Respite

One of the attorneys I’m working for is out of town this week, and was nice enough to offer his cushy corner office in his absence. Where am I? Still in the attic. Not sure why, but I like it up here. I have a little fan that keeps the breeze going. My MP3 player is shoehorned full of jazz. I have a supply of Starbucks "DoubleShots," an apple, and a picture of my wife. But today, what really draws it together is the sound of the rain on the roof above me. It’s been so hot and so dry this summer, it’s nice to just remember what rain sounds like, even if it does likely mean I’ll have to drive home with the top up. Maybe I’ll lounge it up in the partner office tomorrow. Today, I’ll play in my law closet.

My summer has settled into a deceptive little routine. Work by 8, lunch at 11, drive at 5, meet with the real estate agent and home builder at 6, dinner at the Eastside Grille, play guitar, go to bed, and when the morning light comes streamin’ in, I’ll get up and do it again. Amen. Dry cleaners on Wednesdays, minor league ball on Thursdays. A man could get used to this. But I know this is borrowed time. In less than a month, I’ll be back at school. My routine will go back to full-time student, part-time husband, "permanent law job" seeker, and amateur stealth pastoral counselor. And I know, even that is temporary. But that’s okay, too. The appearance of routine is a useful illusion. Even a seemingly endless stream of sunny days gets annoying without the occasional shower to freshen things up.

and Peace.

OK, usually, I like to rant about the little, the nothing things in our world. Like, stupid stuff. Like, how crappy my rental cars are. Or, mall culture. Or the minutia of law school. Whatever. No big whoop.

That doesn’t mean I’m not paying attention. I mean, I know the difference between minor petty annoyances and global freakouts. Like, the other day, take my dear friend Cam. Now, you’d think with a name like “Cam,” he’d know that the Honda S2000 has four sets of cams (two overhead for ‘reglar drivin’, and two more for scarin’ the schnot out of everybody else). He didn’t. Hey. I’m ok with that. Cam is good people. And by good people, I mean, people who are much more likely to give you a free book containing another revelation of Jesus the Christ than blow up your family because you read the “wrong” book. Like I said, I like Cam. No harm, no foul, brother. Let’s go for a ride some time!

Which brings me to the last few days. OK, I’m biased. I still think God has a soft spot for Israel. Which is to say, I don’t think I’m the only being to ever fall in love. Let me be as clear as I know how: I am opposed to senseless human suffering. I abhor needless death.

Now let me be equally clear: If you mess with Israel, I hope your term-life policy is paid in full.

Now, another rarity. I don’t dig public displays of religiosity, but, let us pray. ‘God, we’re sorry. We have more blessings than we know what to do with. We have oil, mineral, environmental, and human resources in abundance, yet we hoard like toddlers. Please forgive us. We have an abundance of varieties of ways of expressing our devotion to you, yet we act like we have obtained a divine patent on orthodoxy. Please forgive us. We kill in your name. I’m barely sure how you’ll do so, but please, forgive us. We have applied our theory of “Supply and Demand” to the human condition, thinking our individual value is quantitatively low simply because our supply is relatively high. Please, God of all humanity, forgive us. And even when you took on human flesh to show us how much you value us, we got it all messed up. We declared a land to be “holy” and worshipped and fought over that, instead of declaring humanity to be “blessed,” and honoring and protecting that. I’m sorry, God. We messed up. Again. Please. Forgive us. Again. And save us. From ourselves. Again.’

Amen.

Go Bless Yourself!

OK, occasionally, you need a good rant. Here’s mine. Unless you’re one of those weirdoes who thinks it’s hip to “live off the grid” (and you aren’t, given the fact you are reading this online), you may have had interaction with a customer service professional (read: cashier) who thinks it’s nice or spiritual or vaguely evangelistic to say the following upon your departure: “Have a blessed day!” Now, I’m not opposed to being blessed. In fact, I could really go for a good blessing. Bring on the blessings! And if said blessing should last the whole day, all the better. But, what good does it do to tell ME to have a blessed day? Do they think I have a vote on whether or not I’d be blessed? What? Like I’m sitting around with God constantly pestering me saying,
“Hey, Mike, want me to bless you today?”
“NO! Not today.”
“Oh, come now, my child. Let me bless you just a little.”
“If it’s all the same to you, God, this isn’t really a good time. There’s a cashier I’m trying to annoy by running about all day devoid of blessing. Earlier, I wouldn’t have minded being blessed, but I can’t take this pressure. It’s petty, but that’s how I get my jollies.”
“Well, if you change your mind, there’s this one particular blessing I’ve been working on for a few millennia I’ve been wanting to try out. Let Me know and I’d be glad to bless you.”
“Oh, heavens, no!”
SERIOUSLY! Who is this gonna help? If I’m already being blessed, this is a wasted greeting. If I’m not currently being blessed, this greeting will do little more than remind me that I’m NOT being blessed and make me feel like crap because I didn’t manage to twist God’s arm into blessing me! And if I’m not spiritually inclined, I’m annoyed. And if I am spiritually inclined, I’m probably already doing all I can to invite blessings and don’t need to be reminded of this at Arby’s. Or the cleaners. Or Office Depot. Or after holding for 45 minutes for tech support. I don’t think my blog is frequented by waiters, cashiers, or tech support types, but if you are one, please note: Not that it’s any of your business, but rest assured: I’m richly blessed. Relax. Go back to work. Sheesh.

Too hot to fish, too hot for golf.

Wife started work Monday. I’m still on vacation this week. This would be great except that it’s too hot to wash the car, mow the grass, or form complete thoughts. Fortunately, I’m not in danger of doing any of those things.
So, we went to the mall this weekend. I have come to the uncomfortable conclusion that I have fallen almost entirely outside the demographic that mall culture targets. So, I have had to find new ways to entertain myself while wife does battle with the clearance racks. Like what sort of things you might ask? Go to Spencer’s, find the new fangled high tech fart machines, test them out, and leave before people realize you weren’t testing the machine. Go into Hot Topic: cause, I mean, if they don’t have squares like me to rebel against, sales of chain-bedrenched black stovepipe jeans and “My Chemical Romance” t-shirts would plummet. Sit by the ice rink, because, I mean, how many malls have you seen that conveniently provide a basketball court sized sheet of ice in the middle of July? OK, it’s there all year, but I need this in July. Then there is the classic “make friends with the old men who sit on the bench” game. Or, in a pinch, and I’m not particularly proud of this one, there is people herding. That’s where you use all that stuff you learned in your freshman psych class. Pick a part of a department store with several people in it. Pretend to look at clothes around other shoppers, getting closer and closer to them until you breach the bounds of polite social distance, and move them around like iron filings on a sheet of paper. Good times.