You Win $5

If you can tell me what the deal is with those enormous sunglasses that girls (and girlie men) wear.

Seriously.  I’ve got the serial number on this Lincoln set aside like cold pancakes at a slumber party.

 

The Spoken Words

We had one of our better Two Stories Tall nights yesterday, as a couple dozen people graced our apartment with their presence and voices.  The gist of the thing, which we have held sporadically over the last 18 months that I have lived here, is that people read something aloud for the collective enjoyment of those present.  In college I had a few experiences of reading through plays, narratives and dialogues with friends and classmates, and I always enjoyed it.

This likely stems from how my dad used to read my brother and me Hardy Boys stories at night before bedtime.  I remember begging for another chapter, Skull Mountain (Dun, da-da-da Duuuuuuuuun), and the mud-covered license plate in the story about the signpost.  I remember my Dad reading other stuff too, but the Hardy Boys stories stand out to me a lot.  I hope I someday have kids that enjoy doing that as much as I did and do.

So, Randall transcribed (it took him hours) a Peter Wimsey mystery and delineated the various characters’ lines enough to be read by at least a portion of the people present.  It was a lot of fun.  We’ve had some fun TST nights before, but this one probably had the most people that actually wanted to be involved with it.  We had to draw names out of a hat to see who would get to read the parts, and people were noticeably disappointed and forlorn when they received none.  Thankfully, Randall also thought ahead enough to break up some of the narration, and others shared with those less fortunate.  And, when you add in the fact that one of our friends from the spring play Randall and I were in showed up from West Covina, you know it had to be a blast.  We heard voices and accents that probably should never see the light of day (most of those by me), but I think listening to a story with an audience is a commonly-enjoyed human experience.  We just don’t give it much of a chance these days.

And, speaking of things our society classifies as “just for children,” we also followed up the “Fantastic Horror of the Cat in the Bag” story with a Grimm Fairy Tale:  The Girl with no Hands.  (Or something like that)  You can find it easily enough online (it’s public domain), but the thing is just horrifically violent.  I mean, this poor girl has her hands chopped off by her Dad because the devil made him do it.  It’s ok, though, because she is pious.  Man, stories were different back in those times.  And, by “different,” I mean awful.

Of course, anything can become awesome when read aloud by the right people, and it’s safe to say that the right people were picked.

You just had to be there. (Mostly to taste Cory’s Cornbread and Randall’s brownies, the girls’ sweet potato bread, the other girls’ brownies, Cream Soda, more food……)

And, unlike that ghastly story, mine has a moral:  Go read to someone.  You should read to kids, friends, spouses, fiancees, financiers and chancellors.  Just don’t let the timeless tradition of oral regaling die out.  (I blame stupid internet…)

Eyeing the Knot

The following is stolen from Eric’s blog. I liked it, and it sure beats that horrible video I just watched for the first time.  (note:  don’t post videos to your blog before previewing them for off-color humor and crass remarks.)

* * ** * * * ** * *

This week I did something I haven’t done in years: I wore a tie. The last time I did this was (if I remember correctly) at my friend Bryan’s wedding. I don’t count my wedding because, as my groomsmen can attest, Men’s Wearhouse gives you some sort of hybrid, slip-on tie.

I don’t particularly enjoy wearing ties. Sure, at times they do afford you a certain level of sophistication that can make you feel a lot cooler than you probably are, but they make me uncomfortably aware that there is something tied around my neck reminiscent of a leash. This is the first of a laundry list of grievances I have with ties. They also get in your way while washing your hands, visiting a urinal, brushing your teeth, and if there’s any wind at all. They can become ensnared in car doors, bushes/any sort of decorative floral arrangement, or the hands of small children or potential assailants. They also make me warmer than I care to be. They can be tricky to tie and take up precious time while you’re getting ready, even if you know what you’re doing.

I don’t know why anyone would decide that a long piece of cloth around his neck is a good idea. It’s actually a brilliant piece of marketing. A quick Wikipedia search revealed that the necktie has its roots in the Thirty Years War when the French thought that some of the clothes of the Croatians were wearing were quite fetching. I lost interest after that, although I did go on to learn that I hope to someday sport an ascot. This would be mostly for the shock value, and what I’m guessing will be an increased chance of being handed a glass of warm brandy in front of a roaring fire in some lavish lounge. It also seems a safer and more comfortable option to dress up ones neck…

Chaseing: My Tale

I’m sitting on the floor on this gray Saturday morning and eating cereal.  This state of serenity is in direct contrast to the rest of my week, which has been hectically delicious.  Besides job stuff (good) and bank stuff (awful), I’ve had some satisfying moments.  Filling out application forms for a job after you’ve gotten it makes not a lot of sense to me, but it did feel like I was writing my future down.  Speaking of futures, I don’t think Chase has much of one with me.  Here are my adventures with the new and improved WaMu: (it rhymes if you say it rhythmically)

About a month ago, my Dad gave me a heads-up to change my account before Washing Mutual officially discarded the last remnants of its old glory and became Chase.  By “change my account,” this is what he meant.  Washington Mutual had two free checking accounts.  Their standard “Free Checking” account, which I had been using since 2005, and a more recent account that went by the name “WaMu Free Checking” on the register.  While I at first thought my Dad had been misinformed, a quick look and a phone call confirmed that these two accounts did indeed exist.  The important part of this distinction is that, after this banking empire effects its transition completely to Chase (as it has now done), those with a simple “Free Checking” account will no longer be able to order new checks free of charge.  Those with a special “WaMu Free Checking” account, however, will still receive that benefit when Chase establishes its first galactic empire.

So, all I need to do, Dad says, is call Washington Mutual and ask to get my account changed into a “WaMu Free Checking” account.  This seems simple enough, and multiple people have told me that I can do this.  So, I give them a call.

It becomes quickly apparent to me that I am not really talking to “Frank” from “Caleeforneeah.”  Nonetheless, the customer service rep seems to know what I am requesting to have done.  I prolong the conversation for a minute or two just to subtly reiterate what it is I want done, why I want it (Free Checks!), and that I really appreciate the fact that “Frank” is going to do this and that is very nice of him thank you sir yes it is no problem at all thank you for calling Washington Mutual goodbye.

A couple of weeks later, I make a deposit in person at Chase.  Lately, I have noticed online that my account is now a “Free Classic Checking” account.  As I have no idea how this relates to the former two Washington Mutual accounts, I ask the teller if my requested change had taken place.  (When I talked to the rep on the phone, he told me the switch might take a week or so.)  She said, “I don’t think it did…mine says something different, and I made sure my account changed like that too.”

So, I asked, how can I go about getting “Frank” fired from his job in “Caleeforneeah” and my account made free as the days are short these days?  She suggested I go take a seat in their “lobby” (see: Chairs by those desks) and wait for someone more knowledgeable to help me.  I do so, and the next employee quickly informs me that, if the account has not been changed by now, there is no possible way to do so.  I believe her, but also mentioned my grievance with a certain rep (name of Frank) and his assurance that my account would be changed.  She suggests that I (surprise!) call their corporate phone number and ask for a supervisor and see if they have a record/recording of the call itself.  Since I happen to remember the date of the call, she seems hopeful that I might be able to get something done.

So I call the same number as I did a couple of weeks ago, and immediately ask for a supervisor.  After a minute or so of hold time (which was profusely apologized for by the new rep), I get a supervisor who clearly has no time for me.  Granted, I am asking for a likely-overworked telephone customer service supervisor to tell me why I can’t get free pieces of paper anymore, but I’m far beyond the actual purpose of the whole thing by now.  It’s the principle of the thing.  And speaking of principles, one of mine is that customer service people ought to treat their callers as civilly as possible, even if they are tired and busy and not in the mood to talk to Robert about his dumb little problem that is really insignificant.  It’s their job.

Of course, the supervisor says her hands are tied.  WaMu is dead, the phone recordings have all been purged (her word), and she has absolutely nothing to offer me.  I try to throw out an awkward sentence or two to the effect of “Oh, so I guess, even though the error was made on your end, you can’t really do anything” and “Yeah, I guess that you really only have my word that this conversation actually took place,” but it’s useless.  She is all but huffing and puffing me off the phone, and I have clearly reached the end of what I can accomplish through polite inquiry.  Having no desire to fly into a perhaps-justified indignant rage over free checks, I awkwardly thank her for her time, and hang up.

My day would have continued as normal, if not for the kicker:

Now that Chase is in charge of all my moneys and dollars, they have a new and improved rule on deposits:  Even if I go to the bank and make a deposit in person, those funds are not available until the next day. This is ridiculous.  I  understand their reasoning behind withholding part of a deposit made into an ATM, since they need to verify the amount, but what’s the point of keeping my money from me after I’ve gone to the trouble of depositing it?  In fact, do you know what this means?  It means, if I need to have that money on hand that same day, I have to cash the check for its full amount, then take the cash and deposit it into the account. Of course, they might hold that deposit too.  In fact, even if they don’t, it is clearly more advantageous for me to simply cash the check and walk out the door anyway.  Thus, Chase has clearly accomplished its goal.

Assuming, of course, that their goal is to make using their bank more cumbersome than just carrying around large sums of cash in the first place.

I’m gonna go buy a huge briefcase.

Hackey Pickshure

This is a picture of the motley hockey crew we had last week.  (I’ll be back with more regular updates later this week — Work, you know.)

Leerics

(Somewhere along the line, I started using weak puns as post titles most of the time.  I don’t apologize for it, but please do understand it as less of a plea for attention and more of a neolithic spark to get the writing juices flowing.  That said, I will now simply paste lyrics below and publish.  Huh.)

I posted this solely for the song, not the video.  Feel free to let the video play without watching.  It seemed pretty corny to me, subject matter notwithstanding.

This song ran through my head a lot for a few years of my youth.  I’m not sure why, as I didn’t know anyone who had taken their own life at the time.  It simply haunted me and made me melancholy.  I have no follow up.   This is just a piece of my childhood that is now out there for everyone to see and judge accordingly.

Youth is Wasted by the Young

I’ve been raised, deliberately or otherwise, to view Sunday as a day to relish. For me, this has usually involved sports.  Whether it was the pre-service touch football games in the parking lot, church softball team practices, evening bowling games with friends in San Luis, or even wiffleball games in Grandma’s back yard with John,  (I still have a cool scar–two, actually–from one of those) I’ve always enjoyed a bit of friendly competition on Sundays.  Lately, I’ve been playing soccer with some miscellaneous cohorts in the afternoon, and  I have occasionally indulged in frisbee later in the evening to boot.  Yesterday, however, I inadvertently planned a veritable deluge of sports for myself.  My buddy Corey had planned a good-sized inline hockey game at around 5 or so in Chino Hills.  Since I usually don’t play soccer much past 4, and I wasn’t planning on playing ultimate frisbee with Andrew and co. until 9, I figured I could squeeze in brief showers before the latter two events and just stay energized through pure gumption and a couple of Powerades.

Turns out, I don’t have gumption any more.  I think I used it all up around sophomore year of college, which is also the last time I remember drinking more than one Powerade at a time.  There’s a reason for that.

So, of course, Sunday afternoon arrived warm, with mid-eighties temperatures and a sweltering soccer field beckoning my naive legs to their doom.   However, I’ve conditioned the old tree trunks to take their share of punishment when it comes to football, and a couple hours’ worth of play left them tired, but sweating gracefully.  If only I had been able to see theirs tears of pain amidst the glistening perspiration.

As soon as I walked into the apartment at about 4:30, I could tell I was in for some trouble.  My muscles were beginning to tighten up, and I was less confident than usual that my standard calisthenics and stretching would prevent them from taking a quick five on the 30 minute drive to the hockey rink.  I showered, making the water as hot as possible in a miserably futile effort to keep the ol’ gams elasticized, and picked up some liquid electrolytes on my way over to Chino Hills.

Let me say now that the drive over was extremely pleasant.  As I gave my body no choice but to relax and enjoy the cooling evening air and diminishing sunlight, I began to feel peaceful.  Life is good.  I’m just sitting here, listening to the radio, driving past the unicorn palace on my way to my first NHL practice.  Oh, right, I’m dreaming.  Thanks for the wake up honk, jerk.  Ahem.

(I didn’t really fall asleep, but I very much wanted to.  It was that pleasant.)

I lackadaisically* carried my stick, skates and such over to the rink, and was greeted by an enthusiastic cheer from the Red Wing Jerseyed Corey.  Seeing hockey jerseys moving at full flight always gives me the itch to revisit my Flippos days, and here was one of the few times in recent memory that I had a chance to respond to that call.  The anticipation to hop onto the rink as fast as humanly possible was intermittently tempered by my knowledge that I hadn’t played more than once within the past two years, and that my body was not exactly ripe for intense physical activity.  Thankfully, I learned to stop listening to my body a long time ago.  What does a stupid hunk of mostly-water-filled carbon know anyway?

The play was good, all things considered.  My passing was good, but foolish at times.  I also cannot stickhandle at any decent speed to save my life, and my slapshot resembles badminton more than hockey.  However, I did beat Kyle the Goalie with a nice head fake and wrist shot to the far side fairly early on, which helped to ease the chagrin that set in as the evening wore on and my severely limited skill set quickly began to erode alongside my lung capacity.  When 8 came around, I knew I had to go, prior engagement notwithstanding.  My body and lungs were begging for mercy, and I knew better than to ignore their pleas this time.  I bid farewell to the boys, and rather gingerly loaded up my car for the drive back.

As my tender frame informed me of each and every pebble my tires felt on the freeway, I tried to soothe my back/quads/hamstrings groans with the only medication I had available:  Powerade.  I think I envisioned the sugary liquid coursing through my veins and purging my body of the evil lactic acid I could feel welling up all too quickly.  Instead, it just felt like I was drinking Powerade when I needed a sauna (sa-OO-nah, according to some people) and acupuncture for an hour.  Which I did.

(If you need a frame of reference for my condition, just know that hearing the Angels end their season through multiple errors and discombobulation failed to ease my pain one iota.)

When I straggled into our apartment this time, I looked at my roommate, Cory, and made my decision:  I was not leaving this apartment again tonight.  After text messaging Andrew to inform him of my prodigality, the following conversation (inspired by real events) ensued:

“Cory, are you still wanting to go play ultimate?”

“Well, I was kind of planning on it, yeah.”

“Ok, well, I’m not gonna go.  I can’t move like forfty percent of my muscles, including, apparently, the muscle you use to come up with real percentages.”

“Oh, that’s ok.  I actually need to get some stuff done anyway.  What are you…Robert?”

I had shed my clothes, gear and way too much time not bathing in steaming hot water.  I filled our tub with steaming hot water, and plunged myself into its depths armed solely with what Micah called a “teen hockey romance novel.”  Well sure, if you only read the back cover.  Man, wise up.

And so ended my day of indulgence.  Andrew came by later on to chastise me for said truancy, and I made bachelor food to replenish the billion carbohydrates I had burned.  To all those that say youth is wasted on the young, I urge you to look no further than this entry’s titular truism, and bow at my athlete’s feet.

Wait, that didn’t come out right.

*Spelled that word right the first time.  Take that, creepy spelling bee kids on TV.

Living on Prayer

I listened to Francis Chan this morning (after spilling coffee on my pants).

If he hadn’t been swarmed by adoring fans, I would have asked him if my Pike’s Place Roast-stained jeans were ironically indicative of my materialistic mindset.

Instead, I just thought about prayer.  I don’t really pray enough, and I don’t really immerse myself in the Word enough.  I think those two things should go together in my life, and I think Lewis’s emphasis on nonverbal prayer is perfectly paired with the Word Himself.  Mr. Chan always makes me think a lot, and he is, to reiterate, what sparked my interest in the conversation I had with Alex the other day.

The only part that frustrated me is how distracted I always am by contemporary worship times.  I am wholly in favor of praising our God, but I’m seriously wondering if putting a bunch of people on a stage to lead repetitive ballads is the best way to do that.  Maybe it would be better if we mixed in more A cappella Psalms?  How about some group Scripture reading?

I just don’t like the idea of singing a set of widely-known (or recently-written by the song leader) praise songs as the sole method of “worship.”  It seems vainglorious to me, although not all the time.  Maybe this just means they are doing of a good production job for me to be distracted by the glamorous nature of it…?

We at the apartment were talking about how some famous “worship music artists” do concerts, and are paid for them.  I can understand that people need to make a living in their ministry, but I can’t help but think that St. Paul would be tearing his robes if he heard that a small church couldn’t afford to have _____ play worship at their church.  How screwed up is that?

Diddy’s Release

Bad ideas start the way good ideas end

With intentions great in the interest of friends

So check yourself next time and maybe you’ll find

That once-good idea is now less than sublime

Not Again

Listening to Vin Scully call this one was like listening to your beloved grandfather telling you about your parents’ death in an airplane crash as he watched it happen on television