kenread's Xanga

PET MUSINGS

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 14:31:31 GMT

our family has not come to conclusions yet on these important questions:

If only our dog had opposable thumbs and a brain bigger than a walnut, who knows what she could do?
1. Work the doorknob and let herself out in the morning
2. Fetch me the morning paper AND a cup of coffee

When you rub a dog’s belly, it calms the dog down. Could it be that dogs are autistic?

Is it physically possible for a dog in a coma to be catatonic?

When they take a CAT scan of a cat, what do they see?

If good dogs go to heaven, is that the same place that bad cats go?

Do good cats, then, go to hamster hell?

Two good female hamsters go to hamster heaven. Does one still eat the other?

EMMA THE WONDER DOG

Tue, 01 Dec 2009 03:58:50 GMT

yesterday, we buried The Friendliest Cat in the World, Bandit. tomorrow, we will place Emma the Wonder Dog in the same grave.

Emma is just short of 127 years old, and deserves to be treated with respect as she is ushered out of this world.

after all, she has lived through eight children climbing on her, pulling her tail, feeding her their scraps, teasing her, tripping over her, and yet she has never once snapped at, growled at, or nipped any of them.

she has survived through at least six cats, and outlived them all, but one.

she has been a part of our family almost the entire time we have lived in Cincinnati. eighteen years is a long time in the life of a family.

she has been a smart dog. Emma, the Wonder Dog, with a thunder tail and a lightning bolt. she could get out of the yard in a flash and run around the neighborhood for hours. we tried all kinds of tricks to catch her, and all of them worked--exactly once.

Becky played dead. Emma saw her collapse, and after a minute, she came up to her to be sure she was okay. Becky grabbed her collar and brought her home. that trick never worked again.

but the next time, Becky tried the bologna trick. call Emma by name and show her a slice of meat. she came running. Becky grabbed her by the collar and took her home. that never worked again.

so, it was time for more creative measures. how about Becky playing dead with a slice of bologna in her cold, dead hand? sure enough, it worked. once.

then there was strolling by with leash in hand. "Emma, wanna go for a walk?" she sure did! until she discovered that the walk was just going home. she never fell for that one again.

a variation of walking was going for a ride? with three kids hidden in the van, i drive by and see her on the side of the road. one of the kids opens the side door, and i call out, "wanna go for a ride?" she jumped in, the door was slammed shut, and we drove around the block a couple of times to make it seem like a treat. but ultimately she knew. we really were just going home. she never volunteered to get in the van again.

her Best Day Ever was escaping on a day when the field next door had about 80 kids all playing soccer. Emma, who seems to be at least part Greyhound, was born to run. and she loved darting in and out, back and forth, sped on by the laughter and screams of children. no one could catch her, until she was ready to be caught, panting and wagging her tail, having bested the best athletes in the neighborhood.

as she got older, she still had that wander lust, but didn't have the legs and speed anymore. she would wander out the back gate, and to the front porch. or we could walk after her, grab her collar, and bring her inside.

for the last year, the collar has been more like a crutch for her than a cuff. we use it to steady her as she negotiates the steps to go outside.

tonight, as i tucked her into bed for the final time, i removed her collar. she is a free dog at last.

and tomorrow, she takes her rest at last.

thank you, Emma. thanks for all the memories of a gentle family dog.

good girl.

THE ELEVATOR STORY

Mon, 23 Nov 2009 02:24:06 GMT

I am staying in a super-fancy hotel in San Diego. My room is on 7th floor. I go to the elevator to head down to the Lobby. The bell rings, and I step into an otherwise-empty elevator car. Oh, good, no company. I hate company.

I push 1, but the light doesn’t stay lit. I try it again. And again, on the panel on the other wall. Hmm.

The car starts moving. Up. Oh, no. I hadn’t paid attention to the direction of the arrow when I stepped in. I sure don’t want to go up to 32 before I go back down to 1.

I am already on 9, and now 10. I push 12. We keep going. 16. I’m not getting ahead of the car enough. 18, 19, 21. At last the elevator stops on floor 21.

A woman is there, ready to get in. I realize she had pushed a call for the elevator to come up to 21 before I tried to override her command with each of my floor requests. She, of course, is going down.

I’m thinking what it must look like if I stay on the car. I look like a bimbo if I ride up, just to stay on an elevator to go back down. That would be embarrassing. Humiliating. I make an instant decision. Casually, I step off the elevator as if I had meant to go to the 21st floor for some reason. She gets in, and the door closes, while I act like I’m going somewhere with nonchalant purpose.

What now? Maybe I’ll take the steps down to 1. No, not from the 21st floor. I turn around to call another elevator and ride it down to my original destination of the lobby. But I want to be sure that when I push the button, it won’t be too soon, so as to re-open the door of the elevator from which I just disembarked. I listen to be sure the elevator has departed. I hear it moving, and the bell rings two floors down. On the 19th floor. Oops. It will stop again on 18, 16, 12, 10 and 9 for no apparent reason.

I call for an elevator and get in another empty car, heading nonstop down to 1. Right about then, it dawns on me that I might arrive at the first floor just about the same time as that lady will. By then, she will have figured out exactly why her elevator was mysteriously stopping at random floors.

When I was in first grade, I was having a digestive emergency, but was too shy to raise my hand and draw attention to myself. I pooped my pants right there at my seat.

This felt like that.

SHE AIN'T HAPPY . . . SHE'S MY MOTHER

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 12:04:43 GMT

the day is long
with things that i find and learn
that toilet leads who knows where
with my underwear
but i'm strong
strong enough to bury them

she ain't happy
she's my mother

so on we go
i won't share or wait my turn
and so we have torn our stuffed bear
stuff everywhere
and i know
she will not let me watch TV

she ain't happy
she's my mother

if i'm obeying at all
i'm obeying with sadness
but oh, my mom's heart
isn't filled with gladness
of love for me and my brother

it's a long, long road
from here to maturity
at this rate i'll be nine-three
and still won't get there
for i'm wrong
more often than i do right

she ain't happy
she's my mother

she ain't happy
she's my mother

PARENTING FAIL

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 11:29:58 GMT

so, our three boys went Trick-or-Treating this evening. Tony, the sullen early teen, was dressed as a teenager from the hood. Andrew, our energetic and outgoing six-year-old actor, was Spiderman, complete with cute character immersion. Isaac, his younger brother, had a sheet with holes in it, and he plodded and mumbled from house to house.

when we got back to the house, it was clear that they did not have equal amounts of candy. Andrew, who had gone to several more houses than the other two, had a rich reward for his creative work. Tony, who didn't bother to go up to the door of at least half of the residences, had very few. i suspected that he had eaten a few of his pieces when i wasn't looking, even though they had been strictly instructed not to eat anything until we got home and i could inspect it all.

so, the three dump their treasures on the table. Andrew can't wait to dig in, but little Isaac starts crying when he sees Andrew has more than he does. Tony is sullen. he's a teen. i do some counting and some inspecting. Andrew has 60 pieces, Isaac has 30, and Tony has 10. i do a quick safety test by tasting one of each of their bounties. Tony complains that my so-called inspection fee is a higher percentage for him, and i tell him i'm glad that he understands math at last.

Isaac is simply inconsolable, and Tony will never be happy. so, i step in and make a parenting decision: Andrew will give 10 pieces to Isaac and 10 to Tony. How's that? Now Andrew has 39, Isaac has 39 and Tony has 19. Isaac is consoled at last, but now Andrew is upset. he says he went to extra houses and literally ran the whole time. he thinks he should get more than Isaac, who plodded and held back. i tell him to get over it and eat. but it's clear by he end of the first piece he is not enjoying what he has. i took some of his favorites when i took 20 pieces away from him.

after some time of bickering and disagreement, i make a fatherly declaration: "okay, everyone dump your candy into this bucket!" then i deal it back to them (minus a Whining While Dining Surcharge Fee). now Tony has 30, Isaac has 30, and Andrew has 30. "not fair!" screams Andrew (who now has only half of his original earnings) and Isaac (who is down 9 from the last round). Tony is satisfied and tries to explain to his brothers that this system is fair. see, it's the most fair, because now everyone has the same.

they go around for a long time, and finally i declare: "we're going to do this democratically. who here thinks we should go back to the original way?" Andrew raises his hand. "now, who thinks we should split it up evenly like this?" the other two raise their hands.

"there it is. fair, and democratic. now, i'm going to take 5 pieces from each of you so it will be even, and you can eat and enjoy."

i walked out of the room, knowing i had just seen an important demonstration of economic theory at work. i had taught the boys that free enterprise brings about class envy, so it is bad. i had demonstrated to them that a more controlled economy in which the wealthy are taxed heavily and the wealth redistributed makes the middle class happy, though it costs in additional governmental fees. and i had taught them that socialism is the fairest system of all, especially when the under-achieving masses vote for it in a democratic process. twenty-five pieces for everyone, including dad. not a bad piece of work.

CONTROL OR FREEDOM?

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 00:55:39 GMT

i have been saying it lately, but let me say it again, with feeling:

control and freedom are mutually exclusive. a controlled economy (socialism) leads to oppression, and eventually it leads to genocide. keep watching, and you'll see it happen.

how to get from point A to point Unthinkable? one step at a time. we are somewhere around point G, i think. that's up from point F, where we were just a year ago.

take note: there ain't no such thing as a free lunch. no gift without strings attached. that's true of your grandmother, it's true of big business, and it's true of Big Government (BG). watch the new slate of czars over the next few years, and you will see it in action.

so, if BG takes over GMAC, even if they own only 65% of it, they claim the right to dictate salaries, to set finance charges, to enforce emissions standards, and to, well, control every aspect of the company. and its employees.

socialism works. it really does. but only if everyone is on the same page.

what happens to those who are NOT on the same page? no need to look at history for examples. we can look at today's news and see it.

last week, it was an independent news agency. in a country where freedom of the press is a right, BG goes out of its way to tell us that a watchdog news agency is not legitimate. why not? because they are independent? should we create a BG news agency, so that we will all hear only true truth? how is that different from propaganda? okay, for now it is only rhetoric. what's next? for that, you can study history. next is step H.

today, it was a new hate crime bill. while i agree with the bill's ethics (i think. i haven't read it), i don't agree with the political philosophy that drives it. is it not already illegal to murder someone? do we need to tack on a 15-yard penalty and loss of down for unsportsmanlike conduct, as well? but who defines such unsportsmanlike conduct? might i guess that it starts with a B and ends with a G (or a t, to be more accurate but less clear)?

for the moment, i am not concerned with what is "right" and what is "wrong," but rather with who decides those two concepts. and who enforces them. and who decides how severe the enforcement should be.

the price of freedom is vigilance.

THE LORD JESUS CHRIST (EPHRAIM OF SYRIA, 377, adapted)

Fri, 16 Oct 2009 00:06:24 GMT

That day He voided every Sabbath,
He healed the Gentiles with His life
Even as Samson chose to love and take the alien as his wife.

Lest we judge His choice unclean
Or think The Prophet took a harlot,
Righteous men should hold their peace. For
Did the Prophet turn and wash the guilty from their acts of scarlet?

Justice bade Him bear their sins: He
Even pitied sinful men,
So He restored them without cost: Within the Law, not without loss.
Until He made low every hill of
Shame, raised every dale, and such were we. Can grace be judged?

Can this One be the Lord of Truth?
His servants live within His shadow;
Round about wherever He searched
In day, by night, He found self-will; for all alike were under sin.
Since all the Light had dwelt in Him,
Their shadows were made light and all alike are brought true Sabbath once again.

NASM IS DONE!

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 23:33:16 GMT

for months, we have been working hard to prepare our Optional Response to the National Association of Schools of Music. at last, we have finished it and mailed it off. time to celebrate.

so, i did a little Bible study, and was surprised to find how many references to Optional Response to the NASM were in the New Testament.

"then the woman said, 'rejoice with me, for i have mailed off my Optional Response to the NASM!'"

"a man had two sons. he said to each of them, 'go and send your Optional Response to the NASM.' the first one said, okay, i will send my Optional Response to the NASM right away.' but then he didn't send his Optional Response to the NASM. the other son said, 'no, i will not send my Optional Response to the NASM.' later, he relented and sent his Optional Response to the NASM. now, which son did the will of his father?" "the one who changed his mind and sent off the Optional Response to the NASM?" "go, then, and do likewise."

"now there abide these three: faith, hope and Optional Response to the NASM. but the greatest of these is the Optional Response to the NASM."

the Optional Response to the NASM is offensive to the Jews and foolishness to the Greeks. but to those in the music and worship department at CCU, it is life.

well, anyway, it was sent off today. nuff sed.

ESPN AND TALK RADIO

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 01:29:09 GMT

i just learned about talk radio today!

the way to get people to call in is to take a polemic position, fairly froth at the mouth espousing some point--doesn't matter what, as long as it's passionate and controversial--and the phone lines light up.

some months ago, i heard a SmackDown. experienced called in and had five minutes to Smack Talk about sports (coaches, players, winners, losers). it was tongue-in-cheek, stream-of-consciousness, ranting. it struck me as artful, in a sense, and some of it was hilarious, though i must admit i didn't know most of what they were saying. the winner was the one who could pack the most vitriol into their Smack.

yesterday morning, when i awoke, i thought i would like to try my hand at something creative. but i would have limited time to polish it. i know, let me try to write a SmackDown. let's see now, what subject should i write about? how about worship? that's something i have opinions about. so i wrote a hasty, witty, sarcastic Smack on the subject.

i don't have an axe to grind, though i stand behind all that i wrote. sounded like i was angry. i wasn't.

Joe, it's art, man. lighten up.

WORSHIP SMACKDOWN

Mon, 28 Sep 2009 02:26:05 GMT

i felt like writing a rant this evening. so, without apology, i post this:

they call it worship.
simple consensus music
written by self-trained guitarists
who redirected their rock star ambitions
to become worship celebrities instead.
that . . . is worship?

these modern-day Protestant priests
have an odd conformity about them:
limited overly-casual wardrobe,
carefully-disheveled hair,
chin beard,
twentysomething hip and cool,
passably strumming drones on a Taylor acoustic/electric guitar,
vocabulary of fifty words
on the bleeding edge of the worship scene:
The Next Greatest Thing in Worship.

somebody pinch me.
worship celebrities?
worship concerts?
ticket prices?
Jesus selling T-shirts and other memorabilia of His Galileean tour?
what’s wrong with this picture?
worship songs pitched and marketed and promoted, and . . . surprise!
they become “hits” and are used in churches all around the world!

the Gospel becomes a commodity for sale to the highest bidder.
servanthood to Jesus morphs into a career ladder,
complete with wealth, fame
and all the earthly honor of an idol.
the masses come to raise their hands
and bow their knees before
the amplified altars of these charismatic shamans,
these self-appointed and presumptuously-anointed prophets
who prophesy what their audiences most want to sing.
and buy.
did You say something about itching ears?

meanwhile, there’s so-called “work” in a local church.
not a bad gig.
waiting to make it big, you have guaranteed five-digit income
from naive church schmucks
who think you are cute and sincere.
commercial and sincere.
fake it till you make it.
The Weekly Show.
each better than the last.

how broad is the nature and creativity of our God!
so we celebrate Him with the same four chords,
doing the same motions,
every week.
pop culture, mistakenly called “authentic” or “relevant.”
but Truth was not invited.
endless repeating wallpaper patterns of sound and lyrics.
i am free to run,
i am free to dance,
am i free to simply stand here with my hands in the pockets of my pants?

poor saps of the New Testament generation.
no guitars,
no drums,
no CDs,
no organizational systems,
no administrators or email or rehearsals or buildings.
their idea of a projection system was painting on catacomb walls.
they thought presentation software was a one-minute egg on a nice plate.
how did they ever worship?
all they had was Jesus.
poor saps.

where have all the martyrs gone?
gone overseas on so-called short-term missions trips,
sightseeing tours with a humanitarian program added
to bring credibility in the eyes of those who send them.

does my vitriolic catharsis offend you?
well, i smell moneychangers in the temple,
and that stench is far more foul
to the Only One who counts.