Christmas Eve

Whatever else may be going on your life should pale right now by comparison - it's Christmas Eve - if you're reading this, your far from the maddening crowd at the big block store, the mall, or not driving around Wal-Mart trying to find a place to park. I hope your shopping is done. If so, great; if not, you've only yourself to blame - go find a quiet spot in your house and think about the Reason for the Season. Contemplate wonder and miracles, and be thankful that underneath the glitter and glow of all things bought and paid for with 22% interest compounded plastic, the greatest gift is just a prayer away. It's a quiet thing, this thing called Grace. We don't deserve and yet we're invited to partake of it. Merry Christmas!

Memories from the 60th Floor Remixed or: People who are the sprinkles on the cookies of life or the frosting on a Krispy Creme donut

A little over a year ago, I shared some memories from the 60th floor of Chicago's magnificent Marina City, known to some as the "corncobs." You can read the whole episode yourself if you go back to May of 2006 on this blog site.

I never thought I would ever return unless I knew someone who lived there, and that was pretty much a no-go. I even thought at one time it would be neat to just be walking through the lobby with a curious, in-awe look on my face that would attract the curiosity of a resident who would say, "Well, would you like to see the view again from the 60th floor?"

Conventional wisdom said that wasn't going to happen.

But it did - and I owe at least a little of this good fortune to my good friend Eric, who like me, likes to take pictures of trains which he emails to everyone that he knows who likes trains. That's how we met - on an online railroad enthusiasts' discussion thread. I responded to something he left, he responded to me, and the rest , well, you know how it goes. I call him my sorta-kinda nephew. Sorta kinda or not, he's a good luck charm - when we're together something extraordinary takes place.

Eric and I traveled to Chicago to see a few downtown sites, some of the places that were really important to me over my growing-up years that I couldn't resist sharing. Marina City is one of those places.

We're walking through the building's lobby after blitzing through Macy's Department Store and ran into but a broker for Marina City Real Estate. His name is Mike. Eric thinks he noticed my camera and might have thought we were tourists and just curious about the building, both of which were more or less true. Mike hands me a card announcing a website called http://www.marinacityonline.com/. All kinds of neat stuff about the building can be found there (if I can ever get past the home page).

While talking with Mike, I get nostalgic and chat him up about going up on the roof in 1969 when my hair was brown and I cavorted around the loop in a pair of brown plaid bermuda shorts. I share my memories of the ABC television masts up there and the light show they put on for downtown Chicago. Our new friend dons the role of the gracious tour guide and asks us if we'd like to see the roof. My heart goes into my throat and I cannot believe this is happening. But then I think of the biting cold weather. . .what if I should get blown over the rail and fall through the ceiling of the House of Blues? How will Eric get back to the Metra station?. . .what if our tour guide isn't really a tour guide but a felon who is going to hold Eric and I up there for ransom? Eric reminds me we have cell phones; while we try to out run our captor as in a Mack Sennett comedy chase we can call for help on our cell phones. Collecting common sense, I decide that nothing ventured is nothing gained; let's go for it. Up we shoot to the 61st floor only to find the outer door locked.

I whip out my cell phone, activate the camera, and shoot a photo through the glass - what a view to send to my wife and our kids! I then get ouy my regular camera and shoot some scenes looking northwest and north - how great is this? Mike tries the door again, no luck, it's locked. We'll be back next spring. At least I know I'm not going to fall to my death from the roof today.

He invites Eric and I down to the 5st floor to see his residence. The view overlooking the Chicago River and Wacker Drive looks and feels as good as it did in 1968. The sense of wonderment never dies, even if the hair follicles start loosening up and the mane fades from brown to gray. This is a kind of God-moment for me. Okay, email me and tell me how twisted that sounds.

Mike is a real estate broker for Marina City and he's paid to do this kind of promotion. I understand that point, but let me counter it by saying that I wasn't exactly dressed in a Brooks Brothers suit with a matching pair of Florsheim's making me reek of urban sophistication. Both Eric and I were dressed for the day in sweater and jeans. A trip to wander downtown stores doesn't usually call for a men's haberdasher to outfit and I felt comfortably inconspicuous. So I'm pretty sure Mike didn't think I was the next client to buy a prime view on the 59th floor.

Mike is one of the people that are like sprinkles on sugar cookies, the glaze on a Krispy Creme donut, the nice guy who is genuinely friendly, open, and in our case, accomodating. If I lived in the towers, I'd be the same way.

He's that person and I'm thankful he came our way - thanks, Mike, for the tour, the hospitality, and allowing us to see the view just as the first snow storm of 2007 got underway before we made our way back to the train.

Now, if we can only find that roof door unlocked next time. . . .

Dumb Blog

Maybe it's just how I perceive things, but the last blog about the RCA record player sort of tops it in the rewards department for dumb things said on this forum - well, maybe not the whole thing, but I didn't exactly wrap it up with a snappy ending or pithy moral, did I???

The RCA Record Player Story

It sure is funny how things get away from you, mostly time.

Back in the 70s I picked up an old RCA Victor 45 rpm record player at a garage sale - it would play a while, static and feedback would invade the speakers, and whatever you happened to be listening to was lost to then 25-year old technology. Rather than having the thing fixed, I tossed it (or did I give it away???). Memories fade - at any rate, out in went along with a few 45s that really didn't make any difference to me one way or the other.

Last year, in a fit of 1950s nostalgia, I went looking for one - didn't happen - these things were getting in demand again and I didn't want to shell out the cash to get something I thought might sit around gathering fodder for a can of Pledge furniture polish. Well, guess what happened?

I found one on an online auction site, and having a few bucks to spend decided to give it a go, regardless of the 24 other bidders who had driven the price up to about $69, which isn't all that much when you consider these things can fetch three or four hundred dollars. I also had one hour and 30 minutes to make my move - a great idea was hatched and I waited until one minute before the auction closed. . .it paid off and I was the proud owner of a 1950s era RCA Victor fully automatic record player. When it arrived, as I suspected, it needed some attention - it didn't have any sound and there were some issues with the reject cycle. Least of all was the electrical cord - it was frayed after many years of (dis)use and needed replaced. So, off to the audio and video specialist 25 miles away where it languished for three months while parts were tracked down, shipped, and eventually replaced. Okay, this record player doesn't have stereo soound, and these original pressing records have had some wear, but then, they're 50 years old, some older. So, needless to say I was prepared for some the effects of some wear. What a conversation piece - photos leave a lot to the imagination, but here it is in all its glory, providing some musical backdrop to our home. It was worth the wait and worth the investment.

Wal-Mart Bags

Would someone please tell me what it is with old people and Wal-Mart bags? Why the heck do they save them? I know a person who had over ten years of them socked away in 40-gallon trash bags in a storage shed. Is this the tendency of a generation that went through a Depression that feels like stockpiling these things represents a refusal to throw anything away ("we might use them someday"), or the sign of a psychosis deep, dark, and sinister?

JFK: A Theory

A tad more bizzare than the rest. but here is one college sophomore's take on who shot JFK: "Chuck Norris traveled back in time at the first shot and caught all the bullets in his beard. . .Kennedy's head exploded in amazement. . ."

Innocent?

"My son did not shoot President Kennedy - if he did, he would have told me so. . "

-Marguerite Oswald, mother of alledged Kennedy assassin Lee Harvey Oswald

Incompetent

Food for thought:

"I know I'm incompetent; there's nothing wrong with being incompetent, you don't have to do as much."

Convicted mass murder Charles Manson to NBC Reporter Heidi Schulman

Politics, Jesus, and Me

Don't ask why I changed the font color - I don't know myself, but I thought it might be something of a change after all this green - it's not easy being green - ask Kermit the Frog. . . .

The least of this morning's felonies is that while writing this (I'm an evangelical Christian) I am listening to Led Zeppelin, the first studio album, you know, the one with the recreation of the Hindenburg disaster on the cover. It's a classic cover, and I've seen framed repros fetching several hundred dollars. The music on the disc is timeless and yet gets called demonic by the Reactionary Right. I don't get it - but maybe I do. That's another conversation for another blog - maybe I'll upload the cover image to this blog to make it appear more artsy and interesting.

Topic of focus today: Politics, Jesus, and Me - in other words, I'm ranting about the political scene, Jesus (Yes, Him), and my relationship to both.

Politics - keep it out of the church. If you're going to vote, do so by the convictions and persuasions of your own mind, and whatever you do, don't tell anyone about it, unless of course the person you tell is a trusted and true friend, one that doesn't think that godlessness and the Democratic Party are synonomous. Author David Kuo ("Tempting Faith: An Inside Story of Political Seduction") referenced a quote in this latest book that Christians could be Democrats, which ran counter to the belief that Democrats are liberal, tree-huggers, pro-abortion, etc., etc., ad nauseum. Wonder of wonders, Democrats can be Christians which is wonderful news to the present writer who has endured at least two decades of being told that God is a Republican. If so, I would like to make my views on the Iraq War a matter of earnest prayer. Personally, I think God is bipartisan, but that's what I get for thinking.

Vote, then. If you've examined the issues and feel your vote is a wasted vote, stay away from the balloting box and protest in absentia. There's nothing wrong with that, and it beats the heck out of choosing the lesser of two evils.

Believe half of what you hear and less of what you read. Both sides of the issues have ther spokespersons. Get informed. Stay with the issues and read between the proverbial lines. Buy a few books and watch the 5:30 P.M. news. Learn to think outside the parameters of special interest groups, the Sunday morning talking heads, and Nightline (but watch them all). Check out how you feel about all of it and perhaps go with you gut instincts. Take no one's word as authority for anything, especially mine. I am one person with one opinion. I took me a few years to discover that despite my passion, I am still just that: one opinion and one only. The world has many and will continue to produce opinion after opinion, so don't get too snooty about what you believe.

Jesus - now we bring a major player into the discussion.

I don't think it matters any to Jesus how you vote or whether you swear alliance to the Republican or Democratic Party. What he wants is your heart, not your vote. He wants compassion instead of political passion and wants 100% of me involved in the process of making the world a better place. And He wants you as well. We can't legislate this stuff from some stuffy, smoke-filled room (I don't think it's smoke filled anymore with the anti-smoking lobby hard at work, thankfully) in Washingnton. It has to come from the heart. Change the heart, change the mind, and you might just accidentally change the action. That's where all of us fit in, you and me.

Politics, well, I don't think that matters as much as Jesus. When He does the changing, people change, and when people change, society changes. It's not a quick fix - we got ourselves into this mess and it's going to take each of us to get us out of it. As for me, well, time for another cup of coffee.

Is Anyone Out There?

Sometimes I wonder if anyone out there reads any of this stuff - could one of those anyone's please let me know?

Friends

Spring is in the air. . .is that a phrase corny or what?

Let's see - how creative can I be describing the newness of the season?

I've got. . ."the newness of the season smells good". . .

Nope, won't do; maybe the season doesnt't smell so good downwind from a hog farm.

Okay, it's a great day to be outside doing something; the grass isn't just green, it's real green and beautiful and I'm having a good day. A good, hot cup of coffee started my day at 5:15 along with the writings of one of my favorite authors, Philip Yancey ("Prayer: Does It Make A Difference?"). I opened the front door just a tad, the freshness of the chill of a new day worked its way through the screen and birds outside were rivaling the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. No matter what else happens to them today, they're happy and don't mind letting the rest of the slumbering neighborhood know it. Three rabbits invaded the area around one of the bushes seeking breakfast, making unnecessary any weed eating this week. It's a season of newness, color, optimism, music, and the return of leisurely days. Oh yes, I can put the snow shovel away until next winter. It's a good life.

And it's made better with friends - went out to lunch with a pal today; we got tired of the crowded restaurant and came back to my place and sat in conversation. He kicked off his shoes, threw his feet up on the couch, made himself at home and shared with his views on the culture and values of the 1950s - a decade he missed thirty years too late. It was good to hear his perspective - he's got well developed insights and I respect his point of view. He's proof that youth is not wasted on the young.

Happy Spring!

Rare Batch o' Satch

This is a hard to find Louis Armstrong LP that I purchased in 1968, long after it had left the pop charts - the title track was a No. 1 hit on WLS-890 AM in Chicago, surpassing the Beatles in 1964 - believe it or not. Hearing it again takes me back to the days of the late 1960s when life and music wasn't as complicated. It just didn't get much better than this!

The Inner Sleeve

You guys that are hooked up to IPods, MP3 players, ITunes, CD players, and like technology cannot appreciate the vinyl record inner sleeve. It's a rare piece of musical Americana that was sadly neglected in its day. In these retro times, though, it's enjoyed something of a macabre comeback. There are a few CD reissues that are encased in LP-look alike covers, and even fewer still are the LP "jackets" that have an protective inner sleeve that has the original artwork included. Most notable of this strata is The Doors Original Studio Recordings (Elektra) that take you back to the 1960s in true aesthetic style. If you buy them for nothing other that this exoctica, you'll not be disappointed.

I'm not really here to proclaim the virtue of the inner sleeve as much as I am the analogy this piece of paper brings to a discussion of humanity. People are somewhat like phonograph records (CDs if you will, or even an MP3 if that association is a little easier). They have something to say if we take the time to listen - there's the crunch - taking the time to listen, to get in the groove (no pun intended) and hear what's being sung, played, or said. The Inner Sleeve, then is like what's really inside the human spirit, it's a encasement of the spirit and usually there's something significant there.

Vinyl record inner sleeves usually contained photos of other albums available from either the distributing record company, or some technical information about how that company records and manufactures its product. Columbia Records did the best job of this illustration, even including photos of a line of trendy console stereos and of course the warning that a worn or damaged needle could permamently wreck the recorded work. Inspect and change them often.

The inner sleeve above is from the Mercury Record Corporation, who seemed to have some rather colorful and eye catching cover art sleeve work. But like a lot of things back in the day, it got ignored, torn up in the haste of getting to the record which was never handled correctly and consequently smudged and later scratched up in use (though "nonbreakable"). I guess everyone was in too much of a hurry to pay attention to it. More is the loss. There were some pretty good albums to buy back then, and most of us let that information slip through our fingers.

The spirit of man is like that inner sleeve - it has something vital to say - trouble is we're too busy to pay attention. Maybe we could slow the pace of living down, give someone an ear to see and and listen to what's on their sleeve. I think we'd all be better for it; to spend time outside of ourselves and what we think is important. What do you think?

What's Up With The Guy in Row 15C?

I received an email this week from my good friend Scott.

Scott's the same age as my son and both of them have similar characteristics, two of them being a reserved outspokenness, more common sense than I ever had at that age, and a real desire to get to the heart of whatever issue they may have on their plate at whatever given moment. Neither of them are satisfied with easy answers and keep digging until they discover the truth. I'm like these two in some of those regards. I'm sometimes content to let the real truth of the matter be a matter of continual quest, weighing lots of things before I say I have something figured out. Scott and my son arrive at answers more quickly than I do and the more I'm around them I wonder if it's just an age thing. They both think quicker than I do probably because they're younger. Oh well, on with the story.

When Scott (not his real name by the way) comes home from school on break for the holidays, we usually get together over a pattie melt (him) and a grilled chicken sandwich (me) at a well established eatery here in town. I let the cole slaw pass and head for the cottage cheese, though. Calcium, you know.

We used to do these informal luncheon meetings at the upscale bagel shop here in town. Now, there's an idea: an upscale bagel shop (they have gourmet coffee, too). Actually, they have nothing anymore, having closed up shop last year. But, Scott and I are hopeful that someday they'll re-open; we have a table in a corner with a glass top and high counter chairs where we sit and discuss whatever happens to be left on our plate after the rest of the dishes are cleared away and we refill (for free) his water and my diet soda. We talk his academic year to date, politics, candidates running for office (or those who are thinking about it), Vietnam, Iraq, and guy stuff.

Oh, the email. . . .

He mentioned something in his note that sort of took me by surprise: he's just a little afraid of flying. I would never have guessed this, and I later while shaving I thought that since we've talked about just everything we had covered this at one time or another. I guess not. When it comes to air travel, I could imagine Scott just sauntering down the jet way, finding his seat, stowing his carry-on in the bin above, settling down, and napping en route. Not the case.

He's just like me - we tremble a little during take off but when crusing altitude is reached the beverage cart comes down the aisle with all the soft drinks and water you can drink for free and we're OK - for the most part. It helps me to look out the window and not wonder what the pilot is doing or why the plane is making a southerly, westerly, or whatever-the-direction turn. I don't look at the wings and I do not want to listen to transmissions from the cockpit with airline supplied headphones. It's neat to look out and wonder how many Wal-Marts you fly over, how many folks below are mowing their yards, going to school, or painting their bathrooms. In one trip you can fly over dozens of Culver's, Menard's (real men hang out there), Lowe's (the rest of the real men are there with their wives picking out paint and wallpaper); mail is being delivered, cars are being washed, and diapers being changed. And someone is laying in a hammock 30,000 feet below looking up and wondering where the plane I'm flying in is headed.

That part of Scott's life was a mystery to me until this week, and to tell you the truth, I'm glad he shared it. I guess it lets me know that all of us are struggling with something, some vexatious something that we know is more of an annoyance than anything else. Still, we find ourselves bedeviled with our humanity, at a loss to conquer all this stuff. Matter of fact, Scott said something along those lines a few sentences later, and it helped me deal with my phobia in a new way. For me, it's a control issue. For two hours I'm out of control of where I'm going, trusting someone I don't know from Colonel Sanders to take me to a destination I paid a hundred and something dollars to go to. I guess that's the essence of faith, whether we're flying or walking the earth below, trusting God to take us to an eventual destination we've never seen but believe exists.

Others are dealing with stuff as well. I'm looking around the plane wondering about the lady in 12A - she sits there reading the paper, I wonder if she had a fight with her husband this morning. What's her story? How about the businessman in first class 5B nursing a drink while going over the contents of an over-priced leather binder. What are his issues? Does he want to be on this flight to an appointment or home with the kids, or maybe raking the yard? How about the guy in row 15C? He keeps looking out the window, trying to peer straight down to see what he can see. I wonder if he's scared to death or glad to be flying? The pilot announced a few minutes ago that we were starting our slow descent into the city. Maybe he'll feel better when the plane is locked in final approach. Maybe he's scared to death to think about landing; are the engines going to reverse in time to keep the plane from crashing through a fence and into the parking lot of 31 Flavors?

We've all got a story, a tale to tell, problems to be resolved, and inner conflicts that aren't soothed with Haggen Daaz or Starbucks. But we do have each other and the familiarity and blessing of friendship. It's great to tell someone, "hey, this is my struggle, what do you think about it?"

Thanks, Scott, for sharing your journey. Next time you're home, let's wear our cowboy boots when we go for lunch. Maybe someone will think we're real kick-butt dudes and not wonder if we're afraid to fly.

A Lotta Cash

That's a lotta Cash in that photo. . .it's a collection of some of the very best the Legendary Man In Black has ever done. I like to think that whatever Cash collection I've got on the stereo is the best, since I don't think he ever made a bad record. I must confess some of the very early Sun waxings probably left something to be desired by today's standards, but they seemed to lay the groundwork for what was coming - simple, uncomplicated music that has a like message. It's music for the masses, the ultimate for those reject a lot of complexity in life and songs. He said what he meant and meant what he said, and captured several generations of respect for the great body of material he produced.

The Folsom Prison and San Quentin albums were more than just concerts that were captured on tape and released. He was affirming those inmates and stating through presence and song that each of them mattered. It was Billy Graham who told Cash to keep doing what he did best - singing to people and reaching out where others might not take opportunity to go. Where others may have seen a sea of wasted humanity, he saw a bunch of guys that needed a song. Sounds almost like a God thing, huh?

The Captain and the Caveman

Caveman lived near the sea from time to time.

He came to the cave to get away from the press of people he found every day. He couldn't live here all the time, but retreated inside when things got too much to handle. It was comfortable and warm. He started bringing a few books here now and again, and on sunny days would sit near the entrance on a rock and devour poetry, prose, and philosophy. It's a world no one could penetrate, although cavers did stop from time to time to explore the inner regions of Caveman's hiding place. If he was there, he wouldn't let them in, despite the fact that not too far from the mouth of the cave were many natural wonders. A stream ran through it on its sojourn to the sea that made earth music like he had never heard before.

It wasn't his cave to keep people out of, and he was always careful to take anything he brought home with him. He really wanted to put a sign on the front of it and let people know they weren't welcome. His attitude when anyone came around, though, made that sign unnecessary and soon passersby who were familiar with the area simply stayed away and looked for other, more inviting caves along the seashore to venture into. "My world, my cave, and I don't want anyone here," reasoned.

One afternoon in spring, Caveman noticed banks of threatening clouds along the southern horizon. He knew a storm was coming; winds that had only been warm and breezy became chilly and blustery and boats that were hugging the shoreline several hundred yards off started to make for the harbor. The rain came in late afternoon, in torrents, waves became unruly and began dashed the rocks relentlessly nearby. Peering through the gloom of the storm, that he noticed a small rowboat heading toward the pier down the shoreline. In fair weather, the harbor and the pier wasn't a problem to get to from the ocean. In this wind and rain, it was impossible. Though Caveman didn't anyone around, he felt a little sorry for the captain of the tiny craft, picked up a lantern, and signalled for the rower to head toward the safety of the cave. The strong arms of the captain had to be just about giving out, thought Caveman. At last he reached the mouth of the cave and Captain tossed anchor overboard, jumped out and waded to the cave entrance.

"I don't have much to offer you," began Caveman with hesitation, "but you're welcome to come in. I've some coffee and you can dry out before continuing on." The Captain beamed his appreciation and the two sat down on rocks near the cave entrance and discussed the storm.

"I have been looking for safe harbor now for a few hours, knowing that bad weather was coming," he began. "Nothing was visible from my boat, but when you shone the light my way, I knew someone cared enough to guide me to shore. If I stayed out there much longer, I'm not sure what would have happened. A guiding light in a storm is a wonderful thing, but you find so few these days."

On and on they talked - of life, of loves, of storms, the sea; Caveman spoke of poetry and great books he had read and took one from his backpack. He handed it to the captain with a smile and told him to take it with him. It was a favorite, but Caveman didn't care. There were others.

Came the night, and the storm's fury became greater. Caveman, sensing himself in the presence of a friend, offered his sleeping bag, meanwhile dozing off in a corner on some blankets he had brought with him the previous day. Not thinking he would sleep a wink, he drifted off quickly to a night of peaceful slumber, waking the next morning just as dawn announced the start of another day. He walked to the entrance of the cave and beheld a cloudless sky. The rain left a lingering fragrance of newness, wildflowers growing near the edge of the water amidst clumps of grass shouted refreshed shades of color. Caveman sat on the rocks and breathed in the moist air and contemplated the events of the past afternoon. Sharing what he had, though not much, had driven desire to remain in the cave away for a while. He wanted to get out, be up and about. His thoughts were interrupted by the captain who was coming out of the cave, ready to depart.

"Going so soon?" asked Caveman.

"Yes, I must be on my way. I've a few miles to cross before I arrive at my cottage down the shore. I want to get yesterday's catch dressed and ready," he replied.

Caveman convinced the captain to stay long enough to share some coffee. He thanked Caveman for hospitality and heart, lumbered to the rowboat, pulled anchor, and gently rowed away on the silent, glassy harbor. In minutes, he had rounded the bend out of sight and the surface of the harbor was again silent. The soft dipping of oars was heard no more.

Caveman had let someone past the entrance of not only his home but his heart. Both had shared their lives, laughter, tales from the sea; tales from the cave. . .

He eventually came away from so much cave dwelling, and remembered the light he had shone across the water to a wayfaring stranger and how he let Captain in - it felt warm and wonderful, and new. Best of all, he wanted to do it again.

The Singer and the Musician

The Singer is a musician.

He's got the passion and riffs of a John Mayer and the optimism of Sinatra's high-in-the sky apple pie hopes.

"You're going to be hearing a lot from me, soon," he says.

Singer plans to gig it for the summer on whatever he can make in tips in his guitar case and encouragement from passersby like me. I threw leftover change from Starbucks in his case, listened to him for a few minutes and then folded a crisp dollar bill under his cell phone.

"I'm from the 95th and Cicero area here in Chicago," he tells me, adding that this area of North Michigan Avenue is going to be home for spring and summer. Come fall, he's heading to California.

Right now, famous names are within a block or so of this gadabout minstrel: Brooks Brothers, Neiman Marcus, Anne Taylor, Saks Fifth Avenue. They're all here in copper on buildings and etched in glass. They reflect a culture that has arrived (they think they have, anyway) and have disposable money to burn. If Singer/Musician has five dollars tops in his guitar case he's lucky. The world passes him by, a few stopping to listen, the business suits on their way to meetings, and the shoppers on the way to the next store and a name brand bag to carry out the door, the contents charged to a card quietly commanding 20% or more interest on the unpaid balance.

Somehow, with music and a plan, Singer/Musician is faring better than all of them.

Dream Ride

This 2005 Harley Davidson Road King is the bike I would like to own - it belongs to a co-worker, but he allowed me to photograph it. I would rather do it in blue but he didn't call me up and ask what color I thought his bike should be. All I need is about $18,000 and it's mine. Neat, huh?

Conversations

If I told you about it, you'd not believe it, but then you might.

My buddy (I'll call him Bob) and I got talking guy stuff last week, for better or worse. We just sort of vented about different stuff, things we'd done, where, when, that sort of thing. I walked away from that one wondering if I should have revealed so much, but then, it was sort of burning in the recesses of my mind for quite some time, so perhaps for one time it was good to get it all of my chest. I'm really antsy for nicer weather to get here; being stuck in the house is getting really old, and maybe with that frustration I decided to open up and let it out. It's kind of like a fantasy island so to speak. Not a place you want to stay all the time, just visit now and then - does that make any sense?

Ironies and Observations

Currrently listening: Obscure 45s from the ancient Colpix Records label circa late 1950s and 1960s. I promise I'll get current one of these days. If you check out my Xanga blog, you'll discover that I'm a fan of Johnny Cash and John Mayer.

Irony: I read a lot about the virtues of grace, compassion, and unconditional love, but seem to show less of it as a result (at least sometimes anyway). I guess I'm afraid that I might have to step out of a comfort zone. Could be.

Observation: I need to step out of that comfort zone and get with it. This whole buisness of living a Christian life is more than just words on paper that go to the head and give said head lofty ideals and little else. Showing grace, compassion, and unconditional love require action, uncomfortable action at that. I'm working on it, okay?