TIGER SHOT!

For most of you, watching golf on television ranks somewhere between voluntary dental surgery and removing thirty-year old wallpaper: just not worth the time. I, however, absolutely love it. I'll admit that it can get boring at times; some of my best Sunday afternoon naps have happened while the TV was tuned into golf, but it can also be extremely riveting. If you were watching yesterday afternoon you know exactly what I'm talking about.

The Masters Tournament, held every year in Augusta, Georgia, is the most beautiful venue in all of golf. It's absolutely gorgeous in April and since it's the only one of golf's four major tournaments that takes place on the same course every year you can memorize the layouts to the holes. So many great golf moments have happened there that every hole owns some sort of history.

Making it even more interesting was that Tiger Woods was in the lead going into the last round. Hard core golf fans dislike Tiger as much as redneck NASCAR fans hate Jeff Gordon, but he's my guy. Tiger and I were born on the exact same date: December 30, 1975. So whenever they talk about him breaking some new record at such and such an age, I know exactly how old he is. I've been charting his professional life against mine and I feel pretty sorry for him; I guess he'll never be able to live up to all I've accomplished. At least he has his money to console him.

On the sixteenth hole par 3, up only one stroke to Chris DiMarco [who had just hit a beautiful shot just ten feet from the pin], Tiger hits a horrible shot off the back of the green that lands on the edge of the second cut. Hitting a ball lying there, lying right on the edge of where the grass gets longer, is difficult for anyone. But to be clinging to a slim lead with just two holes to play in the biggest golf tournament of the year, the stress level doesn't get much higher. All the television commentators were spelling out gloom and doom for Tiger. They said he'd be lucky to get it even close. Tiger proceeds to hit the ball away from the hole and allow it to roll down the green ala something you'd do at a putt-putt course. HE SANK THE SHOT MAKING BIRDIE! If you watched any sports news in the past twenty-four hours, you were sure to see it. The coolest thing was it just hung on the lip of the cup for a second, teasing you on whether or not it would fall [giving The Nike Corporation some great advertisement when they zoomed in on the swoosh logo on the ball], and it just dropped in. Tiger proceeded to lose two strokes on the last two holes but came back to win in a playoff.

The drama was amazing. I think it just goes to show us that you don't need something incredibly fast-paced to make it dramatic. In our world of ever increasing technology and speed, we think it takes more and more to get people's attention. We keep calling for louder and larger, more bang for our buck, and go big or go home. I was enthralled yesterday by grown men walking around a park hitting a little white ball with sticks. Maybe it doesn't take as much as we think it does.

Or maybe I'm just a loser who loves watching golf.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

When I lead worship for our Saturday night Focus service here at church, I use in-ear monitors [Thanks Jeff Lyon for the hook-up]. In-ear monitors are those headphone-type things you see a lot of famous musicians use. No, I'm not trying to be a rock and roll stud for Jesus. It's all rather practical. For those of you unfamiliar with how it all works, let me explain.

You need monitors to hear what your band is playing. Monitors are those speakers that you see facing the band on the stage. From those speakers, the sound techs give you a mix of all the instruments and vocals so everyone can hear each other and stay together. The problem we've been having with our Focus service is that having five or six monitors on the stage makes it extremely loud up there. In order to tone this down a bit, I've gone to using these in ear monitors, which take the place of one of these speakers, mixing the sound into those headphones. Our drummer Brian Coates [yeah, I gave you a shout-out] uses them as well. It's still loud on stage, but there are two less monitors up there blaring out music, so we're making inroads.

I've been struggling here and there as I've been getting used to using the in-ear monitors. Included in the mix, with all the vocals, drums, bass and electric guitars, is the sound of a click track that Brian uses to help stay on rhythm; it sounds a little like the ticking clock sound from the TV show "24." So with all that happening in your ears, you have to really concentrate in order to keep in sync [Bye, Bye, Bye]. For instance, during the past two weeks I've been in the middle of a song and couldn't hear the sound of the drums. This tends to freak me out because if you lose the drums, you can get way off and look and sound ridiculous. I know, I always look ridiculous, but that's another posting.

So last night, as we were practicing, I lost the drums again. I wanted to make sure we nailed so I immediately stopped the band and half-yelled to Jeff and John Handel, who were mixing the sound at the soundboard, "OK, guys. There it happened again! I CANNOT HEAR THE DRUMS PLAYING!" I turned around and looked at Brian who calmly said, "I wasn't playing. That's the part where the drummer doesn't play." Jeff and John back at the soundboard took it all in stride. They just smiled and laughed. They understand that I tend to yell like an idiot when things freak me out. And they still like me.

So thanks Jeff and John for putting up with me when you're mixing the sound. You take a lot of crap and do some incredible work. I'll try to keep my diva attitude at home on Saturday nights.

My Aunt Barbara

Dear Barbara,

Since you passed away Sunday night, it’s been difficult dealing with all these emotions that we have within us. I think the best way to do so is to talk about you. There are too many stories about you to tell. I’ve been receiving calls and emails all week from people who knew you who had no idea that I was your nephew; each person seems to have their own story about you. I’m sure during the months and years to come, we’ll remember even more. I really need to tell a few of them right now. I apologize if I mess up parts of these stories; you know how we Carr’s are prone to bouts of exaggeration.

The other day Uncle Roger told me a story about you from your childhood days. Hanging out at the Dempsey Pool in Price Hill, an older girl came up and bullied him around. He went and told you about it and you, despite being much shorter this girl [I don’t think you were ever five feet tall, were you?], beat the girl up. Then you warned all the other kids that if anyone else messed with her brother that they would have to answer to you. And Roger said that after that, no one dared touch him. I can’t believe you were such a punk! You were so cool. And so Westside.

You always wanted everyone to feel special. On my brother Chris’s birthday you threw him a party and invited our cousins. I guess this wasn’t grand enough for you, so you invited a bunch of kids from your church and your neighborhood to come too [I guess it didn’t matter that Chris didn’t know half the kids at his own party!]. You decided to take everyone to the park in your van. On arriving you realized someone was missing. It was me. Aunt Barbara, you had remembered all those kids and drove off without me, leaving me at your house! I was four-years old at the time, left Home Alone. They later made a movie about it. It starred Macaulay Culkin. I never saw a dime of that money. I’ve told that story a lot though, so thanks.

When our parents left town for a weekend getaway and needed someone to watch us, we always asked for you. You’d take us to Supreme Nut and Candy on Glenway Avenue and give us a dollar to spend. Speaking of a dollar, you could stretch one like Silly Putty. You knew how to get the most fun at the lowest possible price. We always had the best times when you were took care of us.

I always saw you at the North American Christian Convention because of Uncle Gary’s job. When we were playing Bible Bowl, you always offered your hotel room as a place to hang out [did you have to wear those old pajamas though?]. At the convention, I usually participated in the preaching competition. You’d show up and listen attentively and tell me what a wonderful job I did. I did so bad sometimes that I was sure you were lying. But I know you were sincere. You were just proud of your nephew.

Every once in awhile you’d give us a kiss on the cheek while wearing the brightest red lipstick ever invented. That lipstick was impossible to get off. I have to admit that it was icky. But for some strange reason, we didn’t seem to mind as much because it was from you.

Just recently you stopped by my brother and sister-in-laws house. My nephew Samuel loves pickles and you made sure to give him one. Who stops by someone’s house to give a kid a pickle? Only you.

Thanksgiving will never be the same without you. One Thanksgiving years ago my brother Tim was showing off the new stereo he had in his room in the basement. It quickly turned into a dance party when you got involved, dragging the rest of the family in there. Only you could have had Grandma dancing around on a waterbed while Billy Ray Cyrus sang, “Don’t Tell My Heart, My Achy, Breaky, Heart . . .” Somewhere there’s a video tape of this. It would be priceless to watch. Thanks for proving that we Carr’s have rhythm.

Another Thanksgiving, just a few years ago, my sister Becky was complaining of some pains. Now Becky, even to her own admission, can be a tad dramatic at times. It soon escalated to the point that she was writhing on the kitchen floor in pain. Dad, in tune with how Becky was, told her to stop playing around. But you went over, holding on to Becky, saying that they needed to rush her to the emergency room. Apparently she was passing some kidney stones. I guess you were right. Even if Becky wasn’t sick, you still would’ve reacted the same way.

While there are tons of other stories out there, this is the one I will cherish forever. Growing up I was a huge Pete Rose fan, but since the Reds traded him to the Philadelphia Phillies in the late seventies, I had never seen him play in person. I guess you knew how much I liked him because when I was seven years old you, Uncle Gary, Grandma and me went to Riverfront Stadium to see him play when the Phillies were in town. I remember it was a school night and it was probably the latest I had ever been allowed to stay up. Afterward we went to the Frisch’s on Central Parkway. All of this so I could see Pete play ball. I’ll never forget that night as long as I live.

If I could pick one object to describe you and what you meant to the our family, it would be Elmer’s glue. Over the past twenty-five years our family has been through a lot. Through thick and thin, you were the constant, trying to keep everyone together. That was so selfless of you. You always cared about other people. You were such an includer, not wanting anyone to feel left out. No matter how bad things were, it was impossible not to smile when you were around.

Your personality was magnetic. Your laugh was intoxicating. Your smile was illuminating. There will never be another Barbara. Our lives have been truly blessed to have had you in it. I’m sorry I never told you this while you were with us. But I know you know how I felt. I’ll miss you more than you could ever have imagined. I’ll do my best to keep the stories alive so that other people can see how truly amazing you were. I love you.

See you soon,
steve


*** If anyone reading this has a good Barbara story, feel free to add it by clicking on the Comments button below.

For The Love Of The Game

We weren’t much of a sports family growing up. I was the only person in the house really interested in sports at all. This meant I watched a lot of Ohio State football on a black and white TV in the basement. When my grandparents, who liked baseball, moved in with us I would watch Reds games with them. And when it came to actually playing sports, it was even worse. No one ever really taught me the fundamentals of sports, so I would do my best to pick up what I could. My dad did buy my one of those baseball practicing things that wrapped around a pole so when you’d hit the ball it would come back to you. But our basement really never had the height where I could swing a bat without hitting the heating duct, so I was afraid to use it. I’m not whining here. I had a great childhood that I wouldn’t trade for anything. It’s just that I was never very good at sports until near the end of my college days. You know how there’s that point in a child’s life where they finally get their coordination? Yeah, I got mine at age 19. Fortunately now, none of these people I play sports with know how truly horrendous I was while growing up.

Um . . . except for basketball.

This morning I woke up before dawn and headed down to CCU to play basketball with some guys there [I’d much rather save the half hour drive and play in our gym here at church, but there are never enough guys to get games going]. If you’ve ever seen me on the court you can testify to this: I can’t play basketball. I to this day have never learned how to shoot- I use a two-handed jump shot. I shoot more like a girl than Kelly does. People who don’t know me stare at me when I shoot and then ask if I’m serious. I swear, I’ve tried to learn the “proper form” but it’s pointless. I’m too far gone to try to fix it now.

Regardless of my dumb-looking shot, I still love to play and refuse to let it keep me down. The one redemptive thing is that basketball allows you to make up for it through hustle and defense; even at 29, I can outrun some of these college guys with my speed. But it’s still demoralizing to shoot as poorly as I do. Reflecting on my performance this morning, I’ve decided to share my shooting line from this morning with you so you can get an idea of what I’m talking about. We played 3 games to ten points a game, counting field goals as one point and 3-pointers as two.

4 for 11 shooting, 0 of 2 from behind the three point line. Two turnovers.

Yeah, pretty bad, especially considering that 3 of those misses were lay-ups. I did cause six turnovers and I made about six rebounds. But of course, this is pick-up basketball, so I guess I’m a loser for even telling you. But no matter how bad I suck, I’m gonna keep going out there, fearlessly embarrassing myself. Because I’ve got spirit. Yes I do. I’ve got spirit. How ‘bout you?

I'm a pastor

I’m in my seventh year of full-time professional ministry. I first realized that I wanted to become a minister after my sophomore year in high school. I didn’t get struck by a lightning bolt from God or hear his voice audibly calling me. I just liked the idea of getting paid to speak. Being from a small church, I was able to preach my first sermon at the age of ten which allowed me ample opportunity to develop my public speaking tools. That’s why I wanted to go into the ministry: I wanted to preach.

So I graduated Bible College and was unable to find a preaching job. Well actually, that’s not entirely true. I could’ve taken a preaching gig if I wanted to relocate to an area of the country where the banjo is the instrument of choice and lard is the fifth food group. I chose, however, to stay in the city and do youth ministry. After that, I went back to work at the Bible College [or the Christian University, if you prefer] and finally ended up here at Mason. Seven years after graduating school with a preaching degree, I am still not preaching. Good work, Steve.

That used to bother me, but now I could care less. God’s been working on me, redefining what I saw as ministry. I thought anything other than preaching wasn’t doing real ministry. But during the past few years God has taught me the value of being a pastor. The terms might sound the same: minister and pastor. But pastoring people is altogether different than just being a minister. It’s all about investing in people’s lives; seeing them through the highest highs and lowest lows; sharing in their laughter but joining them in tears- urging them to draw them closer to God. It’s a lot of low-profile, never-ending work that’s exhausting: weddings and hospitals, births and deaths, one after the other. I’ll admit, that if you went back in time, to the end of my sophomore year in high school and tried to sell me this job, I don’t think I would have signed on. But during these past few years God has shown me how rewarding it can truly be. I’m grateful I’ve been able to do what I’ve done.

My aunt took her own life Sunday night. She was the most amazing Christian lady you’d ever care to meet [I’m going to post something about her during the next few days]; it was so unexpected. Yesterday I was with my uncle early in the morning, praying with him in this horrendous time. Then I had to break the news to my grandmother that her daughter had died. It was one of the darkest days in my life but, please don’t take this wrong, it wasn’t too bad. God has been preparing me to pastor, and it sorta flowed out naturally yesterday. It’s been a hellish time for our family, and I know it’s just beginning, but I’m extremely thankful that God has prepared me for this. I guess He’s known all this time what He’s been doing in my life.

There’s no other job I’d rather do.

John Paul II

It's difficult for a Protestant to offer reflections on the passing of a pope, but being from the westside of Cincinnati I'm probably as qualified as many Catholics are. Despite the fact that I've lived "under the reign" of three popes, the only one I remember at all is John Paul II. It's been said that he was the most widely traveled pope in the history of the office [which spans almost 2,000 years] and that he has blessed more people during his papacy than the combined total of popes for the last 200 years. And with the advent of cable/satellite television and the internet, this was the most visible pope ever. Unfortunately, this left John Paul's declining health fully exposed for the whole world to see, but he managed to handle it with unparalleled composure. There's already a rumor that he died while staring out at the throngs of visitors in St Peter's Square, offering a blessing to them all and concluding his life by uttering the word "Amen." Sounds a little contrived, but with this guy, I actually believe it.

You have to respect the way that he stood for his church's convictions in the midst of a changing world. There were plenty of opportunities for him to be the pope that destroyed long established Catholic church teachings concerning celibacy or birth control or even homosexuality for that matter. Doing so would have made him immensely popular worldwide, but it would have damaged the reputation of the papacy.* He had a keen understanding of the world and how to get what he wanted. Just look at what he was able to do in his homeland. Many historians say that he was the catalyst of the Solidarity movement in Poland, crediting him for driving out communism there.

As much hatred there is out there for the Catholic Church, no one was able to launch a successful attack against this pope. Sinead O'Conner tried to and it killed her singing career [or was it her music that did that?]. John Paul did his best to stay above reproach and it looks like he was successful.

This next few weeks are going to be fascinating as the Roman Catholic church attempts to find someone else to step in and fill his shoes. I predict that it will be impossible. There will most likely be no other pope is influential and popular as John Paul II in my lifetime.

* I know it might seem humorous to discuss damaging "the reputation of the papacy" when there are plenty of occurrences of misdeeds performed by popes over the past two-thousand years. There were teenage popes and even those that fathered children. Yet this part of the past is either widely ignored or unknown by Catholics, so one would have to say that in 2005 the papacy has a good reputation. Perhaps this is another affirmation of the influence of John Paul II and of the power that he wielded while in office. It looks like he was even able to reform history.

Regergitating the past

I almost threw up last night. Just thought you needed to know. I tell you because it's somewhat significant: I only puke about once a decade.

Last time: 1995. I was in college. It was a Wednesday night. Went bowling at Western Bowl and decided to get a couple orders of Nachos. I had an indoor soccer game, then afterward stopped off at Frisch's for a hot fudge cake. About 1:30 in the morning I was worshipping the porcelain gods at a toilet in the dorm.

Time before that: 1981. I was in the first grade. It was a weeknight. Ironically, my teacher that year was Mrs Barth [I couldn't make stuff like that up]. I don't think I had even had the chicken pox yet. I was lying on our living room couch, not feeling too well because I was running a fever. I hadn't eaten anything but soup, so there wasn't too much damage done. The good news was that hurling was an automatic no school for the next day. I'm sure I upchucked a lot more before 1981, but since then it's only been those two times.

That's why I seriously thought Friday night was it. But my lack of vomiting experience might have hurt me in the long run. At what should've been the moment of truth, I came up zeroes. I camped out by the toilet for half an hour and then fell back asleep in the hallway.

Anyway, I'm on a once a decade schedule here. So far I'm halfway through this one and I have yet to produce. I'd start a betting pool if I were you; I have this strange feeling about October 2007.

Wonder how I'd do on Fear Factor?

Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Select, Start

Perhaps the perfect follow up to my What the Bleep? post would have to be this true story [if this really is reality, mind you] coming out of Shanghai about video gaming. Apparently, one man stabbed another man to death because he stole his cyber sword. Um, by "cyber sword" I mean an imaginary sword that only exists in a video game. Here's the lowdown:

"Qiu Chengwei, 41, stabbed competitor Zhu Caoyuan repeatedly in the chest after he was told Zhu had sold his 'dragon saber,' used in the popular online game, 'Legend of Mir 3.'" I guess Qiu lent the video game weapon to Zhu who then sold it to someone else. Qiu went to the police to report the crime, who I guess told him to go get a life because they couldn't arrest a guy for selling an imaginary sword. This lack of justice incited Qiu to violence.

OK, if the story ends here, that's plenty enough to make me shake my head in disbelief, but it's not over yet. Perhaps what is even more ridiculous is how much cash old Zhu ended up getting for this cyber sword: almost $900. NINE HUNDRED DOLLARS! FOR A VIDEO GAME SWORD! THAT YOU WOULD NEVER BE ABLE TO HOLD IN YOUR HANDS! THAT TOM CRUISE WOULD HAVE BEEN UNABLE TO WIELD IN THE LAST SAMURAI!

I deliberately stay away from video games and this is exactly why. Well, not that I'm afraid of getting killed for pawning off someone's cyber sword, but for losing touch with reality. The video game industry, which used to direct their marketing efforts towards parents to buy games for their kids, are now marketing adult games to adults. We Generation X'ers never grew up. Hooray for us. Now I'm not going to play holier than thou here: I was pretty skilled at removing the spinal column of that Hollywood dude with sunglasses in Mortal Combat when I was in college [Sub-zero was da bomb]. But when I was a senior in college I finally gave my Sega Genesis away to an 11 year-old. True, giving away a violence filled game like that to a child probably wasn't the wisest decision, but the kid turned out OK, and I haven't owned a video game system since.

This story of Qiu and Zhu proves that you can get so involved in a game that you lose the ability to distinguish between reality and fantasy. Video games are like any other addictive vice: moderation is the key. Not to offend my gaming friends, but "check yo'self before you wreck yo'self" because you might just be an addict. Step away from the controller every once in awhile and get some sun. Use sunscreen. Leave your cyber sword at home where it belongs.

If Roald Dahl were writing his Willie Wonka books today, I'm positive the Oompa Loompas would sing a song about Play Station.

***Note: The title of this posting is the code you used to have to enter in at the beginning of the Nintendo game Contra to get unlimited lives. How sad is it that I can remember that but nothing that I learned in high school math?

What the Bleep?

Just to let you know, they had some problems with Blogger yesterday so I was unable to post. Maybe someday I'll stop being cheap and bust out from under the Blogger umbrella. But it serves me well enough for now.

Tuesdays are my day off, which is also the day they release new movies to DVD. So it's sorta become a ritual for me to head on down to Hollywood Video and pick up some flicks that I can hold on to until Sunday. It was slim pickins aesthete[Can you say Fat Albert?], so I picked up some movies that have been out a few weeks that we missed while we were out of the country.

I finally rented the movie What the Bleep Do We Know? I had heard some buzz about it. It didn't do too well in the theaters, but it has been developing underground cult status since its recent release to DVD. I found the format of the movie to be somewhat riveting as it cuts in and out between the storyline, testimonials from experts and rather interesting CGI graphics. What The Bleep attempts to answer question, "What is the meaning of life?" beginning the dialogue with quantum physics and ending in some sort of new age/scientific mumbo-jumbo.

The film begins with basic quantum physics and questioning what reality really is. It then leads into a discussion concerning the power of our minds to affect what we think reality is. Finally, we are told that it is we who play the role of God in this world- that there is no good or evil; it's up to us to determine right and wrong [by the way, I think it was CS Lewis who wrote that everyone's a relativist until you touch what's theirs]. Yeah, pretty interesting stuff. The movie falls short of what it claims to accomplish, answering no questions, while offering pie-in-the-sky theories and additional deep questions.

I do, however, think this is a movie that Christians need to see. I can see lost people flocking to this film to help them figure their lives out. This movie is a perfect hybrid of modern science and postmodern philosophy, giving it a broad base of appeal. The storyline will most likely resonate among those seeking ways to fulfill the spiritual longing in their lives.

After watching the film yesterday afternoon, I had Kelly watch it with me last night. Chances are, I'll try to watch it one more time before I return it to make sure I'm getting the jist of what they're trying to say. And apparently there's bonus material on the flip side of the DVD that I haven't gotten to yet.

I'd be interested to hear what those who have seen the movie think about it. More can be found at the movie's website: www.whatthebleep.com

From Seinfield to Easter Egg Hunts

I've gotta go around the block for this one, but feel free to come along for the ride.

There's a great Seinfeld where Kramer likes to spend so much time in the shower he decides to install a garbage disposal so he can prepare food there. It's the same episode where Elaine's co-worker is a germophobe and her boyfriend is a recovering germophobe. After eating food prepared in Kramer's showers, her boyfriend Puddy exclaims, "GERMS! GERMS!"

That's what I've felt like the past few months. I was obsessed with not catching anything before our trip so I took all the necessary precautions. I was popping vitamins like they were going out of style. I kept my eye out for people who seemed to be sick and avoided them at all cost. I even used that hand sanitizer usually reserved for the ultra-germophobe. Fortunately, I made it through the whole trip without so much as a sniffle. In fact, I haven't been sick this entire winter. Then we get back to the States and everybody has this cold/flu thing, which I still wanted absolutely nothing to do with. So I attempted to maintain my ways of quarantine. Yesterday during our Easter services, where I shook a hundred hands and repeatedly emptied garbage cans, I must have washed my hands 15 times. I did everything I could do.

I now have a terrible cough that I can't get rid of.

So last night I ask Kelly if we have any NyQuil tablets [you know- the nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, take me and you won't wake up till Labor Day medicine]. She said she thought we did, but I checked out the medicine cabinet and didn't see any. I decided I'd take DayQuil tablets instead. DayQuil is supposed to do the same thing as NyQuil except it won't knock you out. It did stop me from coughing . . . . at 3:00 this morning. I got about three hours of uncontinuous sleep last night as I constantly woke up coughing. By the way, I saw on the news this morning that this is Sleep awareness Week. I am well aware that I didn't get any sleep last night.

This morning, as Kelly was leaving for work, I heard her say "STEVE!" Not the normal sweet "Steve" as in "Steve, you're the prettiest man alive." No, this was more like the, "Steve, would it kill you to put your cereal bowl in the dishwasher?" kind of "Steve. " She flung an entire box of NyQuil at me and said, "Do you think you got what you deserved for not looking hard enough for this last night?" To my credit, it was generic NyQuil [something called "WalQuil"], and it came in a purple box whereas I believe the official NyQuil tablets are in a green box. So maybe it wasn't all my fault.

Then again, I've always been a horrible looker. Growing up, I was always asking my mom if we had a certain kind of food in the fridge, her saying we did, me saying I didn't see, her asking if I really looked for it, me answering that I did, her pulling it out of the fridge, and me blaming the milk for obstructing my view. I'm pretty sure there are four people I knew from the days of my youth who are still missing due to my inability to finish games of Hide-And-Go-Seek. And you know those 3-D pictures that came out in the 90's that you were supposed to stare at and an image would appear? I never, ever saw the stupid thing; to this day I'm not sure if that whole picture thing was part of an elaborate hoax to fool people like me.

Maybe that's why I truly despise Easter Egg hunts. I always used to blame the pagan origins of the exercise as the reason I hate them. But maybe that's just a huge smoke screen to mask the inferiority complex I have because I'm a bad looker. But honestly, is there no better way to remember the resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ than to search far and wide for hard-boiled chicken embryos? At least we can Biblically prove that we have to give Christmas gifts to each other because the three wisemen [there had to be three, right?] gave gifts to the Christ child.

And maybe all these ramblings here are a mere reflection of the lack of sleep I had last night.

I've coughed 27 times since beginning this posting.

"GERMS! GERMS!"

The Goodest Friday.

Today is Good Friday. This is the day we remember a Friday two-thousand years ago when Jesus was crucified. For the first times in a few years, I get the day off work. We slept in this morning and will head down to Lexington to see the in-laws.

There's a Cincinnati tradition called "praying the steps" outside the Holy Cross-Immaculata Church on Good Friday. For those unfamiliar with the topography and geography, the "Church of the Steps" is located just outside of downtown Cincy on the top of Mount Adams. There's a stairway of a couple hundred steps at the bottom the hill that lead up to the church. Every year for almost 150 years, Catholics have shown up to the church on Good Friday to say a prayer on every step until they reach the top.

Now many of us Protestant-type folk hear stuff like this and want to make fun of them. "It makes no difference where we pray," we scoff. "Why go out in the freezing rain for that?" And there's the ever popular, "Jesus died to free hollow traditions, not so that we could become slaves to more traditions," I know these statements well because I made them for years. There's something about NOT growing up Catholic in Cincinnati that tends to make you bitter and biting towards Catholics. I think I'll write more about that topic in a later posting, because many of you know what I'm talking about.

But here's the truth: I now find myself kinda jealous. How cool is it to have a spiritual legacy, like praying the steps, that runs deep? There are people who have been doing this thing fifty years. I even know a couple of people from my church who decided that they were going to pray the steps this year- yes, well educated Protestant, evangelical Christians. I don't know, but maybe the Catholics are getting this one better than we. Criticize all you want, but what are you doing this year to remember that Jesus died for you? What are our churches doing to remember the day? Chances are we'll zip through the day and not give it a second thought, treating it like President's Day or Labor Day. It's so like me to attempt to surgically remove dust from other's eyes while somewhat distracted by a Lowe's 2x4 in my own eye.

Why is this Friday good? Because for Jesus it was so bad. I'm gonna do my best to remember why I'm off work today.

*An article about this tradition was in yesterday's Enquirer: http://news.enquirer.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20050324/LIFE/503240317/-1/BACK

A Bunch Of Bull

I love Cincinnati. It's my hometown and I'd love to spend the rest of my life here. Yet I always find myself on the offensive trying to refute negative stereotypes people have about my city. I've talked to people who have moved here from other parts of the country who criticize Cincy as a hillbilly, midwestern town. "There's nothing to do here. It's the most boring city in America," I've heard people say. When I hear stuff like that, it ticks me off and I kick something. We're not hicks; we're a regional center of education, industry, and commerce capable of impacting the world. Did you hear we almost brought the 2012 Olympics here? We're going places- so back off!

But then there are things like yesterday, when a cow gets loose in the streets of the city. There he was, prancing around like that elk at the beginning of Northern Exposure. And of course, it made all the national media. I saw it this morning while watching Sports Center, for crying out loud! So here we are again, backwards Cincinnatians, with cows roaming the streets. They did finally catch it in a valley near Deaconess Hospital after a few hours.

I guess it wouldn't have been so bad if the same thing hadn't happened twice within three years. But adding insult to injury, they ended up killing this cow. Apparently after you tranquilize the animal, its meat is no longer safe for consumption. So instead of sending to a cow sanctuary like the first one, they drove a bolt through its head [not to be too graphic, but it's in the Enquirer article you can read above]. Hooray for us. Cows roam our streets and we put bolts through their skulls.

So I'm about ready to give up. Maybe I should just except who we are. Maybe everyone is right and we are a bunch of rednecks. So I'm going to WalMart right now to buy me a white tank-top and a can of Skoal. I'm giving up my shoes, going squirrel hunting, and putting a big number 3 sticker on the back of my car [I guess I'll have to get the accompanying one of the little boy peeing on the number 24 too]. I'm from Cincinnati. I'm a hick. I should just get used to it.

Our Guide Steve

I don't know if all this will come across as funny as it was in real life, but I have to give it a try anyway. While we were in Israel, the tour company assigned a guide to us, to lead us around the sites and point out little-known facts about the locations. Our guide's name was Steve.

Steve is 64 years old and is from New York City. Since he was born Jewish, he took advantage of the opportunity to relocate to Israel and become a citizen there. All Israeli young men, and now even women, are required to serve two years in the military. Steve had objections to Israel's policy concerning the Palestinians and refused to serve in the West Bank. So the government threw him into jail for seven years. When he was released he went to Syracuse University to get a PhD in some kind of religious/sociological field [he really didn't want to talk about it] and has been a professional guide for about 25 years. He's fluent in Modern Hebrew, Arabic, German and French and knew both the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures forwards and backwards.

Usually people as intelligent as Steve are rather eccentric. And I believe that in all my years of life on Planet Earth I've never met another character like him. For some reason he reminded me of Charlton Heston as seen in Michael Moore's Bowling For Columbine. He walked everywhere with both a fanny pack, a backpack, and a megaphone contraption. He didn't move his arms while walking. And after he finished speaking a thought, he would stare off into space, as if waiting for the voice inside his head to give him permission to move on. Oh, and in the middle of the week he began telling us stories in a mouse voice. It was impossible to have a normal conversation with him. Yeah, he was classic.

So at one point during the week, while we were at the bottom of the temple mount area, he pulled out his Bible and read Psalm 24- the whole "Who will ascend the hill of the Lord" text. And once again, when he finished reading the text, he stared off into space [everytime he read Scripture, it was as if he was auditioning for Macbeth]. He then, from his Jewish perspective, talked about the importance of temple worship and approaching the temple mount. Interesting info, just a different kind of presentation.

Later that afternoon we had the opportunity to walk through Hezekiah's Tunnel. The tunnel, a waterway which King Hezekiah built to bring water into the city, is located in the Old City of David, just south of the temple mount. We knew we would be walking in a water filled cave that was four-football fields long. Steve's story was the the water would probably go up to our knees. I guess his interpretation of knees is different than mine; at some points, I had water up to my chest. After 45 minutes of traversing the chilly water in the tunnel, we exited at the Pool of Siloam. It was about 5pm. It was fifty degree weather with a blowing wind. We had no change of clothes and no towels to dry off with. We were freezing our butts off. Adding to the experience was that the place where we ended up was at the bottom of this hill south of Jerusalem.

So we're marching up this huge steep hill to get back to the rest of our group. There's traffic flying by on the road next to us. We're soaked and cold, tired and miserable, all while following our tour guide Steve in a straight line up the mountain. He hadn't said a word to us in ten minutes. Then all of the sudden he stops. He pauses and looks at us. And he shouts out in his loud theatrical voice:

"WHO WILL ASCEND THE HILL OF THE LORD?"

And then he pauses, looking up to the sky for five seconds. And he begins walking again without saying another word for like fifteen minutes.

It was the craziest thing I ever saw. I tried holding back but I just started cracking up. It was like something out of a movie.

And I'll never read Psalm 24 the same way ever again.

Right To Die?

One of the news items we missed while being overseas was the whole issue with a 41 year-old woman named Terri Schiavo in Florida. Schiavo suffered brain damage about fifteen years ago when her heart stopped briefly because of a chemical imbalance. Since then she has been in a semi-comatose state and has needed a feeding tube to keep her alive. Her husband Michael said that Terri wouldn't have wanted to stay living like this and has fought for the right to remove her feeding tube. A judge gave the order for it be done at the end of last week and for four days now she's been starving to death. This is the third time her tube has been removed, with courts stepping in the first two times to save her life. No one's quite sure how it will turn out this time.

This issue goes far beyond the right-to-die issue. Suicide is when people decide to terminate their own lives. Terri hasn't articulated her desire to die [of course, she's unable to], but we're to take her husband's word that this is what she said she would've wanted. Michael is Terri's legal guardian and, according to these courts, he has the right to say that she should die.

Terri's parents and siblings have been caring for her for years, while her husband apparently hasn't seen her for years. He's since moved on to have kids with his girlfriend and could probably just divorce her and hand over guardianship to the family. But he refuses to do so. So one individual gets to choose that another individual should cease to live; sounds more like murder to me.

I know that even some Christians aren't sure how to feel about this- pro-life Christians for that matter. This very issue was brought up in the Academy Award winning movie Million Dollar Baby. Is life still valuable and worth living even when it's not up to the standard we wish it were? There are all these arguments in support of "death with dignity," but dignity itself is a subjective issue. I wouldn't deem starvation a dignified death. There are a lot of hot button issues out there that cause division among people, but the only people who seem to be in favor of killing Terri Schiavo are her husband and some judges. Something is certainly demented about this whole thing.

Sidenote: Peggy Noonan wrote an interesting article in the Wall Street Journal Op/Ed section on the lack of political power the Republican controlled government has been able to wield in this issue. Since the election I've been sick of politics and haven't cared to discuss much about it, but now that the Republicans- the protectors of Judeo/Christian values- have control of the government, how is it that they're unable to step in and make something happen here? Perhaps of all the things on the Bush agenda, the abuse of the checks and balances system by judges should be brought to the forefront. Yet another reason why I put no faith in government.

We Interrupt This Regularly Scheduled Program . . .

Hi. It's Kelly. I've temporarily taken over Steve's blog to say a few words.

UK ROCKS!

I stand on behalf of UK fans everywhere, especially those living in Cincinnati, to claim victory. The debate is finally over -- no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Kentucky is the dominant team. We knew it all along, but I'm glad it's now been proven to those misguided Cincinnati fans.

I don't have to take an ad out in the local newspaper or get published in the fancy Enquirer to make it known. I just let my team do the talking.

So, as I told you, Steve, I gave you one night of gracious winning. Today is the day I rub it in your face.

Enough said.

Bearcat Lament

In a week where everything was going my way, I wanted the cherry to top the sundae. Who am I kidding? I wanted the New York strip steak to top that thing off. I guess it just wasn't meant to be. UC was beat by UK. Or actually, if you watched the game, UC lost the game as opposed to getting beat.

Now I know this comes off as sour grapes, but if you really watched the game, you can attest to the fact that statistically Kentucky did everything they needed to do to win a game and still Cincinnati was in a position to win. I think with like 8 minutes left it was only a three point game. After shooting over 50% in the first half, the Bearcats ended up shooting something like 32%. Do that math and you'll see that they just fell off the face of the earth. They had all the tools they needed to dominate in the paint and they never got the ball down low. All I can say is there'll be a ton of UC fans this morning calling for a jihad on Jihad.

As for how things went last night, Kelly was wise enough to invite another couple to come watch the game with us [thanks Paul and Carol]. At first I thought that was a bad idea, but it was rather brilliant. I swear I decided I would be a passive fan at the beginning of the game, but after those first few minutes of bad calls and poor defense, I was yelling at the TV. I was up and down yelling for almost two hours straight. I was giving it the effort I would have if I was in Indianapolis at the game. All to no avail. I don't think Bob Huggins heard any of the advice I was yelling at him through our 32 inch Sony television.

And how are things at the homestead? To my wife's credit, she's been a gracious and compassionate victor. I'm sure that'll end sometime this afternoon. But if the shoe were on the other foot, I'd be rubbing in a UC victory over UK until the apocalypse.

Oh, and with Wake Forest losing last night my bracket has officially imploded, so it's time to move on. So it's on to baseball and the Reds who have a revamped pitching staff that should keep us competitive. Then Masters is in a couple weeks; watching golf at August is awesome. And then Ohio State should have a good team back this fall. The Bengals finally signed Rudy and looked primed for a run. And then UC has everyone but Maxiell back and has some good recruits on tap.

I don't know what I'll do to take my mind off this devastation, though. Yes, Chicken Little, the sky has fallen.

Published too

I sent a copy of my last blog post to the Cincinnati Enquirer who decided to post it in this morning's paper. You can read their abbreviated version here: http://news.enquirer.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20050319/EDIT01/503190326/1020/EDIT

Will the real Cats please stand up?

"So let it be written. So let it be done."

With victories in the NCAA basketball tournament yesterday, the University of Cincinnati Bearcats and the University of Kentucky Wildcats will finally play each other this Saturday night for the first time in 14 years. But honestly, their not playing each other never really bothered me too much. I was always familiar with UK basketball, but I didn't care for it. Both my parents' families were from Kentucky, but sports were never a big deal in my house growing up; there was never an issue of who we should or shouldn't root for. Despite my Bluegrass roots, I was born and raised on the north side of the Ohio River so there my loyalties lie. I am from Cincinnati, so I cheer for the Bearcats. It's that simple. I couldn't have cared less about Kentucky basketball. But all that changed in 1997.

That's when I became romantically involved with the woman who would become my wife. A young lady born and raised in Lexington, Kentucky. Yes friends, I married a UK fan.

Simplicity gave way to complexity as I married this Kentucky girl. If I was going to make the marriage work [and especially if I wanted to gain access to my father-in-law's season tickets at Rupp Arena], I would have to make peace with the UC/UK issue. Over the past eight years of our relationship, I've evolved into a UK follower. Now for the record, I'd like to differentiate between being a "UK follower" and a "UK fan." As a "follower" I'm interested in what UK is doing and will watch and even cheer for them. They are not, however, my team. I am not a "UK fan." Cincinnati is my team. I am a UC fan. That will never change. But I've been able to achieve a yin-yang type oneness with the situation, keeping my allegiance while supporting hers. And to my wife's credit, she has done the same thing for me. She's become a UC follower. It even shows through our interior decorating: we have one room in our house painted in Cincinnati red and one in Kentucky blue.

Yet the one thing that always allowed us to balance these two opposing allegiances was that Cincinnati and Kentucky never played each other since we've been together. And now, thanks to the NCAA seeding committee, that will finally end Saturday. My wife and I will be forced to sit down and watch a game where we will root against each other's team. So far, we're keeping it together at home. We're still speaking to each other and there are no duct-taped lines around the house. I won't lie to you though: I refuse to eat any of her cooking until the game is over [and I might have to wait even longer depending on the outcome of the game]. And I'll sleep this evening with one eye open.

Since we've been together UK has won a national championship and UC . . . well, they were on the verge of doing so until Kenyon Martin broke his leg in 2000. UK has had Elite Eights and Final Fours while UC has seen repeated second-round tournament exits. She's always had the basketball bragging rights. But maybe all that will finally change tomorrow. Sure, it won't match UK's seven championship banners to UC's two, but if UC can pull it off, I'll be hoisting an imaginary banner to the rafters in my mind. I will walk around our house an empowered man, my troubled soul finally rewarded with a sense of comfort.

So it's Bearcats verses Wildcats. North verses South. Ohio verses Kentucky. Nick Lachey verses Ashley Judd. Me verses my wife. It'll finally be decided Saturday.

I've scheduled a marital counseling session for next week just in case.

The jig is up, the news is out . . .

Sorry I didn't post yesterday; I've been struggling to get caught up. Between jet lag, answering emails and NCAA Basketball brackets, I haven't been able to get back in the groove quite yet.

So about the jet lag- I've never really experienced it until now. It's crazy. The past two mornings I woke up at 2am ready to go to work; up by 5:30 yesterday and 5:00 today. It was pretty easy to adjust to the time over there, but it's been a bear here since we've returned. It has worked to my advantage though. Yesterday morning I was watching Channel 9's morning news when they said they were giving away Styx/REO Speedwagon tickets. Now in my opinion REO sucks, but Styx, even without Dennis DeYoung, rock. Kelly and I had the chance to see them two summers ago [props to Ashlee Travis] and I've been dying to see them again. So I called into the TV station and the woman who answered said I needed to sing a song to get on the air. I belted out my pre-7am interpretation of "Lady," complete with electric guitar rifts for the chorus. She said I was in, but there was a catch: I would be involved in a sing-off against another viewer for the tickets.

I scanned the internet for the correct lyrics to "Lady" because I wasn't quite fully awake and didn't want to mess up on TV. Right as I was to go on air, my cellphone half-went out on me, so I ran to the front yard for better reception. Because of my technical difficulties the other guy went first, choosing to sing REO's "I Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore." Not to get all Simon Cowell on you, but it was a poor song selection and the guy struggled to find the tune. Then it was finally my turn to rock the mic and I belted out "Lady, when you're with me I'm smiling . . . " worked it with everything I could muster. Oh yes, I owned it. The result: two free tickets and a day filled with phone calls and emails from people saying, "was that you on Channel 9 this morning?"

So the only problem is that if both UC and UK win their games this afternoon [and if they do, you'll be reading about it here tomorrow] then the end of their game on Saturday would be during the concert. I think Kelly and I decided to tape the game, go to the Styx portion of the concert and then watch the game when we get home. Add all that into what we've been through the past few weeks and I'm not sure if life can get any better than this.

I'll keep you posted. But until then, "I'm sailing away . . . "

FINALLY HOME

At 6:34 this evening, Kelly and I walked into our house. It's going to take weeks for me to think about all we've been through, but I'll begin regular postings starting again tomorrow. There's so much to muse about- things that happened there and things we missed while we were gone. We're going to force ourselves to stay up for the next few hours to fight jet-lag, and finally eat some real American food.

We're back!