Humiliation Archives, File #2: Guitar

The BPS (Blog Protective Services) showed up at my door today, and threatened to take OtR away from me. Well I looked them in the eye and said, "You're not taking my baby!" In their defense, I have been more than a little negligent over the past couple of weeks. But it's not my fault... it's my addiction to TV and sleep... and my kids.
 
It appears that any reader to this blog finds great pleasure in the experiences which have brought me deep shame. So I pull yet another file from the humiliation archives, this one being a much more recent occurrence in my life.

And now for the setup: As a young lad, I had once dreamed of donning the flannel and spandex that marked a true rock star. As a fourteen year old, I received my first real axe (rock star speak for guitar... also known as a six-string). And yes, I played it 'till my fingers bled... back in the winter of '92. In the fall of '94 I let my hair grow out... the photo above is a picture of me in the fall of '96. My transformation into rock-stardom was nearly complete.

Then I got married.

Fast forward about twelve years and enter the era of being a husband, dad and pastor. How can I put all that pent-up rock star mojo to use for the good of mankind? Why, play in the worship band at church, of course! And that's what I do. I'm not exaggerating when I say I love to play! God gave me a gift and a guitar, and I intend to use them both.

And that actually leads me to the events detailed in the aforementioned H.A.,F.#2 (I know, that was a lot of setup). It was a Saturday night show (service) sometime in the past couple of years. We were rocking through our set, as usual. Me being a "professional" (volunteer) I had opted out of having the "set list" (service order) on the floor in front me... didn't need it; I had every song memorized and I knew exactly where each one belonged. I did, however, demand (ask for politely) some bottled water, and caviar before the show (worship service)... the caviar never came.

We did our typical opener, then three songs, followed by a video. Once we got to the video, I thought the set was over. I gingerly unstrapped my guitar and hung it on the stand, simultaneously noticing that a young man near the front row had literally collapsed onto the floor (seriously - he passed out). I then went a step further and turned off my amp (which goes to eleven) and my effects processor before rushing off the stage to assist the affirmed youth. The medical staff was already there - tragedy averted. Feeling pretty good about myself, I moseyed on back to the far side of the venue (worship center) where I figured I might take in the rest of the service.

To my surprise, the lights came up and revealed that the band was still on stage minus one guitar player. At this point, you might think that I would realize something had gone horribly wrong, and I was in the wrong place. No. I stood there thinking to myself, "What are those bozos doing on the stage? How embarrassing!"

Then our front man (worship pastor) said something like this: "Hey guys. I know this might be an awkward transition, but we have one more song we'd like to play, but our guitarist appears to have quit the band. I was just hoping he'd come back up here and finish the set with us."

THAT'S when the lights came on in my head, and I remembered the last song we were supposed to play: I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For by U2 (it was a cover tune). That's when I had to endure the long lonely walk of loneliness from the back of the worship center to the stage - all eyes on me. The room was quiet, save for one enthusiastic cricket that seemed to mock me in my shame. Upon reaching the stage, I then had to turn on my pedal and my amp. Guitarists know that tube amps take a good twenty seconds, or so, to warm up. So I stood there for twenty seconds, which felt like a thousand world tours... and then timidly played through the last song and finished the set.

The fact that I played the song to near perfection did little to make up for the embarrassment. All I can say is that I was thankful it was a Saturday service.

But then I've said too much.

Humiliation Archives, File #1: Basketball

I was a basketball player once. People came from all around to see me play. That's a lie. The truth is that I spent most of the games on the bench... ridin' the pine... keepin' my legs fresh, and drinking all the water. Occasionally we would play cards, the other bench warmers and me. Now THAT was a good time.

In all seriousness, my basketball career peaked during my Freshmen year season, when I was pretty close to being considered the "sixth man" on the team. That's like being the best bench warmer... it's actually one of the greatest achievements of my life. It was also during this season that all rationale and logic for my presence on the team would be called to serious questioning. And that was all because of one play that has been neatly tucked away in my humiliation archives.

It was early in the season, and I was actually in the game. This being somewhat unfamiliar territory for me, I was pretty much just running around in circles until something happened. In this particular case, "something" did happen and I found myself lined up under the basket in typical free-throw fashion. This is when my superior mental skills kicked in. My mind began to run through a series of possible scenarios that could follow this attempted free-throw. Either it would go in, the ball would be dead, and I would resume running aimlessly. In the event it would miss, however, I began to play out a scene in my mind of me, a ball-hungry beast, leaping into the air, grabbing the rebound with the ferocity of a mongoose, bursting toward the basket with all the tenacity of a caged gazelle, and successfully scoring two more points for my team. This was the kind of stuff legends were made of. This could be my defining moment, and I wasn't about to let it pass.

So I stood there in anticipation. My eyes were fixed, my knees bent and poised - ready to strike. The shot was up, and I plotted its trajectory. It would certainly miss, and I jumped in expectation. It was all playing out exactly as I had seen it in my mind. For a split second I thought to myself, There really is something to this "mental preparation" thing after all. With precision, I wrestled the ball out of mid air, landing securely on my feet; the landing softened by my NIKE Air pads (it was like landing on air). And with a savagery that shocked even me, I surged upward, determined to put that orange leather ball through the hoop where it belonged.

It wasn't until I was mid-release that it occurred to me: I was actually shooting... on the other team's basket.

Thankfully, I missed (keep in mind it was a layup).

In a feeble attempt to redeem myself, I pulled down my own rebound, dribbled down the court, and scored on our basket. I can still see the coach shaking his head as I resumed my all too familiar position on the bench. I can also still hear the laughing and joking from the people in the stands. Needless to say, I was thoroughly humiliated.

If someone would have told me then, "In 20 years, you'll be blogging about this, and we'll all have a good laugh at your expense," I would have told them, "You shut your mouth!" But here we are.

And I've said too much.

Great Moments in Sports

I have waited agonizing months to shine the spotlight of acclaim on one of the greatest athletic achievements in my sports-recognition-starved life. I take you back to Thanksgiving, 2010. It happened in my brother-in-law's basement, where there stands a basketball shootout game, my instrument of glory, my vehicle to infamy.

As we basked in the afterglow of turkey and brownies, this machine beckoned me. I answered its call. And for two days I gave myself completely to the dream of domination - a shimmering jewel of bragging rights to dangle above the heads of my father, two brother-in-laws... and my children. With a fixed gaze, and stone-like resolve, I entered the zone again and again. Time and time over I raised the bar for a 60 second score. First it was 60. Soon I was breaching the 70's. It wasn't long before I shattered the 80's. The 90's, however, took some time. But that, too, was a milestone I claimed for my own, reaching a score of 94 in just 60 short seconds. That's 47 buckets in a minute!

But 60 seconds is for boys. Last time I checked the dictionary, I'm a man. It was time for me to compete in the man's game: a five-minute round. Or as some have called it, The Widow Maker. This is where winners become champions, where mortals become giants. This was my destiny.

With blisters on my fingers, and stuffing in my stomach, I stepped up to the shootout and picked my poison. The Widow Maker awaited. "5:00" appeared on the clock, and the signal sounded. Furiously, I sent those miniature basketballs to their netted hoop home. Five minutes went by like mere seconds, and my round was brought to an end at the sound of the buzzer. I looked at my score: 450.

That's an average of 90 points per minute. Those who dared to witness this feat informed me that I hit 96 in one of those minutes. This is truly a monumental achievement of athletic prowess. Did it happen over night? Actually, it did. Nonetheless, it's a record that has stood the test of time.  Now I know exactly how Peyton Manning, Joe Montana, and other legendary champions feel. And it feels good.

But I've said too much.

Bears, Beets, Battlestar Galactica

Countless hours of watching BSG on Netflix (that's right... I used the authentic colonial military abbreviation for Battlestar Galactica) has left me postless, and therefore readerless... and, incidentally, wondering if I'm a Cylon... or married to one.

So say we all.

ASAP

For so long - my entire life, in fact - I've used a common abbreviation to appeal for a swift delivery. For example, if we need it in a hurry, we might say, "I need that ASAP (pronounced ae-sap)!" Of course, we know this to mean as quickly as you can. Or, in the strictest sense, as soon as possible. I wonder, however, what else could this fascinating acronym stand for? Perhaps you never entertain such trivialities. Clearly, I do... and I have.

A Serious Alien Problem
Animals Squatting And Pooping
Angels Singing Audacious Parodies
Android Staging: Amphibians Prohibited
Automated System for Artillery Protocol
Angry Scribes Altering Plots
Andean Spitting Alpacas Parade
Acrobatic Spinning Abolition Pact
Acting Seriously Accident Prone
Apes Staring At Puppies
Astronauts Stabbing Awesome Pimples

I could go on... but I've Already Said A Plenty.

My Friend, the 200lb Man

Once in a lifetime, you find a true friend. And in this true friend, you find a comrade. And in this comrade, you find a brother. And once in a while, that friend-comrade-brother is someone special enough that you remember to wish them a belated birthday.

So happy birthday, 200lb Man... who turned 1... yesterday. And while I may be a day late in my birthday well-wishes, it's never too late for you to jog on over to the 200lb Man and watch a special celebratory video. It's pretty funny, so don't miss out. If you need more enticing to motivate the clicking of the links provided, just know that the video includes a birthday party of fellow blogs... including this one. [Off the Record... just in case you weren't sure which one I was referring to... thank you... that's all]

The 200lb Man, one year later...

The Call of Nerf

What happens when you have a house full of kids and Nerf guns? The answer to that question is before you. The footage was shot at random, and the story was inserted later. Enjoy.



If you're having trouble viewing this video, please go here.

The Director's Cut

A few months ago, I was given the task of creating a video to promote a campaign at church in which we would launch new small groups. So I engaged the help of my good friend to make this movie. Due to time constraints, however, the movie was reduced to a mere shell of what it was intended to be. So now I bring to you the director's cut: The Quest for Hosts. Brace yourself for movie-making mediocrity.

Shower Brainstorming

Ideas come to me, like whispers from an unknown wellspring of whispering things, in the most peculiar of ways. It's a curse, really... a burden. What good is an idea when it will simply be lost without means for memory or use? On the other hand, where are the ideas when you actually need them? It's almost as if ideas have a mind of their own... like fickle cats that will grace you with their presence on their terms. Just think what man could accomplish if ideas were more like dogs? Or elephants? Or moles? Then I'd have a backyard full of ideas! That is, if they were more like moles... I have no dogs... nor elephants, for that matter.

Where was I going with this? Oh, yes...

I often do my best thinking in the shower. Maybe it's the hot water pounding against my head, but ideas - whether sought after, or not - just come rushing into my brain. One may be quick to assume this a good thing. Oh, but I would beg to differ... beg to differ, indeed. As you will see, this can only lead to a frustrating cycle of over-washing and memory loss.

Idea birthing is - by definition - terribly distracting work. For example, in one shower I may spring forth a myriad of new ideas - amazing ideas, in fact - ideas that will set mankind on a completely new trajectory into a brave new world. But by the time those ideas have come to full realization, I've forgotten what I've accomplished in my shower to that point. Have I washed my hair? My face? I can't remember! I was too busy shaping ideas to remember what I did just moments before! I'm left with no choice but to go back to work on that which I believe is yet to be done: Washing my face (as an example). It's only after I'll start washing my face that I remember... yes, I've done this before. Thus, my face is doubly clean.

Sadly, the brilliant ideas I had just moments ago are washed down the drain. While my face will smell of home-made organic soap for hours to come, tomorrow's bright future is lost forever.

I'm convinced I once unlocked the mystery of time travel, but by the time I washed my hair for the third time it had completely escaped me. Of course, when I sit at my computer - where my amazing, life changing ideas can be recorded and researched... I got nothin'.

What will I dream up the next time I'm in the shower? Perhaps a method of recording my shower-inspired ideas. Of course, it'll be gone by the time I suds up the loofa... for the fourth time.

I'm sure you'll agree... I said too much.

In Your Dreams

In high school, I became well acquainted with the phrase "in your dreams!" Whether it was my career in athletics, or my romantic pursuits, this phrase always seemed to apply. Not to mention the fact that there was rarely a missed opportunity to remind me of such wisdom - be it from the class jerk, or my parents. It's ironic, then, that even as an adult, on occasion, I relive those high school years... in my dreams.  

Dreams are funny little things. It's like Bethany Dillon once sang in a song, "I am a dreamer." Or Jack Johnson, when he sang, "Girl, let your dreams be dreams." And while I haven't figured out how to directly apply those lyrics, they are decent songs.

You see, dreams have a way of taking something that's tucked away ever so neatly into our subconscious, and bringing it to the surface like a giant white-head pimple (something else I was well-acquainted with in high school). Of course, dreams are also often coded and symbolic - to such an extant that you need a prophet (or a therapist, if a decent prophet is hard to find) in order to really know what they mean.

Well, over the years I've a had a recurring dream in which I'm back in high school - a more specific depiction of these dreams would be nightmare. The school, classes, and schedules are different with each dream. But the common thread in each one is that I'm completely confused about what my next class is, where it is, or whether or not I had a homework assignment the night before. So I walk into each class unsure of whether or not it's even the right one. I survey the faces of my fellow students to try and peg which one will be the first to make some fun at my expense. Then I wake up in a pool of my own sweat. (the last statement was inserted for dramatic effect)

Usually I come away from those dreams with a deep sigh of relief that I will never have to attend high school again. But recently I've had a new variation of this dream. I'm sure all the prophets (therapists) out there will have fun with this.

So in this recent dream, I'm stressing about my schedule and all that. Then it dawns on me: Just put my schedule in my Android smart phone. Brilliant! I'll never have to worry about when or where my next class is again! I can even put my locker combination and assignments in my "notes" and "to-do" apps. What a relief! Never mind that when I was in high school, cell phones, which could only make phone calls in those days, were roughly the size of a shoe box. Just let me bask in the newfound comfort of my two worlds - adult me, and high school me - colliding to bring order and meaning to a once chaotic time.

Of course, as the dream goes on, and just when I start to think that I've got a handle on things and I'm gaining some confidence, I look down to realize that there's a giant hole in the heel of my sock... that I'm wearing under my Birkenstocks...

It was the '90's.

I've said... too much.

If All Goes According to Plan

I would like to start off by posing a question. In actuality, I just started off by making a statement, which, incidentally, introduced a question. It's a minor technicality, and hardly worth noting... and yet here we are. Nonetheless....

Have you ever found yourself using the same word or phrase repeatedly in a short span of time? If you haven't noticed it, your friends and/or co-workers no doubt have. Just ask them, and they'll tell you. It's probably driving them nuts. In college I once had to give a speech in "Public Speaking" class. They made us video tape it and then watch it in fast-forward to exaggerate our nervous habits. But, sadly, that really doesn't apply here.

Let me tell you something. Last week I couldn't help but use a common phrase over and over again - and even I was starting to go crazy from hearing it. The phrase was simply, "If all goes according to plan." It's harmless, really... no real danger in uttering such words. But after using it darn near a million times, it dawned on me that I was using it far more than any decent person really ought to. And for that I apologize. 

The truth is that last weekend was a big weekend for us. I won't bore you with the details, but it involved my wife leaving town, my kids staying with their grandparents, and me playing some video games. There was also some other stuff going on at church, too, but like I said... I won't bore you with the details. And everything was hinging on the fact that my kids would be with Grandma & Pa... and virtually the only thing that would keep that from happening would be some kind of sickness... of which, our children are frequent harborers. 

It was with this nagging feeling that something would go wrong in the final moments before everything was about to transpire that I would oft remark with this very phrase. I would say, "I'll be there... if all goes according to plan." Or, "It shouldn't be a problem... if all goes according to plan." Or, "If all goes according to plan..." Sigh. I'm doing it again. 

Well, I'm happy to say that everything went according to plan. And I must admit... I love it when a plan comes together. 

And I nearly said too much. 

My "Blog Within a Blog" Experiment

If this doesn't trip you out, I don't know what will. It's a blog... within a blog!

I've said too much.

I Need a New Venue

My other blog is a place for me to write on a more professional note. This, on the other hand, is a place where I can write about whatever the heck I want to. And that's exactly what I intend to do. This may very well be a place where all your perceptions of me will become shattered pieces on a cold tile floor.

You've been warned.