Worst Series

What a farce.

That the penultimate series for the "boys of summer" was nearly decided in tonight's comically wintry conditions is yet one more reason to shorten the season to 154 games.

And while the owners might cringe at the loss of eight games' worth of revenue, perhaps they can divvy up the proceeds from the brisk sales of those WS2008 long sleeve turtlenecks and wacky earflap hats. Those will look mighty good at the ballpark next August.

The Filter Monster!

Just replaced our pool filter.

Judging from this warning sticker on the new filter, I'll be hiring a lion tamer to change the DE.

I'm not exactly clear what's going on here, but, best I can tell from the visual, one wrong move and the filter lid awakens, opening wide its well concealed jaws to either taunt you with sharp insults or secrete an acid-like substance to temporarily blind you. This maneuver seems counterproductive, though, as it would severely limit your ability to enjoy the spectacular pyrotechnic show that eminates from the filter's midsection.

Apparently, just prior to this dramatic event, the filter has gnawed your feet off in a thoughtful manner as to leave you with smooth nubs to balance upon and contend with the menace that is the agitated and clearly provoked Filter Monster!

perspective

“The most valuable things in life are not measured in monetary terms. The really important things are not houses and lands, stocks and bonds, automobiles and real state, but friendships, trust, confidence, empathy, mercy, love and faith.”

Bertrand Russell (1872-1970) philosopher & mathematician

"But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal." Mt. 6.21

believe in a church?

Maybe the good folks at First Baptist have some research that suggests this approach to church marketing is spot on.

But this billboard on the Tollway left me wondering if believing in a church is an issue.

Let's back up:
I'm not sure what it means to believe in a church. (To me, this is quite different than believing in the institution of the church.)

To believe it exists?
To believe it will have potlucks and attractive, shiny people?
To believe it will meet my spiritual, social and emotional needs?

I assume it's the latter option.

The church is people. And I want to believe in people. That they'll treat me well. They'll do what's right. They'll be selfless. They'll be encouraging. They won't let me down. They'll live by the Golden Rule.

Of course, people screw up. They don't do these things. They cheat, gossip, get small, petty and selfish. As a result, I lose faith in people. Perhaps the research and focus groups said they'd had a bad experience at a church. I get that.

Yet for an organization ultimately selling a higher belief, as well as a community united through that belief, this billboard struck the wrong chord with me.

employee recognition

DART passengers disembarking at the Arapaho station are greeted with this poster at the train stop.

Let me congratulate Mr. Gardner II (undoubtedly from a proud lineage of train operators) on this recognition. This humble commuter looks forward to riding on a train captained by this lord of the rails.

I'm afraid I may be too late, though.

With this honor, I would expect he's risen above merely driving the train. No doubt with his new pedigree, he'll take on a Captain Stubing sort of role onboard, mixing it up with the rank and file riders. ("How's your ride this morning?" "Why, that's an unusual fragrance you're sporting." "Good afternoon, Homey, is that the new Snoop album you're listening to?")

Maybe JMG2 would invite a select few to dine with him at the Rail Operator's table. Or graciously point out some of the facts of the train, to say nothing of engaging the stunned commuters with his charming repartee. He would reassure and edu-tain over the tinny PA system. "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. It's a pleasure to have you aboard. In the next 20 seconds, we'll be reaching a maximum speed of 51 miles per hour, then rapidly decelerating for another stop. I hope you've had as much fun riding the train today as I've had serving you."

Sure he might take the wheel for a ceremonial drive, for a fundraiser perhaps. Or for part of his DART farewell tour as he takes the big offer from Amtrak.

Of course, there's a downside of having your picture posted on a train stop that services such a diverse and colorful constituency. Let's just say I wouldn't expect Mr. Gardner II's shining face to be unblemished for too much longer. In fact, it would seem to be the equivalent of an open book test for taggers. Or it could be a brilliantly disguised sting operation to flush out the city's defacers. Regardless, over the next few days (hours?) I'm afraid the shining visage of our city's Rail Operator of the Year will undergo a significant and entirely unsanctioned overhaul, including (yet not limited to) blackened teeth, "crazy eyes", and, quite possibly, devil's horns.

Seems like a curious way to recognize a top employee -- and a heckuva train driver.

how i'm coping with the financial crisis

While ingesting a steady diet of bad news in The Wall Street Journal and recalculating my retirement age, my mood was brightened considerably when our 6-year-old altered this picture of Paulson and Thain. Timeless schtick.

Takes me back to the days of creating similar art, with church directories, yearbooks, and freebies from realtors as my canvas.

Coke. Red Around The World

Coke. Red Around The World, originally uploaded by The Searcher.

Jeff, I thought you would like this...

Dark Knight

Loved it.

Good Article on Happiness

I like this blog - I'm trying to pare down my RSS reading list but this one is a keeper.

Alien preparedness

Stumbled across the movie Signs on TV the other night. I’ve always liked it. And while it’s not one of those rare flicks (e.g. The Godfather, Heat, The Game) that compel me to drop everything I’m doing to watch, I did get sucked in for a few minutes.

During that brief time, it hit me.

I’m not prepared for an alien invasion.

You probably know the film’s plot. The world is invaded by extra-terrestrials. These malevolent aliens are everywhere, even in a lovely two-story country home (with basement) occupied by a family of four.

The part I saw was when the men of this house (played by Mel Gibson and Joaquin Phoenix) team up to nail strong and uniform planks of wood across doors and entryways. The result: Efficient, well-crafted, even aesthetically pleasing barriers that keep the aliens from advancing.

I can’t help but imagine how that scene would play out at our house.

Assuming the aliens would come in through the roof, they’d first complain about the lack of cool air circulating upstairs and that stain on the carpet.

I’d remind them they’ve landed on a hot and flat part of the planet that’s subject to the volatile price swings of a deregulated electricity market. At seeing their collective alien eye glaze over in macroeconomic confusion, I’d change my tactics. “Hey, I’d like to see you scaly intruders shell out 700 bucks a month for energy to keep this house cool.“

But I digress . . .

My wife and I would probably hear the aliens rattling around upstairs, perhaps jumping up and down in a series of unplanned and, frankly, undignified gravity tests. They’d be speaking very loudly, too, quite possibly in their frustration with the poorly maintained recumbent bike they’ve encountered in the guest room.

At hearing these dull thuds and indecipherable dialects, we'd look at each other and spring into action.

“We can’t let them downstairs!” I’d heroically proclaim.

Just like in the movie, we would grab some wood and start building a barricade at the base of the stairs to repel the aliens.

Only this isn’t the movie. This is our house.

“Honey, didn’t we have a 2 x 4 left over from the fence?” I’d yell while running into the garage.

“Look behind the workbench,” my wife would say. “If it’s not there, the kids might have taken it out to the fort.”

Behind the workbench, all I find is a paint can lid, two Pokemon cards, and a CD case for Foreigner 4 (disc missing). So I grab the wood I find in the garage, which amounts to a couple of mismatched shelves buckling under the crushing weight of pool chemicals and pavestones, a 31-inch Johnny Bench bat, a dog-chewed broomstick, and my son’s losing Pinewood Derby entry.

“Where’s the hammer?” I’d shout over the bizarre alien dialogue, which is growing louder – either because they’re getting closer to us, or they just succeeded in burning 200 calories on that dusty bike.

Upon only partially hearing my question, my well-intentioned wife makes a dash for the baking soda.

Hammer-less, I’d use a picture frame to pound the finishing nail I found in my rusty toolbox through the broomstick into the bat. That sad endeavor would fail spectacularly. Out of view from my wife, I’d sheepishly lay the bat and broomstick across the bottom two stairs with hopes the aliens might step upon either awkwardly and suffer a temporary loss of balance. Psychologically, this could be a victory for earth.

Then in a flash of brilliance, I’d remember the emergency terror kit my wife dutifully assembled after 9/11, tucked neatly away in the hall closet. Surely that packed box of utilities would offer some relief and, ideally, some defense in this dire situation.

I’d open the closet, push the ironing board aside and pull out the box . . . only to discover I was the only member of this household over the past six years not using the terror kit as a mini-hardware store. Grabbing the two remaining items in the kit – an unwrapped tarp and a Sharpie – I’d pursue a diplomatic approach with the aliens by writing a persuasive and, if I may say so myself, a very clever headline across the tarp.

Needless to say, we all get probed.