Have a blessed day how?

I keep getting solicitations fom this local church inviting me to join them for some happening event they're sponsoring. Today's was a color flier advertising a revival with Pastor So & So and his family, all of whom are pictured on the color glossy in what I can only imagine is sadly their Sunday best. There are seven members all together, and while the boys look smashing enough in their basic blue button-ups and gold neckties, the two youngest girls look like they're modeling something their great-grandmother hand sewed for herself during the Great Depression and has since handed down through the generations. Looking at the advertisement I feel a little sorry for these girls. I mean Laura Ingalls on Little House on the Prairie donned nicer frocks than these.

According to the ad, Pastor So & So's family is very talented and is "sure to be a blessing." When I first pulled this thing out of the mailbox, I assumed they sang gospel music. They look like one of those families from the 70s that went around selling their music to various congregations and who's since been forgotten except for some obscure mention in a kitschy book on vintage album covers. Further investigation of the flier though reveals no hint as to what exactly their talent is. Do they breakdance? Do palm readings? Lipsync to Liza Minelli?

Are they The Aristocrats?

And what makes them a blessing? Or more generally, when someone says that someone or something is a blessing, what does that mean? Is this a regional saying? Do we only hear this in the southeast United States, the area commonly referred to as the Bible Belt, or have born-agains the world over begun to use this new catchphrase? And really, what exactly does it mean?

If there is one creator who can rightfully take credit for the Heavens and the earth, aren't all things therefore of equal benefaction? Or was there a lot of crap thrown in at the dawn of time also such that blessings are few and far between? Diamonds in the rough, so to speak?

What would this septet have to do in order to not merit being called a blessing? Sing off key? Miss a step? Fart the theme to Jaws? If the youngest member of the family (I'd say he looks to be about two and a half years old) were to suddenly do any of these things in the middle of their routine and someone in the Amen Corner said aloud Bless his heart could he then retain his blessing status? Or would the simple blasphemy of breaking wind in church cause him then to be labeled a curse instead of a blessing?

Likewise I don't understand the phrase Have a blessed day which is also something I hear periodically. What does it mean to have a blessed day? If you believe in blessings, is there ever a day that goes unblessed? If not, how could someone not have a blessed day. If indeed one can't avoid running into blessings throughout the day, telling him to have a blessed day is like telling him to have a 24-hour day.

I understand have a nice day really isn't any more descriptive, but I can safely say I've had days that weren't nice. Can someone who says Have a blessed day say they've had days that weren't blessed? Or maybe what they're implying is that they themselves have the power to bestow blessings on others so that when they say Have a blessed day it's kinda like saying Here, have five dollars.

I'm not knocking blessings or those that say Have a blessed day. I just don't think I fully understand it. Feel free to offer your explanations.


P.S. I just sneezed.

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Mindless banter with a political twist

Today I had to request that a college transcript go to a potential employer. While it ended up costing me $10 on a credit card which sucks, I was amazed at how easy it was to get the thing ordered.

When I was a student at Georgia State University I found getting any one of those nitwits down there to take care of my administrative bidding was a horrid nightmare that usually resulted in things getting further screwed than they already were. I lived 45 minutes from college and on many occasions I would end up just driving down there to talk with someone face to face as opposed to have some financially aided know-nothing transfer my phone call hither and yon until finally one of his buddies accidentally on purpose hung up on me.

I'm not knocking the financially aided; just the financially aided know-nothings. Some of my best friends are finanacially aided. I'm just saying.

I'm hoping to get a job teaching English to forners at a local community college. This is slightly ironic because I just got through reading Pat Buchanan's book, State of Emergency: The Third World Invasion and Conquest of America in which he outlines why he thinks this country and the Western world for that matter are facing utter demise because of the increasing emigration from the Third World into industrialized nations. I enjoyed the book and thought it brought out some interesting points. Too bad it was written by a right-wing nutjob.

I try not to get overly political here because I would hope if you care anything about politics you don't come to my website looking for me to validate your opinion or tell you what to think. That being said, I just want to slap people around who talk about getting rid of our "ilegal" population so we can put these jobs back in the hands of hard-working Americans. How much do they think they would have to pay for the produce they buy at the grocery store every day if American citizens picked it? If everyone who had a hand in building your house had to receive taxable earnings no less than minimum wage plus the insurance payout they would necessitate coming from the builder's pocket, what do you think your home would cost? Let me let you in on a little secret. Unless you're living vastly below your means, you couldn't begin to afford it.

Alright. Enough about that. Anyway.

For those now appalled that I actually purchased and enjoyed a book by Pat Buchanan (it also came from some First Baptist Church in Missouri who doubles as an Amazon book dealer -- go figure) I'm now reading Hegemony or Survival: America's Quest for Global Dominance by Noam Chomsky. You know. It's the book the Venezuelan president was going aroud New York talking about and held up in the United Nations during his speech. Again, a great book, one which brings up points that every American should be aware of. Why our government makes noises like it's celebrating freedom and yet throws money, weapons and political backing to the destruction of freedom in other nations is beyond me. Oh well.

I'm not trying to change the planet, and I don't think a blog could do that anyway. This ain't the cyber version of We Are the World. This would be a much greater place to live if everyone would just come to accept me as their Lord and Savior, but that's probably not going to happen, so I'll just move on.

Oh yeh, about those nitwits at Georgia State University -- they sure did suck.

You know another thing I wonder about though? At what point did subtitles become mandatory on non-fiction books?

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Kevin of cocktailswithkevin still alive and well

Since my postings have become about as infrequent as comprehensible state of the union addresses, I've decided to try something new: timed writings. Well, not exactly timed writings as in I start writing and 30 minutes later a woman at the front of the room announces OK everybody pencils down. More like I've got about an hour between the time my kid goes down for a nap and the time she wakes up, so I'm gonna see if I can get something done online during that time besides making my internet Scrabble rating abysmally lower.

My life has been outright busy lately. I can't blame work because I left the job I so enjoyed once it no longer meshed with my fatherhood schedule. I do have a home listed once again after taking a real estate hiatus. If anyone knows someone wanting to move to Roswell, GA, and they have $209,000 I have the house for them. I interview this evening for a side gig I wouldn't mind having, but none of these things are particularly time consuming in and of themselves. I don't really have any active hobbies right now other than downloading internet porn reading a couple good books, so it's not as though I can blame that. Even still my time seems to pass faster than Roseanne Barr down a waterslide.

It's this kid.

Now not to worry. I'm not going to let this blog get all daddified. I'm just not about that, but not only is my daughter the most amazing thing to come my way since Reese's peanut butter cups, she grows so fast. Watching her develop is like being a spectator at a Formula One race. There's always something happening. She's always doing something different or making new sounds. One of my weekly highlights is trying out a new food. I can't wait to boil up and puree sweet potato.

What does that say about me?

Speaking of food, I've pretty much made everything solid Meryl's eaten thus far and I really think that's the way to go. Now I don't mean my wife and I grew the food on our compound and then brought it in from the garden, but rather than spending the money on jarred babyfood, I've taken a liking to picking up something in the produce section and dumping it in the food processor. I don't slight anybody who still prefers the Gerber stuff and it's not like we're a granola holistic family. I don't buy the organic stuff riddled with soft spots and fruit flies. But so far Meryl's enjoyed pumpkin, green beans, squash, banana and mango. She's liked everything so far, though she did make this odd face and a hacking sound whenever I tried to feed her the green beans. You'd think I was feeding her dirt.

It just dawned on me (now that she's waking up) that if I write with a very limited time to dedicate to it, my writing tends to be rambling and without focus.

Oh well. You get what you pay for.

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Are toenails really romantic?

I think these emailed newsletters have probably jumped the shark a couple of times, but I have one that comes to a tertiary email address that I check every once in a blue moon. The subscription is to LovingYou.com's romantic ideas newsletter where every so often (I think it's once a week) my inbox gets injected with the latest submission of romantic ideas.

Most of these are quite sophomoric in my opinion and are just variations on the same few themes. There's the love coupons idea, ten reasons I love you idea, trail of secret notes throughout the house idea, etc. Many of them incorporate rose petals or Hershey's kisses. How original! I also get the impression lots of the ideas are submitted by girls between the ages of 12 and 16 who have a crush on the guy who lives three trailers down. I don't know why I think this, but if you read a few of them I think you'll agree.

They're all fairly tame, but this one particular submission I found to be very disturbing.

One cold Friday evening I surprised my wife with her favorite home-cooked dinner, good wine, and a pedicure and manicure as she enjoyed her meal. I turned off the TV and radio so we could talk the entire time. Since I was doing the pedicure, she enjoyed feeding me my food. We didn’t share any physical intimacy, but there was closeness that only two people can truly share. This lasted hours and there was much work on my part, but then it was all worth it because it was so wonderful.

--submitted by Jose

Jose, do you mean to tell me your idea of a romantic evening is trimming your wife's toenails while she feeds you? Did your wife really enjoy this or was she just endulging you in another one of your bizarre sexual fetishes that she could only tolerate after a healthy dose of Franzia? How exactly did that work anyway? Were you under the table with a bottle of Vamp and some nail clippers?

Please tell me you used nail clippers.

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Talking to toddlers on the phone

I love children. I really do. My favorite child of course is my own, but even being around other people's kids brings a certain degree of joy that nothing else can. My favorite part of teaching was making a room full of children laugh. Children really are wonderous things.

That being said, don't put your toddler on the phone with me while you tend to some routine household chore. No really. Just say something's come up and that you'll call me back. Yes, even if it's just for a minute or so. I really don't want to listen to your child's barely intelligible toddler babble or worse yet his slobbery labored breathing. Sure, to you he looks so adorable standing there in the kitchen awkwardly holding the phone to his ear, but to me his gagagoogoo is no more enjoyable to listen to than automated voicemail prompts or nails on a chalkboard.

What sort of dialogue do you expect me to have with him anyway? Sure, I could ask about his day or his favorite TV show or his latest bowel movement, but funnily enough I don't have near the interest in these things that you do. If he wants to talk on the phone, maybe he has a grandparent who'd be more than willing to listen. Maybe you could just get the kid the Mickey Mouse Talking Phone. Remember that one?

Hey, Mickey, come over for a party.

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Keep your germy paws off my kid

Many apologies for my sudden absence. I know I'm basically only addressing a few family members when I say that, but with my new position at work, I have absolutely no time on the bossman's nickel for creative writing. Can you imagine? Working? The whole time you're at work even?

With the new part-time position comes the added responsibility of parenting my daughter during the day. And let me just tell you, she's another one that's quashed my efforts at casting out my demons via the keyboard. I had planned to use the time that I was home with a four-month-old to write the great American novel or at the very least a few scripted postings about my stuff, but no. She needs bottles, and she needs diaper changes, and she needs interactive time with her dad. Why I thought she'd be content to sit and babble while I endulge in a harmess pasttime I have no idea. That's what my cat does. I guess I thought a baby wouldn't be much different. Oh well. So begins the journey of fatherhood.

Speaking of fatherhood, when my wife first warned me that a man with a baby out in public is a magnet for women, I thought she meant the scantily clad variety whose clothes are as tight as her morals are loose. Sadly, I have yet to be approached by such a gal when I'm out pushing Meryl in her stroller or a grocery cart. We do get approached by women however. They're just not the people I was hoping for.

For example, the other day I was at Kroger minding my own business and trying to locate the numerous items on my list when out of nowhere some frumpy weird teenage store clerk with a dustmop and a personality disorder makes a beeline for me and my daughter. "Awwwwww, look at the baby. Hey sweeeeeetie. You're so cute," she says grabbing my infant daughter's hands. Then sensing my shock at some stranger taking hold of my first born she says to me with a smile, "Don't worry. My hands are clean."

Yeh, as clean as that filthy dustmop.

I didn't say this but I wanted to. Furthermore a baby is not like an adult. If I were to meet you in the street and shake your hand, the last thing I'm going to do is then put my fingers in my mouth. But you see, Psycho Kroger Clerk, this is exactly what babies do. They put their hands right in their mouth. Then all your germs and the dustmop's germs and the germs of everyone who's touched the dustmop or your pudgy hands jump right onto my daughter who will immediately suck on her fingers thus initiating a struggle between the plethora of alien germs and her newly developing immune system. Not only that, Psycho Kroger Clerk, but even if your hands were freshly Purelled, you're still frumpy and weird. That alone is reason enough that I don't want you accosting me in the store.

Not five minutes and three grocery items later some woman whose older than dirt does practically the same thing. This woman wreaks of mothballs and who knows where her hands have been? And she wants to make small talk with me next to the frozen fish section. Meryl, not yet being totally aware of stranger danger, smiles and coos which just eggs the old bird on. Great.

When I get up to my favorite cranky oldster cashier (who by the way will then shame me by making me openly admit that I'm too cheap and stingy to round up to the next dollar and donate to whatever stupid charity Kroger has buddied up with this week) she notices that Meryl is starting to get cranky. I tell Meryl that it's still 45 minutes until her bedtime and the cashier says to me in her volume ten voice, "She's probably hungry." Like I really need additional parental guilt laid on me from the Kroger lady.

Today I return to Kroger and a group of girls is out washing cars for a fundraiser. Cleverly they nominated the most buxom to stand on the corner and shimmy for passing motorists with the hopes of luring them into making a donation. As luck would have it, this time Meryl was home with my wife.

Just my luck.

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Golem teaches us to enjoy the little things life has to offer

This morning I was reading to my four-month-old daughter. With a children's librarian for a mom, Meryl has a slew of books and did have long before she was ever conceived (which by the way happened almost a year ago to the day -- just thought I'd let you know.) Actually it was my wife who had the books before but we'll tell Meryl we got them in preparation for her arrival. My wife and I were always fans of children's books long before we were considering parenthood so our collection is quite varied and includes small board books like Doggy Dog by Chris Raschka and more elaborate tales like The Three Little Javelinas* by Wutzer Nehm. Ok, that's not really who wrote it but I don't feel like getting up off the couch right now to find out who did. I'll give her credit in a minute.

This morning's story was Golem by David Wisniewski . The book's sitting right by me, otherwise I never would have guessed at the author's name much less spelled it correctly. Anyway, the story is based on an old Czechoslovakian Jewish legend in which the people of Prague are harrassing Jews and spreading rumors that they're mixing Christian children's blood with flour and water to make matzah bread. Now you and I know that if those Czech fundamentalist xenophobes had ever eaten matzah bread they'd know that surely if it had been made with the blood of Jan Hus's followers it might taste slightly better than styrofoam, but this was the Middle Ages and intelligence hadn't been invented yet. To solve the problem Rabbi Loew creates a giant man out of clay named Golem whose job it is to stop the goys from spreading such nasty rumors about the Hebrew people.

Golem, while gargantuan and thus intimidating, has a gentler side kinda like a Lou Ferrigno who keeps the Sabbath. At one point in the story Rabbi Lowe sees Golem staring at the sunrise. When he asks Golem what he's doing Golem says he's admiring the beauty of the night sky as it changes from black to blue. "It's so beautiful," Golem says.

Golem takes great pleasure in something as simple as watching the sun come up. Likewise my daughter has developed quite a fascination for ceiling fans. When she's lying underneath one that's not on, she sometimes will let out a single quiet coo. When you turn it on for her she smiles and babbles at it. Hearing Elaine's voicemail greeting makes her smile too. She is also entranced by the spiraling colors that dance on the screen when we listen to lounge-radio via Windows Media Player. I like to think this is somehow educational for her and that someday she'll grasp fractals and chaos mathematics as a result. A dad can dream, can't he? My point is that the seemingly simplest things bring her pleasure.

Do you think there's something to be learned from this? I'm not suggesting we all lie on the floor and stare at ceiling fans for personal enjoyment, but maybe somewhere in the rat race there's something we take for granted on a daily basis that otherwise might bring us pleasure. My brother enjoys fishing for example. Now I've never understood the appeal to fishing but the conept is simple enough and requirements are minimal. I think some people do it for hours on end.

My mother has always been an avid reader. Whether she enjoys delving into new worlds or temporarily escaping her own I don't know, but what cheaper pasttime is there? Books are free at your public library, and the people there'll even go so far as to put them on hold for you and call you once they arrive.

As for me, I like to write.

I have yet to find the secret to eternal happiness, but I can't help but wonder if the key lies somewhere within us as opposed to outside us. Have you ever noticed that consumerism isn't really so much an economical term for Westerners as it is their dominant religion? We are drowning ourselves in our own stuff? Perhaps happiness comes not from getting all the things we want but from seeking personal enjoyment in all the things we have. After all, if you were to randomly pick a close relative out of your family tree, can you then remember what they got you last Christmas? Sure, there were those socks of mine but I mean besides that.

Golem is told by the rabbi shortly after he's created that once everything's kosher with the Jews and the Bohemians are put back in check, Golem will be returned to clay. Presumably his appreciation for the otherwise mundane can be traced back to this knowlege that his days are numbered. But really now, don't we all know our days are numbered? I've said this before, but none of us is going to live forever. The clay waits for no man.

My wife and I traveled to Prague a few years back and saw the synagogue where Golem's clay remains are rumored to reside. Just outside is the cemetery where the famous rabbi is buried. All along the streets in that sector of town vendors' stalls are decked out with yarmulkes and miniature replicas of the Golem. I made do with the free paper yarmulke but I did fork out a few crowns so that I could have my own little Golem. I'm sure if some people familiar with the Golem legend were to spot it they would tell you the moral of the story is that good triumphs over evil or more simplistically put don't mess with the Jews. I on the other hand like to think a more befitting message is that beauty and the enjoyment thereof can be found in the things right around us and that in the search for pleasure, we need not venture far.

I'd like to think I'm not big on material goods. There are few things I possess that I couldn't live without if I had to. You can take my souvenir postcards, my disposable furniture from Ikea, or my Mona Lisa socks. That stuff is truly that: just stuff. You're not getting my miniature Golem though.

He's mine.

* The Three Little Javelinas was written by Susan Lowell. See, I told you I'd give her credit.

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