?

Good enough. She pointed me to the person I needed, who made sure I got the stand. Muchas gracias Senora.

So I caught the 4:10. We’ll have to work on that one. Tonight was relatively uneventful, but there was one exchange that brought a smile to my face.

A friendly young lady with a pleasant smile made a donation and I thanked her and wished her a Happy Thanksgiving. She seemed quite pleased with this and walked away. Then she came back around my other side and popped up right in front of me.

“Could you say ‘Happy Birthday’ too, because tomorrow’s my birthday.”

Happy Birthday!

Oh, and no one ever asked me for that permit.

Congratulations, but...

2006-11-19T23:15:00.000-05:00

Tonight LaDainian Tomlinson scored his 100th career touchdown, doing so faster than any other player in history. Which reminds me…

Last night I was having a phone conversation with the folks when the topic turned to football (much to Mom’s chagrin). Dad and I were talking about the Chargers when he made a comment about “how well LT is playing.” Then, uncharacteristically, Mom chimed in:

“Lawrence Taylor is playing for another team now?”

Thank you! Boy, even my Mom knows who the real LT is: the most fearsome defensive player of all time who single-handedly defined being a Giants fan for my generation, Lawrence Taylor.

LaDainian is a surefire future Hall of Famer. He is arguable the best player in the game today. He is certainly one of my favorites. He may very well set a new record for touchdowns in a season this year. He has four touchdowns tonight, which gives him nineteen in his last six games, which is yet another record.

But he is not LT.

Mom and I just felt a need to clear that up.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

2006-11-17T21:58:00.000-05:00

Today I stood collecting at a kettle stand for the first time this season. First off, here’s the early count this year on a couple of my favorite recurring comments:

“Where’s your Santa suit?” – 3
“You guys are starting early this year.” – 2

I was standing in the Staten Island ferry terminal, Manhattan side. This meant I got to ride the ferry going and coming, which is usually a nice ride and you never know what kind of people you’ll run into. On the way over, I met two Salvationists, Commissioners from the Congo, which was quite random and pretty cool. On the way back, there was a young woman who wanted to take my picture (and this despite no Santa suit, although I was in full uniform with our wheeling kettle stand).

Standing in the ferry terminal is slightly more entertaining than your normal store location. This is primarily due to the commuters coming up from the train periodically breaking into the “Aagghh! The doors to the boat are already open and could close any second!” sprint (note: this is highly amusing, but not very good for business, because there’s no way those people are slowing down to make a donation). Actually, this phenomenon kind of happens in stages. The first wave to come up the escalator after the doors open breaks into a jog, the group behind sees this and starts running, and each group after sees the group in front and runs even faster. By the end you’ve got people who clearly don’t do a lot of running and didn’t exactly dress for it hurtling themselves across the terminal. Eventually the doors close and things calm down until the next boat arrives.

My favorite was a little old man in the first wave of one door-opening who clearly had no intention of running pointing from across the terminal and calling out to no one in particular, “Hold that door! Wait for me!” Luckily he was in no danger of actually missing the boat.

Tonight’s conversations included the normal assortment of supportive believers, thankful veterans, and conspiracy theorists. But the most noteworthy conversation of the evening was with a woman who wanted to know if I had any printed materials. I informed her that I did not, but offered to answer any questions.

“It’s about your cards. It’s just that their kind of crappy….”

(Cards? What cards? Maybe the Manhattan Salv…oh wait, she’s still talking.)

“I mean it’s a nice idea to help out but they break every Catholic rule, and I’m not even Catholic….”

(Um… neither am I. I mean we. We’re… oh wait, there’s more.)

“Are you German?”

No.

“What nationality are you?”

Uh, just American.

“Oh, that explains it. I’m European.”

Glad I could help.

Fluffernutter!

2006-11-17T20:38:00.000-05:00

Need I say more? Okay, I will.

Today I had a fluffernutter for lunch. This would be excellent news in and of itself, but this one tasted particularly delicious for a couple reasons. First, it was the first fluffernutter I’ve had in at least two years. Second, and far more important, this one was sort of a surprise gift. Aaron, our Youth Ministries Specialist, has a lunch packed for him everyday by his loving wife Wanessa. Well, it turns out she was feeling a little bad for me because I don’t have a Mom (well I do but not here) or a girlfriend to make me a lunch. So today she sent him with an extra sandwich for me, which kind of made my day. So thanks Wanessa.

While we’re on the topic of fluff, here are a couple of handy baking tips:

* Did you know that a jar of fluff comes with a tasty recipe for fudge written on the side? – It’s true; my brother and I once bought a jar and used it to make a batch for a care package for our sister.

* Did you know that marshmallow fluff will expand significantly when heated, so you wouldn’t want to use a pot just big enough for the ingredients when making this fudge? – We didn’t.

I never thought they'd catch me so quickly

2006-11-16T22:10:00.000-05:00

A mere two hours after yesterday’s post I was pulled over by the police on my way home. Thankfully, they don’t arrest you for driving with a burnt out headlight. Actually if my experience is any indication, they hand you a ticket while explaining several times in a most friendly manner how you can get out of it.

Following my instructions from last night I got the headlight fixed this morning and then brought the receipt for the transaction down to my local police precinct. I recapped what I had been told: fix within 24 hours, bring in receipt, pay no fine.

“I also need to see the vehicle.”

Oh. Do people really falsify receipts for a ten minute, $20 procedure? Anyway, it’s impossible to find parking in that area so now I had to walk all the way back to where my car was parked (giving the officer more than enough time to forget about me) and drive it over and double park right in front of the police station, blocking a cruiser even. But I got my signed form that says I pay no money, and escaped without receiving another parking violation.

So for those of you keeping score at home, in 4 ½ months living in Staten Island I’ve received 4 parking/moving violations and paid exactly $0 in fines. I don’t know whether to be happy or annoyed; mostly I’m just confused. I mean, why do they even write these things? Does anyone pay them? And they can’t possibly keep this up, can they? Can I?

Yes, I can see the resemblance...

2006-11-15T21:01:00.000-05:00

Today a boy I hadn't seen at the court in quite some time asked me where Dirk Nowitzki's brother was. He was quite disappointed when I had to inform him that the younger Nowitzki doesn't live here, but in Syracuse and was just visiting before.

Actually, I just found out yesterday that come August he will abandon the home we shared and take a two year clerkship with the Appellate Division in Rochester. I knew eventually he’d get back on his feet.

He better not go too far. If I ever get arrested, he’s my one phone call.

Never judge a box by its cover

2006-11-14T14:04:00.000-05:00

Today I went into my favorite neighborhood Spanish supermarket (ShopSmart on Broad) to pick up some milk and discount brand cereal. My preferred cereal is Krasdale’s Honey Nut Toasted Oats. I’m a big fan of discount brands, with their no frills and low price approach. In fact, I’m practically the definition of their target market: I don’t care if there’s a certain cartoon bee on my box, but I’ll gladly take a cereal that tastes exactly the same for half the price.

Today I noticed my lowly discount cereal is moving on up in the world; they’ve got new box cover art. The new cover looks more like the “real” cheerios box, yellow with a more professional looking font and picture of a delicious bowl of cereal, and is certainly more attractive than the old black box with its poorly drawn cartoon children. But it’s a cosmetic change only: qualitatively and quantitatively, it’s the same cereal.

Same name. Same number of ounces. Same dietary information. Same ingredients in the exact same order.

Oh, and it costs more.

Krasdale, I’m very, very disappointed in you.

Mail Time (again)

2006-11-13T14:17:00.000-05:00

This time it’s the New York City Department of Finance’s turn. Last week I got a notice in the mail explaining that I owed $75 for an unpaid mutilated inspection sticker ticket. This was very interesting to me, for reasons that I will explain with a handy timeline:

Early August 2006 – I send in my registration renewal form (exp Aug 25), updating my address, along with the payment.

Late August 2006 – I receive a notice that it will cost more money to renew my registration, since I now live in NYC, where everything has to cost more. They enclose a temporary registration to hold me over until I give them more money for a real one. I display this temporary registration in my vehicle.

September 2006 – I go about two weeks without touching my car. It needs some repairs and I walk everywhere anyway.

Late September 2006 – During which time my car gets a ticket (actually two, but I only notice one) for expired registration. By now my new registration has come and is displayed, but I have to go fight the ticket. I go in, plead my case, and it is dismissed. Hey, the system works (I think).

September 29, 2006 – I bring my car in for those repairs so it will pass inspection, and get a new inspection sticker.

October 5, 2006 – I realize I had two tickets, so I go back in to see if I need another hearing. Nope, they were both dismissed….but at this time they inform me that I had yet another ticket in September for a mutilated inspection sticker. This poses a slight problem, as I no longer even have that sticker on my car to prove it’s not mutilated. I plead my case, and it’s dismissed again. I must have an honest face. The judge tells me to hang on to all my paperwork for 8 ½ years(!) in case anything goes wrong. What’s going to go wrong?

Last week – Oh. I get that notice saying I haven’t paid a ticket I had dismissed a month ago. This should be easy to sort out. It hasn’t been 8 ½ years yet, so I still have that paperwork.

Today – I figure out what went wrong. The judge dismissed my mutilated inspection sticker, but gave me a paper that said he dismissed my expired registration sticker (which had already been dismissed). The dates and violation numbers seem to reflect this clearly, but people who push paper for a living often turn out to be mindless automatons.

(Case in point: In 2004 I tried to change my license from MA to NY. NY has a rule that an out of state license must be issued more than 6 months ago before they will change it over. Mass licenses don’t (didn’t?) have a date of issue on them. No problem: my license was set to expire in a month, meaning it must be more than 6 months old, right? Even more convincingly, my license said “under 21 until 9/23/99” meaning it must have been issued before this date nearly five years previous. Raise your hand if you think this ironclad logic was enough to convince the clerk at the first DMV I went to. Luckily there are more DMV’s, some of which even staff people who can think independently. The point is it’s a crapshoot.)

This is where my tale of frustration took an unexpected turn. The woman who looked at my paperwork actually listened and immediately understood the problem. They put me on the express hearing line (express?! I didn’t even know there was such a thing. I’m going to find it hard to wait in the normal line now). The judge who had previously heard my case clarified the situation, took complete responsibility and apologized profusely at least a dozen times (no exaggeration) in the five minutes (probably less) I was in with him. It was probably the most human experience I have ever had in a government building.

I say all this because I hate bureaucracy (in case you couldn’t tell). One of my biggest fears is how it can creep into our church. We say each person is God’s beloved child, and then we treat them like a number on a list on a form in a drawer (and it’s been misfiled). Days like today can be such important reminders to me that so often the message is not in our words, but in the way we treat others.

Need a hand

2006-11-09T22:44:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking lately about something that came up recently in a Sunday School class. The discussion was about how we can help God. This immediately struck me as odd, because to me helping only seems truly possible when someone needs help, which God clearly does not. The image that jumped to my mind was that of a young child "helping" his mother bake cookies. Or how whenever you're trying to carry something heavy the smallest child will walk underneath to "help" lift the load. Their contributions are minimal, it would probably be easier to do it without them, and if not for the fact that someone else had the ability to accomplish the task it would be impossible.

And so it is with God, since his foolishness is wiser than our wisdom, and his weakness is stronger than our strength. And we profess constantly that it is only in God’s strength that we can do anything. So if we are helping God, it is he who helps us help him. Doesn’t seem very helpful.

And yet, God chooses to use us. Why? Certainly not because he needs help, or that we can even begin to do anything that he couldn’t instantly do himself. And certainly God’s power is made perfect in our weakness. So God calls us and entrusts us with great responsibility, and just because God doesn’t need us doesn’t mean we’re off the hook.

We talked in Bible Study tonight about Abraham and why God chose him. One suggestion was that God knew his willing response in advance. Which raised the question: what if Abraham had said no? Would God have called someone else? For the salvation of the entire world you’d have to say yes. But what about your neighbor? If you don’t bring them God’s truth and love, will anyone else?

I know each individual must ultimately make their own choice for salvation. And I think our service to God is as much about our own salvation as anyone else’s. But the fact remains that there is a world in darkness and we have been given the light. Where there is light, the darkness flees. Shine.

Mail Time

2006-11-08T19:15:00.000-05:00

Guess what I found in my mailbox last night when I got home: my phone bill!! And while getting a bill in the mail might register apathy or even distaste for you, this represented a big breakthrough for me and verizon. Allow me explain with a timeline:

Late June 2006 – I give Maxon money for the bill I know will arrive in Syracuse shortly after my move and instructions to fill out the change of address form when sending it in.

July 2006 – Maxon pays the bill and fills out the standard change of address form found on the back of all verizon wireless bills.

August 2006 – My bill arrives in Syracuse, leaving me to wonder what that form on the back is for exactly. No matter, I make the change to my profile online. Everything is quicker, easier, and more efficient online.

September 2006 – Except this. My bill arrives in Syracuse, and now I’m stumped. I double check my account online – it reflects the correct address. So why is my bill going somewhere else?

October 2006 – I finally get around to going down to the mall to handle this once and for all with a verizon employee on an official verizon computer. Foolproof. I explain the problem and the steps I’ve already taken. She brings my profile up on her screen.

“The address in this profile has already been changed.”

Yes I know. I just told you that I’m the one who changed it.

“So where is your bill being sent.”

Not there.

“Well the computer won’t let me change anything else.”

So you can’t help me? At all?

“No. But you can call customer service.”

Great.

Later that same day – The dreaded call to the automated voice menu.

“Please enter your five digit billing zip code.”

I enter XXXXX, my old zip code, since that is where I’m currently being billed.

“There should be ten digits in your ten digit wireless number. Please enter your ten digit wireless number, starting with the area code, now.”

I could have sworn they said zip code. No matter. XXX-XXX-XXXX.

“Thank you. Now please enter your five digit billing zip code.”

Okay. XXXXX.

“There should be ten digits in your ten digit wireless number. Please enter your ten digit wireless number, starting with the area code, now.”

What!?!? Fine, XXX-XXX-XXXX.

“Thank you. Now please enter your five digit billing zip code.”

(Losing all hope) XXXXX.

“There should be ten digits in your ten digit wireless number. Please enter your ten digit wireless number, starting with the area code, now.”

Click.

Still later that same day – I’m not done. I will get them this information that almost benefits them more than it does me if it’s the last thing I do. I get an actual person on the phone and she tells me she's fixed it. Half of me is relieved, the other half thinks I’ll believe it when I see it.

Yesterday – I believe! I believe! Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in saluting verizon: only 4 months and 5 attempts through every avenue made available to their valued customers to perform the most basic of tasks that was in their best interest anyway! Verizon! It’s the network!

A Jones by any other name

2006-11-07T15:07:00.000-05:00

In my continued search for a profile pic (I know, riveting stuff), I decided to google myself. Here were some of the results, in descending order of how likely it is that it is actually me:

An extremely common last name and a fairly common first name makes for a combination that I know is not unique. I like to think of myself as the one and only, or at least the real Joshua Jones, but I know there are others (imposters).

For one thing, any time I try to open a new email account, no possible combination or arrangement of my name will work without a number. I’ve tried a million times with several email accounts but always come back to good old 17. But more convincingly, I met one once.

When I was eleven, my mom let me help out in the Candy Store at Camp Connri. Each camper would walk up, hand me their card with their name and cash amount on it, tell me what they wanted, and I would get it for them and cross off the cost from the card. One day, a boy approached the window and handed me his card with my name on it. There we were, face to face, and I was dumbfounded. I wonder if any of those pictures are him.

Even more bizarre, at the exact same time at the very next window over from that boy was another boy, a complete stranger to him. His name: Matthew Jones. And I’m reasonably certain I didn’t dream all this.

Brotherhood

2006-11-06T21:25:00.000-05:00

I was looking through some photos trying to find one for my profile when I stumbled across this:

And since you asked, yes, that is a picture of my brother Matt stalking a rooster through a Bermudan cemetery. Why? Because I asked him to.

I had a bizarre desire to capture him up close in a picture with one of the many randomly free roaming birds. This was not the only rooster he pursued, though we were consistently thwarted. Despite some reluctance (he clearly didn't share my passion), he kept trying to help me outmaneuver my foe. Be it a whimsical fancy or an urgent need, there are few people you can count on like a brother.

Old Time Religion

2006-11-05T20:16:00.000-05:00

In lieu of our normal Sunday Evening Praise, we went down the street for a special service at the UAME church this evening. We’re trying to partner with other neighborhood churches when possible to build up the Body in our community.

They had a choir from a women’s recovery home singing and testifying, and it was a real blessing. On the whole, there was really only one downside to the whole evening: they had old-school wooden pews.

You know the kind I’m talking about. The kind that seem specially designed to focus maximum discomfort on your middle back and rear. The kind where you can’t get comfortable no matter which way you shift. The kind that make you yearn for the next congregational standing.

They are from another time, a time when the church itself was considerably more stringent. I don’t doubt that they were originally designed to help us experience some small part of the suffering of Christ. And while many will argue that in the name of avoiding legalism the church has relaxed some of its standards to its detriment, the move to slightly more comfortable seating is one I consider essential. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for not getting too comfortable and staying focused; I’m not asking for a La-Z-Boy. I just like a chair that lets me focus on something more divine than my own backside.

Professor Zoom

2006-11-04T18:58:00.000-05:00

It only took us a few weeks to go from 3 yards and a cloud of dust to the Arena Football League. We only had enough guys for 7 on 7 this time, as opposed to 10 on 10 last time, so there were just a lot fewer collisions. Whereas last time we played a game to 7 and almost killed ourselves, this time we played to 10 and still felt great so we kept playing to 15 (and still felt okay). Best of all, this enabled almost everyone to score (the only guy who didn’t actually led everyone in catches and first downs).

As for the title of the post, it’s a nickname one of the teens gave me last time we played and some of the guys were calling me today. It definitely cracks me up, but I doubt it will stick long. The only nickname I’ve ever had for a substantial time was Bob (and that was less a nickname and more a sustained bizarrely coincidental mass confusion).

Those who know me well know that I love the idea of nicknames. It’s a relational thing. It reflects a certain bond when you let someone call you something other than the name your own parents gave you. Actually, one thing we often focus on in the teen drop-in center is giving everyone nicknames to foster that sense of belonging.

Looking to the scriptures, we see this same relational significance in renaming. Abraham, Sarah, Israel. None were names from birth but each was given by the Lord himself as a sign of the relationships and encounters between them. They belonged to Him, and He had their backs. And I’ll confess, I’m a bit envious. I mean, how cool would it be to get a nickname from God?

Am I ready for some football?

2006-11-03T20:12:00.000-05:00

I hope so.

Tomorrow there is a big tackle football game, the second in an ongoing series of games with the men and teens of our corps. The last game was several weeks ago, and it amazes me that in my teen years I would often play several such games per week. I don't have anywhere near that kind of recovery anymore. Don't get me wrong, I can still play. The risk of injury is just far more apparent to me than it ever was before.

But I still love football, above all others. Growing up, my dad taught me everything I know about sports. But the bias toward football was definitely there. I remember one time when I was quite young my dad and I played one on one hoops on a kiddie hoop in our basement. And my dad kept blocking all my shots! Goaltending, even! I'm not exaggerating when I tell you it took me about ten years to get into basketball after that. Football was different. My dad would teach me all kinds of pass patterns and audibles and let me beat him one on one at two hand touch. We even have a play we run to this day that we mapped out in my back yard when I was 8 or 9. I'd tell you what it is but we might have to use it to beat you someday.

Tomorrow should be fun. Our first game had great turn out, was hard fought, everyone had fun, and the old men showed the young guns they could beat them. Most importantly, it was a great chance for all our guys to bond, and church attendance has actually increased since that game. Most of the men have conflicts tomorrow, so I may be the lone old guy with the teens. In this regard I'll have to draw inspiration from my dad as well, who has routinely found himself as the oldest guy on the field over the last ten years. I can only hope to keep playing, and playing very well, as long as he has.

Just in case, say a prayer for us between noon and 3.

Deal or No Brains

2006-11-02T22:18:00.000-05:00

Exuberant
Colorful
Spontaneous
Outlandish

I would love to know what the screening process for Deal or No Deal is like. They certainly find some interesting characters and it can make for riveting television. But there's one word I would add to the list that ties them all together.

Irrational

Absolutely, positively, 100% devoid of logic. Borderline insane. No understanding of probability or opportunity cost. Sometimes they say things that make my head want to explode. (My apologies if anyone reading has a family member who has been on the show).

Again, I understand that a mathematician coolly calculating his odds and simply maximizing his potential winnings would not make for a very entertaining TV show. And I don't doubt that the bright lights and cameras and crowds turn people a bit goofy. But just once I would love to hear a contestant offer up a decision based on something more substantial than, "I'm feeling number 24 Howie! Number 24! I've got a feeling!"

I've thought about trying to get on the show or maybe having my brother and his math degree go. But I'm pretty sure we couldn't fake the hysterics to make it past the cut.

Dot What

2006-11-02T21:20:00.000-05:00

Today I met a charming young lady who needed some information from me. She gave me her email address which ended @pmusa.com. I had never seen this particular suffix before and I was curious so I asked.

"Phillip Morris. I work for Marlboro."

Whoa.

"Yeah, we're not the most popular company right now."

Now let me be clear about a few things here. First off, I think smoking is terrible, for all the obvious reasons. And I could never work for a such a company because I wouldn't be able to reconcile this with my convictions.

Having said that, I think the lawsuits against these companies are laughable. I also don't think people who work for these companies are any more morally responsible than the corner store clerk that sells the cigarrettes, and we don't vilify them.

But the fact remains that these companies have taken a huge PR hit. There are some pretty aggressive ad campaigns with them in the crosshairs (although I really enjoy the Phillip Morris produced anti-tobacco ads. Almost as funny as the comercials that come on during televised poker where some casino guy tells you, "There are some times when you shouldn't gamble." Yeah, right.). The executives have been portrayed as outright murderous pariahs (justifiably so in many cases).

I don't say all this to bash the woman in question. She seems like a nice enough person. I'm just saying that if I had to give my email to a total stranger for non-work related matters, I think I would have a back-up. Something that didn't sound like joshua.jones@Ikillpeople.com.

Sticks and Stones

2006-11-01T19:44:00.000-05:00

Today I was called a hypocrite, and accused of treating people as though they were inferior. Those are the kind of words that can sting, even when you're pretty sure they're baseless. I tried to respectfully explain why the situation had developed, but my accuser was not really interested in what I had to say, and was perfectly content to continue with his ad hominem.

"Jesus called them together and said, "You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their high officials exercise authority over them. Not so with you. Instead, whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be your slave— just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many." - Matthew 20:25-28

It can be easy to serve people who are nice to us and grateful for what we do. It gives that warm fuzzy feeling and makes us think we're good people. But I think in those cases Christ would tell us that we've pretty much already received our reward in full. Too often when those we serve complain or are difficult we become indignant and miss the simple reality that these are the opportunities for true service.

I know it may be fruitless, but I'd like to talk with that man again, to let him know I don't have all the answers. And if he's got a solution we haven't thought of, we'd love to listen.

Happy Halloween

2006-10-31T17:28:00.000-05:00

I didn't dress up today, nor will I. I did however dress up last Friday for our Harvest Party. As you can see, my costume was a low-budget production, but it did get some laughs and won me the prize for best adult costume. Considering I was pitted against four other people who also spent nothing or next to it, this was quite a prestigious award.

I also carved a pumpkin today, a tradition I consider absolutely indispensible. There are very few simple joys that bring greater pleasure and fulfillment than cleaning out and carving a pumpkin, and of course baking the seeds (mine were promptly devoured by the teens in the drop-in center).

My only real question is, what else would you ever do with a pumpkin? I know they have limited use as food, but really, they seem almost entirely dedicated to this pupose. Every year you see vegetable stands loaded with these things and I don't know anyone who buys one for any other reason. Have pumpkin farmers just been reinforcing this tradition to boost sales? Did they invent all the stories about its supposed origin? Or are they just really lucky?

White men can't jump

2006-10-30T22:58:00.000-05:00

There is a park about four blocks from my house where I go to play basketball and meet kids from my neighborhood. I've been trying to develop relationships in my community and one easy place for me to do that is on the basketball court. The guys there all know me and it's often a chance for me to invite them to special events the church is putting on as well as to witness through my actions. A lot of times I'm just trying to play peace-maker.

The guys I play with are primarily ages 13-16 and live in the projects. Almost without exception, I'm the only white guy who plays there. From day one, I have never felt racial antipathy from anyone. If anything, I have been more conscious of my age than my race, as I am usually the old man on the court. Even with that, on the court all anyone really cares about is if you can play, and if they can beat you.

Being the only white guy doesn't phase me. What does get my attention is when there are two of us. Today was one of those times, only the third to my recollection. He was older, late 30's, at least part Italian and clearly a native New Yorker, complete with the accent and a certain hardness. He was really nothing like me at all. But he was white like me.

"Is that your brother?" The boy who asked me actually knows me a little and has met my sister.

I laughed and shook my head.

"What, you don't know him or anything?" He was somewhat incredulous. In fairness, the only other white people I've seen there were with me: my sister Shannon and Steve Maxon, my former roommate who was visiting. (They had assumed Steve had been my brother at first as well. Then they somehow got the idea that he was Dirk Nowitzki's brother, a notion we perhaps were delinquent in dispelling).

All white people must be related, or at least know each other. It makes me laugh, but it also makes me think. Part of what I hope my presence in my neighborhood can do is help dispell stereotypes and misunderstandings that are the root of much more troublesome racial tension.

You know, like thinking white guys can't ball.

Here we go

2006-10-30T22:52:00.000-05:00

I have been meaning to start a blog for a while. I don't honestly know exactly what direction this will take. In fact, those that know me well will join with me in suspecting that I may slack a bit in the posting department. This is primarily because I hate typing, which is primarily because I am the slowest typest in the known universe (with the notable exception of my father, but I don't think you can even call that typing). I just can't get the thoughts from my head to the screen quick enough, so we'll see how many make the blog.