Education for Christian Living

Nice Cover

kris oliver - A Satisfied Mind

kris oliver - A Satisfied Mind

How to estimate church attendence

How to estimate church attendence: "It's a complex thing to measure church attendance but here are a few pointers on arriving at an accurate number based on the attendance figures they give you.



- 50% if its a Pentecostal worship service because they count the legs and forget to divide by two.



- 30% if its a Baptist church because they count members on the roll and not all of them are still living.


+ 10 if its a Vineyard service because those rugs on the floor were actually people!

+ 20% if it's a fundamentalist church because they don't count the people they didn't want there.

- 30% if it's an Anglican/Presbyterian/Methodist church because the number they gave you is from their huge Easter service.



+ 15% if it's an ethnic/non-western service because all those people coming late missed the counting.



- 10% if its a megachurch because the worship team and welcome team got counted during all 5 services.



- 520% if its a Catholic church because they count the parish, not the church attendance.



+ 20% if it's an emergent service because those having a smoke outside were not counted.



- 25 % if its a Reformed church service because they count the people who SHOULD have been there.



- 15% if it's a house church because the neighborhood kids playing video games in the back room somehow managed to get counted with everyone else. So did the guy delivering pizza.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

"

How can we make your stay more enjoyable?

Here's a comment card from the hotel we stayed at during our vacation last month.

Chloe filled it out.

As you can see, she felt quite good about the hotel. Nothing but accolades and praise. Such a glowing response to the first question would suggest a customer at the height of contentment describing a perfect stay that wanted for nothing.

That is, until this 7-year-old reaches the second question. Where, I imagine, the light dawns oh so gloriously on the myriad possibilities that come with such an open-ended and generous inquiry.

Empowerment sets in at the mere thought of "What else can we do?" Well, why couldn’t that porter put her on the luggage cart and give her a ride up and down the elevator every time she enters the lobby.

Apparently, this sense of entitlement extends to the card’s final query, which she ignores, opting instead to continue her answer from the previous and potentially far more lucrative question.

Sweet Dreams are Made of Seven Nation Army

Sweet Dreams are Made of Seven Nation Army sound bite Mash up sound bites

The grandiose genius of Metallica

Over the past two weeks, I've been rediscovering the collaboration that happened 10 years ago between Metallica and the San Francisco Symphony. Was captured on the S&M album.

The first 12 minutes of it are absolutely epic and include an Ennio Morricone opener. The whole affair is thundering and massive. Curiously, several pieces on the double album remind me of a James Bond theme.

And while the brilliant collaboration seems odd, a study last year suggests both heavy metal and classical fans are united by a shared 'love of the grandiose'.

Metallica is playing Dallas in two weeks (Sept 29). Anyone up for an evening of grandiosity?

shemp

Kind of blue

While enduring a wait on the tarmac and deprived of “all electronic devices”, I reached for the American Way magazine. On page 42, I encountered this disturbing image.

Let’s temporarily suspend the discomfort that comes with looking at a shirtless man born in 1940. The old man, bare-chested thing induces flashbacks of Jacques Cousteau’s leathery, gray haired and considerably less taut chest on display aboard the Calypso. Hey, at least M. Cousteau’s shirtlessness was part of his job.

As opposed to the practice of this so-called Dr. Lite, which I would assume includes a doctor’s smock to cover up his well-defined, if not occasionally oiled pecs. (Given the old man's guns, I'll grant you that smock might be sleeveless.) Whatever. My doctor’s office won’t even let me in the door without a shirt or shoes.

Anyway, thanks to a ubiquitous ad campaign in the sports sections of metro newspapers, I’ve seen more of this guy’s improbably sculpted body than I’d care to.

And I certainly didn’t need to see what’s beneath that chest. Cartilage, bones and some sort of atomic blue fluid coursing through his aging veins. What the?! All before the morning beverage service, too. This primitive coach passenger in 22F can’t make heads or tails of this X-ray vision ad. Maybe the point is that the secret of Dr. Lite and Cenegenics resides in blue kneecaps. Or perhaps its that if I’m experiencing sudden blueness in my skeletal extremeties, I should call Dr. Lite.

Too confusing. I’ll just schedule an appointment if I experience hair loss.

This Will Get Your Day Going...

The "Iron Man" influence

My parents are moving from the Huntington Beach house this week. Heading to Texas after 35 years in that house. The house I grew up in. So I’ve been thinking and writing about it. A lot. Thanks for indulging me on this one.

----

During my recent – and final – visit to the house last month, I went for an early and sentimental Sunday morning run to the beach. Trotting up Hamilton Boulevard next to my high school, I spotted an open gate to the campus. Enticed, I took a slight detour and serpentined my way through the aging, empty place. Memories from those four years of the 20th century came flooding back – in various shades of clarity.

None was more vivid than the one evoked when spotting the school cafeteria, a curious place I remember more for assemblies than for meals.

One of those gatherings was to hear a guest speaker: a DJ from one of the LA FM album rock stations. He wasn’t a celebrity, in the broad cultural sense. But as a naïve, rock-loving teen, my sense was neither broad nor cultural. In these simpler times, FM radio ruled. So for me and the other couple hundred high-schoolers crowded into this room our honorary guest was just this side of royalty.

I mean, this guy made a living spinning records, probably (in my mind, anyway) bringing home righteous bucks and Hollywood starlets. All for dropping a needle on some Zeppelin and Aerosmith while occasionally offering his somnolent observations and the hourly station ID. He had it made. And here he was, seated with a microphone at the lunch table of honor in the Edison High School cafeteria.

We offered our rapt attention to this special guest as he stumbled through his, shall we say, loosely prepared remarks. Then he took some hard-hitting questions from the fawning audience. “Who’s your favorite band?” “Have you ever met Van Halen?” “Do you get to wear headphones at work?”

Then someone asked about the challenges of the job. In between sips from white Styrofoam of what I assume was stale industrial coffee – surely a futile defense against the morning’s hangover and overly fluorescent cafeteria – he rambled a bit on how vital it is to select music appropriate for certain parts of the day.

He then leaned into the mic on the table and uttered the line that, for reasons unknown to me, is the one and only line I remember from four years of high school.

“I mean, you wouldn’t want to play ‘Iron Man’ at 7 in the morning, man.”

Decades later, huffing my way out the school gate and toward the beach and along the sand and back to my soon-to-be former home, I consider all the classes, lectures, practices, instruction . . . all the teachers, coaches, monitors, crosswalk guards and that one graduation speaker I encountered during my lackluster high school career.

Total recall: One sentence.

I’m left to wonder why I couldn’t have remembered something a bit more constructive. And whether or not I heard (and subsequently forgot) a sentence or two that could have paid rich dividends for me later in life, or at least helped to avoid some pain. “Buy coastal real estate now.” “Invest in Apple Computers.” “When you have kids, don’t take them to Six Flags on the final Sunday of Holiday in the Park. The lines are terrible.”

But the real revelation for me was this:
I think The Line had a significant impact on my life.

To wit: After high school, I elected to study Radio/TV in college and volunteered to be music director of the campus radio station so I could, among other things, select music appropriate for certain parts of the day (and play some Ramones).

Then, after rejecting my first (and only) post-college job offer as a DJ – a less-than-tempting four-figure salary to spin records during the weekend graveyard shift in the border town of Laredo – I still chose a career path I thought would impress high school kids if I ever came back to speak. It occurs to me the Edison career counselor might have told me this shouldn’t be a top factor in choosing a career path . . . (if only I’d remembered that counsel).

There might be lessons to be learned here.

Like to teach my kids to discern and listen for (and remember!) the important stuff.

Or to choose words carefully, because you never know who will remember what you say. I’m fairly certain the DJ didn’t intend for The Line to play a defining role in the life of at least one impressionable high school kid at the cafeteria.

Of course, the biggest lesson I take from this is, no matter the circumstances . . . never, never, ever play “Iron Man” before breakfast.

Un-Easy Rider

Take a long road trip with someone and, invariably, you begin to pick up on their habits. And, if the road trip is long enough, those habits will grate on you until you pray for swift and sudden deliverance.

Riding the same train every day is kind of like that.

I see the same people every morning. It's like a station wagon filled with total strangers, a carpool experiment that sometimes goes awry.

Among the 14 or so in the last car on the 8.40 southbound, the least popular rider among us is, hands down, the guy who enjoys talking loudly on his phone in some agitated Middle Eastern dialect. Sometimes I close my eyes and am magically transported to a boutique bazaar where I am being subjected to high pressure sales tactics to purchase either a rug or a waffle iron.

Then there's this guy who, for the duration of the trip, triumphantly holds his iPhone at eye level for all to see. I'm not sure if this is health-related (i.e. his neck prohibits him from the traditional head-down mobile position) or if it's a brazen exercise of conspicuous iPhone consumption. "Hey, everyone, I'm playing PacMan!"

No doubt my train actions drive someone on board a little nuts, too. But, hey, if these people can't deal with a little fingernail clipping and electric shaving, I say get off the train!

It Beckons...

IMG_4151, originally uploaded by koliver.

Hate It or Love It?

Enjoy This Little Ditty from Matt and Kim

Father's Day: The New #1

While in the bliss of my Father’s Day massage at Nordstrom yesterday afternoon, I had a minor revelation.

That Father’s Day has edged out the birthday on my personal list of important dates.

Don’t get me wrong. I still love the birthday, the cake and associated pageantry.

Yet it slipped to second in the rankings of days for which I am uniquely qualified to be honored.

The current rankings:
1. Father’s Day
2. Birthday
3. Wedding Anniversary
4. Labor Day (the day off here gives it the edge)
5. Valentine’s Day

This is a massive move for Father’s Day. All my life I’d viewed the day as a Hallmark fabrication, a quasi-Title IX maneuver to level the field severely tilted by the wildly popular Mother’s Day.

But my perception changed yesterday. There are a few reasons that come to mind and account for this day rocketing up the charts to the top spot.

1. Father’s Day is a shared experience.

This year I took more pleasure than usual in both extending and receiving Father’s Day wishes to and from total strangers. For a day, we were connected by a fraternity of fatherhood. I also found great joy in exchanging wishes with dear friends whose parenting skills I respect – and whose children I know and admire. And, of course, the privilege of exchanging wishes with my own dad, with whom I relate to more with each passing year. Contrast that to the birthday experience which can feel a bit solitary – although I do share a birthday with my mother and Johnny Bench.

2. Father’s Day and the U.S. Open. Absolute genius.

3. Father’s Day honors some degree of achievement (noting here the distinction between fathering a child and being a father). Technically speaking, the birthday simply recognizes another year of survival on this planet.

4. For Father’s Day, a silly song is not obligatorily directed at you by co-workers or restaurant personnel.

5. Father’s Day is a collective and societal celebration of values, priorities and family.

6. And that family of mine gave me some really thoughtful and cool gifts – including the massage.

7. Numerically speaking, it’ll be a few more years before my birthday gets interesting. Plus, Father’s Day feels more novel (only had 10 of those).

8. Your chance of getting an unfunny, off-color card and/or novelty gift for Father's Day is significantly less than on your birthday.

9. I ignored work this Father’s Day weekend. Instead, I swam with my kids, sat with my family and watched the beautifully touching and affirming Up, and, from my third base coaching box, waved my son home for his first home run of the season.

Maybe I’m late to this Father’s Day party. A co-worker told me he’s always ranked Father’s Day higher. But for me, this was the year I got it. The year the rankings shifted.

Of course, it’s only mid-June. Come September, Labor Day could come on strong . . .

Bombhappies - Blank as a Blank Piece of Paper

Don't Understand Icelandic, But I Understand Beauty

Mrs Doubtfire - Recut Trailer

There's magic in this mashup.

I can't say enough about this utterly charming video.

The concept is brilliant. The execution is stellar. The song is infectious. The creativity in bringing it to life is enviable.

What a delight and pleasure to see a fresh faced and beautiful Julie Andrews, along with a kinetic, long-limbed Dick Van Dyke. I love the visual and sonic rhythm, the child's voice, the wonder and curiosity expressed through the eyes.

But the reason I watch it again and again -- and the reason I want to share it -- is the emotion it evokes. Joy. Optimism. Happiness. Hope. What a gift.

Next to Keyboard Cat + Walker (which evokes something completely different), this mashup is just about the best thing I've seen in 2009.

It gives me a smile - and "a deep satisfaction."

If Nothing Else, fantastic Band Name...

today’s unfortunate vending machine incident

as expressed in Haiku verse.

verse one
snickers bar stuck
mocking gravity’s allure
sixty five cents lost

.
verse two
next choice, a kit kat
snack expense: a buck thirty
must you keep the change?

18 things I can do underwater I wish I could do on dry land

1. Levitate
2. Double flip
3. One handed handstand
4. Two handed handstand
5. Flying kung fu kicks
6. The “whirling dervish”
7. Wear goggles and look cool
8. Tread air
9. Long jump 35 feet
10. Amuse my friends
11. Hold my breath without being accused of something
12. Get service without shoes or shirt
13. Make my hair look like that
14. Bench press 400 lbs
15. Self actualization
16. Avoid mosquitoes
17. Be on time
18. Math

Too Good Not to Share

Does This Mean Last Week's Count Needs to be Adjusted?

Bodies found in funeral home bought at tax sale :: Lake County :: Post-Tribune

Happy Song of the Day

The Hulka Syndrome

With age comes experience.

With experience comes perspective.

And with all three comes The Hulka Syndrome.

The Hulka Syndrome (THS) is that shift of allegiance or empathy you feel as an adult towards a person -- real or fictitious -- you first encountered in your youth.

Perhaps you’ve experienced THS at a family gathering or a high school reunion. Or maybe while watching the movie Stripes, which is exactly when THS hit me with swift and surprising clarity.

Let’s review the film’s plot. Slacker joins the Army. Clashes with his old school, hard nosed commanding officer. Finds redemption, reconciliation and respect. (Of course the film loses its way during the Winnebago-laden second half, but that’s another post.)

The first half of the film thrives, largely due to the generational tension created between the two main characters, the slacker John Winger and Sgt. Hulka.

When the film was released in 1981 – and for years afterward – my college friends and I would howl at the antics of Winger (Bill Murray). To us, this guy challenged authority and seemingly antiquated attitudes while staying true to his carefree self. He was a lazy hero striking a blow against the uptight establishment. In truth, Winger was us. Undisciplined. A bit aimless. Hazy on his future. Certainly not Army material.

By contrast, Sgt. Hulka (Warren Oates) was bred for the armed services. Focused, disciplined and tough, he was no-nonsense (and close shaven). His disdain for those who wasted his time and peddled nonsense was palpable.

In college, my friends and I elevated nonsense to an art form. Naturally, we cheered Winger’s defiance of Hulka on every viewing. Stick it to The Man – for all of us!

Yet when I stumbled across Stripes on cable a few days ago, I found myself cheering for a different character.

“Why doesn’t Winger appreciate Hulka?,” I wondered aloud. Then to my wife, “You know, that Hulka has a lot of skins on the wall. He really deserves respect.”

My wife and I often discuss films not aging well. That usually refers to films with Heston-esque overacting, dated production values, massive hairstyles, and wardrobes including but not limited to Members Only jackets and parachute pants.

I now have to consider that movies like Stripes don’t age well because the characters haven’t aged. And I have.

The onset of The Hulka Syndrome can be uncomfortable. (“What’s happening to me? I’m losing my sense of fun!”) I experienced another painful bout of THS during a recent viewing of Risky Business. (“I’d tan that boy’s hide if he chipped my egg.”) I can only imagine the violent THS reactions a John Hughes retrospective might trigger.

Funny how the characters of my youth who flout authority and tradition seem a little less funny today – undoubtedly the result of responsibilities like a marriage, a mortgage, a so-called career and parenting. Perspective, indeed.

I’m reminded of the profound change I felt after having our firstborn, that of suddenly viewing the world through the eyes of a parent instead of a child. No wonder, then, we view characters first met through the eyes of a child differently when viewed through the more seasoned eyes of an adult.

The Hulka Syndrome reminds me I’ve crossed the Rubicon. And in a surprising plot twist, I now stand on the other side of the generation gap, championing instead of cackling at the values espoused by my newest, bestest buddy, and big toe, Sergeant Hulka.

black lab + novelty chattering teeth

RHS Acappella Choir - In Remembrance

This was one of the songs that RHS Acappella Choir performed at the UIL competition this year. It was written by a high school music teacher in response to the death of one of his students. It is a truly beautiful song.

tuck or untuck

At a recent party, I found myself surrounded by middle-aged guys -- nearly all with their shirts untucked.

Ordinarily this display of untuckiness doesn’t phase me. After all, my day job as a creative means I often wear shirts tailored to be untucked. Standard issue for creative directors (along with the black turtleneck and ironic t-shirt). And among the creatives at the agency, there are many kinds of free-flowing garments. So the notion of tucking is seen as restricting the kind of freethinking our clients pay for, the belt viewed as a tool of The Man (and/or account services). If this were an analogies test, it might be represented as follows: Tuck is to inside the box as untuck is to _________ the box.

But this birthday bash wasn’t at the agency. And I wasn't surrounded by creatives. I was at a polite and subdued gathering, mixing it up with accountants, financial managers, federal officials, corporals of industry. All were sporting a variety of shirts – from dress to oxford button down to tailored. And nearly all were eschewing the polish and finish of the tuck, choosing to let their sartorial guard and shirt tail down.

Perhaps I was witnessing the proverbial letting down of the hair on a Saturday night. Maybe even a defiance of middle-aged expectations, a mild flash of rebellion against the belted system. Or was something larger going on here. A small symbol, a manifestation of the recognition that our economic system, society and way of life is on the brink of utter chaos and those who have toed the party line for years are finally fed up. “Screw this. I’m wearing my shirt OUT!”

Regardless, ever since that party, I’ve been tuned in to the number of adult males choosing the untucked style.

There would seem to be many variables at play in determining whether or not one’s shirt is tucked in. A few that come to mind include the setting (ballgame or office), the pants (slacks vs. jeans), and one’s body style (does the tuck or untuck flatter).
It would seem to me the chief factor, though, is the style of shirt. Is it created to be worn out or in?

I’m no authority on this matter, though. And, frankly, as a mixed tucker myself, I welcome the guidance of others – if not the establishment of some tucklaws (thanks to KO for that designation).

So weigh in on this matter, please.
(And join in the conversation and observations on Twitter @TuckOrUntuck.)

The best eight bucks I’ve spent this year

Last night restored my faith in and passion for live music.

Trekked up to Denton for a triple bill at the remote Rubber Gloves Rehearsal Studios in the industrial cement sector of Denton. My friend Max and I pulled his car into the parking space in front of the door, paid $8 at the door and were admitted.

No Ticketmaster. No $10 service charge. No “convenience charge” to print out my “Express Ticket” on my computer with my ink. No $15 parking fee. No parking hassles. No hassles whatsoever.

Along with about 40 others in the tiny room, we enjoyed three indie bands, all a bit ragged from their performances during the previous days at SXSW. Loved the Antlers, enjoyed the frenetic Tyvek, and got lost in the sonic swirl of the explosive and loud Asobi Seksu. The band finished with the epic Red Sea at about 1.30 a.m. Glorious.

Made me feel alive and totally engaged – and left me wondering why I don’t do that more often.

coolest world capital names

Bucharest
Budapest (phonetically similar to Bucharest)
Cairo
Dakar
Djibouti
Funafuti*
Islamabad
Kathmandu
Khartoum
Kuala Lumpur
Nairobi
Minsk
Pago Pago
Prague
Reykjavík
Sarajevo
Tripoli
Vienna

If Dar es Salaam were a world capital, it'd be my favorite.

*also on my "Most Whimsical" list.

I've been Hoagie-d!

While wandering past the downtown Dickey’s at lunch, I was drawn to a poster touting their new BBQ Hoagie at the low introductory price of $2.99.

Advertising works.

Intrigued, I strode inside and ordered one so-called brisket hoagie to go.

Back at my office desk I discovered in my Dickey's bag, quite possibly, the world’s smallest hoagie.

This reality collided violently with my perception of a hoagie: A massive, workingman’s two-fisted, City of Brotherly Love sandwich. An intimidating vessel of meat and fixings that commands respect as it emerges from a black metal lunch pail.

I must say my Dickey's "hoagie" was tasty. But I suggest this finger food should not be called a hoagie.

A few possibilities for the good folks at Dickey’s to consider:
--Hoagie, Jr.
--Mini Hogi
--The WeeWich
--TinyHoagie
--ShrinkWich
--Furious FistSized Fast Food
--The BBQuaintWich
--Sliced Dinner Roll with Meat

My Album

My Album

the influencers

In the agency world, much attention and energy is given to reaching the “influencers.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about influencers lately.

But not about those cool kids we marketers long to excite so they’ll influence their sycophantic pals.

Rather, I’ve been thinking about those people who have had an influence in my life.

Of course there have been many. Those friends and family members who have introduced me to different aspects of music, film, books, faith, work . . . the list goes on.

I can easily (and enjoyably) think of ten people who have influenced my musical tastes.

Mom, what with her Kris Kristofferson and Neil Diamond LPs rocking from the refrigerator-on-its-side sized stereo console nestled deep in our home’s shag carpet.

Phil P, my artistic and gifted friend who introduced me to FM rock in 8th grade. Phil was advanced in matters of music, his tastes running toward jazz and album rock. And while I never warmed to the fusion stylings he favored -- Chick Corea and Return to Forever -- I was astonished when he played for me side one of A Day at the Races. The harmonies and big, bombastic sounds of Queen was nothing short of a revelation. Epic. I also credit Phil for turning me on to Bowie, Heart, Steely Dan, Black Sabbath, Springsteen, and others.

Cousin Phil, who, during a 1970s Thanksgiving family gathering, set me up in his parents’ room with a pair of oversized Koss headphones and dropped the needle on some CSN&Y and Zeppelin. That was big. As a prog rock guy, Phil also introduced me to the genius of Pink Floyd and, much later, to Radiohead’s stunning OK Computer.

Kirk Mc, my cool, older church friend with a hot rod whose speakers would be subjected to repeated plays of Bad Motor Scooter by Montrose and Train Kept A Rollin’ at, shall we say, exaggerated volume. And it was while riding in his back seat, in magnficent proximity to these speakers, that I enjoyed this first taste of "hard rock" and Aerosmith. Incredible. Later, Kirk (and his car) took me to my first rock concert: Aerosmith and AC/DC at the Long Beach Arena.

Kirk H, a baseball teammate of mine. With Prop 13 cutbacks, a few of us would pile into Kirk’s VW squareback instead of a school bus for away games. En route, Kirk blared Sex Pistols and the Ramones. This introduction to punk was glorious and defining.

Catherine, my co-worker at Brentano’s bookstore who introduced me to the sweeping atmospheric sounds of groups like Roxy Music, Cocteau Twins, and Ultravox.

Joel P who, in college, generously swapped albums with me so I could record various mixes on my beloved TDK-SA90s. Joel also turned me on to the curiosity and beauty of artists like Laurie Anderson and Bill Nelson.

Davey G, Max, Adam . . . fellow agency creatives who have over the years pointed me to some of my favorite bands: Asobi Seksu, M83, Pernice Brothers, Stellastarr, My Vitriol, Feeder . . .

Thanks for indulging me in this exercise, a consequence of reconnecting with old friends through Facebook – and revisiting the roles each have played in my life.

A few things strike me here.

1. How telling it is to connect the dots and track the development and shape of personal taste.
2. How easy it is to recall place. Decades later, I can vividly recall the back seats of the Kirks’ cars.
3. How I can still remember and feel the emotion of those wonderful Eureka! moments.
4. How grateful I am for these influences.

So . . . who has influenced you?

The coming evangelical collapse | csmonitor.com

The coming evangelical collapse | csmonitor.com

Mystery Man on Film: The “Raiders” Story Conference

Mystery Man on Film: The “Raiders” Story Conference

Long but fascinating read about the original brainstorming sessions for Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Rockology Revisited

Below is the very first post that was ever made on Funegro, back in 2003. I wondered if anyone would like to revisit our selections with the benefit of a few more years of wisdom...

Personally, I have come to realize the greatness of Nirvana and would like to submit to the committee that we consider replacing Ted Nugent as the representative of the letter "N". For their definitive song, I would suggest the song that changed everything, Smells Like Teen Spirit.

Thoughts?

Original Post:

Below is an alphabetical listing of the greatest rock & roll artists of all time, along with their definitive works. A single artist was selected for each letter of the alphabet, and then a recording was selected that best represents their work.

Many thanks to the selection committee - me, Scott Biggers and Eric Oliver.

Aerosmith - Dream On
Beatles - Let it Be
Eric Clapton - Layla
The Doors - Break on Through
The Eagles - Hotel California
Foreigner - Feels Like the First Time
Grateful Dead - Truckin'
Jimi Hendrix - All Along the Watchtower
INXS - Don't Change
Jethro Tull - Aqualung
Kansas - Carry On My Wayward Son
Led Zepplin - Stairway to Heaven
Van Morrison - Moondance
Ted Nugent - Stranglehold
Roy Orbison - Pretty Woman
Pink Floyd - Wish You Were Here
Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody
Rolling Stones - Jumpin Jack Flash
Bruce Springsteen - Born to Run
Talking Heads - Once in a Lifetime
U2 - I Will Follow
Van Halen - Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love
The Who - Won't Get Fooled Again
X - Los Angeles
Yes - Roundabout
ZZ Top - La Grange

THRU YOU | Kutiman mixes YouTube

Amazing...

THRU YOU | Kutiman mixes YouTube

Ignorance is bliss

One of the most fascinating aspects of growing older is how clichés become reality.

I think of those phrases and truisms you hear all your life. From TV, film, friends, parents, wherever. An example might be “keeping up with the Jones.” As a kid, I understood this principle. You want to have what your friends have.

But sometime during my adult life, I experienced the seductive power of status, of gathering things and caring too deeply about how those things defined me, vis a vis my peers. That’s when I understood the cliché at a visceral level – and began to grasp the problems of living that way.

So there’s a reason these phrases have weathered the test of time: The universal and human principle of truth each contains.

This year, I’m experiencing the truth of “ignorance is bliss.” At least the truth for me.

Because 2009’s steady drumbeat of economic woes rob me of the bliss that comes with living in the moment. Perhaps this says more about my perspective and priorities.

But this year, I recognize how much of a drag this constant stream of gloomy news and dismal economic indicators is on my spirit. By their very nature, they transport you to the past and the future, out of the present moment.

And I resent those who force this news on me.

Chief offenders in my daily life are the big screen TVs in our downtown office building lobby that broadcast CNN, presumably to fill those idle seconds of its tenants waiting for the elevator. (Honorable mention goes to the blowhard at last week’s Mavericks game who forced his loud and unsolicited pessimistic economic opinions on all of us seated in section 119.)

In a day and age where news can be obtained in an instant from our handheld devices, this “push” tactic of content feels increasingly anachronistic. Especially when the content being pushed is lousy news, and, for me, comes with the personal subtext of poor investment decisions, hemorrhaging retirement funds, and my kids’ future.

My refuge from this distracting noise is the museum, a short walk from the building. It’s there I find inspiration in watching the children playing in the courtyard. Of course, these school kids are blissfully unaware of recession, market turmoil and the government’s grim employment outlook. In their oblivion, they experience the joy and play in their midst.

Inspired, I tried a media fast Wednesday. Away from the day’s toxic news my mood lightened. My senses sharpened. My food tasted better, the sun felt warmer, and, in the absence of roses, I sat and smelled the coffee. I was truly enjoying the day.

Of course it is this unplugging that makes our annual retreat to the New Mexico mountains so glorious. What a treat to experience that high-altitude feeling midweek in a flat urban environment. The simplicity of living in the moment. The joy of the present.

Indeed, the bliss of ignorance.

Funegro Classics: November of 2004

Funegro: my deaconly purpose

Beardhead.com - Beard Caps and Mustaches You Wear

Beardhead.com - Beard Caps and Mustaches You Wear

Abilene church drops electricity for month : Spirituality : Abilene Reporter-News

Abilene church drops electricity for month : Spirituality : Abilene Reporter-News

My first thought was - that's going to make counting attendance very difficult...

The real holiday sale

Driving past the nearby restaurant row on Valentine’s evening, I was struck by the packed parking lots and heavy traffic generated by this holiday. What a massive hassle to deal with that, I muttered to myself.

After arriving home I repeated the sentiment to my wife, who was seemingly content with her lot on this Valentine’s: Preparing a nice meal at home for her kids and husband, the owner/operator of this cheap Valentine’s date.

Later, my under-romanced wife and I recalled the Valentine’s dinners we’ve shared at restaurants – and the accompanying hassles. Babysitting arrangements. Overpriced obligatory roses. Battling every couple within a 90-mile radius for a decent reservation time, plate of pasta, and the attention of the overworked waiter. After 21+ years of marriage, who needs the aggravation?

Valentine’s Day, we thusly concluded, is amateur night for couples.

Much like New Years Eve, long recognized as amateur night for revelers. An open invitation for any yahoo to cut loose, be silly, over-imbibe, sport wacky hats and the occasional pair of novelty glasses – all in the lenient eye of the general public, who shrugs its collective shoulder at this behavior and sighs, “Hey, it’s New Year’s Eve.”

Although some of us – those who might lay claim to a higher order of world-weariness –tend to look down our nose at these hapless amateurs, whether for New Year’s or Valentines or . . . well, just about every holiday has an "amateur night" quality to it.

Think of those who trot out a sense of patriotism once a year – on July 4. Or those who wait until Thanksgiving to offer any sense of gratitude during the year. Or those who make their cameo church appearance every Easter.

I’ve always viewed this notion of “amateur night” as a negative. Probably because I’m far too shrewd and advanced in my human development to buy a $49 bouquet of roses on February 14 or to be caught dead with any of those holiday novelty items Hallmark is peddling. Those who do get suckered into such things are, well, suckers. Hacks. Pssshh . . . foolish amateurs.

What this view neglects though, is that at a deeper level, the actions these holidays encourage and promote are the actions and values that elevate our society.

Meaning that society stands to gain from these amateur nights.

Consider these values associated with the holidays:
--Joy and renewal (New Year’s Day)
--Equality (MLK Day)
--Freedom (July 4)
--Hope (Easter)
--Leadership (President’s Day)
--Sacrifice and valor (Memorial Day, Veterans Day)
--Industriousness (Labor Day)
--Gratitude (Thanksgiving)
--A couple of varieties of love (Valentine’s, Christmas)

And each one of these holidays invites you and me to try its particular value for that day. Each holiday is a sales event.

But not the crass kind we associate with the holidays. (Save at our GIANT LABOR DAY MATTRESS SALE!!!! Freedom from high prices!!!!)

What's different is that the holidays aren’t triggering a selling event. They are the selling event. Because what’s being sold are not goods or services, but an attitude. A value.

Imagine the calendar as a giant trade show, where each holiday has its own sales booth offering generous samples of its virtue to all comers. Let's check it out. Oh, look, it’s Thanksgiving. Over there. The booth with the spinning prize wheel and fishbowl of business cards.

As you approach it – which resides at the fourth Thursday of November – you are greeted by an earnest sales rep who welcomes you with a brochure and a dazzling smile.

Hi. Would you like to try some gratitude today? Go ahead. See how it feels. Oh, it looks fantastic on you. Not trying to be pushy here, but why don't you take it with you and try it for the next few days. I think you'll like it.

With any luck, every visitor to Thanksgiving – or MLK Day or Veteran’s Day or Valentine’s Day or whatever holiday on the calendar – has a positive experience with that specific holiday’s virtue and chooses to exercise it on that day . . . and beyond.

Because when the holiday “sells” its virtue and gets people to try it and live it, the sale makes our society better and stronger. Consider it a stimulus of civility. And in these unstable times, we need the maximum number of people adopting and exercising these values.

God bless the amateurs.

Extras Taking a Break on the Set of Flashdance

what my kids found in big trash

Christmas seems to come twelve times a year for my children, thanks to the City of Dallas' monthly big trash pickup. That such "riches" would be pushed to the curb as refuse is astonishing to these pint-sized treasure hunters (aka: hobos).

This month's tally:

--Briefcases (2)(entry code not included)
--Bolo tie (1)
--Various sports patches & ribbons (3)
--Mini BBQ grill (1)
--KAPPA ALPHA OMEGA membership card for Stan (1)
--Brass "STAN" beltbuckle (1)
--"STAN" chain bracelet (1)
--Astrological necklace: Taurus. (Presumably Stan's)

(Not pictured: non-working ShopVac)

Mysterious Ways In Which The Lord Works

Never comes to the office holiday party

Changes the subject whenever anyone mentions past employment

Always minimizes windows right when you walk up

Logs onto Instant Messenger, but status always reads "BUSY!"

Even after all this time, still hasn't set up voicemail

Talks about family a lot, but doesn't have any pictures on his desk or anything

Parks in the alley instead of the garage, even though it's free for employees

Doesn't list any emergency contacts on HR form

Sometimes goes missing for days, then shows up with head all bandaged and acts like nothing happened

Always seems to have coffee, never seems to make coffee

Pretends to be on the phone when clearly none of the lines are lit up

Enables macros

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courtesy of the genius of mcsweeney's

Miniature Fisherman