sour milk

Sometimes a video is worth 10,000 words.

2007-05-19T14:43:00.000-07:00

Epic Roadtrip.

2007-05-19T14:07:00.001-07:00

The time has come.

Reflection on James 4:14

2007-04-27T08:41:00.000-07:00

I saw a dead man today.

He wears a sweater.
Black. Beige. Green.
One of those marble patterns --
Perhaps a Christmas present from my Grandmother years ago.

I saw a dead man today.

One blue light.
Two blue lights.
Three, Four, Five blue lights.
Bike after bike.
Red lights now.

Lying there dead.

How long?
A few minutes?
Couple hours?
All day?

I saw a dead man today.

Gives em' a reason to point the camera down instead of up.
Don't stop walking.
Click.
Just another site of the big city.

I saw a dead man today.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15
Check.
Breath.
Breath.
Check.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15
Check.
Breath.
Breath.
Check.

I saw a dead man today.

Next morning is a new day.
Get out of bed.
Yesterday forgotten.
Stare at my reflection looking back at me.
Don't break eye contact...

I saw a dead man today.

Coming Soon ...

2007-03-18T10:12:00.000-07:00

I promised my loyal readership a post, by Sunday night. And well here it is ... a post nothing less. A post declaring a coming post with the promise of being less time that the last post of promised post before. Look next week to see a post on responsible spending and how and where to support ministries that are empowering groups of the least of these by sound and creative economic start ups. That is all for now. Eat the meat. Smell the milk. Be healthy.

I'm not dead ... just depressed.

2006-07-31T06:38:00.000-07:00

Updates coming soon.

- An examination of the the history of the modern state of Israel.

- Mort and Mel Part II

- America -- The Theocracy?

- Some script ideas

- I pledge allegiance to ...

- Creating theatre people will pay to see in a digital world.

- Environmentalism is finally in style

- Why raising gas taxes may be part of the solution and why it will never happen.

- Whatever else comes up

And the winner is ...

2006-04-07T12:31:00.000-07:00

CONGRATULATIONS TO MARCH'S MILKMAN OF THE MONTH

RYAN NAZIONALE

Winner of Milkman Madness with 107 total pints!

Second place was Mrs. Melissa Cross with 87 total pints.

Third place goes to Mr. Wade Cameron with 79 total pints.

An Honorable Mention goes to the Cross dog -- Moses -- with 77 total pints.

Fun Fact -- Moses picked his bracket by barking at which team it thought would win, when given the match up by his illustrious owners. And that is enough to make the rest of the competition feel like ... well ... you fill in the blank.

Let it be noted ...

2006-04-07T12:14:00.000-07:00

The Cobra said...
Dude, if I had to tell the world how bad you beat me on Oscar Night, I deserve to get some recognition for this one.

CINDERELLA'S ALIVE!!!

2006-03-26T14:18:00.000-08:00

GEORGE MASON!!! ARE YOU KIDDING ME!!!! WHO SAID I'M NOT PATRIOTIC!!! GO PATS!!!

Go George Mason!

2006-03-25T14:35:00.000-08:00

And the scores heading into the Elite 8 ...

Ryan Nazionale with a stellar comeback is leading going into the last three rounds ...

The scores are

Ryan 82 pints
Wade 79 pints
Rockel 65 pints
Melissa 63 pints
Mr. Cross 59 pints
eric. 58 pints
Chuck 54 pints
Moses 52 pints

Here's to milk. Here's to George Mason!

Drink up.

That's the skimmy ... look for the updated scoreboard Sunday night.

2006-03-17T21:32:00.000-08:00

And the standings after the first round ...

1 - Chuck Wade - 27 pts.
2 - Wade Cameron - 25 pts.
3 - Melissa Cross - 23 pts.
4 - Eric Mendenhall - 22 pts.
4 - "Moses Von B 3" - 22 pts.
4 - Ryan Nazionale - 22 pts.
7 - Matt Rockel - 20 pts.
7 - Mr. Cross - 20 pts.

Chuck is in the lead, with an extremely impressive 27 picks out of 32 games.

Stay tuned for a full analysis after the conclusion of the second round this weekend.

Milkman Madness.

2006-03-13T13:17:00.000-08:00

It's March ... time for a little milk.

Everyone interested in joining a tourney fantasy bracket follow the link.

http://wherethecamels.mayhem.sportsline.com/e

The group password is : madness

Scoring is as follows: for each correct pick in each round ...

1st Round: 1 pt.
2nd Round: 3 pt.
3rd Round: 6 pt.
4th Round: 10 pt.
Semifinals: 15 pt.
Finals: 25 pt.

He (or she) with the most points at the end will be crowned

March's -- Milkman of the Month.

Prizes are included.

1st Place - semi-expense paid trip to Atlanta, GA for the 2007 Men's Final Four. Tickets and transportation must be provided by the winner. Accomodations for you and possible a guest will include a couch and a nice patch of floor for some sleeping bags.

2nd place - A congratulations post card in the mail ... from the Mendenhall's. Signed and dated.

3rd place - A pat on the back ... next time I see you.

That's all.

For all other rules and procedures please refer to Robert's Rules of Order.

Let the madness begin.

Mort and Mel -- Part 1

2006-02-07T07:38:00.000-08:00

Once in a land, not too far from your own, there lived two friends. One may even venture to say the best of friends. Their names -- Mort and Mel. Mort was the town milkman and Mel was the town butcher, the meatman if you will. But long before the first udder was tugged, long before the first cow mooed dumbly as it fell to the ground unaware of the cylindrical shaped lead that had been propelled into its skull, Mort and Mel were kids. They grew up together and had almost everything in common; they shared the same sand buckets, in the same sandbox none the less. They shared the same U.N. Moe action figures.[i] They went to the same school, and coincidentally ended up more times than not in the same class. They could not be separated. They were like Bonnie and Clyde, Jonathon and David, Adolph and Benito, Rodgers and Hammerstein, well maybe they really weren’t like any of these … but the issue persists … they were great friends whose names were seemingly inseparable. Things didn’t change much through high school, and then came the fateful day when they graduated. Mel and Mort decided to go into business together. They bought a ranch. Actually they were given a ranch. You see Mort had an uncle that was had a large farm, mostly for sheep. Mort’s uncle had long since moved on but remembered the boys’ affinity for animals and agriculture and left them the old farm and all the accompanying land as a graduation present. And he also left them just enough money to purchase 4 cows and the necessary bull. Things were lovely at the beginning … certainly not easy, but lovely none the less. It’s no easy task building a herd of cows that will be able to turn a profit quickly, but Mort and Mel were a team … the best of teams, and in just a few short years they had become the town’s single source for milk and meat. Mel opened up his own butcher shop in the small downtown, while Mort continued to deliver milk the old fashioned way, day by day, door to door. Mort and Mel -- everyone loved them. They were the lifeline of the town. They frolicked down the street, hand in hand, tossing meat and spraying milk to anyone in need (figuratively speaking of course). And this figurative frolicking continued for many a year as the town grew and grew. It seemed like things couldn’t be any better.

But one day something happened. No one is sure how, and no one is sure when, but it happened – that’s the important thing. Business began to slow. It may be attributed to the town population slowly decreasing as the younger generations moved off to find their fortune in the larger metropolitan areas. Or it may be attributed to the town’s peoples’ new found love of supplementing their diets with prepackaged carbs. A few even attributed it to the few, but increasing, imports of goat meat and goat milk from one of the major cities to the East. But no matter what the reason – business was slightly off for Mort and Mel. Mel remained constant reminding Mort that they were safe. People always need milk and meat for a balanced healthy lifestyle; without them the town would surely perish. Mort wasn’t fully convinced though and began to take cost cutting measures. Mort chose to not feed his cows as much, and this ultimately led to a smaller daily output of milk per cow. Mort remedied this problem by watering down the milk ever so slightly, so little that not even the most avid milk connoisseur would have been able to notice the difference. Mort also made choice to not restock supplies as promptly as usual. As his funds and orders declined things like glass bottles simply seemed like a last priority. But one day Mort’s cost cutting came back to bite him – he had ran out of the proper number of glass bottles. He made an erroneous step in a pile of cow dung and slipped with two entire crates of milk bottles that went crashing to the ground. His brain raced as he tried to figure out what to do. He only had enough milk bottles for 80% of his customers. He couldn’t afford to miss deliveries. Mort suddenly remembered a large stockpile of green glass bottles that had mistakenly been delivered in lieu of his usual order of clear bottles a couple years back. Mort had stored the bottles away in his attic vowing to never use the bottles. For one, the bottles would only hold about half as much milk as the usual milk bottles. The bottles had a useless elongated neck that took away a large part of the functional space. But more than anything Mort couldn’t stand how the green tint on the glass discolored the appearance of the milk and concealed the beautiful pure white that Mort had grown to love over the years. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Mort began bottling the precious milk in the odd shaped green bottles with a tear rolling down his face. He couldn’t believe that he had made the grave error of having too few extra bottles. He could only hope that he wouldn’t ostracize his entire clientele with such a blasphemous practice. The thought crossed his mind that he could just postpone his deliveries a day, but the oddly shaped green glass bottles with their slender long necks would have to do. Mort set out to make his rounds. He had placed the green bottles under the crates of clear bottles in hopes that they might not be discovered until the last possible moment.

The first delivery was to be Ms. Baker. Mort approached the door, vowing to call off all deliveries at the first sign of trouble. He rang the bell. Ms. Baker opened the door wearing a little more eyeliner than usual and prepared to methodically hand him his due payment when something caught her eye. She spotted the green bottles. Mort was mortified as he followed her gaze to the green bottles glistening in the sunshine. Mort hastily took the money and thanked Ms. Baker as he made his way back to the cart hoping to escape. But it was too late. “What are those green bottles?” she asked. “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” Mort retorted. “Are those bottles of milk?” Ms. Baker inquired with a sense of urgent curiosity. There was no sense in concealing his crime anymore. The time had come for Mort to confess his sin. With his face downcast Mort replied, “Yes …”. But before he had a chance to apologize, Ms. Baker said, “They’re absolutely gorgeous”. Mort was dumbfounded. “I’ll take two,” she said. Mort didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing as he rearranged the milk crates to get to the bottom crate of green bottles. He pulled out two bottles prepared to offer a lower price for the smaller amount of milk, but before he could Ms. Baker had already handed him the money for two additional bottles of milk and had been whisked away inside by pure ecstasy. Oddly enough much of the day continued with the same results that had just ensued at Ms. Bakers. People were enamored with Mort’s green milk bottles. “Stunning”, “Genius”, “Innovative”, “Phenomenal”, “Progressive”, and “Contemporary” were just a handful of the compliments that people paid Mort’s hideous green bottles. Mort returned home not really sure about what to think. But one thing was for sure, those green bottles would change how Mort did business forever.

[i] U.N. Moe action figures were the diplomatic equivalent to G.I. Joe. Although Mort and Mel’s families had numerous ancestors in the military, they were fairly non-violent people. However, the occasional heated adolescent discussion would arise over whom would get the female representative from Burma, but it would always end in a peaceful round of rock, paper, scissors.

Why I don't play tennis.

2006-01-28T06:47:00.000-08:00

I am a waiter.

I like to think of myself as an actor, but to honestly respond to the intention of the question -- what are you? (i.e. how do you make a living?) -- I am a waiter.

Today I tell a tale from the world of waiting tables.

It was a Tuesday morning shift, and I cringed as I saw one black Cadillac Escalade pull up after another. Certainly no car pooling for this crowd. Yes, it was that time of week -- the ladies after tennis luncheon. You can spot them from a mile away (figuratively speaking of course). They each walk in still donning their shorts, which are a little too short, and a little too tight for women their age and size. I smile, slightly amused, as I ponder the fat of their thighs jiggling from side to side as they clumsily waltz through the front door.

"Hello ladies, how many today?"

"7"

"Right this way ladies"

I am no longer smiling. They sit at 302, one of my tables. I grab a bottle of wine, gather my wits and paste a smile on my face. I approach the table.

"Hello ladies, how are we today? My name is ..."

"Could we get some bread?"

"Of course. I'll grab in just a minute after I get your ..."

"And some parmesan cheese to dip it in."

"Sure ... "

"We want some roasted garlic too."

"Not a problem, I can ..."

"Were you going to take our drink orders?"

"I'd love too. What will ...?"

"Water ... with lemon ... extra lemon .. not too much ice ... but make sure there's enough."

I'm still smiling ... on the outside.

I go around and take the the drink orders. The mix of inordinate amounts of overpriced perfume and sweat somehow makes the general area smell of cat urine, and it's quite the task to find pockets of air amid the small cloud hovering above the table. I survive phase one and proceed to return with 1 tea and six waters (one with extra lemon, not too much ice, but enough), a small plate of roasted garlic, a mound of freshly grated parmesan cheese, and 3 fresh loaves of bread (one more than usual for a party of 7).

"We're gonna need more bread."

"I'll grab you some when I ..."

"We're ready to order."

"Of course."

Still smiling.

I take the orders, which are all differing variations of Soup and Salad. I take the menus and put in the order. I continue to wait on them for the next 30 minutes, getting more bread, refilling drinks, getting more bread, clearing plates, getting more bread. It is flawless service. I smile (on the inside) as I hear them congratulate each other on a really nice lob, or a great return, or one fantastic ace. I smile as they tell Tracy about that spectacular backhand that "really cleared the net". I suppose as I watch Tracy heave masses of parmesan cheese and garlic into her mouth with the aid of a large chunk of bread soaked in pure olive oil that it was the only shot she had that "cleared the net" all morning. Tracy's salad remains in front of her ... untouched.

At one end of the table is a lady that sticks out like a sore thumb. She wears long pants, her hair is naturally blonde and would move in a breeze, her hands are not imprisoned by excessive amounts of yellow gold, and she speaks with a foreign accent. Yes, she is the tennis pro. She is paid to impart her knowledge, but most importantly she continues to be paid to laud the tennis ladies with praise for their feeble efforts. In many ways we are the same. I listen to her praise the marked improvement of Tonya's service. I hurt for her. I know she wants to be here at this table at this moment in time as much as I do. But the way of the world requires it. I know the impossibility of her task. I imagine it to be quite similar to teaching swine how to use a fork. She has a job I could never do. She is my silent confidant.

The end of the meal comes, and I return the tennis ladies' change and credit card slips with impeccable speed. I thank each of them and ask if there's anything else I can do. I am largely ignored except for one lady who takes the initiative to be somewhat polite and tell me -- "No, we're great ... thank you." I walk away gravely awaiting my fate.

What I have come to learn about tennis ladies is that in many ways they are financially hurting. Oh you wouldn't know it to look at them, but that is precisely the point. Their chronic hyper-consumerism has put them and their families so far in debt that it's finally at the point that, well, something must be done. Perhaps at their husband's request, or perhaps at their own gallant self-discipline they decide they need to make a change. But you see, any change that they make must meet the following criteria -- it can never, under any circumstance require personal sacrifice. Because this very well could lead to some semblance of a slightly lower "quality of life". So, instead of trading in their luxury SUV's for a more fuel efficient vehicle to curb their skyrocketing gas bills, or instead of being so bold to sell their $600,000 home and buy a smaller house that still more than takes care of their needs, or instead of buying one less pair of shoes, or instead of carpooling with their fellow tennis ladies, or instead of cleaning their own house, or instead of learning how to tell a child no, they silently place their nickels and dimes, and occasional dollar bill in my waiter wallet to do their part in being a better steward of their money. Yes, if they can cut the tip percentage they leave from 15% to 10% they can save ... oh ... at least $100 a year. (Tennis ladies have never really dreamed of leaving anything near 20%. They have never really seen the point in having to pay someone to do a job that 200 short years ago they had people do for free.) Yes this is my plight. I must sacrifice for the tennis lady to "thrive". It is the world I know.

The moral of this story: Don't play tennis.