I want to blog and have had several thoughts which I ought to have blogged recently but haven’t had the time. Now that I have (made) a little time, I don’t know what to write about. So here are some options. Pick One. (This is really just my way of blogging with no effort)

“Careful Language” or “Eff-ing and Jehovah”
I have had plenty of conversations regarding “swear/curse/dirty/cuss words”. I don’t think they exist. There are words that are powerful, rare, vulgar and hateful. There are situations in life that are powerful, rare, vulgar, hateful, and unavoidable. They need to be addressed. With words. Generally, I can get people onboard. Up unto the infamous “eff-word” Very few can agree that there ought to be a word which alludes to illicit, vulgar sex. I grant that this word would probably fall on the atomic bomb end of my scale of usable words, but I feel like the general aversion to this word is cultural not ideological. (yes I get that a large aspect of language is culture, but this not a post, its an option for a post) Anyway, all this to say. Why is the “eff-word” more sacred (set apart) than God’s name? I’ve heard plenty of friends let slip an LNIV (thats Lord’s Name In Vain) but nary an eff-word in sight. Why? I wouldn’t mind writing more in depth about this.


“A Place to Die”
I’ve written about the friends I’ve made and the people I love at the several nursing homes here in Moscow. I’ve spent little time actually addressing the philosophy behind nursing homes, nor have I attempted to evaluate the value of nursing homes. This ought to be done.


Finally,
“On Polenta”
I’ve been perfecting my Eggs Benedict recipe, using polenta rather than an English muffin, and I’m pleased… very pleased… you’d like to here about this.


I’m kind of messing with you guys. I’m gonna write about whatever I want.

Bucket List

We were assigned to write a one year bucket list, what would we want to do if we knew we were going to die one year from today.

I want to pass all my classes. With only a year left I’m not sure why, but I think it matters.
I want to paint something worth remembering and write something worth publishing.
I want to cook with truffles, and Kobe beef.
I want to finally perfect my orange chicken recipe.
I want to drink twenty-five year old scotch.
I want to drink fifty year old scotch.
I want to drink two hundred year old scotch.
I want to lead my friends who have fallen away back to the faith.
I want to go back to Italy and Greece.
I want to stand on top of that mountain in Delphi, smelling wild sage and thyme, watching the sunrise over the bay of Corinth.
I want to wrestle with my Dad one more time.
I want to see my unborn niece. I want to see her laugh. I want to see her baptized.
I want to see my father’s father who I haven’t spoken to in five years.
I want to see my mother’s father you hasn’t spoken to her in three years.
I want to go to Poland.
I want to see my friends do great things. I want to see them be more bold.
I want to defend somebody with my hands. I want it to come to blows.
I want to die for someone, or something. I don’t want to just fade.
I want my heart to burst in my chest from doing too much than dying having accomplished nothing.
I want to be laid in the ground under a cross and “I want For All The Saints” sang over my grave.

Marie

This will be Marie’s last winter. Her face is crooked. The wind changed and it got stuck that way. Her hands are like tiny bones in a bag, dwarfed as she puts both of hers into one of mine. Her voice comes out of her throat as though it were being dragged over sand-paper. She’s withered since the summer. More leaves have fallen. Her trunk is overcome by its own slight weight. Her limbs are more bent. She used to use her legs. Now she use a nurse and a chair with wheels. She’s all knuckles and creases now. The sun left town today, and I don’t think she’ll be here when he gets back. I won’t see the sun for six months. Marie may see it in weeks. Marie will find summer before I do.

19

I’ve gone around the sun nineteen times. I’ve pushed over trees and played with ants. I’ve painted walls and faces and floors. I’ve seen a man die. I’ve read my bible with moderate to poor consistency. I’ve seen my father get white bristles in his beard. I’ve seen my brother cry. I’ve gotten bigger than most. I’ve been tipsy. I’ve been really angry. I’ve smelt wild sage on a mountain in Delphi. I’ve seen two sisters baptized and a brother married. I’ve picked up big things and have been knocked over by very small things. I cried in church this week. I went West, young man. I’ve chipped a tooth, broken a bone, busted a knuckle, blacked an eye. I’ve loved and been loved. These last nineteen years were good, are good, will always be good. They cling to me like smoke in a jacket. The best part is I get more. More years to hide in my pockets and under my hat. Years that will be filled with babies, and beer, and new love and old love. I’m already wet with life and I’ve only had so little. It’s been a good year. Time for another round.

2222

So guys we kind of blew right past 2000, but i will bless whoever can prove that they we're number 2222 (yup, prove, as in take a screen capture).

From Spurgeon: The world lends a willing hand and shakes us to the right and to the left with great vigor. Well, well! Let it go on. Thus is the chaff severed from the wheat!

From Tyler: Having pink eye is like having the world lend a willing hand and shake you with great vigor by the eyeball.

100

I’ve spent the last two months trying to think up ways to make all the old posts cohesive and interesting in a group. That attempt was about as difficult as herding rabid three-legged toddlers. The only thing that comes to mind is to post about something which I’ve never written about on this blog: mi madre. The astute observer will have noticed that I’ve written about my uncle, brothers and sisters, and often about my father. Never about my mom. For those you know me better you’ve probably seen a handful of more or less roughly sketched portraits and paintings of the pater familias, laying around my studio. Some of you who know me worse might think I don’t have much of a relationship with my mother. You’d be wrong. Think of my dad as my face and my mom as my backbone. Both are integral but one is aesthetic and the other is structural. My dad gave me his nose, his sense of humor, and many of his skills. My mom gave me my ideas about justice and home. I’ve written and drawn my Dad so often because its easy. Big nose, beard, tired eyes: he’s a caricature. My mother on the other hand is a paradox. I could write about her about as easily as I could describe a square with no hard edges. Its such a strange mix of strength, and femininity, and grace and fairness, that I nearly threw away this document and almost decided to not even post this entry. Maybe I’ll try again when I’m smarter. So this is to Mom. My 100th blog post.

Uncomfortable

Has anyone else had a diminutive bald man with a New England see you stand up and lisp, "Well you're a tall drink of water!"

Its weird, and I didn't like it.

It might be a few days before I post again as my next post will be my hundredth and I'm gonna make it special.

T

Morgan Again

"Sometimes its good to be naked."

Honest Question- Raised by a friend outside of my family, calm down, all hypothetical.

If one of your siblings was getting married to a non believer would you attend the ceremony? I absolutely would go to the man's bachelor party, to keep him from dishonoring my sister the night before their wedding. And I can see myself getting more involved in my sister's life afterwards, because she will need support and love all the more. My question isn't whether I would drop out of her life. Certainly not, just the opposite. I can't support the union, because he can't love her as Christ loves the Church, because he doesn't love Christ. Her father is going to have to continue doing that for him. Her Father is still her covenant head in many bregards. My Question is; would i attend the ceremony (coming from the middle latin awed, or revered rite) between a believer and a nonbeliever?

Morgan is still smarter than me

"In my shop, I'll sell things to people, and jordan will fix their hair, and you'll stand at the door and draw pictures for the walls and mom will where a giant chicken suit and wave signs outside."

Morgan is smarter than me

According to my 7 year old sister: "Gymnastics is the best thing ever... except for God, and Jesus,... and friends and family... and life... oh oh oh and forgiveness. So its the seventh greatest thing ever. maybe gymnastics is just cool."

Sister Nature

Today is one of those days where the weather couldn't be the way it is without a story behind it. Surely something happened that we don't know about. The fallen earth is crying, big wet tears rolling down her cheek and into her soup. Everything is wet. She's not ripping her hair out and tearing her dress. She's sulking in a corner, and she doesn't want your hand on her shoulder. The boy she loves through a water balloon at her. Someone hit her dog with a car. You didn't want her hanging out with her friends. I just want to hug her, tell her it will be ok. Beat the boy. Buy a new Dog. Bring her along. but I can't. So I think we'll just take a nap together.

Life

There is nothing wrong with going through life asleep, as long as you're dreaming.

Rude

This Just In! Baptist Children to name themselves after obtaining driver's license: Noone knows what the heck to call them in the meantime.

What is your favorite movie?

For the whole argument go to

http://pushlings.wordpress.com/2009/06/09/whats-your-favorite-movie/

Christian you’ve played into my hand. A movie is a painting, a picture of an idea. We get to pick the meaning. You said you’ll let your sons watch it “when they reach a certain age.” The age when they will garner the right meaning. I’m old enough to see that a Nietzschian will to power can only be (almost) consistently applied by a man who is certifiably insane and that the results are destructive (yes david a nihilistic win but because I’m not a nihilist, i consider it a catastrophe). I honestly wasn’t old enough when I first saw it and definitely thought how cool it would be to start a fight club and be a slick sonofabitch like Tyler Durden (at this point it would be good to point out that I never wanted to be a terrorist). I used the movie for evil, or a least I was evil in how I viewed the movie. I now view it in a morally edifying way. A movie can’t have a moral quality in vacuum (the existential aspect is necessary for the movies ethic.) The movie isn’t wicked sitting on my shelf. I think this is true with any art. You can view The Birth of Venus with respect for the artist, and with wonder at God’s gifts, or you can masturbate to it. The Art is the situation and there are decrees about how we should interact with it. Without interaction we can’t evaluate the art. David makes a good point: looking at nihilism can be edifying in the context of the truth. I think that context of truth will prevent viewing certain things as well. I comprehensively understand the evil that a pornographic snuff film portrays without watching one.

I absolutely admit that Fight Club makes an evil argument. If I listen to the argument, the movie has induced me to evil. If I argue back, the movie has been edifying and has strengthened my defenses. I think my main point is that good and evil are considerably more providential then inherent.

Watch this

http://www.hulu.com/watch/75946/dave-matthews-band-41-live-from-the-beacon-theatre

What the what?

WHO WAS IT?!

I will bless you

Don't forget to tell me if you are the 1000th viewer. You will be blessed (maybe). View tracker at the bottom of the page.

Friends

I figured my folks would be very curious about the new friends I made over the school year. Not wanting to be put on the spot I made a list of just a few with the impression that the have imprinted on me in the last nine months. Obviously I've only given initials, but if you know me and know them then the identity should be obvious.

K- But by the grace of God be he the most dynamic Southern Baptist Preacher of the Twenty-First Century.
T- Stud.
B- God was having a rough day proportioning size and personality. Of course a compliment.
R- My artsy conscience.
J- Six matchsticks with a head held together by environmentally conscientious clothing and indie music.
D- You are Pluto… You know Goofy’s dog.
M- Made of bricks and laughs and sweat and strength and family and his Grandfather and God.
C- Brilliance hidden under a yellow hoodie.
J- You are a bicycle. Simply and unequivocally. Useful and commonplace and laughable in a math class.
J- Peter Jackson’s beard. Just his beard.
C- The word “bonehead” shouldn’t be construed as an insult, it is a compliment of the highest order.
R- I think you are your hair, wild and free and rare, but somehow perfectly suitable.
E- I imagine you being carried away over the shoulder of a Viking. I don’t know why.
R- For some reason I see you as a cynical PI working the Florida Retirement Home beat. Its probably the chest hair.

Battered by Travel I type incoherently

It is certainly a strange thing to leave home. Almost as strange as going back. When we leave home it is a revolt into nothing, a hopeless leap into an unknown. After a time, however, the unknown becomes known and more importantly becomes home. We dive headfirst into the dark future and let our eyes get accustomed until it seems very much like the present seemed. Going home is a Re-revolt, Devolution, going from light to light. By my estimation change is often regarded as an introduction. Commencement, if you will. We shake the dust off our sandals and keep walking. It is a strange feeling to return to the old dust. After a year away from home with every week laying some new spike strip or revealing a new golden ticket, I feel quite unprepared for 3 months of quietude, of constancy, of Maryland. But then again if this feeling is strange, it is also new. Strange means little more than unfamiliar, and if my thoughts of home are that of relative unfamiliarity, then going home is new. It is unfamiliar simply because of my recent falling out with familiarity. Home is completely familiar and yet not, like an old picture or forgotten shoes. A general expectation that the shoe will still fit holds at once an insult to your growth and a compliment to your constancy. It is difficult to close out this entry. I can’t write a conclusion because I have no conclusion. I can’t close out Moscow any more than I can prepare myself for Maryland its all strange, all new, all commencement, and all unfamiliar.

Sorry

Jeez Guys... sorry for the late great blog lameness. But guess what! Schools over! So hears what's on my mind.



Absolutely Nothing !!!!!

Ty

Hands

Bleeding knuckles drip
On rotten wood
Like red sweat off a wrinkled head.
Jagged nails rest on scarred fingers
Busted purple at the tip
Like helmets on witless soldiers,
Blithely following commands.
Real bruises remind that the hands
Are fully man’s:
The product of a hammer swinging slip.
I thought that carpentry
Had left my hands just like the Carpenter’s.
But I was wrong.
These are a soldier’s hands.
These knuckles bled as I beat Him.
These nails chipped as I pierced Him.
These hands bruised as I pounded Him
Into the cross.
I won’t make Pilot’s damn mistake.
I can’t
Wash the Carpenter’s blood from my hands.
It’s the only thing that covers my scars.

Antkowiaks are like Oranges or Poem for Morgan

The youngest girl, my Morgan Rae,
Near Eight and blonde and bright.
Her reckless teeth brighten my day,
They flash all bent and white.

Her older sister, fourteen now,
Both beautiful and tall.
And even if my dad allows
I’ll kill the first to call.

Her brother Bran is big and mean
So says one who might dare
But if you pass this grizzly sheen
You find a teddy bear

My mother, goddess of the home,
Both love and grace supplies.
A mighty woman she alone
Cooked food for Bran and I.

Our father kind, the patriarch,
Would bounce me on his knee.
One day I learned his past was dark;
He’d rocked on MTV.

That leaves just me, the second son
No better and no worse,
I did what none thought could be done
Antkowiak in verse.

News

So when reporting the news, just what are "the facts"? At a gay rights parade or abortion rally is evil just as much a fact as the color of the chief organizers shirt? thoughts?

In other news, notice the new blog counter at the bottom of the page. Important numbers will be rewarded.

T

Professor Appel's Eyebrow

We stand upon this barren balding plain,
Our ranks much thinned by craft of fursome foe.
We stand the pale thin vangaurds ‘gainst the rain.
But cannot block the sun or shield from snow.
And who could be the enemy so great?
The self-important foe who drives us back,
He forays north while rests his dext’rous mate.
He flies enraged in self-impressed attack.
Twixt jutting ears, above all-seeing eyes
He reigns. Each Tuesday jumping in the air,
Our border ocean creased in pleased surprise
He sails across to make our army bare.
But who are we this eyebrow fills with dread?
We are the hairs that die on Appel’s head.

March 31

My eyes fly open and hit the day like headlights on a dear, the first flicker of the oncoming collision. As my head twists toward the digital alarm clock, the traitor, its sneering face gleefully winks 6:54. Morning Prayer starts at 7:00. I fall up out of bed and trip on yesterday’s shirt. It is black with an orange and white logo. Black hides stains. Yesterday’s shirt just become today’s. The button-down is suitably matched by yesterday’s jeans. I only have to make it through morning prayer after all, where everyone’s hair is still shower wet and everyone’s eyes can barely be seen peeking out of the bags that carry them. I trundle into my study for my brown boots and the wall clock’s long arm ends in what looks like a middle finger somewhere closer to twelve than eleven. My computer reassures me that it’s only 6:56. My watch pronounces an angry 6:59. I run through the dark house back to my bedroom. Grab keys. Grab phone. The stupid little piece of technology idiotically grins 6:58. I certainly don’t have time for a coat. I run outside and slam headfirst into the new day and six inches of spring snow.

Summer was over. Only this Sunday stood between me and the cavernous abyss that is the eighth grade. Fellowship dinner had drawn to a close and everyone except the Boswells had gone home. Dr. Boswell, my father, Brandon and I sat on my back porch, weathered and worn to a splintered gray, in the cool September air, with four glasses of wine, in four groaning green lawn chairs that shot creaking reproaches every time we shifted our weight. Dr. Boswell was wearing a blue oxford shirt. His belly fell over his belt like a blue oxford wave over a khaki beach. My father’s tenor voice said something that I was too busy poking Brandon to hear, and the good doctors epicurean eyes lit up and he nodded in grateful assent. My father walked inside past the busted screen door leaning at ease against the house. He returned as Prometheus, a wooden box tucked under his arm. The box. The humidor. It was red like blood and smelled like heaven. He handed Dr. Boswell a thick robusto. But he was not done. He put his hand in the humidor again and pulled out two light thin cigars. Six inches long and three quarters of an inch in diameter. A fitting first. Its blond tan hue laughed at my red sun-kissed hands. Its wrapper was thick with veins and smooth as felt. It tasted like chocolate and leather and fire and earth and summer. It was six inches of summer: three months of summer tightly rolled and laid in my hand.

Recess

The grass was soft. It felt like running your hand over your father’s best ties. Ten years later, when I graduated, this patch of heaven had been reduced to yellow stubble by ten more classes of glow in the dark sneakers. But back then the grass was as young as I. God’s green earth met man’s black asphault. We could get close enough to Indian landing Road to feel the wind from the cars push us back on to grass. Then Miss Brophy would yell for us to be safe. I was smaller then. As close to cute as I ever will be. I had a bowl cut. It was tag, and red shirts were it. I had a red shirt. Matt had a white shirt. Ready. Go. He was made of matchsticks. I was made of logs. It was not the fairest of chases. I grazed his shirt. He didn’t believe me, so we both kept running. As we jumped roots I shortened the gap. My legs were longer. He turned his coconut head to see just how close I was. I gave him a tag that was more like a push. He turned and his head hit a low thick branch like a softball on a Louisville slugger. He fell to the ground alternately crying and laughing. The giant knot on his head felt like a stress ball. We were young enough to worry and old enough to laugh. The perfect Godsmack.

God is the April Fool.
He gives us snow in undo season.
He makes men with strong jaws and covers them with thick fur.
He gives women beautiful legs and then puts knees in the middle of them.
He makes toes.
He made me.
He made Canada.
God made the principle of the swerve. The Atomists weren’t crazy after all. Almost.
Everything falls in an almost straight line. Almost.
God made man. God made monkeys.
Darwin wasn’t crazy after all. Almost
God made us similar enough to apes to give Darwin an excuse.
And different enough to damn him.
God make fat men the best singers.
Asians the best cellists.
Thieves the most generous.
Liars the best storytellers.
God made my brother and I together.
He the son of Vulcan, I the son of Bacchus.
Both sons of Mars.
Both Sons of Jeff.
God is the Mad Prankster.
He made this mortal temple.
This gas expelling, hair growing, ass scratching temple of the Holy Spirit.
He made Moscow.
He made it wet.
He made it snow in the end of March.
God is the April Fool.
We are April fools for not seeing it.

Hey... he's alive.

The Travel Post

Sorry for the Late Great Blog Silence. The mind is weak and the body is busy. I’ve finished my third term at New Saint Andrews and I’m happy to report it went well, quietly even. No broken bones were had, a rarity, respectable grades and good fellowship aplenty. I’ve begun singing at several nursing homes this past term that have made me laugh to the point that I nearly shared my entertainer’s incontinence. Between Wild Bill (from over the hill, who never worked a day in his life and never will), Evelyn who openly criticizes our singing, and my friend who has told me about her granddaughter who wore a little bathing suit on the grass at least once a visit, I think I’ve found a favorite: I was talking with a woman who will be turning 96 in April. After exchanging a few pleasantries about the weather (freezing rain and snow) she asked my name.
“Tyler Antkowiak, ma’am.”
They all really like being called ma’am.
“And what type of a name is that?”
“Its Polish, ma’am.”
Long pause.
“And how have you enjoyed your time in our country?”
“Oh just fine, ma’am, America is a beautiful place.”

My Question:
If movies are the modern equivalent of novels, are trailers the modern equivalent of poems? Watch a few for cinematographically charged dramas, or emotionally charged (ha!) action movies.
My Book: The Supper of the Lamb By Robert Capon. This book reminded me what it is to be human. I recommend it particularly if you have no culinary interests.
My Food: Corned Beef Reuben (best I’ve ever had) from Nana’s Irish Pub in Newport, Oregon.
TyTunes: Stevie Ray Vaughan: Live Alive. Great live album especially the tracks Superstition, and Willie the Wimp.

Uncle George

His hands were like gloves, filled with rocks and sticks. They were oil stained and rough and brown. His hands pulled trees up by the roots, mashed potatoes out of bowls, and new believers out of the baptismal font. His hands held me while we both fell asleep watching figure skating during the 96 Olympics. His hands scratched everything. His hands threw a wicked wiffle ball. His hands held Kathy tight every time she cried. His hands patted Randy on the back every time he was proud. His hands gave noogies. His hands operated hammers and trucks and guitars. Its easier to remember his hands. They drew cartoons that I still keep. They called strikes and threw ignorant coaches out of games. They showed me how big Boog Powel’s forearms were. They missed buttons, wiped stains on jeans, and grabbed more chips than he could fit in his mouth. Those hands worked harder than mine ever will. They will always be stronger than mine. The world will never know better hands. Those hands now play catch with the greats. Those hands now hold pierced hands. I’d give anything to hold those hands again.

It is certainly curious that “The Poets have been oddly silent on the topic of Cheese.” This most glorious invention of man and gift from God, I hardly dare speak of. How could I in a mere 250 words, words that could never convey the reality that is cheese, tell you of the joy of Jarlsberg, the richness of Ricotta, the marvels of Mascarpone, the pleasure of Parmesan, the greatness of Gouda? To make cheese is Covenant fulfillment. God sent the Israelites into the land of Canaan, the land of milk and honey, to subdue it. Surely God did not merely want Joshua to subdue the land and the pagan people. God wanted him to subdue the milk. The Israelites would have known this and most assuredly began making Brie and blessing it with the bees’ hard labor. Cheese also bears a redemptive message. Limburger reminds us of the odiousness of our sin, while a Danish blue cheese, like an ancient Ebenezer, can remind us of the bitterness of the cross. A tart Lorraine Swiss reminds us of our need to be holy. We learned last week that the blessed curd is an allegory of our total depravity and justification. If you can get something as noble as cheese from something as ignoble as a cat, then God surely is strong to save. After all if cheese is not noble and praiseworthy sustenance, why would the God of goats and grapes have so perfectly married it to wine which makes our hearts glad?

Wet Snow. Sick House. Week Six.

There you lay bright as death
cold and blue
Angelic eyes cracking the window
you move
our eyes cannot touch
yours are closed and mine are open
Its no fair exchange for you to look out and let nothing in
you fall again
your messianic pose strewn across the madonna couch
The snow fell but it didn't stay
Somehow it turned the couch and you and everything blue.
These sham winters and false springs leave us could and wet.
They freeze our hearts and melt our heads.

Sitting in the back at Trinity

Little shrieks punctuate the constant humm
of infants mewling and puking in their mothers arms
little damnations landing on wrists
little salvations entering mouths
These have tasted the heavenly gift
These rejoice in singing all the more
they can't sing parts
they spill juice
they shift in their seats
they push their sisters
They unite us to Christ
Become like the least of these and enter rest
These little cries are the sounds of the covenant
They reverberate of the roof of heaven
They batter down the doors of hell

Goodwill, Laundromat, Basement

There’s a place I go in hopes that giants have died.
That I may plunder the treasure which they have cast beside.
To clothe from the cold my pale Polish hide.
And in style and comfort to the sunset I’ll ride.

There's a place where I take my stains.
Where I take my clothes for a spin and a drain.
With cameras and guitars we tickle our brains.
Then we leave in silver trains.

Heavy on my feet I land
In the room where I cannot stand.
We play at cards and food and band
me and the friends I find so grand.

Nominae Sanctorum

I thought I would get to watch the funeral. It threw me a bit, but then again I don’t know why I thought I would. So much for stereotypes. There probably isn’t even an escalator. The line is long and its getting longer. I shouldn’t have expected an immediate audience, but I didn’t expect to wait so long. This is worse than the DMV.
The line stretches far in front of me but suddenly I feel a jerk underneath my feet and I’m flying toward a white light. Imagine a friend a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than you lifting you up to hug you. There is a mild discomfort, not derived from the friends imposing bigness but from your shrinking smallness. The unseen embrace dragged me up and suddenly I was before the face of… something. I don’t know if it was God… I don’t think they let you see God that easy. Suddenly I heard a voice. Not with my ears. I don’t think ears work as well in heaven… If this is heaven. I heard the voice with my teeth; it was in my head. It asked me what my name was. I told him. Or it. Or her.
“My name is Mark.”
“No it is not.”
I’ve never hid from a disagreement, but to be disagreed with in my own head was a little galling. And what right had it to be in my head anyway?
“Really, then first why the Hell did you ask? And second, what do you think my name is?”
“I do not think your name is anything. I know what it is.”
I was having Lion King flashbacks.
“Then what is it?”
“Lee.”
Heaven is random.
“Why is that?”
“For the same reason your smile happens more to the left side of your face, hair will not grow on your upper lip, and one of your arms is a half inch shorter than the other. It is how our Father made you.”
I wouldn’t have minded giving up my crooked smile, barren lip or asymmetrical arms, but I really liked my name. It was actually my middle name, but as soon I could talk I asked that everyone called me Mark. I busted a friends lip when I was twelve because he promised he would never call me Mark. Before I got married I had my name legally rearranged to have Mark as my first name. Who wants to be Timothy anyway?
“You must have me mistaken for someone else.”
“Do you think I could be in your head and mistake you for someone else?”
It had me there.
“Well, I assure you my name is Mark.”
“That does not suit you. The name Lee fits you. Your name is the essential tooth on the key that will allow you into heavenly rest. Surely the name you have given yourself is not worth the alternative.”
“What if I think it is?”
Suddenly I was rushing down. A different embrace drew me down this time. This was the hug of a child exactly half your height slamming into you, doubling you over, making your stomach hurt. I was in hell. It was just how I pictured it. Or at least how Gary Larson pictured it. Finally something expected. Amid the stalagmites there was a small receptionist desk and behind this desk sat a shedevil who looked startling like my high school sweetheart. She looked at me with a knowing smile.
“Angela?”
“Mark?”
“Yeah, how are you?”
She didn’t reply, but smiled again and after a moment told me that I was expected. I noticed a door that may not have been when I arrived. She asked if I wanted something to drink, and as I began to answer she poured me a scotch. I couldn’t see where the bottle came from.
When I entered the office, a ruddy man with dapper clothes and slick hair stood to greet me. He had the characteristic twin bumps on his forehead. Just like I wanted. His manner reminded me of my favorite uncle. He grabbed my hand gave it two solid pumps and asked me how my scotch was.
“Smooth.”
“Oh, how rude of me, I am the Morning Star.”
“I’m Mark.”
“Wonderful name… He tried to take it didn’t He?”
“Yeah… how did you know?”
“He tried to take mine as well.”
I liked him. He spoke to me, not in me. He liked my name.
“I thought it would be hotter.”
“Celestial subterfuge. I can make it warmer if you wish, but we try to keep it as comfortable as possible.”
He walked to a thermostat on the rough stone wall that I’m almost sure was not there when I entered. It didn’t bother me for some reason. My perception of Hell must simply be more fluid than I expected. It was warm and soft; not at all like the sterile fixedness of heaven, or wherever I just was.
“No its fine.”
“I’ll tell you what, Mark, why don’t you come work for me. Angela isn’t working out so well, and I could use a good man like you around.”
My mother had no idea what Hell was like. She couldn’t possibly understand that Father O’Toole was off his little Irish rocker.
“I’d love a job. I couldn’t imagine standing around singing for the rest of my life.”
I always hated singing.
“And anyways, who wants to spend eternity as Lee.”
At this the Morning Star burst out in uncontrollable laughter.
“Lee? They tried to name you Lee? Those sneaky bastards didn’t pull the ‘key’ bit on you did they?”
I nodded my assent and he responded with another great peel of laughter.
“Listen Mark, keep your name, stay with me, you can’t imagine how quickly you can progress through the ranks down here.”
“Deal.”
As our hands touch I again felt the warm oversized embrace and the rush upwards. I landed in the white realm that I hand grown to hate and before me stood a rough wooden door. In the door there was cut out a silhouette as though a man exactly my size had just run through it. Through the Mark (or Lee) shaped hole I could see bright sunshine and green fields. My side of the door felt like a dentists office. The voice suddenly appeared this time not in my head but separate from me. It was covered in wings and eyes and had the rainbow shimmer of oil on pavement.
“Welcome back Lee.”
“My name is Mark.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. It’s my name, damn it!”
Something in me twitched and I made a mad charge at the door. I bounced off my hole as if it were a semi-truck.
“Lee, this is your last chance. What is your name?”
I hated him. I hated him so much I wanted to rip out every feather, gauge out every eye, burn off his glimmer.
“My name is Mark!”
With that came another head-butt to the groin and I was falling, like a comet, burning up, smoldering. I collapsed in a heap on the cave floor. Angela and her desk were gone. I longed for a glass of water much less scotch. I wasn’t on fire. I was fire. I wasn’t in pain. I was pain. I was eternally separated from anything good. I looked up and saw standing over me the Morning Star. Everything I loved about him was now odious to me. He was changed. Grotesquely huge, his horns were gone, and he had become ghostly pale. With a feverish giggle he looked at me with a glint in his eye.
“Welcome back, Lee, we’ve been waiting for you.”

I'm Alive!

So I am alive, and here is some art to prove it.

This, my friends, heralds a new direction for this bog. I believe I will use it to also regale you with my food adventures. Once I recover from my food coma I will tell you all about a fantastic place called Fogo de Chao.
T

I'm Back

So I'm in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, enjoy:

Beach Haiku:

Kites.
Black wings leap to the air, dragging my sister away, then crash to earth.


Beach Limerick:

There once was a man named Ty
Who once gave cigars a try
On the sand he enjoyed them
'Till the wind destroyed them
Which nearly made the man cry.


Beach Sonnet:

Sorry guys, way too lazy.


So I think I may have hyped up the not-fight too much. I was at the gas station at around 8:00 trying to get to a party at the Horst's, when a small red car whips into the station and a girl jumps out of the passenger seat crying and yelling. She begins to pump gas and begins screaming for the young man in the driver's seat to get out of the car. (I should at this point remind the reader to sprinkle expletives throughout all of the narrative) She continued to yell, he stayed in the car, until he got out with a vengeance. He began yelling at her and began to drag her back into the car. I ran over told him to get his hands off. He turned like he was about to swing, but changed his mind and we exchanged "words" instead. Another man ran up and called the police. I told the boyfriend I really didn't want to get involved, but if he touched her again, I was taking him down, and I waited until the police arrived. As I had not reported the incident I wasn't needed as a witness, and, after telling the girlfriend to drop this moron, I left. Post Script tidbits: She had just turned 18, he is 22. She says he slammed her head into the windshield. He is supposedly an MP for the Marines, which is really a blight on the name of the corps. She's a moron for being with this idiot, He's a moron all the way around. The more people I meet the more I like dogs.

And to answer Kenny's accusation of lameness, I think I'm going to steal an idea from Jen's blog here:

Movie: HBO miniseries, John Adams. Paul Giamati is pure gold.
Music: Artists: Julian Velard, : Album: The Movies Without You, Song: Joni (Buy this)
For the Guys: First, Avo 2, a fine Dominican cigar with a Connecticut wrapper, good draw, smooth but bold taste, and great for the beach. Second, don't touch girls in a harmful way within 200 feet of me, trust me, you'll regret it.
For the Girls: First, Stay away from morons, you'll regret it. Second, Ask Jen.