Benny & Bjorn, take me away from all this

The ultimate comfort food is actually music. This may sound like blasphemy coming from one of the original members of the fatty club, but I proved it true last night on the drive up to Denver. After feeling yicky all week, I ended up leaving class early because I just needed to get out. I actually felt like I was having a nervous breakdown at school, and Shelly looked at me and said, "You're depressed, aren't you?" and it confirmed it for me. I was/am. But as soon as I got in the car, ABBA Gold went in, and I was thumping along with "Waterloo", "S.O.S", and "Knowing Me, Knowing You." I forgot how magical their powerhouse vocals are. How driving, almost Broadway-esque the melodies can be. And how for just a moment, I was in the small house in Anderson I lived in when I was six, wearing corduroy overalls, a matching striped shirt, and yarn holding my hair into two ponytails.

When I was a kid, I wanted to marry Cat Stevens, but I wanted to be Frida. The dark haired one with the honey voice, with the big bear of a husband, Benny. I always thought Bjorn was too skinny, and Agnetha was unnattainable- soprano and blonde. Things would have worked out perfectly if I had been the dark-haired Swede, married to the swarthy, curly haired British Muslim. We could have made beautiful music together. My soft Scandanavian accent brushing lightly against the grainy texture of his voice, singing together on "If I Laugh" or "Bitterblue." Dang it.

In other news, I'm hanging out in Common Grounds, a coffeeshop on west 32nd Ave in Denver, just killing some time on a sunny Friday morning. About an hour ago, a guy walked through the front door, and seemed to be mildly familiar to me. I kind of stared at him, until I saw he was staring at me in exactly the same manner, and then broke off my gaze. However, he approached me after setting his stuff down at a nearby table, and asked me if he knew me from somewhere. Turns out, his name is Wes and he regularly came in my Starbucks in Speedway, and even saw Kate and I perform at the Broadripple Starbucks in Indy last fall. I'm here in town today because she is performing at the Common Grounds downtown tonight. Talk about a small world. It got even smaller when he sat down and told me he is now living two blocks from where she is, and then we talked about how disillusioned we both are with the church these days. Another Brother! They're frickin' all over the place. And they're all fed up. What are we all going to do? Shelly and I may join a cult.

Well, I'm gonna take off. I think I may go check out some guitars and some people.

Peace in the middle east.

mellow monday

I've been feeling kind of quiet and mellow all week. It's not really Monday, but I kind of have the Monday jive, slipping just under the radar of the succesive days. I'm headed up to Denver tonight after class, to hear a friend perform downtown tomorrow night. It's good to get out of town from time to time.

This week has seen another added on to the long list of incredible women that I have been friends with; specifically, Shelly Warren. Nothing feels as wonderful as a person you can talk about your Christianity so unguardedly with- in one breath, to express how foundational it is to you even at the cellular level, and yet also to talk about how jaded and apathetic you can be about your relationship with church and the expected Christian life. All over maté, hanging out with the cult kids. It makes me smile just to think about it now.

So, I am jonesin' for Michigan a bit. My grandpa Jim took the picture posted above, and it makes me feel warm inside, even though it exudes winter. I'm trying to cultivate the same "home" feeling in wherever I find myself at present, but there is something about Harbor Country, some magic in the sand and waves and forests, that I will never be able to shake. No matter how universal my travel, the little village by the big waters (as the Potawatami call it, "Chikaming") will always have my heart.

the dream

I woke up this morning to an incredibly full bladder and an incredibly lifeless, numb left arm. I slept so hard I don't think I changed positions all night. None of the coins in my pocket had fallen out. I kind of like/hate when a body part gets that numb, that you have to drag it with your other arm and be sure you don't fall back on it and snap it because it honestly can't move. It's kind of like finding out for about 15 seconds what it must feel like to be inside of a corpse's body.

I dreamt last night that I was being pursued by someone I didn't know, someone who looked like my brother. Then I was in a house and there was my real brother, in the back bedroom, using a sewing machine. He opened a window and let me out and I ran back to the pursuer's house and changed all the locks before he returned. Then I lived there.

Sometimes things aren't what they first appear to be. People, groups, towns, homes, townhomes. The truth of the matter is to think about groups of people all at once is to minimize them as individuals so that they can be grasped as a group. It's really frightening and wonderful and overwhelming to think there are over 6 billion people all as dynamic as everyone else out there. It makes it hard to have any categories. They may look like your brother, but your real brother is who let you out of the window.

quiz city

Your Brain is 80.00% Female, 20.00% Male

Your brain leans female You think with your heart, not your head Sweet and considerate, you are a giver But you're tough enough not to let anyone take advantage of you!

What Gender Is Your Brain?

You Are 16 Years Old

16 Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence

You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well. An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly. You are also good at remembering information and convicing someone of your point of view. A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary. You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

LIZA
L	is for	Lively
I	is for	Important
Z	is for	Zany
A	is for	Articulate

What Does Your Name Mean?

6.4

"Where have you gone? I had a lot of plans for you," Hossein Golestani sang softly to his lifeless 7-year-old daughter, held in his arms. His 8-year-old daughter lay dead beside him.
-excerpted from an article by NASSER KARIMI, Associated Press Writer

***

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD , "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."
-Jeremiah 29:11

get on board the authoritarian ship

Yes, here comes the siren, yet again. However, I decided to pull out some laughs, rather than cause a mass suicide with my tales of corporate woe; the lady of the sea can amuse as well as destroy.

And now, without further ado,
....FUN TIME STARBUCKS SAYINGS!!!

[the following are actual questions or statements from customers.]

Do you guys sell just coffee?
Do you sell sushi?
Do you sell chapstick?
Can I have a grandy mokeyattey?
Do you guys have eggs?
Are you open?
Do you have milk?
Can I have no foam on my cappucino?
Is this coffee instant?
Can I have a gigantic toffee nut latte?
I'd like a grande crappucino.
I'd like a breakfast burrito.
I'd like a venti avocado.
I'd like a quad venti quarter packet of equal latte. (!!!)
I'll have a grand lot. (grande latte?)
I'll take a Pepsi or a Coke, whichever you guys have.

[our questions/comments to them.]

Would you like to try our grande caramel macchiawesome?

Starbucks employee: Sir, you have to purchase something or leave.
Intoxicated man: Why you dirty little rat, grumble grumble.

Starbucks employee: Why do you look familiar to me?
Random customer: Have I ever arrested you?

[and a few minor drive through misunderstandings.]

Can I get that to go?
You have loafs? What's a loaf?
I'd like a tall no-doz Americano.
I'd like 1/2 coffee and 1/2 junktico.

***
Other fun occurences on my watch have included two minor traffic incidents, one involving a pedestrian, plenty of honkers, and someone who was in such a hurry to get to the drive thru line that they actually ran our lighted sign over, knocking it off the soldered pedestal, and pushing it to its final resting place in the center of the parking lot. Let me tell you people, fun = times and times are to be had at your neighborhood Starbucks.

In other pleasant news, today was Presidents' Day. Did everyone celebrate their favorite President? I asked one customer this, and she sneered "LINCOLN" at me while thrusting a five dollar bill in my face. My game today was to see how many people could name the five living Presidents. So while we waited on blenders and steam wands, folks did their best to show their par with the current political scene. Only a handful couldn't remember the five alive (jive!): Ford, Carter, Bush, Clinton, Baby Bush. Even a lady from Vancouver seemed to rattle them off somewhat quickly. This one guy insisted so vehemently that Ford was dead, I began to believe him. Running up to a partner with misty eyes, I had to know for sure that Gerald was alive. I couldn't have missed that. And besides, wasn't he just at the Clinton Library Spectacular Spectacular?

I know what to do with extra foam

Hello friends.

Well, I did it. I applied for a different J-O-B. When I started to think about leaving the man behind, it was like seeing color for the first time, like in "The Giver." I hadn't thought about leaving, but there it was- the possibility of earning more than 1,000 dollars a month while being pushed for maximum output, maximum output, maximum output. Whoa. I felt like Howard Hughes there for a minute. It's the way of the future.

Brian, an old friend from Denver, is coming down tomorrow to hang out for a couple of days. We may hike if it's warm. If it's cold, we might watch movies or go hang out at the Mate Factory with the followers of Yashua. Brian's an athiest, so simply for amusement's sake, I'd like to do the latter.

I got offered drugs again tonight. It was somewhat awkward after I refused, but I made sure to tell my fellow wearer of the green apron that no offense was taken, and it just wasn't my thing. Other fun highlights at work included when a fellow partner and I were trying to get to a menu inside the extremely complicated digital espresso machine, and I was sprayed with rinse water from a hose that is usually covered by a small split spicket. Say those three last words five times fast. I felt like a baby boy was peeing on me before I could cover him with a diaper. Also, when I was yelled at by a woman who spilled her quad venti nonfat extra hot caramel macchiato on herself, and then claimed the incident had ruined her 300 dollar coat. Oddly enough, only about 1/2 inch of liquid was missing from the supposedly defective cup, and her coat looked like the type of windbreaker/jogging suit idea that might have come from Goodwill. Sometimes I want to quit my job. Wait, all the time. Revert to paragraph one.

So about three sentences ago, Draco decided it was time to take over my body and make himself at home, despite the fact that I'm sitting crosslegged on the floor typing on the iMac. He still smells a little bit like tuna. Remind me not to let him lick out the can anymore when I make tuna salad sandwiches. Cats, I think, know when they smell bad and get more cuddly accordingly.

Well, that's about all that's new from the western front. Peace, love, and the pursuit of happiness to you all.

cats, pot, cults, and the broken white line

So I think a lot about what to post, and then I don't always feel like typing it in. I feel in some way like my left arm is punching my right. I don't know how I feel about being so technological all the time (*sung softly to herself, so that nobody else can hear*...Yes, I love technology...). I was thinking tonight while in the shower about how I would love to obtain an old printing press. With all the moveable typeface and image plating, made out of heavy iron. And the big ink blotter, and the thick, slightly translucent yellow paper. I can see myself now, swinging from the arm of the press, producing page after page of identical print, that took me hours to put into place. My hands would be inky and I'd have bulging forearm muscles. Think what a conversation peice that would be! Here's the dining room, Chauncey; we don't use it much anymore now that the *press* is in here. I don't know how easy they are to find. Maybe I could build one. I would need blueprints, and wood. Lots of wood.

CATS.

My roommate has a cat. I guess it is sort of mine by default, then; at least I find myself referring to it as "my cat." I think I really understand what it means to like a cat. Draco = radness. He's independent, beautiful, black, sleek and emerald-eyed. So, I think I might go adopt a cat from the Pikes Peak Region Humane Society. I've always thought myself more of a dog person, but we have no yard and I don't want inside dogness. And since we already have a cat, two won't be much harder than one. So that's that. I really like this six year old female, named Rosie, who is also incidentally black. Black is the new black.

POT.

I witnessed my first marijuana sale last night, between two friends from my massage class. What is my moral objective here? The buyer asked me if I thought she was a bad person a few moments after the loot was exchanged. I told her, I'm not in the business of judging people, period. And that was that. Am I a Satanist? Probably not. Negligent of the law? Guilty as charged.

CULTS.

Ever notice how people in those special clothes that hang out together are so happy? And you think you could be that happy too? As happy as the first day when you put your hand in the hand of the man who walked on water? Like waking up from the longest dream, how real it seemed, until your love broke through. Or reality hit, whichever came first. No, I'm not talking about the US Gymnastics team. I'm talking about friends who seem to be living a more authentic Christianity than myself. Then I discover they only home school their children, work at carpentry, farming, or weaving, and have to wear beards or skirts, depending on gender. (Don't get those last two requirements mixed up.) I always grieve a little on hearing the first major item on the step down the slippery slope of theological distaster, which includes items like claiming Jesus is descended from the first pure seed of Adam, or that we can only call him Yashua. I wish it could be that beautiful and easy and mind-numbing all the time. Maybe I should revert to my previous paragraph. At least the high would be temporary and explainable.

THE BROKEN WHITE LINE.

I've tried to be fairly consistent in my life of drawing a line in the sand, and sticking to it. And though the line may not move, sand is known to shift. When does divorce become okay? Where is the point of no return in a crisis of faith? Where does a call to morality clash with the type of acceptance Jesus demonstrated? Grah.

Judge, and even so ye shall be judged.

Ask.
Seek.
Knock.

...and the door will be opened...

Drive Through Nancy Amarillo

Yesterday in the drive through a man pulled up to the speaker and asked if we had amarillo. Now, as far as I know, this is the name of a town in Texas, and doesn't have anything to do with anything to drink. He stared at the menu board confusedly as I tried to stifle myself and figure out what he could possibly want.
"Amaretto, he's trying to say amaretto," a barista near me choked.
I told him we didn't have amaretto, if that was what he was looking for, but we did have almond. He, looking more confused than ever, told me that he didn't even know what amaretto was anyway. He eventually decided on an almond cappuccino, which we made, which I'm sure he hated.

We have so many cell phone conversations go on in the drive through it's ridiculous. People don't seem to think you can hear them once they are done ordering, so they sit in the line at the drive through, next to the speaker, and proceed to answer their samba-ring and thank Judy for the wonderful dinner party last night. Or yell at their boyfriend. Or occasionally someone will be listening to something good, like a few weeks ago when a mild-mannered looking middle-aged woman was blasting "Girls just wanna have fun" while sitting calmly in her SUV. My faves, though, are always the people who are in line, then pull up to the menu board, squnch up their faces, yell into the speaker for us to hang on a second, then answer a ringing cell phone, and talk for a minute or so before they say, "can I call you back, britney/josh/nancy? I'm at Starbucks. Yeah, I'm just gonna get a carmel/mocha/strawberries and cream frapp. ok, bye/ciao/later."

You see, we in this line of work are caught between an espresso machine and a hard place, if you will- we are continually programmed, continually streamlined for maximum output in the minimum amount of time. And then we have people who come through the drive through for newspapers, brownies, 2 1/2 pounds of fine-ground espresso beans, wait nevermind I think I only want a pound, I don't know what I want, I'll tell you when I get to the window. Can you tell me what all of your pastries are? Hold on a second, because we've got a big order here. The idea of coming into the store is lost on these people, because we have a drive-through. It's so much more convenient. You don't even have to get your lard out of the car to come in and eat. Tina.

I was reading about what Howard Schultz had to say about the giant caffiene baby-monster he has given birth to. It was actually in the January issue of National Geographic, when the magazine decided to explore some of the effects of caffiene, and so naturally they interviewed our most holy father. He was talking about going to Italy, blah-blah, fascinated by the espresso shops there in the 80's, of the connection and conversation and third place they created, and how he thought there was a market for this sort of thing in America. Except for the fact that this is no longer what Starbucks is, and it's getting further away with every drive-through installed. 70% of our traffic comes careening around on 4 wheels (6 if you count the ridiculous amount of diesel duallys. These vehicles actually have to turn off their engines so that we can hear their orders), orders their, no no NO I said 2/3 decaf triple venti extra hot nonfat no foam latte, not 1/3. Honestly. Why you people can't remember my drink modified eight ways and announced like an auction manager is beyond me.

So anyway. Funny things do happen, though, which keeps us sane- like the guy who asked for Amarillo. Or the completely lit kids who pulled up and asked for a venti avacado and then dissolved into laughter. Or the lady in the drive through who asked if she could have her drink to go. Well, ok, ma'am, because you asked.....

The customer is always right.

Changes Come

Changes come, turn my world around
Changes come, turn me upside down

I have my father's hands, I have my mother's tounge
I look for redemption in everyone
I wanna wear your ring- I have a song to sing
This ain't over babe, in fact it's just begun

Changes come, turn my world around
Changes come, turn me upside down

I wanna have our baby, somedays I think that maybe
This old world's too fucked up for any first born son
There is all this untouched beauty, the light, the dark both running through me
Is there still redemption for anyone?

Jesus come, turn my world around
Jesus come, lay my burden down
Bring the whole thing down

-selected lyrics from "Changes Come," by Over the Rhine


I feel like I'm on a collision course with myself. A quest for truth and authenticity within the church seems pointless at best. Communion with the saints seems difficult to find when the only conversation you feel comfortable in is with others who are just as jaded as I am. Yet the desire for growth remains. There is still a remnant within me that desperately clings to the message of hope and light, while being consumed with wave after wave of frustration at the ineffectiveness of the modern-day American church. Seeking what I know from the Bible, and what I trust from respected friends, teachers and comrades-in-arms, I wonder what age we are in. The birth pains continue, but no baby.

Yet there remains hope, character, perseverance, joy. Joy that the eternal transcends everything I see, from the latte to the mountain to the eyes of the child. To cling to this and press on towards the prize- even though the race is exhausting. This is what I want my life to be about. People ask me what I want to do, why I want to wander about, seemingly aimlessly. To hone my character? To foster a life of learning? Perhaps, but neither of these answers really gets down to the joint and bone of what I want to be. A universal traveler, bent on discovering God in every circumstance, gets closer to my goal. Letting what I do in my present circumstances flow out of who I am, in my present spot on the journey of being conformed to the image... this is closer still. Is there a place in the kingdom of God for modern-day Pauline lifestyle? Tentmaking when need be, but encouraging the ekklesia and calling on all the diverse facets of character to exalt Jesus Christ?

I don't know where I'm going. I know who I want to be like. This is about all I have right now.

Remember Ibrahim? It keeps going. Just like the Tsunami.

I haven't found myself thinking about the tsunami recently. In the 8 minute attention span that most folks have these days, even major world events that literally shake continents are forgotten in a matter of weeks. Not forgotten completely, especially by those people who will always be affected, but preempted. Preempted by Michael Jackson's trial reenactments (!) or headlines on Social Security [which, by the way, reflects the way our society thinks- charge everything, deny yourself nothing, and ignore the mounting balance and lack of credit rating]. Not that those items aren't newsworthy, but we have moved on.

The interesting thing is, the tsunami devastation remains, whether we think about it or not. Despite the fact that nobody was around to see the mime struck by the tree in forest, he still remains dead, pinned to the cold earth with wooden limbs. We were around to see the tsunami, however. And no matter if we broke the bank or handed out chump change with our federal aid, it's dollars to donuts that these people will be forgotten. Just like the Afghans, Bosnians, and about 80% of Africa. It isn't that I think that my talking about it will change anything, nor does it make me less responsible. But this muttering into cyberspace feels necessary, if for no other reason than to shake the darkness.

In recent news from my home, my grandma scanned the following article on Ibrahim Parlak, who is currently in his last bid to hang on to residency in the United States. In my previous post on the subject, I stated pretty clearly what I thought. And just like the tsunami, I then didn't think about it anymore after I regurgitated some intellectual/emotional blather. So maybe not entirely true, but I point the slingshot of death back at myself as well. There isn't enough global responsibility, or national, or personal. I realize complacency starts with me. There is no I in team. But I'd rather not talk about it anymore. It feels better to go get a latte with my Starbucks (r) card. So if you want to read about Ibrahim, go ahead. No expectations. For real.

The move to Manitou

.

I packed up the 'scort once again, and for this week I'm actually just a transient. Though there were a few sketchy moments yesterday as to where I would be sleeping, Becky Depauw (a friend from work) let me bunk down in her spare bedroom. An afternoon nap today with Crosby the gray cat at my rump made me appreciate God's faithfulness and abundance. Thursday night I move into my new digs in Manitou Springs, which is west of Colorado Springs, and the western-most town in the region. You can't build anymore- you just run into mountains.

Which means I have an incredible view. The apartment has more of a house feel, and is already occupied by Joanne, a 33 year old with a free spirit and an art degree. She has two cats and a bike and not really any furniture. The place has wood floors and a bathtub with claw feet. I couldn't have designed it better myself. Finances will probably be a little tight- but what else is new? Talking over my budget with my dad the other day, he told me he thought I might be cutting it close with what I considered to be a pretty generous amount of monthly left-over. I told him that if he thought that was cutting it close, I have been shaving it bald.

Speaking of shaving bald, I need a haircut. But my car has new tires and a fresh transmission/radiator flush, so I don't really have a right to complain. I can go shaggy, I just need Al to keep running. Choices become interesting when there isn't enough money for everything. I have previously had to make the choice between which item to buy, deodorant vs. milk. Guess which one was the winner.

Kids and stuff

My cousin Rachel; appropriately, in the snow.



I find myself listening to children a lot. I’m not around them very often, but I have become captivated with their desire to show or tell me things whenever I see them. This morning, it was a little Hispanic boy who wanted me to see how his hands looked in his father’s gloves. Yesterday at work, it was a girl who wanted to explain to me how her snowman came to have the name “Frostibug” and how it was really quite natural that it should be so. I wonder if adults have the same desire to show and tell, and just don’t because they are way too refined to act that eager for everything. It implies that they need others, opinions outside their own to reinforce their worth.
The odd thing is, most adults don’t say, look at that pathetic and idiotic child. He actually is telling you about how he fell in the snow and that’s why he’s cold. As if you care. As if you should care. He should be more secure in himself, and not have the desire to share meaningless information all the time. But when you hear about a fall in the snow from a seven year old, you feel like you are falling in the snow. For the first time, you are slipping and falling in the cool wet and it is chilly and wonderful. And you don’t mind, because your father is taking you and your sisters out to get hot chocolate. And eight ounces is plenty, because you haven’t been trained to get the largest size possible at all times. Twenty ounces of anything is too much to drink in one sitting.
I stand at the café station with a damp, slightly tan rag in my hand, pausing from filling the Splenda to hear this extraordinary tale. It is extraordinary because it is so ordinary- this moment, this boy will not be here again, but there will be a thousand boys and a thousand moments yet to come. Perhaps it is because I probably won’t be here for these boys with their moments that I feel like this one is worth listening to. Perhaps it is because I just want a little rest, and to stand and listen to this boy is enough. I touch the top of his head a few minutes later, and he doesn’t even bat an eye- he has his hot chocolate, and he knows me now. Though names have never been mentioned, we know one another. We fell in the snow today.