I hope you noticed (and were impressed by) the fact that I crammed three prepositional phrases into my last blog title. I'll accept your gifts and burnt offerings later.
It has become a routine for me to go to Powell's every friday. This is good for all reasons except for the fact that my back account takes a hit every friday and saturday. But that just seems to be the life around here. I have no idea what the purpose is behind this post, but just wanted to inform you of my triumph over the English language (see previous post).
I have no time to wrap this up in a clever way, I am late to class.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
At the End of the Second Watch of the Night
For the first time in a long time, I am up at 2 AM.
In college, the late night was a constant. In fact, thinking about it now, I remember my roommate Zach and I would look at one another strangely if we started "packing it in" any earlier than midnight thirty. Lately, Johnny and I have been "hittin' the hay" long before that time and are normally completely tired by 11. And if we start a movie later than 10 we're done and will be "turnin' in" in a Mississippi second.
Yes, I'm getting older. I feel like an old man. I found a gray hair the other day. My kid's are telling me I "don't know the scene."
Whatever that was.
I just thought it strange to be here and think it's weird I'm up this late and don't feel like "un-doing the belt."
The bad thing is that this is on a Saturday night.
"I thought that was the best night to stay up late," you say.
No no no, my child. I think you're forgetting something. You see, when you work for a church, you work when everyone else is "slappin' that easy chair." The rest of the world sits on their ass on Sundays. I work up to twelve hours.
***Bible College Story***
I actually sit next to a guy in my World Christianity class who cannot name one Beatles song. Not a single one. He told me he was a man, and that he tells the truth quite a bit. Not one. At least there's another side of things; I met an old guy there who has every Beatles album on vinyl. Vinyl. I smell bacon...Christendom is alive baby.
San Diego plays New England tomorrow.
In college, the late night was a constant. In fact, thinking about it now, I remember my roommate Zach and I would look at one another strangely if we started "packing it in" any earlier than midnight thirty. Lately, Johnny and I have been "hittin' the hay" long before that time and are normally completely tired by 11. And if we start a movie later than 10 we're done and will be "turnin' in" in a Mississippi second.
Yes, I'm getting older. I feel like an old man. I found a gray hair the other day. My kid's are telling me I "don't know the scene."
Whatever that was.
I just thought it strange to be here and think it's weird I'm up this late and don't feel like "un-doing the belt."
The bad thing is that this is on a Saturday night.
"I thought that was the best night to stay up late," you say.
No no no, my child. I think you're forgetting something. You see, when you work for a church, you work when everyone else is "slappin' that easy chair." The rest of the world sits on their ass on Sundays. I work up to twelve hours.
***Bible College Story***
I actually sit next to a guy in my World Christianity class who cannot name one Beatles song. Not a single one. He told me he was a man, and that he tells the truth quite a bit. Not one. At least there's another side of things; I met an old guy there who has every Beatles album on vinyl. Vinyl. I smell bacon...Christendom is alive baby.
San Diego plays New England tomorrow.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
The Most Fun We've Ever Had
The callbox rings and we're both surprised.
"You expecting someone?" I ask John from the kitchen. I was doing the damn dishes again and was pissed.
"No man." He says this just sitting on his ass. The guy just sits on his computer "punching his hours" for the church as a graphic designer. My foot. I should ask him to buzz them up to see who it is. This hasn't happened yet but it's probably Suz or Ali.
"Just get the door man they'll be up in a minute," I say from the kitchen over the sound of the water.
"Alight alright."
John opens the door and to his dismay finds a barrel sitting in the ground outside of our place. He observes it quietly as to make sure nothing shifty were to happen.
"Who is it man?" I say curiously.
"It's a package," replies John carefully. "Or, a barrel," he says to himself.
"What? Just open it man it could be those Beanie Babies I got off eBay."
"Alright. I think I need some type of tool to open this thing man."
"Grab the crow bar. It's right there." I'm still saying all this from the kitchen, not expecting this to be any sort of huge deal. I have to knock out these dishes in order to get my homework done tonight. I continue to scrub and dry the large pans used for breakfast.
"CHRIS...." John says slowly but loudly. Before I can get a word in I hear animal noises. It must be...monkeys? It sounds like...
"IT'S A BARREL OF MONKEYS!!!"
As I round the corner with intensity and adrenaline, I see John playing with three primates while about four others begin making their way through the foyer and into the living room. I have no control over them as they begin throwing things in my living room at each other and on the floor. Their shrieks become hilarious and my laughter becomes uncontrollable. John's smile meets mine and we ensue in having the most fun we're ever had with that barrel of monkeys. So thanks to whoever brought that our way.
"You expecting someone?" I ask John from the kitchen. I was doing the damn dishes again and was pissed.
"No man." He says this just sitting on his ass. The guy just sits on his computer "punching his hours" for the church as a graphic designer. My foot. I should ask him to buzz them up to see who it is. This hasn't happened yet but it's probably Suz or Ali.
"Just get the door man they'll be up in a minute," I say from the kitchen over the sound of the water.
"Alight alright."
John opens the door and to his dismay finds a barrel sitting in the ground outside of our place. He observes it quietly as to make sure nothing shifty were to happen.
"Who is it man?" I say curiously.
"It's a package," replies John carefully. "Or, a barrel," he says to himself.
"What? Just open it man it could be those Beanie Babies I got off eBay."
"Alright. I think I need some type of tool to open this thing man."
"Grab the crow bar. It's right there." I'm still saying all this from the kitchen, not expecting this to be any sort of huge deal. I have to knock out these dishes in order to get my homework done tonight. I continue to scrub and dry the large pans used for breakfast.
"CHRIS...." John says slowly but loudly. Before I can get a word in I hear animal noises. It must be...monkeys? It sounds like...
"IT'S A BARREL OF MONKEYS!!!"
As I round the corner with intensity and adrenaline, I see John playing with three primates while about four others begin making their way through the foyer and into the living room. I have no control over them as they begin throwing things in my living room at each other and on the floor. Their shrieks become hilarious and my laughter becomes uncontrollable. John's smile meets mine and we ensue in having the most fun we're ever had with that barrel of monkeys. So thanks to whoever brought that our way.
"Gayest Bar in Northwest!"
Living off of NW 23rd isn't as glamorous as most would think. Every time I reveal the fact that I live in Northwest Portland most people say something to the effect of, "Oooh, very nice," in a very non-Borat inflection. Truth be told, I don't fit in with the whole yuppie 23rd deal. I used to try in high school...I think. But now I've accepted my fate as a nerdy student of the a 1500 year old book.
In saying that, the yuppie scene is interesting. I can't decide if the hipsters who live here live on their own dime or not. The coffee shops are full at two in the afternoon. I often wonder if these people actually work. So I ask them.
"I'm a writer, actually."
"I'm an artist. Visual"
"I write."
"I sell knives."
Whatever they do it seems as though they are never doing it. Somehow their bank accounts are plugged and they have those fresh prescriptions for those thick-rimmed glasses they really don't need. They fill the bars five days a week. These bar owners must be stoked because they aren't banking on a good weekend, but the wine is being poured seven days a week and they're drinking it up.
People just don't do anything. Really. They do very little. And what they do seems somewhat individualist and in the end...boring? Maybe I don't get it, and I don't expect to understand everything, but I want to get excited about wine and cheese as much as the guy down the hall does. But I just can't, I don't think I'm wired that way.
But c'mon. I'm exactly like them, just at a different angle. Sure I don't wear those cool glasses, let alone the perfect vintage clothes or the retro pants. And I'm no artist or writer, and certainly have nothing to do with knives let alone the selling of them. But I work for a church, work that mostly keeps me at home. I study at a Bible college for about three hours a week and come home to study and write either for work or for school. I spend most of my life reading words or jotting them down while I drink too much caffeine and then too much water (yes it's possible). There's no point to this just the usual ramble. My life is a lot more interesting, I swear. I just don't blog about those things. At least not that much.
The quote which has been placed in the "title" section comes from a good bum John and I had the pleasure of speaking to. We were eating A Lotto Galato (is that how you spell that?...you get the picture shut up) and this bum starts yelling. Nothing out of the ordinary if you know bums. But this one has purpose man, he's got a vision for this fine city. He approached our table. We're with the ladies and Suz is telling this story when Bum decided he had to tell us about the informants and the gay's parading around Northwest.
He continued to go through an incoherent but purpose-driven monologue where the only thing I could pick out were certain expletives and the word "informants." He was speaking softly and actually quite punctual with his tone and inflection, until someone at the bar down the street must have made a face at him. Suddenly and with incredible clarity he spoke up with a shout:
"Gayest bar in Northwest!"
At that the group lost it in complete laughter and tears of hilarity. He saw our laughter and thought that was great that he was making us laugh and continued to give us his stand-up routine for free. Gracious men still exist my friends.
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Good News
I love living in Northwest Portland. The Streetcar takes you right downtown in minutes for absolutely no price. I am taking advantage of everything I can before I start school and my already obnoxiously busy schedule gets busier.
A great addition to any city street are the street evangelists. Everyone loves to hate them. We love to write about them, and we love to watch them. Interacting with them is our last desire for fear of being trapped into their fascinating theatrics.
"The Good News man!" one said. "It's the Gospel! The Good News!"
He was preaching fire and brimstone before telling me about good news.
"What's the good news?" I had to ask.
"I'm glad you asked," he replied.
He went on to tell me that I was a bad person, and that before I could even do anything about it, I was a sinner; born in offense to God, the creator. He said that if I didn't accept Jesus into my heart that I would go to a place with "gnashing teeth" and fire.
Unfortunately, this is "the gospel" to most people. But how is this "good news?" I'm an awful person and unless I confess to Jesus I'll burn forever away from God? This isn't good news at all. In fact, this is pretty shitty news to me.
But this is the world we live in. We've westernized close to everything we've heard about Jesus. Turned him white, painted his eyes blue, and put him through a makeover at the make-up counter at Nordies.
Search the Bible, search the life of John the Baptist and Jesus. The "good news" was in no way a path to heaven or a ticket to the big show in the sky. The good news was that Heaven came to earth, and we could actually know God. And that our troubles will one day be delivered from us - lifted off our backs. The good news was a king came to earth, and that hope for a restored broken world is now more real than anyone could possibly imagine.
The "good news" has been turned into information of how to get to heaven, instead of transformation of the life you live now. Christ rarely talked about the future of earthly things going up to heaven, but he could not stop talking about heavenly things coming to earth.
A great addition to any city street are the street evangelists. Everyone loves to hate them. We love to write about them, and we love to watch them. Interacting with them is our last desire for fear of being trapped into their fascinating theatrics.
"The Good News man!" one said. "It's the Gospel! The Good News!"
He was preaching fire and brimstone before telling me about good news.
"What's the good news?" I had to ask.
"I'm glad you asked," he replied.
He went on to tell me that I was a bad person, and that before I could even do anything about it, I was a sinner; born in offense to God, the creator. He said that if I didn't accept Jesus into my heart that I would go to a place with "gnashing teeth" and fire.
Unfortunately, this is "the gospel" to most people. But how is this "good news?" I'm an awful person and unless I confess to Jesus I'll burn forever away from God? This isn't good news at all. In fact, this is pretty shitty news to me.
But this is the world we live in. We've westernized close to everything we've heard about Jesus. Turned him white, painted his eyes blue, and put him through a makeover at the make-up counter at Nordies.
Search the Bible, search the life of John the Baptist and Jesus. The "good news" was in no way a path to heaven or a ticket to the big show in the sky. The good news was that Heaven came to earth, and we could actually know God. And that our troubles will one day be delivered from us - lifted off our backs. The good news was a king came to earth, and that hope for a restored broken world is now more real than anyone could possibly imagine.
The "good news" has been turned into information of how to get to heaven, instead of transformation of the life you live now. Christ rarely talked about the future of earthly things going up to heaven, but he could not stop talking about heavenly things coming to earth.
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