Confucius Say Bird Not Make Nest In Bare Tree

Ok, so I’m having lunch with a couple of guys from out of town. This is a business lunch. I’m supposed to be on my game, working, but I can’t stop staring at one of the guys across the table from me. Kids, he had the bushiest eyebrows I have ever seen. I’m talking of pair of Wilford brimley mustaches above both eyes.

Concentration was a problem. Every time he would take a bite, all I could do was picture a family of swallows nesting in his thickets popping their heads out and picking the fork clean before he could get it in his mouth. I bet if I reached up in there, I’d pull out a lost baggage claim check from his first flight back in ought seven. I giggled at one point envisioning his brows as Wonder Twins, joining forces to stamp out evil in and around this dude’s face-shape of an angry yeti, form of two yippy Lassa Apsas.

On the subject of hair and aging, everything has a purpose, something in the engineering, the grand design. If so, then why, pray tell, do males become grotesquely hairy as they get older? Does is go back to cave man days, changes in body chemistry, sheer entertainment value for others around? I’d like to know.

But maybe after lunch…

Nature! Get It Off Me.

Defusing bombs, piloting a jet, sucking the venom out of a bite, all man skills I do not possess. Add to that, backing a trailer.

We recently purchased a pop-up camper. Eight foot box, two slide outs expandable to twelve foot, a mere two hundred and fifty pounds of tongue weight, and approximately 1,850 pounds of GVW. Yeah, I don’t know what that stuff means either.

I do know that with the optional air conditioner, the addition of a small microwave and coffee maker, and plenty of on board plug-ins for cell phone chargers, hand held games, and mini-DVD players, roughing it never has been this much fun. After a series of small overnight test runs over the last few months, the family loaded up and traveled some three hours south to Branson for the weekend.

First off, to the City of Branson, I apologize for running over a Baldknobber. But with his silly hat, dorky tie, and decades old acoustic guitar in hand, I’d say he had it coming. Anyone who has ever endured one of the multitude of “shows” in Branson right now is shaking their head in agreement, silently saying “I’m not saying it’s right, just that I understand.”

Secondly, backing up a trailer, even a small one, sucks. Did I say backing a trailer sucks? Try it with neighbors on both sides and a truck waiting behind you to pass through. That is a whole new level of suck, a category heretofore not known unto man. This, gentle readers, is why truckers drink. I’m sure of it.

Lastly, to the makers of the tenting and canvas components of Viking Campers, I say kudos to you my friends. Reeling from the trauma of nearly wiping out half the campground, dealing badly with the stress of the “first the jet pilot thing and now this” look in my wife’s eyes, and with the laughter of the other campers nearby who survived still ringing in my ears, rains came. I mean rain. So hard you couldn’t hear yourself scream. Thunder so close, it actually made your body rumble. More than a few times during the rampage I began to consider the aerodynamics of the camper, certain we were going to achieve lift in the winds blowing us back to front and left to right. The storm was impressive by anyone’s standards. It rained and stormed, stormed and rained, rained and stormed for the next five hours solid. The rains continued for about twelve hours after the thunder and lightning gave up harassing us. Good times, people. Good times. Not a drop in the camper. High and dry, we were, the entire time.

Just the three of us: The little guy entertaining himself in the spirit of all things wooly and pioneer like by multi-tasking between the Chipmunks DVD, his Leapster, and the Gameboy. Mommy way over on her side of the pull out bed, no doubt asking herself what’s happened to the Marlboro men of the world, and me determining what speed I would need to make in order to ram through the back of the garage at home, making it a pull through. Cause, there will be no more backing up. Ever.

Behind the Scenes at CNN

Anderson Cooper: With that we’ll take a short commercial break and be right back with more from the Google/Monster.com/Poweraide/Countrywide Mortgage/ESPN Deportes/TGI Friday's debate.

Director on Set: Ok, we’re clear:
Obama: What the heck was that answer?
McCain: You talking to me sonny?
Obama: POW crap again?
McCain: Shut up Skippy.
Anderson Cooper: Gentlemen, please.
Obama: Hey John, how ‘bout we head to Carlos’ Tavern after this? They make a great Metamucil High-Ball.
McCain: Pastor Wright called. Wanted to know if the poker game was still on for Tuesday?
Obama: Old Fart!
McCain: Poser!
Anderson Cooper: Both of you shut up for the love of all things holy.
Obama: Your wife’s a cougar?
McCain: Jealous much??
Anderson Cooper: I will kick both your…
Director: We’re back in three, two, one...

Eggample #1 Why I'll Never Model Swimwear

Gentle readers, I had quite possibly the world’s most unhealthy sandwich today. It should have come with its own Surgeon General’s warning label.

2 eggs over easy on buttery wheat bread, slathered in sour cream and topped with bacon slices. The menu called it an Irish Egg Sandwich. I call it, simply, a masterpiece.

I am ashamed I ate it, yet proud I finished. I’ll need to add about 45 additional minutes of treadmill work tonight in order to correctly compensate for the internal damage wrought by this cardiovascular terminator.

Never have triglycerides, fat, cholesterol, and calories come together in such a stunning display of gluttony and nutritional blasphemy.

I won’t eat tonight out of respect for the now departed and thoroughly enjoyed legend, and the fact that I have now reached maximum density…

Wow!

Hush

Little guy had Ninja class at the community center last night. So, I took the opportunity to get back on the treadmill. Been about a week.

Keep in mind that I firmly believe running is a wholly unnatural act that should occur only under three circumstances: securing a good spot at the buffet line, any time my mother in law asks for a “little” help around the house, and from security at Jennifer Gardner’s estate. Yet there I was huffing and heaving, and that’s just at the thought of it. I hadn’t turned the stupid thing on yet.

Talking on the cell phone, reading a magazine, chatting with my neighbor, are never, never activities I undertake while on the treadmill. Must focus power, grasshopper. Look straight ahead, concentrate on my breathing, and try not to die. I’ve said it before, but that’s really it.

Tuesday must have been bring your teenage daughter to the gym night. Row after row of pony tails on the machines. All of them in some form of communication with each other. There was a lot of gum snacking and cell phone chatter.

I understand that I am old and out of shape, but the least they could do is make it appear as if the treadmill required a little effort. One chick was making bubble gum strings with her finger as she was talking with the 13 year old beside her.

Look, I need the old sweaty guy cardio room, not the one for Ms. Carson’s Girl Scout Troop #11 or the 8th grade track team.

Rest(less)ness

Can’t explain it lately. I’ve got a story half baked on the computer I need to finish, two or three song ideas underway, and some audio blog work that’s screaming to be tried. Yet, by 9:00 pm I can’t think of anything better to do than lay down. It’s a mistake to sit or stop moving anytime after dinner.

Here’s the kicker, even though I’m so tired, I wake up wide eyed at about 5:00 am and can’t seem to get back to sleep.

If you’re keeping score at home, that means I’m going to bed earlier and waking up earlier. Medically there is a term for this.

Oldfartitis!

You Play Your Thing, I'll Play Mine

I filled in today for the vacationing worship leader at our smaller, satellite campus in a nearby town. Had to stop at our main campus on the way up to grab up some music. Before heading out I caught the tail end of the worship team’s practice session.

Since I wasn’t going to be there today, they found a drummer to fill in. A talented young man, capable of playing just about anything. Really gifted. Still a student at a local conservatory I think.

Sat in the back and watched him change every tom position, flop the ride and the crash at the processor, change where the high hat sits, adjust the pre-sets and tinker with just about every nut, bolt, allen key and screw on the set. That meant, of course, that I would have to find some time during the week, or come in extra early next Sunday, to change it all back. Not sure why, but it bothered me. I didn’t pay for the set, and just because my bottom typically occupies the bench behind them on Sundays doesn’t make them mine.

I listened to them play through a couple of songs. Kept noticing the drums. Man that kid was banging the cymbals like he was mad at them. Frankly, just from the way he was whacking it, the sheer aggression, I’d say the crash owed him twenty bucks. He hooked up the double bass pedals too. Gentle readers, this is just my opinion, but the double bass in a worship setting is about as useful as athlete’s foot fungus. Well, unless Pantera or Anthrax decides to do some Tomlin covers that is. Then I laughed at myself. Not only was I sounding like an old fart, I was sounding like a know it all old fart.

So I decided to take my judgmental arrogance right up the road and do my own thing, reminding myself all the way there that there would be several people watching me wondering why I chose open E for that song, how come I can’t play a simple F sharp bar chord, and just what the heck is Dad-Gad tuning anyway.

(I also prayed for forgiveness in advance…cause I’m pretty sure the double bass pedal is going to wind up “lost” as soon as I get back. He-He)