Drew did it.  Alex did it.  Brenna did it too.  I know we can do this one last time (assuming that “V” surgery took…I’ve never bothered to go back for the test because I’d prefer to guess and hope rather than the alternative), but it’s gonna take a lot of carpet cleaner and an equal amount of cheerleading.

Braden has surpassed the ripe old age of 1,000 days, so we’ve entered him in the potty-training sweepstakes, and if we win, our babysitting list increases by a factor of 7.  He would even qualify for Grandkids Camp, for which the only requirement is that they be potty trained.  Actually, the brochure says there’s only one requirement, but in reality there must also be some sort of age limit, because the one time I attempted to insert myself into the mix, I was deemed ineligible and expelled.  Considering that I’ve been housebroken for quite some time (except for the problematic dribble and periodic unfortunate, unmentionable “medical emergencies”), my assumption is that age was the disqualifying factor.

Potty training is an interesting phenomena, as it provides an opportunity for all participants (and we all participate, even if we’re not sitting on the singing potty seat) to work on patience and exhortation.  Those with an encouraging nature proudly celebrate small successes.  This is the only time in our house when a f*rt is the source of genuine widespread excitement.  Personally, I consider this to be unfair…my own flatulence is most often met with little more than irritated sideways glances, followed quickly by shirts pulled over noses.  It’s the same process, and I’m always every bit as proud as Braden is, so I consider the difference a remarkable contradiction.

For those of you still in the childrearing years, perhaps anticipating your own potty training adventures, let me give you one recommendation: if the child in the contest (and make no mistake, it is a contest: parents brag about their progeny who complete the process at an early age, shaming those whose children lag behind in the potty wars) is of the male persuasion, consider a potty seat with a splash guard as a necessary piece of equipment.  Hence, the “fountain” part of the title to this entry.  Enough said (except that I will add that Resolve is considering sponsoring our family professionally).

Good times.

The Beloved is winning by a significant margin over a team that can run the football–glory be.

So there’s this young man from our church who has now gone into the real world and is living in Mishawaka.  He’s about 23 years old, and speaking as a staunch heterosexual (Hot Wife will confirm), I gotta tell you that this is one good looking cat.  Clint’s one of these beach gods who is dark complected, built like a brick outhouse, and a total gentleman.  I’d marry him myself if I was younger, female, and not already married.  His line of would-be suitors is long, so for those of you out there who are about to ask for a picture and an email address, don’t hold your breath.

The bummer here is that Clint is in his 2nd week of chemotherapy at St. Vincent’s hospital due to stage 4 non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.  Pretty well came out of nowhere–one day he’s fine, then he noticed a lump in his left armpit.  Within a few days it had grown substantially…extremely nasty and aggressive cancer.

Flash back to a few months ago.  Clint has a cousin who is the same age who had been suffering from a variety of ailments, and doctors were mystified.  Eventually, he was diagnosed with leukemia.  His response to that diagnosis was to immediately (literally on the way home from the appointment) drive to a Honda dealership and buy a crotch rocket on credit.  As he himself told me the story, he rode home at speeds up to 160 miles per hour, figuring that if he was going to die anyway, he’d just as soon go out on his own terms and not suffer over the long haul.  Fortunately, he made it home in one piece, and a few days later, a 2nd opinion revealed deficient levels of some mineral or something, and the problem was successfully treated.  Whoa–that was close.

Contrast that with Clint’s response to genuine, no-kidding stage 4 cancer.  For quite a while now, on both this blog and the old one, I’ve written about faith in Jesus Christ.  Very likely there are many out there who have rolled their eyes…”Come on, Irk, just stick to the funny stuff and get off the Jesus business already.”  Folks, I got news for you–when a person genuinely places their lives in God’s hands (and by the way, it’s already there whether you choose to acknowledge it or not) and decides that the overarching goal of their life is to reflect a genuine image of Jesus Christ, it’s a powerful thing to observe, and it’s difficult to ignore.  Here’s a kid who just got out of college and started a new job in the investment field, and life gave him a giant kick in the groin.  Most people would be doubled over, spitting mad and swearing.  If you haven’t done so already, please click on the link.  When I finish writing this, I’ll make sure it works, and if not I’ll put up another post with a link that will work.

On a completely different note, the Natural gave the Octopus a goodnight hug tonight, and as he did so, a big (fart) popped out of the Natural.  He said, “Braden!”  Octopus said, “Oops, I sorry.  Dat a big one.”

When the body wakes up at 0300 it’s hard telling where the mind may go.  The family is sleeping peacefully…I can’t even hear that Pumpkin Spice is grinding her teeth.  I fell asleep on the floor of the library this evening (wasn’t ready to go to bed at a normal time…body was tired but still a bit keyed up from the colonoscopy this afternoon), so when I came to bed in the middle of the night The Octopus was firmly entrenched right next to Hot Wife.  Normally we just move him back to his Top Bunk (it’s a child’s bed, but because The Natural sleeps in a top bunk, so does the little guy) –three or four times a night, unfortunately–but this time he started twisting and turning, throwing my hands off, fighting the good fight to stay in our top bunk.  All this in spite of the fact that he was upside down, with his feet on my pillow.  The Octopus also refuses to sleep under covers, no matter the temperature, so we need to purchase king-size bedding for a queen-size bed…he’s always holding down the middle, so additional square footage is required for the two outside participants in this bizarre sleeping arrangement to have adequate coverage.  We were reminiscing yesterday that The Peanut climbed in bed with us for so long, we eventually installed a sleeping bag on the floor at the end of the bed and she would just come in and go straight there.  I suppose being relatively close to mom–closer than a different bedroom at any rate–was good enough.  If I thought the Octopus would go for that, I’d try it again, but thus far he has proved impervious to any suggestion beyond sleeping between us like Pippi Longstocking.  No wonder there are four years between Pumpkin Spice and the Peanut, and another 4 years between the Peanut and the Octopus!

Those of you who read comments have noticed that Uncle KeKe mentioned a while back that I should have no problems coming up with a new blog entry because we two, we happy two, had recently participated in two semi-adventures.  Perhaps at some time those will appear herein, but my mind has now gone to the black and white cookie.  Last Friday I steered Black Bart up to KV for a Friday luncheon at the cabana–always nice–and my fellow compatriot-in-Seinfeld had brought me a black and white cookie…all the way from California!  Probably the cookie was decorated by a pissed-off formerly engaged California flaming homosexual, but it was still good.  And I must say, Jerry was right again.  We recently elected a black and white President (who then referred to himself as a mutt…hmmm, can you say public relations snafu?), and if the cookie is any indication, this chap will be fine.  I don’t know that there is any correlation between a black and white cookie, and a black and white President (can cookies raise taxes or appoint liberal, new-constitution-writing judges to the bench?), but that was one tasty cookie.

Hot Wife wants to know why I’m sitting on the floor of the bedroom at 0420 clicking, so I’ll wrap up this latest installment of foolishness.  Sleep tight–Kev S, keep on dreaming or cleaning or whatever you’re doing tonight–and hopefully I’ll do the same.

April 16, 2008

The Cincinnati Reds are at Wrigley Field, playing the vaunted Chicago Cubs.  Adam Dunn drives a fastball from Kevin Hart into the left-centerfield stands in the 8th inning.  Inevitably, the baseball gets thrown back onto the field…along with about 25 other baseballs from all over the ballpark.  CUBS FANS–IF A BALL GETS HIT INTO THE STANDS AND YOU DON’T WANT IT–GIVE IT TO A KID, BUTTHEADS!  It’s a moment of glory for you as all the fools around you cheer, but for the kid standing behind you it would have been a memory that would last a lifetime.  For that tradition and that tradition alone (along with Ron Santo’s amazing lack of talent and intelligence on the radio), I hope the Cubs never win anything. 

In reacting to the absurd spectacle of baseballs littering the field of play, endangering the Cub players, my newest favorite minor prophet, Reds announcer Marty Brenneman, ripped into Cubs fans and the Cubs organization in general.  It was a classic rant–check out the YouTube video.  (By the way, if anyone out there can tell me how to imbed videos, I would be forever grateful.)  You need to hear Brenneman’s delivery, but here’s the text.  “People talk about this team winning the division, and my comment is, ‘They won’t win it because at the end of the day, they still are the Chicago Cubs, and they will figure out a way to screw this whole thing up.’”  Radio partner Jeff Brantley added, “And they’ll have no one to boo but themselves.”

More prescient words have never been spoken, friends.  While the Cubs won that game on April 16th by a final tally of 12-3, and they did in fact go on to win the division handily, Brenneman’s quote proved accurate as it has so many times in the past…they found a way to screw the whole thing up. 

I need to pause for a second to keep my Cubs friends from tuning out, assuming they’re not already slamming the mouse button.  I am well known, and justifiably, as a Cubs hater.  I did not drink the Kool-Aid this year, nor will I drink it next year–and you know they’ll be mixing it again.  Even so, this is not a gloat-type rant.  The fact is, I’m disgusted.  I really hoped the Cubs and Sox would both make it this year–what a Series that would have been!  Obviously I would have been rooting hard-core for a ChiSox championship, but either way, it would have been a great time.  Imagine the fun of sitting around a room filled with fans who love their teams, and for just a short time want to tear each other’s heads off.  The Bears-Colts Super Bowl was a lot of fun (for about a quarter!), but it would pale in comparison to a 7-game series between the Cubs and Sox.  Golly Ned, that would have been a hoot.

Instead, what we get is the unpalatable odor of the Cubs once again crapping down their leg.  There’s no other way to say it, boys and girls.  I can only hope for a little more from the Boys in Black.

The Natural had a football game last night–YIKES (5 games into the season, they still haven’t scored yet); since there wasn’t much going on at the game, I was visiting with WC’s baseball coach who is a giant Cubs fan…poor deluded fool.  He drank the Kool-Aid back in the early 80′s, and much like music from hair bands, he can’t shake free of the joy of being a loser.  Inaway (by the by, that word is pronounced IN-UH-WAY; it comes from a guy named Bob at our church whom I place in the top two or three of my favorite people in the world), we were discussing the Sox’ Monday night game and the odds of a Sox-Cubs World Series.  Natural and Irk proudly joined 20,000 other people who waited through a 3-hour rain delay to see the Sox kick the crap out of the hapless Tigers.  Picked first, finished last–how does that taste, Magglio?  Inaway, Big Jim Thome was horrendous that night.  I think he had three strikeouts, and on each of them he just looked old and overmatched.  I’m not sure he even fouled a pitch off that night.

So I’m having this conversation with the ball coach, and I utter this sentence which demonstrates my knowledge of baseball, “I think Big Jim is done.  I can’t see how they can bring him back next year because he just looks like he can’t turn a fastball around anymore.”

0-0 game, bottom of the 7th.  Blackburn threw a fastball, Thome jumped on it, Blackburn didn’t even bother to turn around.  The ball cleared the center field wall by 60 feet, cleared the ivy and landed on the concourse–461 foot tater!  Boys and girls, that was a shot.  I couldn’t hit a 5-iron that far.  I couldn’t toss a ball that far with a Jugs machine.  i couldn’t fling a midget that far.  I still think Jimbo will probably spend next season fishing and duck hunting, but that bomb was one for the ages.  I was jumping around like a junkie on a bad trip.  I was hollering like a Tourette’s patient with an open mic.  I was spewing testosterone like Mike Tyson with Holyfield’s ear in sight.

Bring on the Tampa Bay Rays.  They may have taken the Devil out of their name, but I still believe the devil resides in Florida–either there or Minneapolis.  Or maybe Washington DC.

Ach oi, what a lovely day.  Probably I’m not Jewish enough to make that expression make sense, but in my mind, it fulfilled its intended role admirably.  I’m sitting in the kitchen annex looking out the French double doors…some people drive thousands of miles to New England to see leaves change, but for my money, the sight of corn and beans making their gradual metamorphosis from green to brown–from life to death–is beauty plenty.  The leaves on the oak trees are a deep green yet, although patches of yellow are visible as well.  The grass is still growing–rats.

To each his own, as the expression goes, but I’m a winter man.  Spring is an amazing time of year, and for those of us in the ag industry (I realize crop insurance is a stretch there, but I sometimes wear boots and walk around in fields) spring is a time of new beginnings.  The smell of freshly turned dirt holds the possibility that this might be the year that we hit it just right–the right hybrids, the right growing conditions, and a good price.  The earth is warming up, coming back to life, shedding the gray of winter.  I can respect spring.  Summer is a special time for many people.  The warmth of the sun allows that we can shed some clothing, get that healthy glow back.  Beaches teem with sun worshippers, the surf comes up, and the kayaks hit the water.  Fourth of July fireworks, baseball games, hot dogs on the grill, camping and swimming–I can respect summer too.  Autumn is a time of death and decay, but it is also a time of startling beauty.  A man who can drive through a patchwork of autumn leaves bursting into orange, yellow, and red, without the occasional Ooh and Aah is a man with a heart that needs restoration.  Deer group up for mating season, and for hunters, of which I am one, it’s time to tune up the bows and make the quiet, pre-dawn walk out to the stand, serenated by crickets and dogs.  As dawn breaks, birds and squirrels come to life, filling the woods with chirps and the skittering of fallen leaves.  If you really get lucky, you will see the antlers of the buck as he makes his way through the underbrush; often he is wary (they definitely know when the hunt is on), but other times the lure of the siren song renders him incapable of all but the basest instinct and he might walk up on a one-man band in full swing.  I enjoy autumn, just as I enjoy summer and spring.

But as I say, winter is my favorite.  By some accident of birth I am a hot-blooded person, so cold and crisp air is my natural element.  There is nothing I enjoy more than chopping wood on a day that that is too cold for flannel, too warm for down.  The wool-lined vest comes out of the closet, I throw on the lined leather gloves, a pair of jeans, and my work boots, and make sure both blades of the double axe are sharpened.  There is a rhythm to the work–I stack one up, step back and observe the wood, then step into the work and bring the axe down with all the force I can muster.  Sometimes the pieces fly off on either side, which makes me feel manly–Paul Bunyan has nothing on me.  Other times the axe sinks in an inch and sticks fast, and I know this is a foe that I can respect–it won’t go easy.  Back to the deer stand, and if I’m really lucky, there is an inch or two of new snow on the ground that crunches when the big one is on the way, and he can’t help but leave tracks that even a child could follow.  We don’t have sledding hills in Pulaski county which forces creativity.  The Natural and I once had a delightful time sledding eight feet down into a frozen ditch, emerging each time covered with burrs and laughing like lunatics.

God is good–who can look at all this and think it’s a lucky accident?  How could the eye have developed over thousands of years?  How could the incredible intricacy of the hand be the product of time and ooze?  In Isaiah 45:23 we read the every knee will bow.  Some will bow out of reverence, gratefully worshipping our chosen Lord.  Others will bow out of fear, knowing as only the righteously condemned can know that God is truly the great, just Jehovah.  For myself, for my family, for the full commitment of my life, I choose God as my God, and I choose His Son Jesus as my great Redeemer.  Please, please–choose this day to say yes to Christ, who stands at the door and knocks.  For anyone who will open the door and invite Him, the rest of your life and eternity beyond will be filled with the joy of knowing that our hope rests in something that cannot rust, rot, or blow away.

Guarantee you this, boys and girls–if I’m pitching for the Chicago White Sox right now, a friggin Twinkie is gettin’ one in the ear hole.  The boys arrived at the TwinkieDome with a 2-1/2 game lead, desperately needing at least one win in this series, and at this moment we’re getting beat 9-1.  It makes me angry that they seem perfectly willing to just roll over and take it dry from those buttheads.  Anybody who has ever played the game of baseball and has any clue about managing the pitching game knows that when the batter steps in the box, he better have just a little bit of healthy fear.  The fact that a given pitcher throws 95 miles per hour doesn’t scare those guys one bit, unless there is a chance that the pitcher might uncork one at any moment.  It looks to me like the Twinkies recognize that the playoffs are almost here, so the Sox aren’t going to take a chance at getting in a fracus and risking a suspension–so they’re just jumping in the box and swinging their hardest at whatever gets thrown down the middle. 

Gotta post–battery is almost dead.  Have fun, kids.

(Smile, slight shake of the head, the eyes saying, “I’m not falling for it again…”)

Sometimes when I ask one of the yutes for a title or a sentence, I get something usable.  What The Natural gave me this time probably seemed worthless to him–to Irk, it seemed like a reasonable opening thought.  I rarely know what it’s about either.

(Disregard everything that follows; every bit of it is Clinton truth.)

I’m in the den (see, Kev, I have one too–mine’s not as cool as your’s, but I like to call it home) getting ready to watch MNF.  I probably won’t just sit and watch any of it–I prefer to stay active, which is probably why I’ve always found it easy to maintain my HS playing weight–but I’ll keep an eye on the game while I entertain myself with this medium, maybe enjoy a white wine spritzer, and finish off the last half of the 64 ounce T-Bone from yesterday’s dinner.  We went to one of those places that has the “Finish the Ole 64 Ouncer within 30 minutes and the whole meal is free”, not including drinks, appetizer, the peanuts, pirate hats, and dessert.  I made the mistake of filling up on bread, mozzarella sticks, mucha nacho grande, and a few martinis; by the time the Ole 64 showed up, I was barely able to choke down the first 32.  No biggie–it gave me a nice leftover for the game tonight.

I am a little curious about this game because Brett Farrrve is playing for the Jets.  Now, I’m sure Farrrve is a fine guy, and I’ve met his wife Deanna, and she’s a very nice lady.  However, Farrrve was formerly a Green Bean Picker, and I can’t shake the notion of Once a Picker, Always a Picker.  The Great Jerry Seinfeld has a comedy routine wherein he expresses the absurdity of cheering for a person that you formerly despised just because they change uniforms.  I’m drinking that Kool-Aid.  I’ll probably try to be in bed by 9:20 or so (I run on Greenwich mean time just so I don’t have to switch my clock every time I drive a half mile west or six miles north), but until that time I hope the eye on the game sees the Bolts winning by six touchdowns.  It’s tough when a player like Farrrve switches teams; eventually I’m going to run out of teams to root for in addition to the Beloved.  The 49ers, Eagles, and Cowboys are already out (Terrell Owens); Titans and the Cowboys again (Pacman Jones); Vikings, Raiders, and Patriots (Randy Moss); Saints and Dolphins (Ricky Smoky Williams–although Bob Griese  almost does enough to put the Fish back over the top); that’s not an exhaustive list, but it will do for now.  The point is that I do hope to see Farrrve get concussed.

Inspired by Shop Teacher Bob, I’ve been thinking about training for a marathon.  His thought was to find one that had a nice shirt and a big finisher’s medal.  My thought is to find one that is downhill all the way, really smooth, and mostly shaded.  I wonder if anyone has ever run a marathon while wearing Heelies.  I once watched a bicycle race in Ecuador that went up a big friggin mountain, then back down.  I couldn’t help but think that a race with that format is cruel–the guys going up the mountain (when I say mountain, I’m talking about the dadgum Andes–mountains!) are sucking wind and their legs are concrete.  When they see a guy going the other way, they know there’s not a kitty’s chance in Dogtown that they’ll ever catch him, because they still have climbing to go, and all that guy has to do is hope his brakes don’t go out.  If anyone knows of such a marathon, let me know, and I’ll see about arranging time off work. 

(Blog entry timed out–AutoSaved at 21:36)

Forget John McCain–I’m voting for Sarah Palin.  Did anyone else catch her speech last night?  Wowie zowie, Batman…I’d say she’s for real.  Two things I like most about Gov. Palin: 1) the whole hockey mom thing (“What’s the difference between a hockey mom and a grizzly bear?  Lipstick.”)  2) Her husband has Eskimo ancestry–how cool is that?  I watched her speech for about 20 minutes, then I moved on to other things, namely, Seinfeld!  I broke out my exhaustive collection and went with Season 8, episode 9 “The Abstinence”, and episode 10 “The Andrea Doria”.  Much like George in The Abstinence, those 44 minutes of brilliance cleared my mind of all distractions, allowing me to sleep well.

Forgetting all of that silliness, I come before you today to speak of a fence–a divide in our nation–which has a razor blade edge such that no one can sit on top of it.  That divider, friends, is abortion.  I received from my sister this morning an email that included a copy of a letter written by Cecile Richards, President of the Planned Parenthood Action Fund, to a man named John (no indication of who he is), in which she desperately bemoans the choice of Sarah Palin as the running mate for John McCain, solely because of Governor Palin’s pro-life beliefs.  Part of the letter reads, “Women trust other women to tell them the straight truth–and the straight truth is that McCain and Palin would take us back to a time when women had absolutely no right to decide whether or not to have a child…zero.  It’s been widely reported that Palin is against abortion even in  the cases of rape and incest! (emphasis in original letter)” 

I found that letter to be very interesting because it reveals the depth of feelings of those on the other side of the fence.  Those of us who agree with what is stereotypically viewed as a Republican viewpoint see abortion as murder because we believe life begins at conception, and we consider ourselves pro-life because we believe the life of the baby, even at conception, has precedent over the comfort & convenience of the pregnant woman.  Those who agree with the stereotypically Democrat viewpoint do not see abortion as murder because they do not believe the “fetus” is a baby until it is viable (although of course abortion takes place far deeper into the pregnancy than viability, including partial birth abortions; I cannot understand how ANYONE can view PB abortions as anything other than murder—the baby is in the process of being born!), and they consider themselves pro-choice because they believe the comfort and convenience of the pregnant woman has precedent over the “fetus.”  Pro-choice advocates would lead you to believe that pro-lifers hate freedom and liberty because we wish to remove a woman’s right to have power over even her own body, whereas pro-life advocates want everyone to believe that pro-choicers are accomplices in murder.  There is no question that proponents on both sides of the issue deeply and passionately believe that they are right, and the other side is dead wrong.

For most people, the issue is absolutely clear cut (i.e. a “Big tall fence”), and they will be very difficult to convert, and further, for many people this issue will predict their presidential vote far more than their views on the economy, the military action in Iraq and other places, domestic energy, global warming, the environment, and so forth.  What I cannot figure out is people who claim Jesus Christ as their Savior, yet stand in the pro-choice camp.  I question the salvation of people like that because I view the biggest issue of true salvation as simply agreeing with God, and I am not a person who believes you can pick and choose the parts of the Bible you like and reject those you don’t like.  There is NO QUESTION that the Bible considers abortion to be murder—God makes it crystal clear that he has known us since the beginning of time, and the very hairs on our head are counted.  It interests me that virtually all pro-choice advocates consider pro-life advocates to be hypocrites, because many (and I can speak for myself here) pro-lifers also support the death penalty.  Their confusion stems from the fact that most pro-choice advocates believe what they believe because of the fact that their morality is determined by themselves, whereas pro-life advocates believe what they believe because their morality is determined by adherence to God’s Holy Word, and Romans 13:1-5 indicates that evil people are under penalty of death by the government.

For that reason, there is no chance I could ever vote for Barack Obama, because he is a person who claims Christ, yet rejects a major portion of the scripture—that part that says that God loves each and every one of us and counts us as His children.

It is a big fence, folks.  With all my heart I believe that our loving God is also just, and we will one day have to answer for our choices…

Finally, the moment you’ve been waiting for.  The reader is invited to step into Clan McKay’s home and hear from someone besides Irk for a turn.

Our favorite colors

• The Octopus………..John Deere green
• The Peanut…………..pink (does this surprise anyone who knows her?)
• Pumpkin Spice……..lime green (only PS would combine both a fruit and a color here)
• The Natural………….red (because the sight of blood gets him riled up–don’t serve him anything cooked rare, or be ready to clean up the mess that will have been your life)
• Hot Wife……………..green (I love it when she eats green M&Ms)
• Irksome………………black (because the Chicago White Sox wear this color and the Cubs don’t)

Our favorite foods

• The Octopus………..ketchup
• The Peanut…………..tacos with sour cream, cheese, and meat, and sometimes fried beans
• Pumpkin Spice……..ham loaf (a Grandpa McKay specialty)
• The Natural………….ham loaf (creativity is not his specialty)
• Hot Wife………………Chicago Classic pizza from Pizzaria Uno
• Irksome……………….Beef Brisket from Quiznos

Our favorite movies

• Octopus………..John Deere, Monk George, and Bob the Builder
• Peanut…………..Ariel
• Spice…………….old McHale’s Navy reruns
• Natural………….Rookie of the Year (not because of the kid who becomes a Cubs player–poor sap–but rather the character played by Daniel Stern; “Little help.  Little help here.”)
• HW……………….Sweet Home Alabama
• Irk………………..O Brother Where Art Thou

Our favorite TV shows

• Octopus………..Tom and Jerry
• Peanut…………..Tom and Jerry
• Spice…………….Little House on the Prairie
• Natural………….Hogan’s Heroes
• HW……………….MASH
• Irk………………..SEINFELD (I very nearly would not accept any other response from the other respondents, because this show is so head and shoulders above any other show ever made)

Our favorite Bible characters (besides Jesus–that’s cheating)

• Octopus………..Zaccheus, because he can really relate
• Peanut…………..John the Baptist, because he ate grasshoppers and wore camel skin
• Spice Girl……….Paul, because he persecuted the Way, then became part of it!
• Natural………….Gideon, because he defeated a huge army with 300 men
• HW……………….Esther, she was an ordinary person who became Queen and saved her people
• Irk………………..Balaam’s donkey, how cool would it be to have a donkey turn and talk to you?

Book or book series

• Octopus………..Thomas the Tank Engine
• Peanut…………..Junie B. Jones (Peanut is a 1st grader reading way above her grade level)
• Spicey…………..mystery books
• Natural…………the Left Behind series for kids
• HW………………Liz Curtis Higgs books and Karen Kingsbury
• Irk……………….any non-fiction adventure book (some of my recent favorites include Between a Rock and a Hard Place, Alone Around the World, The Perfect Storm, Close to the Wind, Blue Highways, Two for the Summit, Miles from Nowhere, The Last Season, and Into the Wild)

Nothing entertaining today, but a little bit of background into why we think the way we think, which is always an interesting thing to me.  Remember this piece of advice from the Irk–everyone has an agenda; if you can figure out what that agenda is, you will understand how they think and why they do many of the things they do.  Even if they say they don’t have an agenda, or even if they really don’t think they do, there are always underlying reasons.

Irk & the Auk on the Tippy

I am including for the edification of all a picture of Irk in the kayak paddling on the Tippecanoe River.  For those who don’t know the background, I first bought plans for a boat called the Guillemot from Nick Schade back in 2005, but decided pretty quickly that boat was not suited to my paddling preferences because I wanted a boat with more gear capacity for long trips.  So I switched to the Great Auk, also from Schade, and worked on it sporadically for the next 3 years.  Throughout the process I endured the taunts of my students and others, but I never doubted that I would finish the boat because I have a love of adventure that runs like a river through my body, and moving water is calming to my soul.  My boat has advanced quite a lot farther since these pictures were taken–the deck is completely rigged now, and I rebuilt the hatch covers to make them more waterproof.  It’s a beautiful boat, and she paddles awesome.  By the way–do you dig the hat or what?  It’s an OD Gore-Tex hat that is supposed to be all the rage in Seattle, for obvious reasons.  I got it online at a website called MooseJaw, which is a fun place to buy things because they send an insult along with your purchase, which I enjoy.

Go for the spinach and artichoke hearts–you can never go wrong there.