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?