Stockholm Syndrome

I know… It’s a weird thing to write a song about, but who can argue with a guy who can do the windmill, and then do what this guy does about 3 minutes in. Look for the shot down the guitar’s neck…

Blog… Bloggage… Blogarino…

So, the almighty Hosh as been bugging me to blog more, but I don’t really know what to say. I mean, I could complain about someone, but everyone would know who it was and it wouldn’t fix the problem, so it would just be gossip, and I don’t feel like doing that. It’s just not cool.

So instead, I’ll give people something to pray about.

I need a camera. Like, a really nice video camera. Preferably the AG-DVX100 by Panasonic, which runs about $3k. I know that’s a lot, but that’s what I’m beleiving for. Pray for me.

8 Simple Rules…

I’m sure most people are aware of the TV show “8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter.” What most people don’t know, is that these rules were based on an article written by the man John Ritter’s character was based on.

 Here are the rules as presented in that original article. I was struck today by how much they are an accurate representation of how a dating relationship between two christians should be, especially with regard to how much respect should be shown to the girl’s father:

Rule One: If you pull into my driveway and honk you’d better be delivering a package, because you’re sure as heck not picking anything up.

Rule Two: You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter’s body, I will remove them.

Rule Three: I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don’t take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, In order to assure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric staple gun and fasten your trousers securely in place around your waist.

Rule Four: I’m sure you’ve been told that in today’s world, sex without utilizing a “barrier method” of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate: when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I WILL kill you.

Rule Five: In order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is “early.”

Rule Six: I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make YOU cry.

Rule Seven: As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process which can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don’t you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?

Rule Eight: The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places lacking parents, policemen, or nuns. Places where there is darkness. Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka zipped up to her chin. Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which feature chainsaws are okay. Hockey games are okay.

What do you think?

Disjointed

I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been feeling very disconnected lately. I even had a dream last night that a bunch of my friends and family were getting together at a restaurant and I got lost on my way to the table in the back of the restaurant. What do you think that means? Am I subconsciously growing away from my friends and family for some reason? Am I just a jerk? Does it have something to do with my past friend issues? See, all the people I thought were my friends stopped hanging out with me when they got married, and then when Suzy and I got engaged they went to Suzy’s sister behind my back and told her “We don’t think Peter is mature enough to get married.” Keep in mind, these are people who hadn’t spoken to me in a year. How did they know how mature I was or wasn’t?

So that’s why I tend to have trust issues as far as friends go. Is that what is going on now? I am interested in your opinion, so throw it out there. If I dont’ like it, I’ll just delete your post. Just kidding. Well, unless you’re a spammer. What’s up with that by the way? That sucks.

To quote “Weird” Al, “Do I creep you out?”

In the past, while I was living in Houston, I had a couple of the girls from leadership tell me I was kind of creepy sometimes. I can’t help but wonder, do people find me creepy now? I don’t mean to be. I guess I come on a little strong, or stare, or something, but I definitely have some sort of underlying creepiness. Do you agree? If so, why? I need honesty and specifics so that if I do something that creeps you out, I can stop. If you think it’s too personal, just email me or send me a message on MySpace. I appreciate your candor.

Wow…

If you think Prince has no talent, you’ve obviously never seen this. He comes out about 3 and a half minutes in:

He Loves Us

I know most of you have probably already seen this, but I get chills and tear up every time:

Boosh.

Three words: G.O.B. as K.I.T.T. 

Short Story

Russ Chisholm eased his overweight frame down onto a bench. He set his shopping bags down next to him, and rubbed his sore knees. It had been forty years since he had been honorably discharged from the Marine Corps, after taking a bullet in the shoulder during a training exercise. A less fortunate-and less wealthy-man would have been told to suck it up and return to training. But Russell Hector Chisholm, III was told to return to his regular life in Georgia, living with his parents and womanizing his way through all the eligible (and ineligible) women in the Atlanta area.

Nine years later, at the age of 27, he graduated from Harvard with a degree in political science. He stayed in Boston until 1981, when, at the age of 32, he moved back to Atlanta and secured a position as Lieutenant Governor of the state of Georgia. The Governor, Richard Wellesley, had been a golfing buddy of his father, and had taken the younger Chisholm under his wing as a personal favor for the elder Russell’s help in winning the election.

Russ served under Wellesley for two terms, before becoming Secretary of Defense once Wellesley became elected President. Chisholm had cited (and exaggerated) his Marine record before being confirmed by Congress. He and Wellesley served two terms together in that capacity as well before they both retired to lucrative carreers as public speakers and authors, preaching to the world their brand of politics and morals.

Currently, Russ was waiting for his wife Lisa as she spent his money, doing the Christmas shopping for their children. They were staying at their winter home, just outside of Denver in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. The mall, a circular, indoor, outlet fueled monstrosity, was packed on this mid-December day. Chisholm’s children, Kimberly and Russell IV, were waiting back at the six bedroom house just up the hill for their friends to pick them up for their daily snowboarding trip. Russ was just as glad to be away from them as he was to have been in the arms of Tracy, his “winter mistress,” the night before.

He was cotemplating an excuse to see her again that night when his cell phone began to ring in his pocket. As he looked down at his Nokia, he realized it wasn’t actually ringing at all. There was another phone in his bags. He pulled it out and read “Not Available” on the caller ID.

“I think I may have ended up with this phone by accident,” he said in his southern drawl as he thumbed the “Answer” button, “who are you trying to reach?”

“I’m trying to reach you, Secretary Chisholm,” the voice said on the other line. “Steven Clay is after you, and he already has your children. You need to get up and start walking, now, towards the bookstore at the end of the corridor.”

Chisholm didn’t hesitate. The name Clay had awoken all sorts of bad memories from his time in office, and the images that now raced through his head were not ones that were pleasant. He left the shopping bags and raced away from the store where his oblivious wife still shopped, as if his short legs could carry him away from his dark memories. His trench coat flapped behind as he pushed his way through the crowd towards the mega multi-media store that still stood nearly a hundred yards away.

“Where is he?” he screeched, fear causing his voice to tremble with every syllable.

“About fifty feet back,” the gravely voice answered. “He sent one of his goons. The bald one in the suit.”

Russ paused just long enough for a glance back, and there he was. The man was easily 6′4″, his bald head gleaming in the florescent light. He was wearing a red tie and black suit under a long black duster, and his eyes were concealed by dark sunglasses. Black leather gloves covered his hands, one of which was reaching into his inner pocket.

Chisholm turned and almost ran into the bookstore, finding an aisle near the back that was devoid of shoppers.

“What do I do now?” he whispered into the phone. His face was bright red and sweat poured down his back. He could barely hear above the sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.

“You die,” said the husky voice from the phone. Only now, too late, Russell realized the voice came from behind him. He felt a large boot crash into his knee, collapsing it, as a hand pulled back on his shoulder, bringing him crashing to the thick carpet in a barely audible thud. The man with the voice, who now stood over Russell with a sick grin on his face, was Steven Clay. Clay reached down and took the phone from Russell’s hand, as Russell stared in bewilderment at the face of his killer, the man he had wronged from so long ago.

“Your children and wife will be fine,” Clay told the stunned Chisholm, “And they won’t miss you.”

He slammed the spine of a thick hardcover book hard into Russ Chisholm’s sternum, instantly driving him into the throws of cardiac arrest.

As Clay dropped the book next to his head, Russ realized it his book, The Chisholm Art of War: The best offense is a good Defense, that had caused his demise. The extreme irony was lost on Chisholm as his vision became first blurry, and then blacked out all together.

***

Steven Clay smiled to himself as he exited the book store, dropping both cell phones and the gloves he was wearing in a trashcan on the way. As he exited the mall, he saw the bald man in the black suit, arriving to his place of employment at the same time he had every Saturday that Clay had reconned this mall before choosing it. The bald man walked into the suit store and went immediately to the back of the store to put away the extra clothing necessary to ward off the extreme winter cold.

Clay allowed his smile to turn to a chuckle as he himself entered the bitter cold from the warm mall. One down, he thought to himself.

You know what bugs me?

What bugs me, is how many times I’ve heard “Why didn’t that mission place just let that guy stay there?”

 Are you smoking crack? If someone came to your door looking scuzzy and gross and possibly insane, would you let him stay? Why should this place have done it, even if they are a Christian organization? They weren’t equipped for that, nor were they prepared to sacrifice the safety of their employees for one weird looking dude. I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but if that guy had walked up to an abortion clinic (which claims to “help people”) and they had turned him away, no one would say anything. Just because you’re supposed to be helping people doesn’t mean common sense goes out the window, does it?

And who’s to say they didn’t say “I’m sorry, you can’t stay here, but here’s the address to a homeless shelter two blocks away?” Why are we assuming they just laughed and shut the door in this guy’s face? Why do we, as a society, automatically assume the worst about Christians and still expect them to assume the best of everyone else? One of the main tenants of Christian faith is the idea that we are all born away from God and inherently evil until we accept Jesus in our hearts, right?

 It just bugs me. That’s all. Sorry for the rant.