Wes Anderson Party

The early arrivals. Ten points if you can identify them all, five if you at least know which movies.


Max Fischer: Winner of "Shoot the ear off Magnus Buchan"


Rita (Sweet Lime): "Pin the Javelina on the wall"


Mordecai perched on Richie's arm

Back on the Radar/ We Have a Place for You...

We were without internet access for nearly a month, but a couple days ago I traded Charter Communications some cash for access to the outside world. I tried to work a deal by which the nearest Charter office would be provided with enough lemons to tang approximately 3, 562 glasses of iced tea, but they wouldn't go for it. "This ain't the wild west anymore, and I ain't Dr. Quinn," said the operator. "This is the wildest west there ever was," I said with strong conviction and the deepest voice I could muster. Alas, I caved and promised to write a check.
The above picture is of the room we finished most recently. If you want to see others, click on Jenny's name over to the left there. Anyway, this is the guest room. It really doesn't belong to us because it's made up almost entirely of other people's stuff. Seriously, we spent a total of 15 dollars on it (for the sheets, on sale). We painted the walls using some old Behr I found in the shed out back, the end tables are from the Kruses (Jenny painted them white with what was left over from the trim in the kitchen), the map is from Chris, the bed is from my parents, the chair is from Jenny's mom, there's a painting from Vietnam that Tyler gave me, there's a painting Donald Miller told me I could have when he was moving, an old hutch from my parents, and some other knick knacks given to us by friends new and old (no doubt some of those books as well). Anyway, if there's not something from you in there, bring something over and you will be represented. I think it would be cool if everyone who went in there recognized at least one object. Anyway, we're hoping to put a bigger bed in there soon to accommodate the marrieds who don't want to cuddle for 8 hours. So, that's that.

4 to 11 daily. Caint focus no mo.

I basically just stand in a room and talk all day

I'm becoming increasingly convinced that a man needs a certain amount of physical labor in his routine. I'm excited by the prospect of compensating for my pansy day job by digging sprinkler trenches, mowing the lawn, pruning trees, and generally finding reasons to spend a few hours in my backyard. It's a good thing we're buying a house because I was almost to the point where I was going to start doing something really stupid, like lift weights at the gym or something; that's when you know you've hit rock bottom. Plus, Jenny says she'd no longer be attracted to me if get buff arms; at least I'm pretty sure that's what she meant when she said, "You know, I wouldn't mind if you built up your arms a little bit."

Cantankerous!

Taco Bell is always full of characters (I've considered starting a blog devoted entirely to experiences had there) and today was no exception. He sat at a booth, alone, next to one of the windows along the drive thru. I glanced in his direction regularly because through the giant window sticker demanding (not rhetorically asking) "WHY PAY MORE!" I could keep an eye on my bike outside. He must have been at least 70, and he sat hunched over his Gorditas like a pianist playing Rachmaninov on his Steinway. He was a white man with a ruddy complexion, nearly completely bald, and flanked by two bags. To his right, on the bench seat, was a large black backpack that looked to be completely full. To his left, on the ground, was a stuffed bag from Big Lots. When he stood to refill his drink he walked slowly and laboriously, but with confidence and evidence of a strong will. I was able to observe that his black slacks and black polo shirt were separated by a brown braided leather belt, and pinned on his concave chest was a Big Lots employee name badge. He didn't bother sitting down when he returned to his table. Instead, he lifted his backpack, slid his arms through the straps, snatched up his tray full of trash, and headed toward the exit. The Big Lots bag sat forlornly on the smooth tile next to the empty booth.
"Excuse me," I said as I walked up behind him, "Excuse me." No answer. "Sir."
He turned slowly and looked up at me with gunmetal blue eyes. "Yeah?"
"Is that your bag?" I asked while pointing toward his newly available real estate.
"Hell yeah it's my bag," he fired back. "Anybody tries to steal it, I'll knock their face in."
"Nobody's trying to take it, I thought you were leaving."
"I ain't leaving, I'm just trying to take a piss!" And with that, he turned and kept walking. I sure hope nobody stole his bag; for their sake.

For four hours I attempted to memorize terms and processes associated with research and statistics for one of my comprehensive exams on Saturday. Whatever. When Jenny finally arrived home from church I put that junk away and we sat on the porch. In my palm I held a smoothly carved piece of meerschaum given to me by a dear friend while my wife read a passage from Habakkuk; that's what they studied tonight. We talked about our role in the world, the hourly struggles, life and death. It's these times I know who I am and wonder why I spend so much of my life acting as my own distractor.

State of the Union: All is Well

Actually, our country is pretty screwed up. However, I've got Jenny and we've got Christ, and sometimes that bright side shines extra bright. I don't pretend to think anyone cares about how I spend my days, but if I blog about a great day, it gives me a chance to dwell on it for awhile. Purely selfish.
The sky was overcast and the breeze was cold, so we enjoyed the weather for the first time in months. Jenny has her supermodel face on, but it's really because she was sick and couldn't breathe through her nose.

I look very serious because the patio was full and we had to eat inside. Also, Jenny told me to freeze while she took out the camera and snapped a picture. I should have looked much happier, because I had the best shrimp burrito I've ever had.

After walking around downtown for a couple hours, we headed to the Open Air Theatre to see Iron and Wine and Swell Season. We got there really early, so we sat on a bench and listened to Sam Beam do soundcheck. It was a pretty amazing soundcheck though, because he played about eight full songs, and they were all different than the ones he played during his actual set. We had this tourist picture taken when Thomas and Maria met up with us. Double dates rule when they're with cool couples like Thomas and Maria.

The show was pretty great, as was the crowd. Thanks you's were exchanged at the concessions booths, conversations were quiet and clean, people sipped wine and beer without getting wasted, and there wasn't a whole lot of posturing. The only boo's were highly justified when some impatient yokel yelled, "Play the song!" as the Irish frontman (Glen Hansard) of the Swell Season told one of his great, long stories as an introduction to the next tune. Everybody booed the guy very loudly for not appreciating a well told story, then Glen launched into a new story about a stray dog that he remembered from his childhood. He finished the story by looking towards the guy who shouted and admitting, "That doesn't have anything to do with the song, I just wanted to piss you off." The music was tops, but I liked the stories just as much. A world where people are booed for not appreciating a good narrative is a world I like, and I was feeling pretty optimistic as my girl and I travelled up the 15 North.