Reflections On New York

When a friend of ours was organizing a travel group to New York City, we signed up with aggressive abandon. For a small fee we could ride a charter bus into the city, spend the day seeing the sights, and then ride back to the rural life in sweet blissful euphoria. 

A few things worth noting at this point are that the bus left from New Castle, PA--a bladder challenging four-and-a-half hour drive from our home. The bus left New Castle at midnight Saturday morning. After six-and-a-half hours of drifting in and out of sleep to the sensation of our bus careening down a mountain, we pulled up at East 42nd and Madison Avenue where we were left to fend for ourselves until 8pm that night. Of course, the same bus-ride-of-terror awaited us, but got us home safely in New Castle at just past 3:30 am Sunday morning. This experience was fueled by a passion for the city, and a zealous disregard for sleep, and several liters of Starbucks. 

To bring this trip full circle, we will drive another six-and-a-half hours to Indianapolis where our children are being boarded, then two hours home to Fort Wayne on Monday evening. 

So why did we do this? Because my wife and I love an adventure. She'd been to NYC a few times, but this was my first. And we've decided that if either of us ever say we're too old to do something, then we have permission to slap that person in the mouth and tell them "No!"

Enough with all the rhetoric; let's get down to my main observations of The Big Apple. 

1. It's really a lot like a theme park. But instead of a roller coaster at the end of the line, there's a toilet. 

2. Incidentally, Greenwich Village is a horrible place to have to pee...unless you live there, I suppose. 

3. Parts of it reminded me of other cities I'd visited, such as Taichung, Taiwan, and Belgrade, Serbia.

4. You're never more than 15 steps away from a Starbucks, or a fortune teller. We exploited the former. 

5. Did you know Central Park has mountains in it? I did not know that. But it's true. I wanted to climb them, but I had to pee--a direct correlation with number 4. 

6. Driving through the Lincoln Tunnel, I couldn't help but think about a scene from Stephen King's The Stand. Driving past several vacant lots in Manhattan, on the other hand, I couldn't help but think about several scenes in Stephen King's Dark Tower series. 

7. I'm pretty sure I saw Colin Farrell outside Rockefeller.

8. Apple earbuds are a popular hipster accessory. 

9. While we didn't see Lady Liberty, we did see several people dressed like her. 

10. The subway is pretty cool. 

I think ten is a good place to stop. All in all, it was awesome. I already can't wait to go back. I'm just hoping for a better bus driver. 

But now I've said too much. 

Into the Grey

Lately I've been watching movies like I read books... in sittings of thirty to sixty minutes at a time. I find that I watch a lot more movies this way, but usually forget what's going on by the time I pick it up again. It also makes every movie feel like a franchise with multiple sequels and/or a mini series. All in all, it's a pretty brilliant strategy.

So last night I got started on a movie called The Grey with Liam Neeson. I'm thirty minutes in, and so far it's pretty intense. No, literally, they're stranded in the great outdoors, which requires them to live in tents; it's pretty wild. Actually, it's very wild; they're stranded in the Alaskan wilderness being stalked by wolves.

There were several scenes that I found pretty spine-tingling. Especially the one where a guy was cut in half. Another scene or two were pretty gut wrenching...like the once where a man bled to death from a puncture wound in his abdomen. And already, they're finding themselves in some pretty hairy predicaments, as most of them are rocking some pretty sweet beards.

To summarize, I find the whole plot to be pretty chilling. I already mentioned they're in Alaska. And to think I'm only thirty minutes in... it should be a pretty good movie.

I've said too much.

My Unicorn Stage

Observe as I gracefully ignore my neglect to this blog.

Poof! Ignored.

All of us have special qualities that make us unique. For some, it's their amazing abilities to bend metal with their minds, or solve tricky math problems. Others can draw good, or turn their eyelids inside out. I discovered my special quality about a year ago. While this special attribute of mine had been periodically rearing its ugly head for several years, it wasn't until this time last year that I learned it was just a special part of being me. Imagine my delight. 

If only this special feature allowed me to do that Vulcan thing with my four fingers, or slurp my spit back into my mouth just before it hit the ground... that would be wonderful. But, sadly my unique quality has nothing to do with cool and useless super-human tricks. My special attribute? I grow pimples... really, really big ones... on my face.

In all fairness, they're not technically pimples; they're called Sebaceous Cysts. And boy are they ugly. Imagine the largest pimple you've ever seen. Now magnify that by about ten... and that might be close to the size of these puppies. Thankfully, I only get them once or twice a year. But when I do, the process usually goes something like this:

1. Small red bump that feels a little tender appears on my face, followed by a sinking feeling in my gut and an intense desire to cut my face off. 
2. The bump gradually but dramatically swells in the general area of the cyst, creating a pronounced mound that resembles a scaled down version of Mount Saint Helens.
3. Swelling intensifies, resulting in partial paralysis to my facial expressions, evoking looks of astonishment and terror by all those who behold its horror. 
4. Painful extraction procedure ensues, which usually leads to a grotesque eruption of "matter" that decorates the mirror, walls and ceiling of my bathroom (I know... maybe a bit too graphic, and I should have warned you. My sincerest apologies).

In the end, I look like a gun shot victim with my wife staring blankly and saying, "That was awesome!" 

When the mother of all cysts appeared on my forehead just before vacation last year, I finally sought the guidance of a venerated dermatologist to help me overcome that beast, and learn how I can prevent them from ever happening again. Her response was less than encouraging: "You just have a skin type that likes to produce cysts." 

There it is... my special quality. And I was so hoping for the ability to fly, or stretchy arms. Bummer. 

But here's another gem with this little beauty of a gift - they almost always appear when I have something major on the calendar. Like, for example, the most recent of these cysts which decided to join me a few days before Easter... with me on the schedule to play guitar in our worship band just a few days later. When I would normally want to hide my face from all of humanity, I had to stand in front of thousands of people and play my guitar. Awesome. Thankfully I made it through the weekend with 90% use of my eye brows, and relatively small amounts of swelling. 

But then today I decided to return to my friendly dermatologist and employ her cunning skill and gadgetry to destroy this monster. It was a success. All I remember from the procedure was hearing the nurse use "tootsie roll" as a size reference to that which was extracted from my face. I'll be honest, I was a little proud. 

Here I sit at my computer, forehead still swollen and aching, and thankful that another one of these atrocities is behind me. Yet, I have to be honest that there was a part of me that came to grips with the reality of these cysts through this most recent experience. Rather than get all stressed out about it, I decided that - like it or not - this is just a part of who I am. And really, it could be a lot worse. Why should I hide my face because of a bump? ... a grotesque, scream-inducing, freak-of-nature bump? Sure, it's unsightly. But it's me. Maybe the majestic unicorn felt the same way I did whilst in the presence of simple horses. Maybe it's adorning horn was seen as a monstrosity by those who lacked one. But it's the horn that makes it what it is... beautiful, dignified, and magical. Maybe these cysts are my horns, and I need to hold my head high like the mighty unicorn. 

Then again, I'm sure many a unicorn would have cut that stupid horn off if they could have... and that's what I did.

But now I've said too much.

A Study on Peeling an Orange

Dear Off the Record, 

Today I peeled an orange. This is what I've been reduced to. The sad truth is that I peeled three oranges. Why, you might ask? Because I wanted a snack. 

But I've decided something. Eating an orange is less of a snack, and more of a hobby. It's like whittling a unicorn from a stick. You have to sit there and carve away the peel for several minutes before you finally get to the goods. Honestly, I don't think I've ever shown that level of commitment to any single food item in my life.

And I did this not once, but three times. 

Ah, but alas, my diet only allows me one orange per diem. So I cheated yet again, it would seem. For the record, that third orange was for my wife...and for love.

Of course, I've said too much. 

Sent from my iPad

I May Have Jumped Off the Wagon, But I Did It with Class

There comes a time when you have to step back, assess the situation (there was a momentary snicker when I stopped short of finishing the word assess), and just get real with yourself. The situation being my diet; the assessment being that this is a very half-hearted go, to say the least. 

I'm okay with that.

In my defense, however, I had every intention of sticking with the plan during my meal tonight. Earlier this afternoon, between hunger pangs, I actually thought to myself, "I can do this. I will do this." But that all changed when I received a very unexpected, but very welcome, call from my pastor. His tidings were glad, in deed. On this very night, he possessed one very highly sought-after invitation to an exclusive unveiling of our region's newest and most state-of-the-art healthcare facility, which is set to open to the public in just over a month. For those in North East Indiana, you'll recognize the name Parkview Hospital. Yes, my pastor was inviting me to join him as he attended this extravagant event.  

I accepted without hesitation, knowing full well that delicious food would be in good supply, and all would eat to their fancy. And fancy eating, it was. 

The only catch: I had to wear a suit. A minor set back, as it did restrict my full range of motion of hand-to-mouth in rapid succession; a handicap to which I quickly adapted. 

There was a salad bar, and an array of fresh and exotic fruits. I had none of it. Instead, I had my fill of fancy cheeses, red meat, shrimp cocktail, and fancy cheeses on top of red meat. It was delightful. 

The hospital was pretty neat, too.

But I've said too much. 

Delicious Shame

I awoke this morning to the sound of my stomach trying to out growl my wife's. She won, much to my chagrin. I actually think my stomach is so under-used, it's lost the will to growl. Life could be better.

As miserable as I may be, you can't argue with results. My digital scale revealed that I'm down another one-point-four pounds from yesterday, a trend that is probably coming to a screeching halt after tonight.

Just moments ago, I inhaled a Chipotle burrito without even realizing it...it was like my mouth was on auto-pilot. In a fog, I tried to remember what brought me to such a lowly state. Then it came back to me...my temptress of a wife suggested the food of choice when I was at my worst. Resistance was futile. So I drowned my sorrow with two...no, three...Oreo cookies.

They were double-stuff.

It's okay, though. Thanks to the hormones I'm taking (HCG), I'm pretty sure I would pass a pregnancy test...or fail a pregnancy test, depending on your perspective. That's a post for another time.

I've said too much.

Bitter Fruit

One day in, and I'm convinced this diet was created by Satan, himself. I actually felt guilty for having an extra orange last night. 

And I still haven't acquired the taste for black coffee...it gives you Columbian prison inmate breath. 

After two salads, snacks comprised of strictly fruit, and having to pass on numerous junk food opportunities, life seems to have lost all meaning. Grasping for a way out, I declared that if I hadn't lost 2 lbs by morning, I was done. 

Of course, I lost exactly 2 lbs. Curse my digital scale. 

I've said too much.

Sent from my iPad

The Winter of My Discontent

I appear to love misery...especially if I can document it. I remind you that some time ago I deliberately cut out all caffeine from my life, and brought you along through the journey of my self-inflicted torture. 

A new journey begins today.

You see, I'm a little less than satisfied with my current weight situation. Most people who see me on a regular basis would be surprised by this. But the fact remains that just yesterday morning I tipped the scales at over 200 lbs. That's the most I've ever weighed, to my knowledge. I decided right then and there that it's time to look at my gut in the eye and declare war. So I said to my gut, "I solemnly swear to destroy you, gut." And I will.

So, today I begin a new starvation regimen, also known as a diet. A few changes that have already been made: I'm drinking my caffeinated coffee black (yes, caffeinated - I fell off that bandwagon months ago), and I'll be eating a salad for lunch. Yes. A salad...with the dressing on the side. And no cheese. 

Already I'm wondering what I've become. 

Black coffee. No cheese. No sugar. No spice of life (or fatty foods, as they say in the health industry). These next few weeks will shake me at the very core of my being. And yes, I will be blogging regularly to bring you into my pain. 

I've only just begun.

Sent from my iPad

Hot Mess

The phrase used as the title of this post adequately sums up my coffee experience this morning. What should have been a blissful cup of quality joe, brewed in an extra snooty fashion, quickly became a nightmare.

Splashing, spilling, hands covered in molten java.

While I was lapping the coffee from my hands to avoid more of a mess, I sat my chic travel thermos in one of my many, many cup holders...which happened to be the one in which my wife had spilled coffee the night before, the puddle still fresh. Hands now cleansed of their delicious grime, I gingerly lifted my designer coffee thermos to my mouth for another tasty sip, then whimsically sat the thermos, not in its flooded cup holder, but on my lap, unaware that the bottom was coated in the rich, palatable caffeinated goodness.

The coffee ring on my lap is visible, even now.

So to all those who stood within smelling distance of me today, wondering to themselves, "Why do I smell great coffee, and where can I get some?"

Now you know.

I've said...

...too much.

Bella's Revenge

If you have a natural fear of baby dolls, you should probably read no further. If you're still reading, I'll assume you're prepared to read a tale so chilling, it will send chills to the very core of your chilly soul. You're welcome to read such a tale after you read this mildly amusing story. 

You may have already assumed - which is dangerous, I know - that Bella is the name of a baby doll. Ellie's baby doll, in fact. Ellie is two. She has exactly one cousin and two friends who don that very name, and now every child has taken on that identity...including her baby dolls (emphasis on the plural). I actually applaud Ellie for her naming efficiency. 

Our tale begins this very afternoon as I was engaging in a little playful interaction with Ellie and Bella. As is often the case during such occasions, I will hold any one of the Bellas and pretend that they are real babies - all of this for Ellie's amusement, not my own. That would be incredibly weird. And before you go and think I'm a softy, you should know that these father-daughter play sessions are not without their disturbing qualities, which I'm careful to include so that my masculinity remains well in tact. I hold Bella, hug her, snuggle with her, talk in baby gibberish to her...and then I usually end up dropping the simulated infant on its head with great fanfare. This typically incites much heartfelt laughter from both children (the real ones) and adults alike. I may occasionally improvise if a coffee table is near by, or the corner of a wall, or - as is the case with this particular occasion - the ceiling of our living room.

I was holding Bella the baby doll (one that looks eerily similar to a real Bella we know), tossing her playfully into the air, each time getting a little higher until, WAP! The baby doll made forceful impact with the ceiling, and fell to the floor. We reveled with delight. 

That is until moments later when Ellie tried to mimic such behavior, throwing Bella's hard plastic head into my eyeball. 

Bella had her revenge. It was cold, indeed. But I feel inclined to remind her that accidents still happen...and there's a rocking chair very close at hand. 

I've said too much. 

The Bacon Deception

If you found this post hoping for the latest dish on actor, dancer Kevin Bacon, then I should warn you: this post has nothing to do with him. 

This post, on the other hand, has everything to do with the preposterous occurrences in my kitchen this very night. Allow me to divulge. 

While I was putting my handyman skills to good use converting our coat closet into a pantry, my wife declared that she was preparing bacon for our baked potato bar. My soul began to weep for joy, and I nearly broke into song. My elation was stayed, however, with the memory of a previous attempt at bacon, which prompted my asking, "Is it real bacon?" 

Her response was startling. "Yeah," she said casually. The song commenced. 

The song, sadly, was never meant to last. 

It was several minutes later when she revealed the truth about the bacon. 

"Well, it's turkey bacon," she confessed. 

I made clear my disappointment. Her response was chilling. "I think you'll be really disappointed tonight," she said coolly. 

I already regret this post. 

And yes, I've said too much. 

Sent from my iPhone

The Cruel Hands of Time

Well, the day is here. My birthday. 34 years ago today, I took my first breath...and my first poop. Ahhh...nothing like a little potty humor to keep me feeling young. But, sadly, just thinking about having a BM has made me sleepy.

It's getting harder and harder to deny the fact that I'm aging. Somewhere around 25 is when I think I first started feeling this. At 25 you might as well be 70 to a 24 year old. Heck, at 25 I was married and had two kids! That probably had something to do with it.

But even the late 20's provide a lot of wiggle room when it comes to looking or feeling older. Only four years into my thirties, however, and it's catching up to me.

For example, I have noticed several gray strands in my goatee. I've had gray hairs on my head for a long time, but gray in my beard is an outrage. But that's not even the worst of it. Just in the last few years I've noticed hair growing in unusual places, while it seems there's more hair in the usual places. I can only tweeze for so long! I give it another five years before I give up altogether, and let the savagery take over.

This year, I actually considered using Christmas money to buy a blanket. I'm suddenly cold all the time! I'm pretty sure 70 degrees is still 70 degrees, but my body is telling me otherwise.

The thought of staying up past midnight sounds more like punishment than a party. While I should be enjoying the social outlet, I'm only thinking of how it will feel in the morning.

In fact, 30 is starting to sound young, and women in their 30's are getting more and more attractive. I'm convinced the most beautiful woman in the world is a thirty-five year old brunette mother of four. Her name is Amanda...she's a goddess.

A few days ago I went to the doctor for no other reason than it seemed like the right thing to do. If that doesn't have old written all over it, I don't know what does.

Happy birthday to me.

I've said too much.

Text and Die

On an unexpected route home from the office this evening, I found myself confronted with the question of what sins I had committed that would warrant getting stuck behind the driver that blocked my homeward progress. Why have you forsaken me? I cried in anguish. Not only was this motorist driving 10 miles below the speed limit, but he was all over his lane! If it hadn't been just shy of 5 pm, I would have assumed this individual was under the influence...

...of Satan!

He continued for two miles, weaving inexplicably, driving at a snail's pace, and maintaining a good quarter mile space cushion between himself and the car in front of him. This person was clearly in no position to drive anything. 

As we approached the intersection and I pulled beside him in the left turning lane, I expected a couple of things. Perhaps an elderly woman. Or someone with a compromised intellect. Or maybe someone with no arms. But no. What I saw next was much worse than I expected. I scarce believed my eyes.

Behind the wheel was a punk kid, apparently steering his vehicle with the underside of both forearms, leaving his hands free to grip his cell phone, double-thumb texting the entire time. 

Strong was the urge to inflict bodily harm. 

But I refrained. 

To the punk kid who wants to text and die, I send this message: Make sure you hit a telephone pole, and not my family's van. 

I've said too much.

Procrastination Could Save Your Life

All of my life, I've been counted as nothing if not a procrastinator. Why, consider this post...it was planned months ago, and I'm just now at peace with writing it. To be honest, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted to put it off longer. I'm sure there's something on TV. While my wife will argue otherwise, I remain convinced that procrastination produces some of my best work. By the end of this post, you may find yourself reluctantly considering agreement - when you get around to it, of course - that procrastination, in fact, could be the very reason I'm still alive at the ripe old age of thirty-three (soon to be thirty-four, bear in mind). Allow me to state my case, if you please.

The Christmas decorations are just waiting for me to take them back up to the attic. A real go-getter would have this finished by now. For the sake of argument, let's just entertain the notion that I decide to get on top of things, and I take charge, and I hazard a little physical exertion, and I march into the living room, grab the boxes, and haul 'em up the ladder. Consider the possible consequences of such gumption, for just a responsible minute.

What if the ladder breaks - it is, after all, quite old - and I fall from the attic to my death? Did you ever think about that? My wife hadn't, either...sadly.

Even now, she's out buying me a snow shovel, and she'll likely expect me to actually use it this season...perhaps even tomorrow. Let's say I tap into a hidden, and rarely utilized, rush of motivation, run out into the frozen driveway with new shovel in hand, hit a patch of black ice, fall down next to the SUV, hitting my head on the tow hitch...dead. It could happen.

Thank goodness mowing season is months away...there's a whole list of other inherent risks with that little chore. Equipment malfunction causing deadly explosions, varmin that may attack to protect their dwellings and their young, poison ivy, hidden fissures on the earth's surface, landmines left over from the war...no thank you! I'll take my time and mow on my own life-saving terms, thank you very much.

I'm sure you're starting to see my point of view. These things that apparently have to be done yesterday are the very things that could kill you. So please...take a page out of my book (or blog, as it were) and procrastinate. Chances are, it will be there tomorrow. Rush into it, and you may not be.

I've said too much.

Top Ten Rules for Food Fulfillment

I'm throwing out another post with an urgent plea for prayer on behalf of my wife. In just one hour she will be lured to that place of abomination known to the juvenile community as Chuck E. Cheese. Why, in the name of all that is good and decent, would she ever go there? I know you're thinking it. So am I. But I'll tell you why. Her niece recently turned six, and it's her birthday party. All I can say is people do crazy crap for family.

I, on the other hand, have opted to stay home. 

It's in these moments that I'm reminded of a list of rules that I recently shared in an address to our church. These rules are meant to bring a deeper sense of fulfillment to one of my favorite activities, which is food. After sharing these rules, a friend and colleague mentioned that they were dripping with OtR mojo, and so I thought I'd share them now. They are all too timely in light of the fact that my wife will soon be breaking rule #7. Here they are…the top ten rules for food fulfillment: 

1. When you eat a Chipotle burrito, you must maintain a firm grip on the burrito at all times. If ever you lose that grip, you may never get it back. Catastrophic results have been well documented. 
2. When eating sushi, you must eat with chopsticks. Soy sauce is highly recommended. Wasabi should be used responsibly. 
3. When eating a Chick-fil-a chicken sandwich, you must order extra pickles. There is some flexibility on this if you are in fact deathly allergic to pickles. 
4. When eating a Dunkin' Donuts glazed donut, you must warm it up in the microwave for no fewer than eight seconds prior to inserting it into your mouth. Keep in mind, however, that anything over ten seconds is just pretentious. 
5. When eating at Cebolla's, you must order in Spanish. There are apps to help with this.
6. Also when eating at Cebolla's, you must remain within 30 seconds of a bathroom for at least an hour after the completion of your meal. 
7. When eating at Chuck E. Cheese, don't. 
8. When looking for healthy snacks, anything that says "0 grams trans fat" anywhere on the packaging qualifies. 
9. Pringles Extreme Dill Pickle flavored chips are good. That's more of a statement than a rule.
10. I got sleepy and never came up with a tenth one. 

I've said too much.

Posts and Prophecies

I'm currently reeling from shock and amazement. I'm also high on drugs right now, but I'm 92% sure the cause of my reeling is from shock and/or amazement. Oh, and don't worry about the drugs... it's totally legit. I can explain. 

And I will. 

But first...If you would be so kind as to humor me a moment and stroll through the archives of this blog, you'll come to a post in which I quite bravely enlightened my readers on a very real and debilitating fear that has afflicted me most of my adult life. The post is about my fear of the dentist. The title of that post is Pulling Teeth. And the astute reader will notice the date on that post is January 6th, one year ago today. 

I won't insult your intelligence by rehashing the entire post for you. But i will call to attention that at the time of writing, I had no idea what dental work awaited me, only that I had a recurring toothache, and a visit to my friendly neighborhood dentist was imminent. 

I would also like to update you with the fact that since that post was published I have been to the dentist several times, and have had a total of three teeth pulled; the most recent of those visits was today, the anniversary of my now seemingly prophetic post. In fact, not one, but two of my defenseless teeth were mercilessly taken from me not five hours ago. Here I sit, gauze in my mouth, Vicodin coursing through my system, mourning the loss of my pearly companions. Bitter are my laments!

How could I have known then that one year later I would be three teeth down? The irony is breathtaking!

In the wake of these recent brushes with the dentist, I have made a few discoveries. I'm happy to share those with you now. 

1. Evidently, I have freakishly long roots. I'm actually quite proud of this. Upon viewing my x-rays, dentist and hygienists alike were thrust into exclamations of awe and elation at the size of my roots. I don't mean to brag, but they really are quite long; much longer than yours, probably. They'll very probably be published in a medical journal later this year. As exciting as this was, however, it actually made the process of extraction quite interesting. Apparently longer roots tend to break off while still in your head. This could have made for a fairly miserable experience were it not for my second discovery. 
2. Nitrous Oxide. I love it. Very easily the best $40 I've ever spent. While the dentist was cranking on my jaw, arms tensed with exertion, using a tool that resembled a large screwdriver, while the sound of breaking teeth rattled through my head, I laid peacefully in my chair thinking to myself, "I don't even care." Seriously, if you want a revolt on your hands, dentist, deny the people their nitrous. Honestly, I'm looking forward to my next toothache because of it. 

In light of these discoveries, and after these recent experiences, I feel it's safe to say that I've overcome my fear of the dentist. And I'm 84% sure that's not the drugs talking. 

I've said too much. 

Sent from my iPad

Yeah... About that.

Look at me with my back-to-back posts! Last time that happened, Obama was still in office. 

Anyway, it's time to address the elephant in the room, as it were. Yes, I'm writing this on my mobile device so gloriously designed by Apple. But that's not the metaphorical elephant of which I speak. 

No, I speak of the Colts. More specifically, my most recent post about the Colts. In my naïveté, it appears that I wrote a lot of things that have long since been proven false. My spirits sink a little lower with every retrospective glance, and I felt compelled to say something; to...do...something. What else can I do but admit my foolish, errant, but altogether tragically optimistic ways?

But I won't do that. 

Instead I will simply say that I should have been right. Just ask the Polians. 

There it is. I said too much.

But I'll say more. 

I'm at least glad that after this blunder of a season, we can at least look forward to the top pick in April as a prize, of sorts. Orlovsky nearly ruined that. And I think we can all agree that the real losers this season were the St. Louis Rams, who had the same record but will miss the first pick. 

Now I've said way too much. 

Sent from my iPhone

Hello, Blog. Good to see you.

Yeah, so I've been away for a while. And by a while, I means a very long time... especially since I don't even count my last post. Lame. And by lame, I mean way too serious for this blog.

Well, it would appear that I'm back. But don't let appearances deceive you. Even as I write this, I can feel the tug of distractions luring me away from this sadly neglected blog, not the least of which is sleep. I hear it... I want it. This will have to be short.

Well, you've probably already noticed the new look. Unless, of course, you're reading this via some reader app. If that's the case, I would humbly ask that you go to your browser and kindly type in eofftherecord.blogspot.com. It helps my stat counter. When you get there, you'll also notice that some things are missing. I'm stripping this blog down...going with the minimal look. That's because I've recently come to terms with my lazy blogging ways. I took a long, hard look at myself in the mirror and made some tough decisions. I came away with the steadfast realization that this is how it has to be. Even now, however, I remain conveniently non-committal.

Before I cut this short, since this post is really about nothing, I thought I'd offer a brief explanation as to why I've been so negligent in my blogging of late. I'll provide said excuses in list form.

1. I'm a pastor. Contrary to popular belief, we actually do work more than just on Sundays. At our church, we also have a Saturday service.
2. I'm a dad. This may have led you to the assumption that I'm also a husband, and that would be true. If you've been around this blog at all, you'll notice that my best work usually has something to do with her. 
3. I'm in my thirties. 
4. I have a TV.
5. I have creative ADD. One minute I want to be a song writer, the next a blogger, the next a novelist, and so on. I tragically lack focus, which more often than not inspires me to sit on the couch and watch the aforementioned TV. It is hi-def. 
6. I have a house. There's usually something that needs done, which I'm happy to forget about as I sit on my couch and watch TV. I probably should have mentioned earlier in this list that I have a couch. I hope the sudden reference didn't throw anyone. 

While I was away, there were a few things that happened which are worth noting. I'll close with these tidings. 

First of all, I was pleased to discover that even in my absence, blog activity was zipping right along. Just last month - even with no new posts - there were over 200 hits to my blog. Laziness really does pay off, it would seem. 

Secondly, I actually had the chance to meet Kerry Collins... you know what, I just realized it really isn't that note-worthy, after all. 

Now I've said too much.