Music Hath Charms

Last night we went to Freight & Salvage to see Mike Marshall and Darol Anger with Vasen (sorry, don't know how to type the a with the two little dots on top). The whole night was awesome, but the highlight for me was seeing Mike Marshall pull out his mandocello for Borealis. I was virtually in tears. Such a beautiful song. But aside from the song itself, what really got me was the rich, beautiful tone of the mandocello. I was riveted. I couldn't take my eyes off it, and especially when he hit the lower registers, which rang with this deep, growling, resonant bass sound I've only ever heard from an acoustic or upright bass... Man, I was blown away. To be honest, I don't think I've ever seen anyone play a mandocello live before. I wasn't even really sure what it was. I had to google it to be sure. Now I have to play one. I feel incomplete until I get one in my hands. Turns out they're incredibly expensive. So I guess I'll remain incomplete for a while. Or forever.

I Twitter Therefore Please Rob Me

I maintain that people who think they are losing privacy are actually just realizing they never had any to begin with. To wit: I tweet my location and now people know I'm not home. Well guess what... There's about 435342636531613 other ways for people to know I'm not home. Like, I dunno, knocking on my door, or calling me at work, or how about just looking at their watch and realizing that, hey, it's 1pm and this dude's probably at work. Duh. Like before twitter came along it was some unfathomable mystery whether someone was home or not.

I Twitter Therefore Please Rob Me

My Review of SIGG Water Bottle with Screw Top - 32 oz.

REI

More than just pretty, a SIGG water bottle is extrusion-pressed from a single piece of aluminum for seamless, leakproof construction!

SIGG Water Bottle with Screw Top - 32 oz.

My constant companion

Papa Grizz Oakland, CA 8/21/2009

 

5 5

Gift: No

Pros: Leakproof, Durable, BPA Free, Impact Resistant, Good Capacity, Unique Design

Best Uses: Gym, Commuting, Everyday, At work, Hiking, Camping

Describe Yourself: Casual Adventurer

I've had mine for a year now. It's been with me through all kinds of adventures. It fits nicely in my bag, so it goes with me everywhere. The capacity is perfect. No bad flavors or leaching. It's tough. The aluminum dents pretty easily, but as far as I'm concerned the dents add character. I love my bottle. Make sure you rinse it out with hot water and leave it to air dry over night, and you're good to go. Highly recommended.

()

Sleep evades me.

Thoughts of death, memories of days gone by, the faces of friends I've lost, regrets, specters all, haunt my thoughts this night. I long for sleep, but it does not come.

La Morte de Jacko

There seems to be two schools of thought on the death of a celebrity. The response most commonly seen is the "psycho stalker fan" response, whereby a fan with way too much time on their hands grieves the fallen superstar as though he or she were a family member. The grieving psycho stalker fan shows all the traditional signs of a grieving family member, such as wearing black, blubbering like an idiot, lack of appetite, etc.

In the aftermath of la morte de Jacko, I have observed another response. It is an opposite extreme, but an extreme nonetheless, and, I believe, no less strange.

There are those who, in their ardent desire to express their complete non-chalance toward the celebrity (an unusual juxtaposition of feelings, no?) brazenly proclaim that they care not one iota about the celebrity's passing.

I find this second attitude to be almost hypocritical, as most of the "I don't care" crowd seem to want to crawl all over each other in their efforts to prove who cares the least. Odd.

I usually tend to fall somewhere in the middle. Even when it's someone whose art I didn't much care for (as is the case with Michael Jackson with his later work), I at least acknowledge the significance of that person's contributions to the art. MJ, like him or not, was an important figure in music, and his absence will be felt. He made a lot of people happy. That has to count for something. Of those who flippantly dismiss his passing as "another dead child molester," I wonder how many of those same people happily scramble to the dance floor every time "Thriller" starts playing at a halloween party.

Though I wouldn't count myself as a fan, I, for one, believe the world is slightly diminished for his passing.

Who I Am

There's a song by Switchfoot called "This Is Your Life." The lyrics are, in part, "This is your life, are you who you wanna be?" The song got me thinking. Am I who I want to be? Who am I, for that matter? I guess I'm a lot of things. I had to make a list.

I am:

• A follower of the Lord Jesus Christ
• A student of those who have something to teach me
• A teacher to those who have something to learn from me
• An uncle
• A son
• A brother
• A friend
• A writer
• A musician
• A poet
  

In short, I am what the Lord, in His grace, has made me. What more could I hope to be? As I've no doubt mentioned, it is my prayer that He will one day make me a husband and a father, but if He doesn't, I'm OK with that. As long as I am who He wants me to be, then I am who I want to be.

A High Calling

I know that I am called to something higher than merely surviving in this imperfect vessel. What purpose can there possibly be in eking out an existence in a temporary world? To what end do the masses strive and struggle to store up earthly treasures for themselves here in this fragile, perilous, momentary existence?

I echo the question uttered by every humanist philospher who has ever lived: what is the point? The difference is that I have the answer.

The humanist sees no "point" because he seeks it in a narrow, myopic, human view of our existence. But there is something greater. There is Someone greater. He created us in this world for a purpose which will come to its ultimate fruition outside of it. He created us to have a relationship with Him.

Each of us is called to discover this high purpose. There is no other purpose. If one does not seek the Creator, for what then, has one been created?

How do you tell if a mouse is afraid?

OK, I know that sounds like the setup for a really bad joke, but it's not.

As I'm browsing medical journals looking for data for a research paper I'm doing for my psychology class, I come across the following article: "Systemic blockade of D2-like dopamine receptors facilitates extinction of conditioned fear in mice."

I immediately think, So, how do they determine if the mouse is afraid? Look to see if he covers his eyes with his little paws?

OK, so it actually was the setup for a really bad joke after all. Sue me.

I seriously have to not do any research after 10pm. Things tend to get weird when I do.

An Exercise in Comparing and Contrasting

This is my dog.







This is my dog with a donut on his nose.

Any questions?

Pour One On the Curb

Pour a forty on the curb for one of my dearest and most constant companions. My Fisher Space Pen is lost and gone forever. That pen rode shotgun in my pocket for a long time, and it's now naught but a memory.

Most of the people who know me well know that I have a pen fetish. And while I love all kinds of pens, the Fisher Bullet Space Pen has always been far and away my favorite. Sure, it can write underwater, in freezing weather, and upside down, but that's not why I love these pens. It's not often I have to write in the ocean, in the arctic, or on the ceiling (though I do frequently write in bed). But they are hefty, well built pens, they write smoothly, and their compact size when closed allows it to fit neatly in my pocket right next to my other constant companion, a Moleskine pocket notebook.

Yesterday, just before heading out for the day, I put my Space Pen and my Moleskine in my left jacket pocket, as I always do. On my way to the movie theater, I decided to stop at Starbucks. As I got out of the car, I put my keys in my left jacket pocket. I don't usually do that, because I hate having a bunch of things in one pocket. But I didn't give it much thought this time, and I absent-mindedly dropped my keys into the same pocket as my pen and notebook. As I was leaving Starbucks, I reached into my pocket, pulled out my keys, got in my car, and drove away. When I got to the movies, I checked my pocket to make sure my pen and notebook were in there, but my pen was nowhere to be found. I turned my car upside down looking for it, but it wasn't there. A sinking feeling began to grow within me as I slowly realized what must have happened. When I pulled my keys out of my pocket, I probably pulled the pen out with them. It probably clattered unceremoniously to the ground without me even realizing it, and I drove away, never to see it again. And some lucky fool probably found himself a nice free pen.

So until I can afford to replace it (and it's hard to justify spending $20 on a pen when you're unemployed), I'm reduced to carrying around a Papermate. Ick.

My Wedding Ring

I've started wearing my wedding ring again. On my right hand, of course. Oddly enough, in the past, when I've tried to put it on my right hand, I've always had trouble getting it on and off. Like my right ring finger was bigger than my left ring finger. I guess, even though it didn't look like it, I must have had some fat on my fingers or something, because now the ring easily slides on and off. When I first took it off, back when I lived in Dearborn, for some reason I put it in my medicine cabinet. Probably just because I was in the bathroom at the time and I knew that if it just sat on the bathroom counter it would eventually get gross and probably become stuck to the counter (I've never been a particularly clean person - I'm working on that). So I put it in there to keep it safe. But the medicine cabinet became its home. I was used to seeing it in there everytime I brushed my teeth. It got to be something of a ritual: open the cabinet, acknowledge the symbol of my failed marriage, grab the Colgate, close the cabinet.

I was so used to seeing the ring in my medicine cabinet that, when I moved back to California, the ring went right back into the medicine cabinet when I unpacked. It has remained there, keeping my toothpaste company, ever since. Right up until two days ago, that is. Some compulsion I can't quite explain caused me to reach in, grab it, and slide it onto my right ring finger. Unlike the last time I tried that, it slid right on. And there it sits even now. Perhaps I'm wearing it because it has ceased to be a symbol of my failed marriage. Perhaps now it represents positive change, and the possibility for new life, and, Lord willing, new love.

My Dog, the Goofball

Galen, being a boxer, doesn't have a tail. He has what I like to call a nubbin, or a nub for short (for short... get it? short? never mind).

Not having a real tail has never stopped him from trying to wag what little bit of tail he has. Like a normal dog, he wags his nub frequently, especially when he's being spoken to in a loving manner. Or, really, when he's being spoken to at all. Especially by me. What's really funny is when he's leaning his butt against me, as he so often does on the couch or when he hops up in my bed. Then, when he wags his nub, he pokes me with it repeatedly, often tickling me in the process.

This morning, as I was waking up, he was in precisely that position. Just for fun, I started messing with him.

"Galen." He looked back at me. *poke, poke, poke* "I love you." *poke, poke, poke, poke*

This played out exactly the same way several times, with me laughing hysterically each time, and him cocking his head at me, wondering what the heck was so funny.

These are the moments I'll cherish forever. :)

Touched by the Spirit

I had an amazing, life-altering experience the other day. I've been meaning to mention it on my blog for a few days now, but I wasn't quite sure how to share this. But now time marches ever onward, and all I know is that I need to share it, regardless of how.

I've read that one who has been called into the ministry will be touched and blessed by the Holy Spirit before being sent forth to do His work. I've often wondered what that would feel like, and how I would know. How little did I understand. "Oh ye of little faith."

I try to meet with Pastor Fred at least once a week over a cup of coffee. We talk about the church, we talk about ourselves, but most importantly to me, he mentors me. I've learned a great deal about the ministry from him in the last few weeks. I don't know if he realizes just how much those meetings mean to me, but that's a story for another day.

One day last week, we had just finished up such a meeting. We had been discussing, among other things, my calling. After we were done talking, Fred went on his way to another meeting he had scheduled, and I remained behind at the restaurant to do some work on a Bible study I've been working on for quite some time. In fact, it's a study that Fred turned me onto. It's a challenging one, in Romans, about the old nature and the new nature. I've been getting a lot out of it. The Spirit has truly been speaking to me through this study. I've gotten a lot out of it, application-wise. And I'm nowhere near done.

But I had a lot of work to do, so I busted out my study Bible and my notebook and got to work. I proceeded to have what might just be the most blessed Bible study time I've ever had. There were a few moments where the Spirit showed me so much that my eyes welled up just a bit. It was almost overwhelming. And then something amazing happened.

When I first shared with Fred that I'd been called, he told me to keep my eyes open for a verse or a passage that the Spirit would show me, one that would directly speak to my calling. He said I'd know it when I saw it. And he was right.

So there I was, studying a verse in Romans chapter six, when I went to a particular cross-reference and I read it. There it was. The Spirit was speaking to me, and to me alone. These two verses were directly answering a question that had been on my mind from the beginning. I got a little emotional, as I read this passage and thought back on the last few months of my life. I could see the beginning of God's plan for my life playing itself out as, piece by piece, everything fell into place according to His will. I could see not only what he had planned for me, but I could see how He was working to bring it all together. I could see his Will in action, and it was an incredible feeling. Up to that moment in my life, I don't think I've ever felt quite so blessed. But that was about to change.

I packed up my books and, after one quick stop, I started on the drive home. I was happy, I was feeling blessed, and I thought that the Lord deserved some praise, so I fired up my iPod and went straight to the praise playlist. I drove home with praise music blaring on my speakers, and with praise on my lips as I sang to my God. A few moments later, my life changed. I felt an indescribable feeling. I wish I could put into words what I felt. I like to think of myself as something of a poet, but there were no words in my vocabulary for what I was feeling. As I've been rather fond of saying lately, trying to describe what I was feeling would be like trying to describe the color blue to a man who's been blind since birth.

I felt the touch of the Spirit. I felt His holy fire upon me. I felt righteous, blessed energy coursing through me and it was so powerful it darn near knocked the wind out of me. I had to pull over or I was going to lose control of the car. I had to pull onto the shoulder. I could barely manage to pull myself together enough to flip on my hazard lights. I was lost in the power of the Spirit. I was shouting praise at the top of my lungs. I was bursting with it and I couldn't give it to God fast enough or loud enough.

I don't know how long I sat on the shoulder before I was able to get it together enough where I could continue driving. Based on how long it took me to get home, I would have to have been sitting there a good twenty minutes. But time meant nothing to me during that life-changing moment.

I spent the rest of the day with an ear to ear smile on my face. How could I not? I had been in the Lord's presence. And I will never be the same.

Ambivalence

I realized the other day that I both love and hate Las Vegas. It's such a weird feeling to gaze upon something that elicits such disgust, but then to think back on it with warm and fuzzies.

I hate Vegas because, as I mentioned in my previous post, it is a shining symbol of everything that's wrong with humanity. Sickening excess as far as the eye can see. In a world so filled with poverty, that such a place even exists borders on nauseating.

But simultaneously, I have so many warm memories of this place. I had a lot of fun in Vegas as a child, with my family. But more importantly, Vegas is where I married the love of my life. And though that marriage is now over, I still look back on our brief honeymoon in Vegas as one of the happiest times in my life. It was a time when all was right with the world. In fact, up to that point in my life, it may have been the first and only time that all had been right with the world.

I was in the Luxor the other day. I was walking around their "family friendly" area, where there are restaurants, museums, arcades, gift shops, etc. Sunny and I had spent a lot of time there. Neither of us has ever been big on gambling, so we spent the week seeing the sights instead. So there I was, walking those same shops and restaurants where, just seven years prior, I had walked with my beautiful bride. I was flooded with warm, wonderful memories. Later that night, I put on my headphones and drifted away listening to "I Need You" by LeAnn Rimes. That song more than any other reminds me of those wonderful days. I just listened, and remembered, and smiled.

So there's some insight into my love-hate relationship with the city of Las Vegas. I wish I could say that I wanted nothing more to do with it, but I don't know if that will ever be the case. Perhaps, Lord willing, one day, a new honeymoon memory, an even happier one, will arise to replace the old. Until that day, a piece of my broken heart will remain in that city in the middle of the Nevada desert.

America's Overstuffed Pocketbook

I spent the last week in Las Vegas. Sin City. I spent some time driving down its crowded streets, with their familiar glittering signs, beckoning like the electronic calls of modern day sirens.

They say that New York is the center of American commerce, the heart of American capitalism. If so, then Vegas is the heart of American excess. It's a long-standing symbol of Americans who have too much money, and can't think of anything better to do with it than to dispose of it as quickly as possible on as little as possible. It reminds me of that bumper sticker, "Money talks, but all mine says is goodbye." Nowhere on earth is that more true than it is in Vegas, the jewel of the desert.

There's so much excess there it's almost painful to look at. You can shop 'til you drop. You can buy thousands of dollars worth of crap you'll never need, and then buy a two thousand dollar handbag to put it all in. And then, when you're done shopping, you can drop thousands of dollars or more on gambling. Or, heck, why not give it all to a stripper for a two minute lapdance?

Vegas is a glowing symbol of everything that's wrong with the world. We hoard wealth. Then, rather than sharing that wealth, we choose to throw it all away. We put it in the pockets of people who have made a science out of hoarding wealth. They then take that wealth and build us bigger, more beautiful monuments to excess in which we can throw away even more of our wealth. It's a sickening cycle. It's like we're trying to find newer, more creative ways to not do anything about poverty.

It's especially sickening in light of the fact that both extremes, poverty and excess, can be seen existing right next to each other, in stark contrast to one another. There are homeless people on one street corner, and a quick glance in the opposite direction nets you a breathtaking view of America's overstuffed pocketbook.

Train Wreck in Hollister! Dozens Injured!

Yes, you read that right, ladies and gentlemen. A train wreck, right here in quaint little Hollister. It happened at the First Presbyterian Church of Hollister where Calvary Chapel Hollister Fellowship was having its annual Christmas Potluck Dinner. I'm sorry to say that the entire congregation of the Hollister Fellowship was involved in this unfortunate accident, and, though the survivors might say otherwise, they will bear scars that will last them a lifetime.

You see, as the bass player for the worship team, I was asked last night by the worship leader to help play a song I had never played before as part of the worship service preceding the potluck dinner. Our alloted practice time, zero.

Against my better judgement, I agreed.

What followed was unmitigated disaster of the highest order. Had last night's events been recorded on video, the period of time during which this particular song was being played would have been marked by a slow pan of the camera across the room, with Barber's "Adagio for Strings" playing in the background as church members reached up to cover their ears in slow motion, twisted expressions of agony on their tortured faces...

OK, it wasn't quite that bad, but it was bad enough that, halfway through, I had to stop playing because I was so far off.

Thankfully, the second song was one with which I am so familiar that I could almost certainly play it in my sleep. It still wasn't great, as I hadn't had any time to warm up my chops, but it was certainly better than the first one.

It was certainly a lesson learned, for my worship leader if for no one else. Never let Sergio play without at least one dry run.

On Children in Love with the Lord

As I sat in church on Wednesday night (yes, I'm posting this a few days late, sue me), singing to the Lord in praise; at one point, I opened my eyes and looked over at my pastor's daughter. She was lifting her hands up in praise as she sang, totally lost in her love for our Lord. It was a beautiful thing to witness. I'm ashamed to admit that, for a brief moment, I envied her father. If it is beautiful to me to see a child lost in her love for the Lord, how much more beautiful of a sight must it be for her father?

I want that. I want it so bad it hurts. Adding to my distress is the possibility that a family may not be what the Lord wants for me. I honestly have no indication that that is the case, other than the fact that I'm 31 years old and single. But as I now find myself at a point in my life where I am seeking to know His will for me, with every intention of carrying it out, well, it's a possibility I must now consider.

On Dancing, Spandex, and Bitterness

So I'm at this party (no story which begins in such a manner can end well). Said party is being thrown by a Hispanic couple with lots of Hispanic friends. The music for said party is primarily cumbia, with some salsa and merengue thrown in for flavor (unpleasant tasting though it may be). Someone asks me if I want to dance. My polite response?

"No thank you, I'm not much of a dancer." Now, that's what I said. What I thought was, "Two things, sweetie. One, I do not dance (if my ex-wife tells you different, I assure you she can't prove anything). Two, if I did dance, it would most assuredly not be to this crap."

I had to pretend to like this stuff two months ago when I DJ'd pretty much this exact same party. I have no such requirements being imposed upon my taste tonight. I can sulk quietly in the corner if I so choose.

Parties seem to turn me into a judgemental jerk. I find myself looking at people and making snap judgements about them:

• You! Spandex is a priviledge, not a right.
• You! The sooner you quit snapping your fingers while you dance, the sooner I can stop feeling embarrassed on your behalf, ya spaz.
• And you! You're hot, but stop freaking on your sister! Seriously, that's just plain gross.

Yeah. I can be a jerk sometimes. Like when I'm pretty much the only person at the party who's not having any fun.

I really felt the loneliness tonight. I mean, of course I've been conscious of the fact that I have no social life whatsoever since I moved back out here, but tonight I really felt it. As I sat alone at that party, all I could think about was how I really needed a Ben and/or a Crystal to commiserate with, or a Dan and/or a Dave to mock a few party-goers with, and then go home and jam with.

But, for now, at least, my work is here. And theirs is there. And alone I shall remain, sulking quietly in the corner. For now.

Going Kinetic

I'm a pretty poor excuse for a writer, aren't I? The words don't flow like they should. I'm like a river caught up by a dam. The force of all that water is there, but it's all potential energy. There's a wall holding me back, keeping the potential from becoming kinetic. And isn't that what it's all about? Being kinetic, I mean. Flowing from point A to point B like the purest form of energy. Communicating thoughts like a landslide, an unstoppable torrent of thought.

But here I sit, like soil too dry, too dense with foliage to go anywhere. The inclination is there, but the earth won't flow. It's all just potential. Potential like a thousand pound weight suspended over my head, just waiting to become kinetic so it can convert the matter that is my brain into energy. Energy that turns a blank page into a repository of knowledge and information, useless though it may be. The font of useless knowledge, that's me. Glad to know you.

And who are you? Just another stop on the way to nowhere in this landslide that is my life. Just waiting for the rain to fall so it can start. But the rain won't come, so here I am. All potential, no kinetic.

The Opportunist

Luke 4:13 - "When the devil had finished every temptation, he left Him until an opportune time."

And that's really what the devil's all about, isn't it? He's nothing but an opportunist, with all the negative connotations that word entails. Like the disease-ridden mosquito that waits for the opportune moment to strike, to steal away your life blood, small, almost imperceptible amounts at a time, so is the enemy. He lurks, never putting himself at risk, watching, waiting until an opportunity presents itself, and then he strikes.

But I place my hope in the Lord God Almighty. I will not fear. I will be wise to the devil's workings, but I will not fear him.