the plural of ajax

Mission Is Open 1.0

2007-08-14T22:36:00.000-05:00

Slow goings the last few weeks, sorry 'bout that, been working on a video. Here it is:

EuroVagrant Part The Second

2007-07-04T05:42:00.001-05:00

Hi Everyone

I'm reclining comfortably with a cappuccino at a busy sidewalk cafe in Nitra, Slovakia. It's 8:30 AM and Slovaks walk to work in front of me with their briefcases, mobile phones, and big sunglasses. I have this moment to send out a quick update from my BB on the goings ons from my last week. For those of you unaware of my current travels, NLI has flown me out to Europe for 16 days to make some promo videos for them.

I arrived in the UK Tuesday morning and had a few hours to kill in London before my contact arrived from Spain in the evening. I spent the day at the British Library examining* some of the oldest manuscripts of the Bible in the world, some pages from Da Vinci's notebook, an early draft of Alice in Wonderland, and some letters written by Oscar Wilde. I then attempted to find the British Museum, failed miserably, wandered around, got lost, and ended up at a random pub called "The Angel" where I sat in the corner by the fireplace with a pint of the local bitter and made up stories about the bar patrons in my notebook.

Since that moment I have gotten used to being brought places. Evening brought my contact in from Spain, who brought me to Bedworth. Wednesday brought me the rented camera equipment# as well as some catch up time around the NLI office. Thursday brought me to Serbia with a 4.5 hour layover in Zurich Airport^.

Arriving in Belgrade, I was picked up by the NLI staff running a conference at a Bible College just outside the city limits. On the way out of the city we passed the ruins of some skeletal residential high rises NATO bombed in 1999. While the general vicinity surrounding the complexes has seen aesthetic improvement and renovation, the wreckage of these buildings remains untouched from the day they pulled survivors from the remains. Many believe the Serbian Government allows these wounds of brick and concrete to remain unhealed as a reminder of what many believe was an injustice against Serbia (what was then Yugoslavia). I am fortunate to be with so many Canadians, since some Serbs still hold some animosity towards Americans.

I got some great footage at the conference of training and interviews and met some amazing people. I tried Turkish coffee and played a lot of volleyball. Belgrade has a beautiful pre-bolshevik historic side, a communist concrete side, and a new western shiny side. I have captured clips of all 3.

Next was a Euro road trip. 7 hours drive from Minneapolis will take you through 3 states and the cities of Madison, Milwaukee and Chicago. 7 hours drive from Belgrade will take you through 3 countries, 3 distinct languages, and the cities of Vienna, Budapest, and Bratislava. So with some fresh stamps in my passport, I arrived in Nitra with enough time to shoot a church plant leaders meeting. Nitra has a few Catholic Churches, 5 Universities, and no evangelical churches. That is, no evangelical churches until Miro and Marta and their team of 15 or so officially open next year. This couple has already planted a successful church in a neighboring city and has decided to dare again to plant again in Nitra. Theirs is a story I will be capturing on video.

I have 2 more church planting couples to film still. One is in another town nearby called Trnava, the other is a Polish town on the Czech border called Kudova.

Tomorrow is the 4th of July. I will celebrate by attending a concert in the main square. It is essentially a "taste of Nitra" sort of thing. It was 1 year ago exactly I returned from my 10 month internship in Europe so it is only fitting I spend the anniversary in Europe again.

It is a good trip. Not just for the promotional materials that will result but also because it is what I needed right now. I am happy, healthy, creating, and completely unaware of what will happen to me next. It's just the way I like it.

Reed

' Pop. 100,000
* staring at under glass
# the nicest I have ever had the pleasure to work with
^ Zurich Shopping Center with a few planes too

*´¨)
¸.·´¸.·*´¨) ¸.·*¨)
(¸.·´ (¸.·` *sent via mobile*

Loving Rant

2007-06-21T15:21:00.000-05:00

In our culture ( I can only speak for my own, but I am sure this is true else where ) we have the tendency to bastardize things. We remove the original intentions or motives from the notion created, and then use it for our own designs. This is probably due to our pragmatist background (not that an the existentialist constructs of some of our friends across the pond is much better). We merely find what works for us and do it. If the results are positive at the start, we consider it a success and move on. Though sometimes, we move so far away from that original cause, that we lose the way back. I think we can safely say this of the word, and notion, of love.

The word brings thoughts of flowers, wooing, and romance. We have replaced the origin of love with the candy coated, corporate sponsored idea of lust. If we feel passion for something, we then say we love it. This can be true of love, but it is only half the story. The concept of selflessness has been removed. It never worked for us. It seems that the altruistic effects of love have been lost along our way. Is it that the idea of self-sacrifice just didn't work for us? Is the possibility of self-loss so crazy that we merely thought it too idealistic? I fear that we could not handle the ramifications of the passion and desire we feel, when we are in love. Can it be said that we are in love, if we are not willing to lay down our own desires and submit to the object of our affection? I wonder, is it possible for our people to find their way back to that.

We tell children that sex is for two people who love each other, but offer very little guidance beyond this. We leave out the fact that if they love each other, sex is merely an expression of the selflessness we feel toward our partner. Good sex occurs when both people lay down their own desires for the desires of the other, but now it has been perverted into being about fulfilling the individuals involved. How is it that such a sad thing like being wrapped in ones own self can be viewed as greater than being wrapped in the love of another? Finding our way back maybe as easy as letting go of our own paradigms, and seeing the way things actually are. Then we can begin to rebuild upon the original structure in a way that compliments it, rather then merely hiding it.

And how can this selflessness occur any other way then in marriage? There must be an institution that can give both people a safety net. If they understand that the other person is in it for he long haul, then they can experience the freedom of not having to continue the upkeep on the walls defending them. It is a crazy life style, and I fear that being so closely connected to a person can be too much for some, but when it is right there is nothing greater. It is a union that represents the best of what unions can be. It is the basis for how our priorities should be setup, and why they are set. It is nothing more than freedom. It is the very opus of the human experiment. It needs to not be lost to our own direction of self-fulfillment, because if we lose it there will be nothing left but the prison created by our own defenses. It may not always be pretty (sometimes being committed to another means getting in their face when they need it), but the cost of being uncomfortable sometimes and having our faults examined is cheap for the reward of true openness.

I fear the cold world that might be if I am left alone to nothing but myself. Some might think of that as paradise, but I know it as hell.

/discuss

2007-06-18T15:07:00.001-05:00

An Abstract Introduction: The Way Home

2007-06-09T01:00:00.000-05:00

As an introduction to Linus' blog, I would like to give a nice outline of me. To do this, I would like to post a short story I wrote. It is not quite an autobiography, but is autobiographical if that makes any sense. This is due to it not being all encompassing, but definitely gives a firm structure of who I am as well as who I am not. I will post more soon:

As I drive past my old home on my commute to my current home, my mind begins to flood with memories of my childhood. The house I grew up in was a small double bungalow my mother rented. It was located right off the freeway to the downtown area. With the access to the major roadways and the convenience store right off the on ramp near us, it had always been a crime and poverty stricken area. My mother struggled to make due for my sisters and me, but I can still remember the run down house down the frontage road my sisters went to meet their friends to “experiment” with drugs. There was one night I actually chased my sister, crying on my big wheel down the sidewalk, in the dark of the night because I didn’t want her to leave. I had no concept of what was really going on, but I still remember understanding she shouldn't be leaving. It had been dark as I jumped on my Big Wheel to speed after her. I remember the anxiety had been so intense for my age. I didn’t know where she was going, but I did not want her to go without me. I never found her that night. I had sped so fast with my worry that I had gotten lost. I had only been around six years old, and was I quickly wrangled in by a mother of two on her way to the convenience story near my home. She walked me home, and scolded my mother for letting me out so late. My mother had not been frantic as you might suspect, because she had not known I was gone. Though she tried to be a good parent, she was overwhelmed by how much the world around her threw at her. I have seen some of the brightest people in my life freeze under as little pressure as having to adhere to a deadline, so in the end I find no guilt in my mother’s inability to know what to do with three kids and no help. Any human would feel lost in that situation. She did her best, and never dated after my father. She dedicated her life to raising us to be good people. Regardless of the outcome of her decisions, she tried to correct her mistakes. In that neighborhood she had been in the minority. The rest of the people living around there had given up and just submitted to their state. They wanted nothing more than to just continue their existence. They built toward nothing, and the world moved on around them. My mother wanted to create something lasting. Something that would reach outside of the small world we lived in. She invested these hopes into me. I think my sisters saw it and resented it, but my mother’s hopes in me pushed me on to try and become more than what I was.

The next door neighbors changed regularly, as is the way of things in such an area. It seems to me still that poor people who have no resources live like vagrants even when they aren’t homeless. I saw my friends leave me behind to live somewhere else so many times I almost stopped believing in permanent things. How can a child in such an environment come to feel secure when they know that nothing is theirs, and anything can be taken away at any moment? How can an adult for that matter? In the end I think it taught me to fight for what I want to keep. Some people, even some of my friends, don’t know what it is truly like to have something precious ripped from you with seemingly no reason. Even the ones that have felt the loss of someone close to them dying don’t seem to quite get it. Death, like most natural things, is inevitable and reasonable. Having someone steal your the first bike you have ever owned, days after getting it for your birthday, is none of these things. Both are loss in very solid forms, but for a child the latter is much more tangible. This fact makes it all the more dangerous.

My father was never around long. After a stint of being around he would disappear. I am still not sure to this day if he left because my mother threw him out because of the abuse, or if he simply left of his own mind. Every time he wasn’t around I yearned for him to come back with the intensity only a child can muster for their father, but when he was around I felt the same anxiety that lingers with me today. Helping him with projects around the house or with his many busted up vehicles would always result in yelling on his part because I just wasn’t able to live up to what he required. I never understood quite what he wanted, only that I was not it. He had a way that would make you feel both special and useless at the same time, like I was something sentimental on a shelf kept around because I meant something to him, but he could not really use me in his life for anything but this nostalgia. His mother had died when he was very young, and from what I could gather from him, his father had been worse than he was. He always referred to his mother as if she were a saint, but he stated thing about his dad as if this old man I had never met was trying to destroy him from beyond the grave. In my late teens, I would talk about having children as if it was a burden to be avoided. The truth was that I was afraid I would become my father. It is this fear that keeps me in line when I interact with children in general. My wife is always adamant about my ability to be nurturing, but it I am still unsure.

I can still remember watching television in that house, and part of the experience was the rhythmic sound of the cars outside along with the planes flying over head. Something was always around to disturb your peace of mind or focus. Even looking out the window would give me a sense of restlessness as a child. The cars drove past at high speeds on the freeway, so they attracted your eye with their motion. Nothing seemed to be in equilibrium around us. I had dreams where the house itself would start to move with us in it. In these dreams we were never scared really, just very confused.

As I grew up we moved a few times, but that memories of that first home always shaped my idea of what the next place was to us. I remember the house right after that one off of the highway being so quiet and calm it scared me. I would lay awake at night wondering about all the noises that night produced. Without the cars and street lamps to light up what was outside my window, the world would take on a shadowy, sinister look. The apartment we rented after that place felt so narrow and foreign. I would come home from school, and run through the hallways. It seemed so funny that the entrances to other people’s places were so close to my own. There were so many strangers to avoid. It made me feel paranoid the entire time we lived there.

As for friends through my childhood, I was normal. My best friend was always the kid that lived closest to me, and our fun was always more important than our school work. The only difference between me and them was usually that I had a thing for being a team. I am sure it stemmed from my feeling of abandonment If they would ever be against me in some way I would feel isolated and defensive. I craved to have them be loyal to me, and I would try to be as loyal to them. It made me a bit too intense for most people, especially when I begun to hit my teens. Not until my wife did I ever find someone who could match my craziness for closeness. I found my real partner in her. She has always been supportive of me, and I still have fear that she will be taken from me the same way my bike was stolen. It seems strange, but some of you will understand.

I drive this way home from work even though it is out of my way, because I like to remember. Part of me would like to go back and change things but, in the end, things can’t be made right and even if they could I would not know where to begin. The only reasonable direction seems to be forward and away, but in an instant of driving by my old home I feel closer to that time then to the future. It makes progress a little easier to handle when you are reassured of the structure that has come before it, because you can lose yourself in the flow of things if you don't have anything behind you to give you a frame of reference.

such stuff as dreames are made on

2007-02-03T16:15:00.000-06:00

Our Reuels now are ended: These our actors,
(As I foretold you) were all Spirits, and
Are melted into Ayre, into thin Ayre,
And like the baselesse fabricke of this vision
The Clowd-capt Towres, the gorgeous Pallaces,
The solemne Temples, the great Globe it selfe,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolue,
And like this insubstantiall Pageant faded
Leaue not a racke behinde: we are such stuffe
As dreames are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleepe:

minnesota barbies

2007-01-26T12:39:00.000-06:00

Something my friend Devin sent me. At first I thought (and hoped) that he wrote it, but I think he found it on the internet somewhere.

For the Minneapolis-St. Paul Market:

Edina Barbie: This Princess Barbie is only sold at Southdale. She comes with an assortment of Kate Spade handbags, a Lexus, a longhaired foreign dog, named "Honey", and an over-priced house. Available with or without a tummy tuck and face-lift. Therapist Ken available. Workaholic Ken sold only in conjunction with augment version.

Eden Prairie Barbie: This trendy homemaker Barbie is available with Ford Windstar minivan. Her vehicle will not move unless there are no objects in front of the vehicle for 100 yards, causing traffic jams. She gets lost easily and has no full-time occupation or secondary education. Traffic jamming cell phone sold separately. Optional matching gym outfit in plus sizes only. Eden Prairie Ken and her come with matching Vikings jerseys. He drives to the games. She drives home. It takes her 45 minutes longer.

Minnetonka Beach Barbie: Has freshness date on package. Do not buy after that date or product may be spoiled rotten. Comes with no appreciation on how the "other" 95% live. Does not have career or an idea of what makes her happy. When bought in conjunction with Hard Working Ken, she will change her appearance.....will gain 75 lbs., will cut her hair, will become an avid church-goer, and belittle anyone who crosses her. No one including Ken is right, ever. Ken's head melts after 17 years.

St. Paul Barbie: This model is only available at the JC Penney Catalog Store or at any parochial school bazaar. It cannot be purchased on Saturday night (because of Trivia nights) and Sundays (grade school picnics). It comes with a case of Busch Beer, pork steaks, a recipe for Hash Brown Casserole, a 1987 Plymouth Voyager and one cell phone (circa 1982,big as a toaster) for the whole family with 15 anytime minutes. She is wearing the latest fashion from Target that she wore on Easter Sunday. It also comes with Ken (wearing the latest soccer T-shirt two sizes too small), a sack of White Castles and a 72 ounce Big Gulp.

North Minneapolis Barbie: This recently paroled Barbie comes with a 9mm handgun, a Ray Lewis knife, a Chevy with tinted windows and her own Meth Lab kit. This Barbie also comes with 6 children by four different Kens. This model is available after dark and can be paid
for only in cash--preferably small, untraceable bills. Unless you're a cop. Then we don't know what you're talking about.

Wayzata Barbie: This yuppie Barbie comes with a choice of a BMW sports car or a souped up Hummer 2.0 Included is her Starbucks cup, credit cards and country club membership. Also available for this set are Shallow Ken and private School Skipper. But you can't afford them anyway. This edition is available in Naples, FL, but only during spring break.

Coon Rapids Barbie: This pale model comes dressed in her own Wrangler jeans two sizes too small, a NASCAR shirt and has a tattoo of a Tweety bird on her shoulder. She has big, stiff hair, a six-pack of Coors Light and a Hank Williams, Jr., CD set.She can spit over 5 feet and can kick Mullet-haired Kenny doll's *** when she's drunk. Purchase her pickup separately and get its Confederate flag bumper stickers absolutely free. Comes with personal concealed gun license.

Woodbury Barbie: This collagen injected, rhino plastic Barbie wears a leopard-print ski outfit and drinks cosmopolitans while she entertains friends at the club. Limited clothing available. Designer mini-skirts and CFM'S constitute 90% of her wardrobe. Percocet prescription available. Elderly Ken completes this set. Pre-Nup papers as worthless as the Chinese-made paper they are printed on.

Uptown Barbie: This doll is made of actual tofu, has long gray hair and arch-less feet, sandals with white socks, no makeup and a mutt she found at the humane society. She prefers that you call her "Willow." She thinks Wellstone was a republican.

Fridley Barbie: This tobacco chewing, brassy-haired Barbie has a pair of her own high-heeled sandals with one broken heel from the time she chased her beer-gutted boyfriend out of Anoka Barbie's house. Her make-up is dark red lip liner with your choice of lips covered in a sparkly pink or no fill-in at all. Her ensemble includes low-rise acid-washed jeans with assorted colored G-strings that stick out the back and a white see-through halter-top. Accessories include: CD player equipped with Bon Jovi and a rusty old Ford pickup.

Willmar Barbie: This Barbie is the same model of Barbie that was released in 1982. She comes with shoulder pads, dark polyester skirt, white pantyhose and a bad haircut.

a girl that's never been to Switzerland

2007-01-25T10:47:00.000-06:00

a pier in switzerland from www.sxc.hu

It seems that I have a mind for fiction as of late.

I've started work on another short story with a long title. I've been brooding over the plot and characters for some time now and last night around 12:30, after watching 3 episodes of the office (US), the muses whisked me to my computer desk to commence the rough draft.

* * *

"reformation or the thrilling adventure that actually didn't happen"*

a short story with a long title

Once upon a time there was a lovely young lady that everybody liked but nobody knew. She had black hair, green eyes, and a Psychology Degree from the University of Minnesota. The black hair and green eyes were particularly useful for avoiding speeding tickets, since she had a very attractive smile to match, but unfortunately the Bachellor’s Degree wasn’t of much profit outside of looking very impressive on her bookshelf. (This of couse was due to the influx of four year Psychology Degrees waywardly being shuffled around potential employer’s desks across the nation). Instead of using these assets to enjoy rampant, consequence free speeds on the highways surrounding Minneapolis like you or I would, this young lady instead was considering the very sensible decision of returning to school so as to obtain a similar sheet of paper that would look even more impressive and perhaps find even greater purpose then providing dinner guests with an object to make note of.

Everyone liked this lovely young lady, who’s name happened to be Contessa Reisdell, for none of the reasons I’ve listed so far. Though the black hair, green eyes, and matching smile were by no means a detractor from her popularity; they were not the reasons everyone liked her. It was actually because, as I mentioned earlier, no one knew her. Tessa - as she liked to be called and many people liked to call her - was a mystery. She was the kind of girl who could intelligently discuss sensitive issues surrounding politics, religion, or pop music without ever expressing any definite opinion. Consequently people left these long conversations with a sense of personal connection with Tessa. It seemed she was always in agreement, and that whatever their passion, she encouraged them in it by explaining how the particular subject had “always interested” her.

Tessa’s best friend since high school and college roommate was named Felicia Trompeur and she was quite different in that she had blonde hair, blue eyes, and an only slightly less attracive smile to match. Actually, after these very minor differences, they were pretty much the same. Felicia had a Sociology Degree from the University of Minnesota and was very good at getting people to like her. The girls were of course fiercely competitive. Had they been born men, they’d have had the good sense to recognize the rivalry and become enemies like they should, but in the peculiar way of women, their similarities and friction had only knitted them together.

The only notable difference that I can see between these two lovely young ladies is why a story about Contessa is worth telling. The other reason people liked Tessa so much is because she already liked them. Humanity - individuals or the whole - genuinely fascinated her. Felicia, as you will soon see, did not care for humans very much and instinctively distrusted them. This difference is why Contessa ran away to Switzerland. And also why she actually didn’t go to Switzerland. And also why she got caught.

* tentative title

from my archives

2007-01-17T14:49:00.000-06:00

I wrote this somewhere in February 2006. Among other things I wanted to experiment with the second person narrator and also see what kind of character I could create using mostly his dialogue as a descriptor.

I've included a picture of a cappuccino just because.
"a pitch for a film in a coffee shop"
a short story with a long title

“It opens with this guy shaving. He’s in his mid 20’s, he’s looking in the mirror, his hair is all messed up because he just woke up and he’s just shaving. That’s how it starts. And it’s like really quirky, and like really just uncomfortable because it’s kind of this intimate daily thing this guy does in the privacy of his own home and we’re just watching him. There’s no music, and it’s really long, kinda boring, but we’re all like, ‘What’s this guy’s deal?’ you know, ‘Why’s he shaving? What’s he thinking about?’ And the whole time we’re starting to like this guy because he’s shaving in a really, like, personable way or something. It’s like he’s got this charisma, and it’s so attractive that even while he’s shaving, we’re just all about this guy and how awesome he is. He’s just got this charisma.”

The dreamer reflexively takes a sip of coffee as he considers his scene. He talks too fast.

“He’s just bleeding that charisma. No, yeah, like he cuts himself shaving and he’s just bleeding this charisma cuz he doesn’t even care because he always does it and yet he does care ‘cuz it hurts and it’s annoying and everyone’s like ‘yeah, man, that’s what I’m like when I cut myself shaving,’ ya know?”

The dreamer leans back and scratches his chin, instictively searching for stubble. His skin is smooth.

“It’s not even supposed to mean that much, I mean, yeah ok, there’s some foreshadowing with the cut and stuff but I think it’ll function mostly to get people’s attention. It’s a great way to just grab people because you’re confronting them with some innane daily activity and you’re spending so much time capturing it with all the closeups and details emphasized. Like I hate it when stories start ‘at the beginning’ of the day because ‘it’s the beginning of the story’ and stuff, and like they introduce the main character by having him in the mirror since that’s kind of ‘self-reflection’ or whatever but our guy is different. He’s not a morning person so he’s not even staring at himself, asking himself who he is or anything like that. He’s just trying to shave, you know? And he’s got that charisma I was talking about too. Like, yeah, I think this’ll put a new spin on things.”

The dreamer anxiously reaches for his cup while studying your response. He refuses to maintain eye contact, either enamored by the window behind you or scared you’ll turn him to stone with your stare. He blinks too much.

“Ok, look, it’s not all the way there yet, but I’m still working on it, and I’ve got some random stuff down on paper you might want to take a look at. It’s still out there and I’ve just gotta grab it and organize it, ya know? I mean I feel like it’s just right out there and if I can get a hold of it . . . we’ll be able to put something awesome together. Right out there...”

The dreamer snickers at himself, nonverbally admitting to his own eccentricity. The very action itself is eccentric, as if he is even incapable of stopping his body from digressing. Every time he says the phrase ‘out there’ his hands dart from his chin and outlines the location of his thoughts a few inches above your head.

“It’s just frustrating sometimes to get the whole story. I get these great bits together and I see how they’re kinda carrying the same motifs but, man, they just don’t make sense in a logical order. I guess I get distracted or something. I’m sorry, this isn’t really making much sense. Ok, but look he’s thinking about somethin--erm, someone, someone. Like, he doesn’t even care his hair is messed up as he’s trying to fix it, and he’s brushing his teeth, and sorta like pickin’ at ‘em like this.

The dreamer models this.

“So he’s doing all this stuff, like getting ready for the day and stuff, but it’s like he’s not even there cuz he’s thinking about this girl. This someone who’s a girl. So like we’re watching him, and it’s really cinematic, like lots of different camera angles and maybe some mellow music has come in at this point, but it’s a contradiction because he’s intensely not caring about what he’s doing cuz he’s not even there. He’s not there mentally but it’s such dramatic film making but it’s like, not dramatic action at all, ok?”

At this point, the dreamer’s monologue takes on a new mood. He’s leaned forward and both hands tightly grip his empty mug like a five-year-old grips a frog trying to escape him. He now mercilessly stares through the back of your head, his eyes red from being open too wide. If the whole image wasn’t so absurd, the fear of turning to stone might have been reversed.

“So now we’re like, why isn’t he focused on what he’s doing? What’s this girl done to him where he can’t even focus on his day? I mean, look at him, he’s eating his cheerios but he’s just staring straight ahead. The TV is off in the kitchen, his laptop sits open next to him and he could easily read some emails or something but he’s just staring straight ahead thinking about this conversation he had last night. But he’s not sad, that’s the thing, like we know he’s not sad but there’s something sad in it. You get what I’m saying? Like he’s not sad but there is sadness in this weird mood he’s in. Ok, wait, like not sadness but some loss, like there’s something lost, or something that was lost a long time ago, or like something was lost and he doesn’t know what it was, or, um . . . NO! Something WAS lost, and then, and then, he’s FOUND it but he’s not sure what to do with it.”

The dreamer smiles, relieved. He breaks eye contact finally and stares at that point above your head where all his thoughts were and snorts mockingly. Obviously he has ‘gotten a hold’ of whatever was ‘out there.’

“I’m not saying the audience is gonna know all this right away,” he says slowly. “Like, it’s a lot all at once and stuff.”

There’s a long pause. The dreamer looks in his mug again to see if he may have missed something. Finding it empty just as before, he sighs. For a moment it seems he may retract back to the timid, tortured artist that began the conversation but he resists. He clicks his teeth together and looks again at that now infamous empty space above your head. The dreamer is now more calm, speaking softly with brittle enunciation. His ideas are more fragile and thus require more care when being explained.

“Look, I’m just going to be honest with you.” He gasps with admirable stoicism. “No really, my story is complicated I know, and I can’t figure out every little piece of it, but I want to do my best to explain it to you. But I can’t just say it, you’ve gotta ask me. I’ll be completely honest. No, really, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. We’ve talked about doing this thing before and I know it seems like everything keeps changing, so I’ll just let you decide what you want to hear.”

The dreamer looks almost satisfied. He bites his lip and taps his foot on the leg of the table.

“It’s fun to think about but we have to make sure we’re dreaming about the same film here, ya know?”

With this the dreamer concludes. His mood is altered. Whatever was bothering him seems to have disappeared, or at least died down. He’s even smiling. Not coyly smirking, or apologetically covering up his inadequacies, he’s simply released. He’s leaning back in the booth and his arms are stretched out resting on the top of the bench’s back rests. The dreamer finally looks at ease, comfortable in fact. You open your mouth to speak for the first time in a long time.

“Wait.” He interrupts. “I’ll get us some more coffee first.”

an excerpt

2007-01-11T19:54:00.000-06:00

Here's an excerpt from a short story I've been working on for quite sometime. It's called Spiritual Experiences or a Clandestine Discussion Concerning Something of Significance. It's also a big reason why I haven't posted in a while. It represents a lot of firsts for me; the first story I've ever written over 8,000 words, the first main character that isn't simply a cooler, stronger, over all more desirable version of myself, and also it's my first fictional story where I really try to make point about something. If you'd like to read the full version and give me some much appreciated feedback, send me an email.

********

"Did you guys hear about Cassie?" Schroeder asked in a tone that insinuated we should have.

Freshmen at the neighboring lunch table were mischievously concocting an additional entree to the school's menu by collaborating their left over fodder onto a single tray. Their giggling exceeded the nonsensical din in the cafeteria as I spied their activity clandestinely. In a few moments they would begin daring each other to sample the delicacy. As juniors, the affairs of lower classmen were supposed to seem juvenile and inane to us. However most boys, even mature 17-year-old ones, are inexplicably drawn to the idea of disgusting food.

Sensing the awkward silence I responded on behalf of our entire table. "Who's Cassie?"

"A sophomore. She died last night in a car accident. You've probably seen her around. She was thin with blonde hair..."

I nodded, even though this description matched any number of self-conscious suburban schoolgirls at Birch Brook High School. "Yeah, maybe I've seen her around."

"She was only sixteen so my sister knew her. I think we’re gonna go to the funeral."

The exuberant cordon bleus poured chocolate milk over the mound of French toast and pizza crusts. One innovator produced a small tub of lime jello. A unanimous vote from the assembled panel insured its swift addition to the swelling smorgasbord.

"She was in Chemistry with me. She sat two rows up and always talked with the girl next to her. It's weird. That desk will be empty today."

The boys at our table were discreetly enthralled with the culinary soap opera next door. Detecting our interest, the freshmen escalated their pandemonium. Two emissaries were sent to the condiment bar.

"It's pretty crazy to think about," Schroeder continued. "You know? Like, all she did was skid on some ice and then that was it."

I frowned at him. His normally self-forgetful smile was absent, and he stared back at me intently. For some reason, James Schroeder was determined to talk to us about death. But we had more important matters at hand. Mustard had arrived.

The ruckus had attracted admirers from around the lunchroom. The freshmen were already daring each other to eat it. Soon a faculty member would take notice so most spectators kept their distance. In high school you're never guilty for watching someone break the law but proximity can justify the death penalty. I hunched over my tray and occasionally glanced Schroeder’s way in an attempt to be polite.

I probably like Schroeder more then anyone else at our lunch table. He doesn’t really have a specific social group, but it seems like he’s friends with everyone. A lot of girls like him because he smiles a lot and has an athletic build but doesn’t play any sports. He’s always happy to see everyone too, that’s a big thing. He’s got this really pale white skin, like he’s seriously one of the whitest guys I know and he’s got this almost-white blond hair, but it’s funny because he doesn’t even care. There’s always something worthwhile going on in his life too. I mean, last summer he went to Mexico for two weeks and handed out food in some poor village. Last summer I slept in and made myself a sandwich everyday.

I just think we all respect his ‘moral conscience’, even though he doesn’t necessarily go along with everything we do. Like, some of the other guys won’t talk about sex or getting drunk or whatever when he’s around. And what’s cool is that, it’s not even like he looks down on them for it, but they just kind of know not to discuss that stuff with him. I mean to be honest, Schroeder and I don’t even really hang out a lot - he’s more of a lunchroom and study hall buddy then anything else - but I just think he’d be a good friend if I ever needed one.

The cafeteria monitor finally arrived at the scene and surveyed the damage. Three unlucky freshmen were chosen at random to stay after and clean up. The colossus was trashed and the thrilled screeching of cafeteria banter returned to a charmless hum. It seemed we had no choice but to oblige Schroeder in discussing Cassie.

persecution

2006-12-27T16:19:00.000-06:00

Sheldon and Anna are missionaries that now live in Slovakia. I met them when I was working with Sheldon at NLI in England. Here's something I found on his blog about one of their church planting partners in Serbia.

There’s no persecution in Europe…right?

capsuleflings

2006-12-17T14:52:00.000-06:00

The first time I ever heard a podcast I was a freshmen in college at North Central University living with three musicians. I don't remember the name of the podcast nor its exact subject matter. All I can recall is that it starred two other freshmen in college somewhere in the continental US that swore a lot and talked about Star Wars sometimes. I prompty decided that podcasting was probably the coolest thing ever, and that it was necessary for my moody/emo roommates and I to immediately begin recording our own internet downloadable program.

This thought was so ingrained in my head that even after my roommates completely disregarded it as yet another of Reed's passing fancies (like ceceding our dormroom from the union and then applying for foreign aid or else dropping out of school to reenact scenes from William Golding's "Lord of the Flies" in the Minnesota North Woods) yes, even after they disregarded me, I suggested it again one year later while I was living in yet another North Central dormroom to three other muscian roommates who also disregarded my fantasy, this time as simply being a stupid idea. Afraid of beginning this new project without at least one of my musician friends showing me how to operate a microphone or without an ounce of anything interesting to talk about, I have sat on the idea for two years until today.

No, I'm not announcing the commencement of my own podcast (that's just one of my stupid passing fancies). Instead, I would like to suggest for you three of my favorite downloadable audio programs. These intriguing and humorous podcasts fill the void in my car on long morning communtes downtown, and provide the soundtrack for the aimless hours I spend trying to breed Chocobos in Final Fantasy VII. All three can be found on iTunes.

It should be noted that all three podcasts actually originated as radio programs and are more regularly heard somewhere in the United States over the ole' AM/FM. This of course, just proves that all I really wanted to do was be on college radio all those years.

The Mischke Broadcast
"Good ole' St. Paul, Big Time Minneapolis."
http://mischke1500.blogspot.com/

Mischke has been on the air for a while in the Twin Cities and is a bit of a local celebrity/enigma. I suppose for more details about his antics and quirks just read his wikipedia entry. For my bit, all I can tell you is that I personally think he's hilarious and original. Not too political, not too high-brow, and surprisingly sophisticated, Mischke makes me proud to be a Minnesotan.

The Sound of Young America
"A show about things that are awesome."
http://www.maximumfun.org/

It's from San Francisco I believe. Host Jesse Thorn interviews various comedy/culture people about the different funny/relevant things that they do. They're ushering in the age of the 'new sincerity' (irony is dead apparently) which basically means it's cool to be a nice guy again. "The Sound of Young America" is humble and in-depth, which is surprising because it comes from California, and I suggest you check it out even if you are (like me) not necessarily always an advocate of young people from America.

This American Life
"from WBEZ in Chicago."
http://www.thislife.org/

Intriguing Public Radio. Great stories and very well produced, "This American Life" observes both on and offbeat aspects of our culture with dry humor and subtle superiority. It's enjoyed best with a glass of skeptcism and a pre-embargoed open-mind.

bowling final paper

2006-12-06T14:23:00.000-06:00

Reed Carlson
PE 127 Bowling
North Central University
Tuesday, December 5, 2006*

Bowling Reflection Essay

This semester I chose bowling for my physical education credit. Every Tuesday, from 9:30 to around 10:15 in the morning, I would bowl at “Memory Lanes” in Minneapolis, MN. In the three months I was enrolled in this class, I improved both my knowledge and my skill in the game of bowling.

I gained more knowledge of bowling in a variety of ways. The first, and most obvious, was my ability to find “Memory Lanes” bowling alley. At the beginning of the semester, I was very hesitant and uncertain when using the text directions found at the bottom of the syllabus. By the last day, I was able to competently navigate myself, and my passengers, to the bowling alley in a timely fashion without the aid of a map or GPS system. I also learned my ideal bowling shoe size. Throughout the semester I experimented with size 10 – 11 shoes and finally learned that size 10 1/2 shoes provided the ideal levels of comfort and playability on the lanes floor. Additionally, I learned how to competently keep score in a bowling game, whereas before I simply allowed a computer to do this work for me. Whilst this lesson was technically learned outside of class on a social outing at a bowling alley without electronic scoring, I credit PE 127 with teaching me this lesson since it was my idea to go bowling and I wouldn’t have had the idea if I’d not enjoyed the game so much during class periods. Last, I also learned that naming bowlers is a game and art form in and of itself. Using the electronic Qubica system, I’ve learned how to successfully bypass the built-in abbreviation software by simply placing spaces between each letter when typing it into the computer.

My skill in the game of bowling reached a plateau, dipped to dreadful, then skyrocketed to slightly better then it was originally over the course of the semester. This process was facilitated by my rebuilding of my bowling swing. Using traditional techniques, I could rely on bowling slightly over a 100 on a good day, and perhaps a 70 on a bad day. However, I was not satisfied with these scores. After a few class periods I decided it was time to learn how to utilize spin. By removing my thumb from its hole and simply cradling the ball with a greater rotation in my wrist, I was able to create a drastic spinning motion in my bowl. This resulted in the drastic dipping of my scores to well below 50 on some days, since the ball would often spin from almost falling into the gutter on one side to actually crossing over to the gutter on the opposing side, ne’er touching a pin in between. Not to be discouraged, I continued experimenting with foot placement and rotation severity, attempting to precisely time that elemental crossover at the prime opportunity for hitting pins. The breakthrough came on my second to last day of bowling when I switched from the 10 lb ball I had been using (assuming lighter meant more spin) to a 13 lb ball. The results were astonishing. After bowling the 13 lb ball for 2 games, on the last day of bowling, in my final game, I attained a personal best of 156.

I conclude with a quote from Socrates.

"I decided that it was not wisdom that enabled poets to write their poetry, but a kind of instinct or inspiration, such as you find in seers and prophets who deliver all their sublime messages without knowing in the least what they mean. This instinct is most likely gained from bowling."

* This is my actual paper handed in for the semester final

a very short story

2006-12-01T20:39:00.000-06:00

"I remember when all I had to do was pick up a feather and I could fly." He said. "Did your imagination teach you that?" I asked. "No," he responded listlessly, "it was a video game."

the fake news

2006-11-25T08:17:00.000-06:00

Inspired by "America's Finest News Source," yesterday's post, and my committment to at least four posts a month, I present you with the fake news.

Wealthy Environmentalist Rides SUV Cross Country To Raise Global Warming Awareness

HOLLYWOOD, CA - Notorious enviro-friendly activist and overall pretentious Entertainment-Biz jerk, Ferdinand Thompson annouced today his plans to drive his Green H2 Hummer from Los Angeles to New York to raise money for a Global Warming research group. "I can't sit back and relax while our Government destroys the Environment," Thompson stated while seated in the leather driver's seat of his custom SUV sipping a latte, "it's time to think about the future."

Ferdinand Thompson represents a growing number of discontented media personalities in recent years attaching their name and resources to 'good causes' around the world. "For years, America has looked to California to tell it what is hip and entertaining, why can't we provide it with what is important and worth believing in as well?" Thompson explained.

The specifics of "The Green Challenge" are still enduring finalization, but the basic plan outlines a nine to ten SUV motorcade made up of Thompson and his friends journeying from "one important US city to the other, LA to NY." The spectacle is designed to attract attention and get people asking questions. "A run or a bike ride would take too long and is hardly noticable. But 10 decked out hummers, wow! We could cross the country like 10 times in how long it takes joggers to do it once." Onlookers will be encouraged to donate for every mile reached and to follow along on the group's travel blog. Thomspon continued explaining while passing out green colored wristbands to the assembled reporters."We'll have to stop for gas every 100 miles or so anyway, so that'll be a great chance to interact with all of our fans."

Each individual vehicle (including the associated ground fx kits, DVD players, and complicated sub systems) will cost the endeavorers between $100,000 and $200,000, but Thompson says that just proves their devotion to the cause. "The H2's alone are gonna cost a fortune, and fuel costs will be through the roof, but it's worth it. It's all about protecting the Ozone layer afterall," he added after finishing his latte and tossing the empty styrofoam cup to the street. The Green Challenge hopes to raise half a million dollars for Global Warming awareness.

bumper stickers

2006-11-12T23:16:00.001-06:00

Yesterday around dusk, as I was driving home, I accidentally cut off a pickup on the highway. I was going too fast and darted over to the left lane to pass a lethargic minivan and ended up making an F-250 use his brakes. It was a mistake and I knew I was at fault. If it were possible, I would have apologized to Mr. F-250, but it wasn’t, so I didn’t.

My soon to be adversary, wasn’t ready to forgive so easily. He honked his horn, flashed his brights, and rode up close on my bumper. Generally in situations such as this, I make it a point not to respond in order to illustrate to the agitator how childish they are behaving, and yesterday was no exception. I continued driving at my same speed and hoped he would get the point.

Mr. F-250 was not in the mood to be ignored. He pulled up next to me, rolled down his window and began voicing his opinion of the current situation. I didn’t even look in his direction. After perhaps fifteen to twenty seconds of this monologue, he glided out in front of me and decided it was necessary for me to use my brakes. I obliged him since the trailer hitch at the rear of his monstorous truck would’ve most likely caused harm to my little Jetta.

Through the back window he made a certain gesture with his finger and then motioned for me to pull over so we could discuss the matter further. From my new vantage point I could tell he was a larger man with hairy arms and was wearing a trucker hat. I gawked at his decal of a mischevious boy urinating on a rival car company’s logo and his “I Heart Hooters” bumper sticker. I realized the situation had the potential to escalate if I didn’t act carefully.

I switched over to the right lane and he followed suit (whilst taking the opportunity to make me to use my brakes again) and I indicated I was going to exit the highway. He took the bait and got off on a frontage road while I continued on at 70 miles per hour, leaving him behind. I drove a little faster then normal in the event he decided to follow, but I never felt his high beams at my back again.

As the threat faded behind me and my heart rate returned to normal I digested the whole episode. As is often my habit, I fit the situation into a movie that I would like to write someday. I was certain that many people could identify with my annoyance and frustration at characters like Mr. F-250, and would perhaps find a bit with such subject matter interesting. As I continued to fantasize, I pictured the opening scene of an action film where the hero (me obviously) is introduced by similar circumstances. He would react like me; keeping his cool and mentally mocking the immaturity of the other driver, perhaps even in narration.

The only difference is that when Mr. F-250 motioned for the main character to pull over, he actually would. Mr. F-250 would exit his car awkwardly; an overweight lump of flesh in a wife-beater and an open can of beer in his hand (I was embellishing at this point). He would walk up to our hero’s squeaky clean german roadster and begin cursing with a uneducated drawl whilst clumsily banging his fist against the door. This would continue for a few moments so that the audience could experience the full waste of human tissue that was Mr. F-250. Finally, our hero’s driver side window would slide down slightly. Mr. F-250 would lean forward to do something revolting like spit or speak, but would be met by the barrell of a large, deadly looking shotgun. This weapon would promptly blow Mr. F-250’s head off, the window would slide closed just as discreetly and cleanly as before, and our hero would drive off into the sunset. Mr. F-250’s body would remain behind at the side of the road, his body devoured by vultures as the headlights from his gas-guzzling monstrosity illuminated the entire gruesome scene.

The closing of this particular scene pleased me, and I replayed it a few more times in my head, utilizing different camera angles and epic soundtracks. (At this point I should add that I am not the kind of person that enjoys films of this nature. I don’t often watch horror movies, and I find most action films that involve guns dull. Additionally, I do not own a gun, have only shot one on rare occasions at empty cans of Mountain Dew, and have never used my fists for anything other then pretending to be in a Rocky training montage.) I entertained these thoughts for the remainder of my ride and it wasn’t until I entered my driveway that I awoke to my hipocrisy.

It occurred to me that what made me so predisposed towards killing off Mr. F-250 so early in my movie was how much I didn’t like him personally. His unnecessary V8 engine, his overweight girth, his unsophisticated personality (I must’ve assumed this from the trucker hat and stickers), and unreasonable anger all added up to a human being whom I wouldn’t like by default. My completely unfounded and unfair prejudice placed his life on a lower echelon then my own.

Having realized this, it further occurred to me that I wished for this man to die. Me, the pacifist, disregarding his wife and kids probably waiting for him to come home, ignoring everything I believe and often teach about God’s grace and love for mankind, I - Reed Carlson - was trading in this man’s life for my own mental gratification. I had created no hero, I’d spawned a villian.

I wonder how often many of us feel we have a monopoly on the moral high ground. We assume simply being who we are gives us special priveleges to call clear thinking and ethical actions home. Reflecting on my attitude last night, I’m ashamed as I recall the condemnation I’ve heaped on my fellow man while watching the news or sitting in church. In John 3, we are told how how Jesus did not come to the world to condemn it but to save it. It seems sometimes I feel that I should fill in the role that Jesus left vacant.

Those of us that feel enlightened because we’re not as violent, close-minded, or prejudiced as ‘those other people’ need to be wary of intellectual ascension. I believe that mankind, all of mankind, has the potential for acts of great evil and acts of great love. Further, a person is never completely in one category or the other. The philosophical connotations of these statements are topics for another day, but for now, accepting these statements as truth are a huge step towards true equality.

Mr. F-250, where ever you are. I’m sorry for judging you. I hope you’ll forgive me. Let’s get together and I'll buy you a drink some time.

spiritually haggard

2006-11-03T12:52:00.000-06:00

"Evangelical leader quits amid male escort's allegations"

Something needs to be done for the Church in my country. It's sick and it's slowly dying and we keep putting band-aids on and pretending there's nothing wrong.

Something needs to be done and I don't know what that is.

a cold truth

2006-10-25T14:18:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, I finally came to terms with the fact that I will never converse and interact naturally with a personal robot.

I do not doubt that within my lifetime, robots will indeed become practical and in fact prolific in upper - middle class homes across the first world. I do not even doubt that robotics will advance in areas of locomotion and computation to fit intuitively into every day life. What I do not believe is that robotic-human communication will advance to a comfortable level.

I rest this hypothesis solely on the phenomenon of human satire. I just can't believe that within my lifetime, it will be possible to program a computer to discern the nuances, pauses, facial expressions, tendencies, inside jokes, and habits involved with complex human interaction. Computer effectiveness is dependent on input (keyboard code, mouse click, voice-recognition on your phone) - input that is precise and explicit. The ambiguities of sarcasm and hyperbole by definition would confound a synthetic life form in need of direct input. How could we expect a robot to understand us when, by utilizing sarcasm, we are in fact saying the opposite of what we mean.

As a person that conjures sarcasm and satire habitually in every day conversation, I have now realized I will never be able comfortably interact with a robot.

(For an example of this relationship played out dramatically, I cite the relationship between C-3PO and Han Solo)

chaos makes me nervous

2006-10-19T15:20:00.000-05:00

Since my first childhood Skittles bag which I instinctively emptied and sorted, I’ve always liked to believe that life is best lived in order. Thus when confronted by bedlam, I seldom act rashly or outrageously, in fact, I rarely act at all. Chaos is a shocker and it has the ability to freeze the soul. Last Thursday night I saw ‘Jesus Camp’ at the Lagoon Theatre Uptown Minneapolis, and it was complete mayhem.

the film, in brief

It’s a captivating film to watch. I have no idea who Force Theory is, but their mystically foreboding (forebodingly mystical?) musical contribution is a large part of ‘Jesus Camp’s’ allure. It’s a documentary that at least stylistically reminds me of The Nomad Show from Fearless Films; candidly humorous, beautifully shot, and cleverly edited to communicate a clear message. It’s attractive enough to charm any film goer, even someone oblivious to the political/religious overtones.

However, unless you’ve spent an overwhelming percentage of the last two decades in the corner of a dull room, it’s impossible to miss the controvertial subject matter.

The tumultuous religion (cult?) portrayed by ‘Jesus Camp’ screams of chaos. Nine-year-olds muttering to themselves in single syllables, grown men shaking uncontrollably as they ask God to poor blood on various metaphorical and literal subjects; it’s enough to make someone that actually believes in the usefulness of some of that spiritual stuff sink in his seat. “How could a sane person believe in such nonsensical hysteria?” it seems to ask. Or more strikingly, “How could they teach that to children?” And eventually, “How could we allow these people to control our country?”

No doubt, the film is 75% political, 25% religious. A thesis might be, “These people exist, they are spreading, and their religion effects how they vote.” Bush, Iraq, abortion, Darwin, and other headlines are mentioned often and the connection between belief and politic is firmly established.

As a moderate and thus a minority in today’s Christian climate , I identified all too well with the film makers’ outrage at this shameless blending of church and state. Before expounding, let me digress.

outrage again

There’s not much a Pastoral Studies major at North Central University and a gay man in his forties should have in common. I discussed this with a work colleague of mine who happened to be in the latter of these two categories. I was relating to him my ‘Jesus Camp’ reflections while simultaneouly contemplating my own reaction. My story reminded him of a time when someone had made a slanderous joke of his particular beliefs about life and specifically sexuality, to which he had simply laughed and moved on.

It struck me that by openly identifying ourselves with two such active and opinionated (not to mention dichotomously opposed) social groups, he and I have sacrificed our rights to be easily offended. It is logical that since I stand for something, someone somewhere else will disagree by standing for something else. Thus should we, as members of the institution known as ‘church,’ be surprised when someone reacts severely to the extremists in our movement? Or more practically, do I have an excuse to be outraged after viewing the socio-political commentary that is ‘Jesus Camp?’

we are the new Rome and Constantine is our president

It is impossible to criticize either the delusional fanatics or the biased spinmasters involved in ‘Jesus Camp’ without regurgitating the debate that bores us all every day. If we continue to accuse, manipulate, and agitate in response to our own hurt feelings, neither side will ever be brought to understand the other. Perfect agreement is unlikely but also, I believe, unnecessary.

As a follower of the teachings of Jesus and a person who believes the Church has potential to do good in this world, I must ask myself why does bitter criticism like this exist? Many within my movement would draw attention to ‘persecution’ prophecy in the New Testament and perhaps even claim this is yet more evidence we live in the shadow of the Apocolapse. Whilst unpleasant to endure, I would hardly categorize ‘Jesus Camp’ as anything more then ridicule, and it’s ridicule with a good point. According to the film makers, the Evangelical right is the oppressor, and the world endures it’s tyranny. America is not unlike 313 AD when Constantine declared Christianity the official religion of Rome to great political applause yet neglected to adopt its principles into his practics.

This interpretation is quite strong but worth considering. No religious belief system has a pleasant reputation historically when paired with a governing body.

It is almost assured more unchurched people will go to see (or will even be aware of) ‘Jesus Camp’ then Evangelicals. So let me leave you who are not sure what to think about this film with this. First, Christians should be sensitive to how their religious activity appears to those outside of Church tradition. Their Bible tells them about making the teachings of God attractive in the book of Titus, Chapter 2. This was not done in the film. Second, the filmmakers attempted to represent the entirety of the Church with a small political/religious niche. This is not an accurate representation. Most followers of Christ recognize the Bible’s authority in directing how they live their lives. Here’s some verses I found relevant to this discussion.

Remind the believers to submit to the government and its officers. They should be obedient, always ready to do what is good. They must not slander anyone and must avoid quarreling. Instead, they should be gentle and show true humility to everyone.
Titus 3: 1-3 NLT

For God is not a God of disorder but of peace, as in all the meetings of God’s holy people.
I Corinthians 14:33 NLT

they're preaching it from the pulpit even

2006-10-09T13:52:00.000-05:00

Congratulations to my friend Ryan from Ghost Coffee who will soon be barista over in St. Paul.

I first patronized Kopplin's in early August, but it wasn't until two weeks ago yesterday that I realized it had finally filled the rosseta shaped hole in my heart. Autumn leaves crackled underfoot from the ancient St. Paul oaks that lined the corner of Hamline and Randolph. I traipsed through the entrance, slightly chilled by the Minnesotan wind. Cake's "Long Line of Cars" was my first greeting as I set down my shoulder bag. Approaching the counter I smiled as I overheard homestarrunner's title screen on another patron's laptop.

"Toons!"

The baristateer at the bar remembered me and my order from last time.

"Games!"

Cake finished and Sufjan Steven's "To Be Alone With You" began.

"Characters?"

I made idle chatter with the locals and a few minutes later my cappuccino came back with a creamy heart on top. I'd found a home.

Yesterday, the pastor at Oak Hills Church used a Kopplin's experience to illustrate a point in his sermon. He'd asked Andrew the owner about the phrase "Authentic European Coffee" and why he used it in his advertising. Andrew responded by explaining the glory of small portions and creamy thick foam. Americans desire mega sizes and flavor alterations. The pastor later reflected that this was a kid who admirably stuck to his mission the way the church should stick to its.

For those of you still doubting the awesomeness of this neighborhood coffee shop, I need only mention the bowling located in the basement to sway your hardened heart.

at least my car wasn't impounded

2006-09-28T18:15:00.000-05:00

I lived in England for 10 months. I moved there September 11, 2005 and returned July 4th, 2006. I thought about many things before I left; things like packing everything I own, plane tickets, and leaving my affairs in order after departing. One of the things I did not think about was purchasing new tabs for my car that was to spend the duration in my garage. I did not think about the tabs when I was traveling in Europe, and I did not think about tabs as I was flying home almost 3 months ago. To be honest, today is the first day in more then a year that I have thought at all about automobile tabs.

The ticket is for $112. The irony is that last week I received my Jury Duty check from the state of Minnesota for around the same amount.

the power of myth

2006-09-26T16:39:00.000-05:00

It's not often realized the profound effect of your favorite childhood saga. In fact, it was only a few weeks ago that my buddy Devin and I were reminiscing over two dry cappuccinos the debt our moral standards owe to Pat Morita and Ralph Macchio for their lessons taught and learned in the Karate Kid trilogy. It's astonishing that ethical legends and dramas displayed in front of our youthful eyes more then a decade ago can remain so firmly fixated in our memories.

In the recent week, another epic (to which we are both particulary attached) has replayed itself out in our daily communication in a most peculiar fashion. I will not attempt to explain or quantify the 'why' or 'how' of the exchange I'm presenting to you now. I only hope that you will appreciate it for what it is. And for those of you that require no explanation of our reasons but whose hearts join with us in our tribute to the power of myth, I salute you.

The following transcript occured between Reed and his friend Devin through text messages without the use of outside references between September 20 at 4:19 pm and the post date of this entry.

FROM DEVIN 4:19 PM SEPTEMBER 20
TK421! Why aren’t you at your post?

FROM REED 4:50 PM SEPTEMBER 20
Can you please send me a classic Star Wars quote every day?

FROM DEVIN 4:48 PM SEPTEMBER 20
I can’t keep up with you...but I’ll try.

FROM DEVIN 4:53 PM SEPTEMBER 20
I was on my way to the tajee station to pick up some power converters!

FROM DEVIN 7:22 AM SEPTEMBER 21
Don’t be too proud of this technological terror you’ve constructed. The ability to destroy a planet is insignificant next to the power of the Force.

FROM REED 7:50 AM SEPTEMBER 21
But with the blast shield down i wont be able to see. How am I supposed to fight?

FROM DEVIN 9:06 AM SEPTEMBER 21
They’re coming in! Three marks and two ten!

FROM REED 9:20 AM SEPTEMBER 21
Hurry up Goldenrod! or you’re gonna be a permanent resident!

FROM DEVIN 9:21 AM SEPTEMBER 21
I think my eyes are getting better. Now instead of a big dark blur, I see a big bright blur.

FROM REED 11:02 PM SEPTEMBER 21
Bounty hunters? We don’t need that scum.

FROM DEVIN 9:01 AM SEPTEMBER 22
Asteroids do not concern me admiral. I want that ship, not excuses.

FROM REED 9:34 AM SEPTEMBER 22
-You’re imagining things.- Am I? Then why are you following me? ... YOU COULD USE A GOOD KISS!

FROM DEVIN 2:51 PM SEPTEMBER 24
Vader is here. Now, on this moon.

FROM REED 3:04 PM SEPTEMBER 24
Look sir, droids.

FROM REED 9:38 AM SEPTEMBER 25
The guns. They’ve stopped.

FROM DEVIN 9:35 AM SEPTEMBER 25
Good against droids is one thing. Good against a living, that’s something else.

FROM DEVIN 4:17 PM SEPTEMBER 26
Laugh it up fuzzball

FROM REED 4:47 PM SEPTEMBER 26
Echo 3 to echo 7. Han 'ol buddy do you read me?

FROM DEVIN 4:50 PM SEPTEMBER 26
Wedge! I've lost my gunner. You'll have to take the shot.

FROM REED 4:51 PM SEPTEMBER 26
Copy rogue leader.

the second and third greatest warriors in the achaean army

2006-09-22T13:44:00.000-05:00

If you're reading my new blog at the moment (of which I'm almost certain you are) and you're familiar with my old blog(of which I hope you are) then you're probably a little dismayed (or atleast mildy perturbed) by my lack of content. Please do not fret, for I have wondrous and magical plans for this little corner of the internet, in which I will fill numerous witty, emotional, and curious things. At the moment, however, I have to go to work, so it is required that you forgive my negligence and have some patience. What I can do for you is clarify some questions you may have.

My blog is not referring to this:

But rather this:

The two aeantes are Ajax the Great and Ajax the Lesser. But I suggest reading about them in this or at the very least that before Wikipedia.

I will post again soon enough.