"I just wanna be friends." Gag me. At least they don't decline you when you asked them out in the first place. Essentially, when a girl says she doesn't want to go on a date with you at all, she is really saying, "I don't even like you enough to share a free meal with you." At least that didn't happen, but one must wonder how much money one would save if they just knew how to predict the "friends zone." It's a lot like the Twighlight Zone: you never know you know ended up there or how you got there, you just know you don't want to be there. Being in this zone is the worst place to be relationally. Why? Because the female still gets the benefit of you paying for everything out of courtesy and no obligations whatsoever. It feels kind of like a Valentine's gift with all the chocolate already unwrapped and half-eaten.
Yes, I am and have been the "friend" guy to a number of nice young ladies on a number of occassions. It sucks. And I have even pulled all the stops. The worst attempt I ever made was the time I ate a footlong chili cheese dog then proceeded to partake in one of her favorite pastimes- running- all to end up in the "friends zone." I ate that chili cheese dog nearly ten times before the run was over. Beyond that, I am a terrible flirt. Not only have I once threatened girls into a date with their lives, on the flip side, I have had women tell me I sound like the spawn of Barry White and Rod Stewart and should do their voicemail for them. Relationships and dating is killer and I am a sucker, that's for sure, but if there is one thing I have noticed about this week, it is that a lot of people have ended up in the worst possible position with friends, girlfriends, husbands, wives, and even pets. You know it's rough when even the pooch is conspiring against you.
This week has been a week of aloneness for many people I know. Heck, maybe even for you. Now don't get me wrong, I love being single (it saves on money during the holidays) but there comes a time when being single just is the pits. The third wheel syndrome comes about pretty fast. Maybe it's not that you feel like a third wheel, just a tension between you and a loved one or friend. And if you are going through a breakup or tough situation currently, there's really nothing you want to hear to makes things better. The only thing that will help that would be pizza and a movie, so go buy a large, don't share, and watch Citizen Kane tonight.
But no matter where you are with the people in your life, at least there is something we can lean on. It was given to Moses, the one guy in the Bible that probably felt the most alone out there in the desert, to say to Joshua right before they went into the promised land. He said, "The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged." (Duet 31:8) And somehow, in this grand mess of things, whether you are puking up footlong chili cheese dogs or at ends with your best friend, at least someone won't leave you. Even God knows how it feels to be alone Friday night. That's why He doesn't want you to ever feel that way from here on. So here's to all the relationships and friends that don't make sense in the end and may not for miles to come. Here's to all the bad dates we've been on and the messy friendships we face. Here's to being awkward in public and conspriators in private. Here's to saying, "I need sense in my life!" You won't find it conventionally, but the same guy who told Moses to walk out into the desert with a bunch of backseat-driving Israealites has been known to make sense every once and a great while. At least He's around and doesn't cost a dime.
KB
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
My Ya-Ya Sisterhood
In no way am I in favor of my summer class. No way. I would like to initially begin by telling you that this is 100% obligation for me and that through the remainder of this blog, you are on my side. Can we chill?
Ok, so I am taking a water aerobics class this summer. Don't ask how I got suckered into taking a class where ninety percent of our time is spent dancing like ballerinas, just know that I am obligated to it. And before the class started for the summer, I began to psych myself into thinking that this was going to be fun. After all, it meant that I was going to be getting into shape and getting a nice tan so it couldn't be all bad. As I walked into the pool, all my thoughts on the matter changed dramatically. Apparently, the demographic age group was around 40-50 year old women, the kind who wear those frilly one-piece swimming suits with the skirts on them. The estrogen/ testosterone levels were way off, and they weren't tilting in my direction. Worst of all, I immediately felt violated. It felt like they were undressing me with their eyes! I am not a boy-toy pool guy; a am a human with feelings! So obviously, my day has started off great.
Then the workouts started. Day one went off without a sinch, really. We jogged to one end of the pool, jogged right on back, splashed around in the deep end for a while (this is where they have the advantage; those little frilly skirts helped to keep them afloat). Day 2 was a tad bit worse. The workouts weren't, I mean; the women were worse. All of a sudden, their little eye candy party ended as soon as I started to make them look bad. I smoked these chicks in every excercise we did- they were a piece of cake! I not only lapped some of these women, I double lapped them. Looking back, I feel ashamed to even tell you this. Afterall, it's not that hard to out swim a 60 year old, overweight, menopausal woman, but at least my self esteem rose half a point. As penance for being in shape, these women decided to kill me. Someone shouted out, "Let's play tag!" I know, I know, it's creepy, but keep in mind that I am legally obligated to take this class in order to graduate, so I have no choice but to join in. It started out ok, with everybody bobbing around aimlessly tagging each other and since I was the most agile one there, it wasn't that hard to dodge their attacks. But then they adapted, the species mutated! They strategically placed themselves in different places in the pool to be in my way so they could tag me. Call this creepy or smart, but all I gotta say is that I am a minor and thus, am somewhat protected by the law. They were able to take me down while resembling menopausal zombies: really slow and had constant heat flashes.
The rest of the week went pretty well. I figured as long as I faked my way through a few of their excercises and stayed ahead of the pack most of the time, they couldn't catch me and I wouldn't notice if they were checking out my tookish. However, I did notice how these women quickly turned on me. Slowly, and in phases, they no longer looked at me creepily, but instead glared at me hatingly. I made them look bad, which was just not going to fly. After all, the whole idea of women taking up any water aerobics class is usually to give them the impression of working out without any of the aching muscles or tiring excercises, thus giving them an excuse to eat desert again. They quickly began ways of trying to make me suffer, such as adding 5 pound weights to my ankles (I suspect in hopes to watch me sink while we tread water). Thankfully all of their ideas have fallen ineffective... so far.
So I wondered, why on earth am I in this class? How in God's great and mighty plan did He devise a way for me to spend my morning dancing around in the water? It took some time, but you are seeing the answer right now. As amazing as it sounds, I just love talking about the class. Under no circumstances would I ever want to do this on my own free will, but God has a sense of humor. And as I look back on some of my life, I notice just how that sort of thing works out. I mean, it finally makes sense why I was put in some of the weirdest, most awkward, boring, and even unique of circumstances- because I love just how bizarre they are. Like the time I was suckered into "the Knowledge Bowl" and had to wear a kilt. Or the time I nearly blacked out on the Ring of Fire. Or the time I almost got beat up by a gansta-homie for knocking on a door. The list goes on.
How many times are we put into situations and places where we just can't stand any longer? The times where we are raging mad or bored to wits or more awkward than a fat guy in a wet suit. Don't get me wrong, in each instant, God wants to move in your life in that moment but what if, just what if, that moment was designated for a great story later on. It cracks me up to see just how uptight humanity is. Pardon my French, but as Ferris Beuller said, "If I was to stick a piece of coal up some people's butts, two weeks later, a diamond would come out." Within this philosophy lies a dire truth- some people just don't like to live! I have seen so many good moments utterly ruined because somebody didn't see the silver lining in the cloud later down the road. That isn't without saying that life happens and some days are just plain rainy. Nobody is asking you to smile and wave all the time. Life is, however, beckoning you to live it every once and a while. Nothing is in vain in God's eyes. As I Chorinthians 15:58 says in the Message, "With all this going for us, my dear, dear friends, stand your ground. And don't hold back. Throw yourselves into the work of the Master, confident that nothing you do for him is a waste of time or effort." From deaths in the family to a Ya-Ya Sisterhood water aerobics class, nothing is a waste of time, it just sometimes takes time to figure out why it isn't a waste of time. So laugh at the times you had terrible break-ups, and chuckle when you remember just how bad your day went one day.
So, here's to all the rainy days we look back at now. Here's to all the weird people we've met, bad dates we've been on, to the number of times we've been flipped off while driving, cried in a cheesy movie, and let one rip in public. Life isn't glamorous. Thank God it's not. Otherwise, who would I make fun of in these silly little blogs I post?
KB
Ok, so I am taking a water aerobics class this summer. Don't ask how I got suckered into taking a class where ninety percent of our time is spent dancing like ballerinas, just know that I am obligated to it. And before the class started for the summer, I began to psych myself into thinking that this was going to be fun. After all, it meant that I was going to be getting into shape and getting a nice tan so it couldn't be all bad. As I walked into the pool, all my thoughts on the matter changed dramatically. Apparently, the demographic age group was around 40-50 year old women, the kind who wear those frilly one-piece swimming suits with the skirts on them. The estrogen/ testosterone levels were way off, and they weren't tilting in my direction. Worst of all, I immediately felt violated. It felt like they were undressing me with their eyes! I am not a boy-toy pool guy; a am a human with feelings! So obviously, my day has started off great.
Then the workouts started. Day one went off without a sinch, really. We jogged to one end of the pool, jogged right on back, splashed around in the deep end for a while (this is where they have the advantage; those little frilly skirts helped to keep them afloat). Day 2 was a tad bit worse. The workouts weren't, I mean; the women were worse. All of a sudden, their little eye candy party ended as soon as I started to make them look bad. I smoked these chicks in every excercise we did- they were a piece of cake! I not only lapped some of these women, I double lapped them. Looking back, I feel ashamed to even tell you this. Afterall, it's not that hard to out swim a 60 year old, overweight, menopausal woman, but at least my self esteem rose half a point. As penance for being in shape, these women decided to kill me. Someone shouted out, "Let's play tag!" I know, I know, it's creepy, but keep in mind that I am legally obligated to take this class in order to graduate, so I have no choice but to join in. It started out ok, with everybody bobbing around aimlessly tagging each other and since I was the most agile one there, it wasn't that hard to dodge their attacks. But then they adapted, the species mutated! They strategically placed themselves in different places in the pool to be in my way so they could tag me. Call this creepy or smart, but all I gotta say is that I am a minor and thus, am somewhat protected by the law. They were able to take me down while resembling menopausal zombies: really slow and had constant heat flashes.
The rest of the week went pretty well. I figured as long as I faked my way through a few of their excercises and stayed ahead of the pack most of the time, they couldn't catch me and I wouldn't notice if they were checking out my tookish. However, I did notice how these women quickly turned on me. Slowly, and in phases, they no longer looked at me creepily, but instead glared at me hatingly. I made them look bad, which was just not going to fly. After all, the whole idea of women taking up any water aerobics class is usually to give them the impression of working out without any of the aching muscles or tiring excercises, thus giving them an excuse to eat desert again. They quickly began ways of trying to make me suffer, such as adding 5 pound weights to my ankles (I suspect in hopes to watch me sink while we tread water). Thankfully all of their ideas have fallen ineffective... so far.
So I wondered, why on earth am I in this class? How in God's great and mighty plan did He devise a way for me to spend my morning dancing around in the water? It took some time, but you are seeing the answer right now. As amazing as it sounds, I just love talking about the class. Under no circumstances would I ever want to do this on my own free will, but God has a sense of humor. And as I look back on some of my life, I notice just how that sort of thing works out. I mean, it finally makes sense why I was put in some of the weirdest, most awkward, boring, and even unique of circumstances- because I love just how bizarre they are. Like the time I was suckered into "the Knowledge Bowl" and had to wear a kilt. Or the time I nearly blacked out on the Ring of Fire. Or the time I almost got beat up by a gansta-homie for knocking on a door. The list goes on.
How many times are we put into situations and places where we just can't stand any longer? The times where we are raging mad or bored to wits or more awkward than a fat guy in a wet suit. Don't get me wrong, in each instant, God wants to move in your life in that moment but what if, just what if, that moment was designated for a great story later on. It cracks me up to see just how uptight humanity is. Pardon my French, but as Ferris Beuller said, "If I was to stick a piece of coal up some people's butts, two weeks later, a diamond would come out." Within this philosophy lies a dire truth- some people just don't like to live! I have seen so many good moments utterly ruined because somebody didn't see the silver lining in the cloud later down the road. That isn't without saying that life happens and some days are just plain rainy. Nobody is asking you to smile and wave all the time. Life is, however, beckoning you to live it every once and a while. Nothing is in vain in God's eyes. As I Chorinthians 15:58 says in the Message, "With all this going for us, my dear, dear friends, stand your ground. And don't hold back. Throw yourselves into the work of the Master, confident that nothing you do for him is a waste of time or effort." From deaths in the family to a Ya-Ya Sisterhood water aerobics class, nothing is a waste of time, it just sometimes takes time to figure out why it isn't a waste of time. So laugh at the times you had terrible break-ups, and chuckle when you remember just how bad your day went one day.
So, here's to all the rainy days we look back at now. Here's to all the weird people we've met, bad dates we've been on, to the number of times we've been flipped off while driving, cried in a cheesy movie, and let one rip in public. Life isn't glamorous. Thank God it's not. Otherwise, who would I make fun of in these silly little blogs I post?
KB
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Paraplegic Midgets
Sin City. It is one of the few cities whose neon lights make the city brighter at night than in the day. The enticing personality of the town itself draws people from all around the world to come and lay down their pride so they can selfishly enjoy their carnal pleasures for a weekend. Vegas is known for its gambling, women, greed, and bad choices. I have been there nearly half a dozen times in my short life thus far and have witnessed firsthand the great entertainment an oversized slot machine gives a drunken person. It is a place of total freedom for the time you are there, where our true “weekend warriors” get there workout.
Entertainment Capital of the World is not complete without, well, entertainment. All the great acts from around the world flock to Vegas to demonstrate six times a week that they are indeed the cream of the crop. Blue Man Group, Cirque du Soleil, David Copperfield, and even Santana. Yes, the Santana. Four rows from the front, my eyes beheld the living legend whose custom Gibson guitars gleamed with majesty. I understand that some of you may not appreciate music to the extent I do, but any man from anywhere in the world would agree that Santana is possibly the most talented, incredible, nearly perfect rock legend of our time. If you have never heard of him, I am first of all ashamed, and I would, second, tell you to venture on over to projectplaylist.com and type in Europa and allow the sounds of the song pierce your soul like a goth’s lower lip. With that tidbit shared, I will tell you about the concert experience.
Perhaps saying the concert was the best I have ever seen would be an understatement, but it was. I stood in The Joint at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino and nearly soiled myself when he walked out on stage. Santana is a rock god, if there ever was such a thing, and carried on the most incredible thing I have ever seen. You see, to him, it is so much more than a show. It is more than a few songs, more than crazy fans, and more to it than enjoying what he does. He is the music. It is hard to explain if you have never seen him in person because the passion he puts behind the music is so intense, I would have to say it was in the top 3 most passionate things I have seen. The other two would be The Passion of the Christ and watching Tyra Banks eat that one chick alive on Next Top Model (go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=01eeF9FIYd8). Indeed, Santana was incredible. He made the audience dance and laugh and sing to the beats. By the time he got to Black Magic Woman, though, half the audience was boozed up and the other half was growing weirdly insane. For instance, one woman snuck her way to the front of the stage and began to rain dance beneath the band. I know- the things people smoke these days. Anyways, I suppose if I could make a wild accusation, however, I would say that only one, yes one person in the entire 2,400 of us fully enjoyed the evening. To my left sat the only true patron of the audience. He was a paraplegic man, dwarfed in size, unable to speak properly due to a speech impediment, and alone. Don’t feel bad, now; remember, he’s actually the only one who loved the concert to the fullest! In fact, he not only loved it, he relished it.
The majority of us danced. The others sang. A choice few just wanted to be back in their rooms watching HBO. This man beat us all. How do I know? His eyes. The man could barely move for goodness sakes, nor could he sing to the songs. His eyes did though. It was one of those things that you had to be there to understand, much like the way Santana lived through his music. And it was right then and there, in the gut of Sin City, I saw the most alive human being I have ever witnessed in my entire life. He was unflinching, unmoving, and totally and utterly captivated.
Why on earth am I not that captivate? What is holding me back, I wonder. Then it hits me- my arms, my legs, my voice. Life itself is not in any of those things. The air I breath, the songs we sing, the things we hear mean absolutely nothing for humanity. They are burdens that hinder us from understanding what real life means. I feel cursed in this flesh that binds me up. God bless a man who is too small to be noticed, to weak to run, too silenced to speak, and too humble to want to be noticed. Of the hundreds of people in that auditorium that evening, one, the only one who really understood the language of passion, was the one nobody wanted because his motor skills were sacrificed and he was not considered human. How inhumane of the rest of us to think that, but we did. That is not to say those other people didn’t feel passion in their hearts. I believe that no matter who you are, it is impossible the stand in the presence of a heart pouring itself out in the fullest and not get splashed with fervor. For goodness sakes, the rain dance woman made herself look like a stoned fool in front of thousands because of the music. But even she didn’t get it.
How many times do we do the same thing? In fact, I would venture to say I have only seen a couple of paraplegic midget in my entire lifetime both literally and figuratively. I have seen thousands of people dance around like fools and I have seen literally millions shout at the sound of our Savior’s name but I have seldom seen the sight of a person who really gets it. Only once have I seen a person who really got it and managed to maintain their motor skills as well. They were the only person I have ever seen who knew what “in this mess not of it” (John 15:19) means. It goes on in that verse to mention how hated we are in this world, how inhumane we are treated.
Life is a state of being, not a noun. God is a verb, an active one at that, not an idea. I dearly hope it doesn’t take us losing our basic rituals of reading, writing, speaking, singing, freedom, and communing to understand this. God, I hope I get it, I really do. I say this a lot, especially to people who say they desire to actually hear God’s voice. I tell them to read I Corinthians 13, namely the last verse, and not just commit it to memory, but start living it. I usually get a look that thinks it understands what I’m saying and I just smile back. I have tried doing this. I have barely begun to understand it. Men have done it for years, men who flung themselves about and let themselves be entranced by the music, but they too have yet to fully comprehend love. Yet every so often, I see a kid, a baby Christian, a stranger, or even a fleeting moment pass by where the light goes on. Where their eyes go aglow and they finally get the passion behind the song. They are brought down from wherever they were standing and given life again, life in once dead limbs, dead voices, and dead lives.
And so, just like that, for only a second, I saw the most passionate individual I have ever seen. Most would call him disabled or handicapped. I say he lived, nay, he soared. I think my eyes, if only for a second, glowed because I saw a man whose eyes blazed with awe and who lived longer than most any other human being on this planet, four rows from the front of a Santana concert.
KB
Entertainment Capital of the World is not complete without, well, entertainment. All the great acts from around the world flock to Vegas to demonstrate six times a week that they are indeed the cream of the crop. Blue Man Group, Cirque du Soleil, David Copperfield, and even Santana. Yes, the Santana. Four rows from the front, my eyes beheld the living legend whose custom Gibson guitars gleamed with majesty. I understand that some of you may not appreciate music to the extent I do, but any man from anywhere in the world would agree that Santana is possibly the most talented, incredible, nearly perfect rock legend of our time. If you have never heard of him, I am first of all ashamed, and I would, second, tell you to venture on over to projectplaylist.com and type in Europa and allow the sounds of the song pierce your soul like a goth’s lower lip. With that tidbit shared, I will tell you about the concert experience.
Perhaps saying the concert was the best I have ever seen would be an understatement, but it was. I stood in The Joint at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino and nearly soiled myself when he walked out on stage. Santana is a rock god, if there ever was such a thing, and carried on the most incredible thing I have ever seen. You see, to him, it is so much more than a show. It is more than a few songs, more than crazy fans, and more to it than enjoying what he does. He is the music. It is hard to explain if you have never seen him in person because the passion he puts behind the music is so intense, I would have to say it was in the top 3 most passionate things I have seen. The other two would be The Passion of the Christ and watching Tyra Banks eat that one chick alive on Next Top Model (go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=01eeF9FIYd8). Indeed, Santana was incredible. He made the audience dance and laugh and sing to the beats. By the time he got to Black Magic Woman, though, half the audience was boozed up and the other half was growing weirdly insane. For instance, one woman snuck her way to the front of the stage and began to rain dance beneath the band. I know- the things people smoke these days. Anyways, I suppose if I could make a wild accusation, however, I would say that only one, yes one person in the entire 2,400 of us fully enjoyed the evening. To my left sat the only true patron of the audience. He was a paraplegic man, dwarfed in size, unable to speak properly due to a speech impediment, and alone. Don’t feel bad, now; remember, he’s actually the only one who loved the concert to the fullest! In fact, he not only loved it, he relished it.
The majority of us danced. The others sang. A choice few just wanted to be back in their rooms watching HBO. This man beat us all. How do I know? His eyes. The man could barely move for goodness sakes, nor could he sing to the songs. His eyes did though. It was one of those things that you had to be there to understand, much like the way Santana lived through his music. And it was right then and there, in the gut of Sin City, I saw the most alive human being I have ever witnessed in my entire life. He was unflinching, unmoving, and totally and utterly captivated.
Why on earth am I not that captivate? What is holding me back, I wonder. Then it hits me- my arms, my legs, my voice. Life itself is not in any of those things. The air I breath, the songs we sing, the things we hear mean absolutely nothing for humanity. They are burdens that hinder us from understanding what real life means. I feel cursed in this flesh that binds me up. God bless a man who is too small to be noticed, to weak to run, too silenced to speak, and too humble to want to be noticed. Of the hundreds of people in that auditorium that evening, one, the only one who really understood the language of passion, was the one nobody wanted because his motor skills were sacrificed and he was not considered human. How inhumane of the rest of us to think that, but we did. That is not to say those other people didn’t feel passion in their hearts. I believe that no matter who you are, it is impossible the stand in the presence of a heart pouring itself out in the fullest and not get splashed with fervor. For goodness sakes, the rain dance woman made herself look like a stoned fool in front of thousands because of the music. But even she didn’t get it.
How many times do we do the same thing? In fact, I would venture to say I have only seen a couple of paraplegic midget in my entire lifetime both literally and figuratively. I have seen thousands of people dance around like fools and I have seen literally millions shout at the sound of our Savior’s name but I have seldom seen the sight of a person who really gets it. Only once have I seen a person who really got it and managed to maintain their motor skills as well. They were the only person I have ever seen who knew what “in this mess not of it” (John 15:19) means. It goes on in that verse to mention how hated we are in this world, how inhumane we are treated.
Life is a state of being, not a noun. God is a verb, an active one at that, not an idea. I dearly hope it doesn’t take us losing our basic rituals of reading, writing, speaking, singing, freedom, and communing to understand this. God, I hope I get it, I really do. I say this a lot, especially to people who say they desire to actually hear God’s voice. I tell them to read I Corinthians 13, namely the last verse, and not just commit it to memory, but start living it. I usually get a look that thinks it understands what I’m saying and I just smile back. I have tried doing this. I have barely begun to understand it. Men have done it for years, men who flung themselves about and let themselves be entranced by the music, but they too have yet to fully comprehend love. Yet every so often, I see a kid, a baby Christian, a stranger, or even a fleeting moment pass by where the light goes on. Where their eyes go aglow and they finally get the passion behind the song. They are brought down from wherever they were standing and given life again, life in once dead limbs, dead voices, and dead lives.
And so, just like that, for only a second, I saw the most passionate individual I have ever seen. Most would call him disabled or handicapped. I say he lived, nay, he soared. I think my eyes, if only for a second, glowed because I saw a man whose eyes blazed with awe and who lived longer than most any other human being on this planet, four rows from the front of a Santana concert.
KB
Blogs Suck
Despite my best efforts, I rarely have anything good to say. That is why I am creating a blog. Much like watching 60 Minutes, I plan to change subjects rapidly, ramble on for an hour, then be back the next week. Isn't that why everybody starts up blogs? Well, I at least won't make this about me nor will I ever start up with the "texting lingo." Good lordy, I hate stumbling on a blog with nothing more than random facts about the author's day followed by thirteen exclamation points and "rotfl." "I just got back from eating Subway! Eat fresh!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ROTFL! :-0" Stupid wastes of time. No, I promise I will bring meaning to my blog. And what is that meaning? Life is screwed up, so why not love it?
If I must, then I sumize my series in one sentence: Life is too long not to laugh and life is too short not to laugh (Mike G. Williams). So here's to all the stupid blogs out there, creating less than independent ideaology to an already generic world, much like this one is doing! Enjoy my blogs, enjoy life, eat fresh!!!!!!!!!!!!! Rotfl.......
KB
If I must, then I sumize my series in one sentence: Life is too long not to laugh and life is too short not to laugh (Mike G. Williams). So here's to all the stupid blogs out there, creating less than independent ideaology to an already generic world, much like this one is doing! Enjoy my blogs, enjoy life, eat fresh!!!!!!!!!!!!! Rotfl.......
KB
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