Prayer and Law School

"I the Lord do not change." (Malachi 3:6)

"My heart is changed within me; all my compassion is aroused." (Hosea 11:8)

There is the old Christian cliche that teaches us God's 3 possible responses to our heavenly petitions: Yes, No, Not now. If this is the case, then my current situation with law school applications has fallen exactly in line with how it is supposed to be.

First, Ole Miss said yes.
Second, Notre Dame said no.
Third, Catholic University, Pepperdine, William & Mary, and Georgia all said wait list.
South Carolina is off doing its own thing. Go figure.

This perspective of prayer, however, is increasingly troubling to me. From a human perspective, it easily and I suppose logically separates answers to prayer categorically - in a sense there really are only 3 possible answers. Ultimately, though, I think this makes prayer too much of a "1-900 Divine Help Hotline," where our prayers are simply requests that must be answered definitively, without much thought of the relationship between the petitioner, the petition, and the one being petitioned. After, all, aren't there other "helpful" easy-evangelical ways to think of prayer, you know, like the way your youth leader taught you to make sure all of your prayers contain petitions, but also prayers of supplication, intercession, adoration, thanksgiving, etc.?

For instance, it would seem rather akward if I were to praise and thank God for His majesty as displayed through the glorious sunsets I see so frequently in south Florida, and for God to "respond" with "Wait." Or if I were to ask God to grant grace to my sisters as they seek to glorify Him with their summer plans, and He answer "No."

Prayer, then, is much more than a game of yes or no questions to be answered. I'm beginning to think that prayer is much less about getting a straight answer from God, and much more about getting our selfish wills straight with God's perfect plan. It's less about testing God and more about trusting Him. Prayer is not a way for me to tell God everything I want/need and then hope that He gives it to me, but a way for God to tell me what I need/want and through that communion receive the Spirit's enabling towards that end. Prayer is more like sitting down for a long afternoon conversation with God and hearing him slowly reveal his will, rather than pestering Him constantly for a quick and easy answer. I'm still learning what that means. In the meantime, here's what two of my more favorite theologians have to say:

"It is true, nothing we can say can have any influence upon him, or move him to show us mercy, but it may have an influence upon ourselves, and help to put us into a frame fit to receive mercy." Matthew Henry

"God is sometimes represented as if he were moved and persuaded by the prayers of his people; yet it is not to be thought that God is properly moved or made willing by our prayers"; instead, God bestows mercy "as though he were prevailed upon by prayer." Jonathan Edwards

Mondays with Murray('s mom and brother)

Murray's Mom: "I love spending money on new appliances and new household stuff. Especially when it's not my money."

Brien's mom is here. His brother Kit is in the house on his spring break. Things are happening.

Here's what has happened since they got here on Friday afternoon:

We have a new oven
We have a new dishwasher
We have new kitchen cabinets
We have a new toilet in Brien's room
We have new rugs in the two living rooms
We have a the Direct TV set up for the bigger living room
We have wall pictures all over the house
There are new coat racks and key chains holders by the front door
There is a new white board on the Wall of Fame

This is Monday morning. I think we will have a new house on a new golf course by Friday.

The MPC Tour Update

The MPC Tour made its second stop this year at Colony West in lovely Tamarac, Florida. Here is today's leaderboard, followed by the season totals thus far:

Sleuth: 83, 11 skins
Jamey: 91, 5 skins
Murray: 97, 0 skins

Season skin totals:

Sleuth: 20 skins
Jamey: 13 skins
Murray: 0 skins

A day in the Fort Lauderdale ghetto

Tuesday saw the full spectrum of socio-economic lifestyles in the 25 mile radius in which MPC operates.

I began the morning on top of a tile roof in a small enclave of Carolina, a marvelous planned community just miles from our homoffice that situates most of the beautiful homes around a pristine golf course (even in prosperous south Florida, the residents long for something more glorious, more peaceful, more heavenly, and they wishfully name their communites after those dreamy places). The homeowner is in his mid-30's, works at his own liesure, and was more concerned about his new puppy hunting dog that he was the thousand $$ roofing job. His living room was decorated with numerous hunting "trophies," and I later found that he takes yearly pilgrimages to the promised land to hunt in Barnwell, South Carolina. This man was not hurting for cash.

I then traveled only about 10 miles (as the crow flies), where I measured several large duplex homes. None of the residents owned the homes, and most didn't even know who the landlord was or how to reach them.

It was not uncommon to see something like a 100 ft. coaxial cable, exposed and above ground, stretched from the tv, out the livingroom window, through the sunroom, around the shubbery bed, across the backyard and straigh to the neighbors cable box, where Resident 1 was presumably "borrowing" Resident 2's cable access (see picture). Brilliant.

I knocked on one of the tenant's doors. The window was open, and inside I could hear the television broadcasting its quality afternoon programming, while several young children argued over a game they were playing. Upon my knock, they all began to chatter loudly and I could hear them clawing and fighting their way around each other and over the furniture as they tried to be the first to get the door. The undiscernable, ebonical noise reached a feverish pitch, highlighted by an older woman yelling from a back room of the house. At the peak of the yelling, I noticed the blinds part, and a little boy peaked through and started straight at me, and then disappointingly (and yet with a bit of suprise) announced to the house: "Ah, its just a white man."

Signing off,
just a white man

Reflections on the NCAA Tourney

These are not my words, but for someone as competitive and emotionally involved in most sports as I am, the following thoughts ring true, and also cut to the quick. His prayer is mine.

"The thrill of victory abounds in the NCAA men's basketball tournament. But sometimes it's the agony of defeat that sticks with you.

Duke senior J. J. Redick and Gonzaga junior Adam Morrison grabbed the headlines all year as they battled each other to lead the nation in scoring. Morrison invited comparisons to other rangy forwards with smooth jumpers. Redick broke all sorts of records with a shot that surprised you if it didn't rip the net. Sports Illustrated posed the two back to back on its March 6 cover and asked, "Who's the Best?"

But those stories were just appetizers for the sport's annual feast, the Big Dance. Both stars had something to prove in the tournament. Gonzaga had disappointed the last couple years after shedding their underdog reputation and earning high seeds. Duke expects all its stars to win at least one national championship. But Redick's teams had not yet translated ACC accolades into NCAA success in his first three tourney tries.

Neither will be leading his team to the Final Four this weekend. The thrill of George Mason has replaced the agony of unfulfilled potential. Last Thursday, Redick couldn't shake LSU's athletic defenders. Morrison couldn't stop his team from blowing a 17-point lead. Neither could fight back tears when faced with the end of their college careers. Redick's face reddened and his eyes welled when Coach Krzyzewski pulled him from the game with a few seconds left. Morrison's mouth contorted with pain as UCLA took the lead. After the final buzzer, he crumpled into a heap and bawled on the hardwood. He needed his opponents—subjects of his infamous trash talking for 40 minutes—to cut short their postgame celebration and pick him up.

Not all of us grieve our life's most painful moments before a live national audience. We're the better for it. The same media that touted this two-man contest turned on its fallen stars. ESPN the Magazine columnist Bill Simmons wrote, "During this year's March Madness, we've seen more bawling than in the entire 1993 season of Sally Jesse Raphael." Loud voices on talk radio expressed no little glee as they brandished their own machismo and criticized the show of emotion. The Chicago Tribune offered a subtle dig as the newspaper played on an opponent's nickname. "Redick disappeared for the third time in four Sweet 16 games in his ballyhooed career," the newspaper observed. "He hit just 3 of 18 shots as LSU, led by its own "Big Baby," Glen Davis, toppled the nation's No. 1 team 62-54."

The on-court emotion showed only part of the shock and pain these two endured after realizing they would never reach their goals. Redick and Morrison wore their school colors with pride. They were the face of their schools. But no more. They will never again play with such close friends to the raucous cheers of their classmates. (Morrison is expected to leave school early and enter the NBA Draft.) I only played high school football, but I'll never forget my last game. On a wet, fog-obscured night, we lost the regional championship to one of our closest rivals. I etched the evening's finality in my memory by tossing my mud-caked cleats into the locker-room garbage. I don't remember if I cried, but it hurt. I spent years training and dreaming about my senior year. In a moment, it all ended.

Sports take us through emotional peaks and valleys. Christianity, too, stirs the affections. Scripture teems with visceral emotion. The exiles mourned when they lost Jerusalem, the very home of God. "By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion" (Ps. 137:1). Paul poured his soul into the beloved churches he planted and encouraged. And despite the hardship inflicted on him by his fellow Jews, he never got over their rejection of Jesus. "I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart. For I could wish that I myself were cursed and cut off from Christ for the sake of my brothers, those of my own race, the people of Israel" (Rom. 9:2-4).

I only pray we all have something—much more important than basketball—that we cherish so dearly that losing it would bring us to tears."

There IS Crying in Basketball. If only we all had something so precious to weep about.
by Collin Hansen
Christianity Today

Golf

Golf is a weird game, if you really stop to think about it. Go ahead, stop to think about it for a minute. While most sports include some sort of "ball", golf falls in the category of sports which require the use of an additional object that is used to direct or guide or manipulate the ball. Unlike hockey, lacrosse, or even baseball and cricket, golf is by far the least "contact" sport of them all. This explains its wide age range of players. It's also a fairly expensive sport, with a decidedly "upper class" flair to it. It's also the only sport I know of that businessmen and executives will play during a meeting. But I guess what gets me most is just the idea of it all - the fact that we would pay lots of money to stand several hundred yards away from a hole in the ground of about 108mm wide, and hit a small ball as hard as we can with some metal sticks and try and get it in the hole while avoiding trees, lakes, streams, large piles of sand, hills, etc. Its weird, but there is also something beautiful about it.

This morning at 8:50, Meyer's Pride Construction hosted its first Skins Game. The field was small, only three competitors, compared to the usual four. The course, Colony West. The weather was beautiful, a cool 74 degrees all morning. The competition was tight and full of drama, with the outcome hanging in the balance until the final putt on the 18th hole. I believe a good time was had by all.

We hope that this can become a regular monthly outing, a tradition unlike any other. For now, I was just content to be in the beautiful outdoors, surrounded by hundreds of roofs with blue tarps but not caring a bit about them.

In other news, Jamey has just become the first person I have ever met to go the dentist, only to have the dentist tell him to quit brushing. Apparently he brushes his teeth as hard as he hits a golf ball, and he is danger of a receding gumline and possible "bone damage." I believe the exact term was a "gum divot."

You might be a Hebrew hick if...

In my current slow but steady trek through the pages of Genesis, a thought occurred to me yesterday that I have been chewing on ever since.

I believe that I stumbled across the first (and maybe only) Hebrew redneck worthy of Jeff Foxworthy approval. Esau the Stable Guy.

Here's why i'm willing to grant Esau redneck status:

Esau loved to hunt, and he was a man of the earth.

His nickname was "Red." This is in part because of his thick hair, not just on his head but "all over like a hairy garmet."

He gave up the money his old man would have left him for a bowl of soup. Lentil soup, actually, which is like the Hebrew equivalent of the Ramen you can buy at Walmart for 15 cents. Probably went down like this:
Esau: "Hey man, lemme have a swaller of that there stew ya got cookin there."
Jacob: "First give me the deed to the double wide and the keys to Daddy's F-150 that you'll get when the old man finally kicks it."
Esau: "Gah dang man I'm so hungry I could eat a horse. Aaight, you gimme some of that there soup, I'll give ya them deeds and keys. Shoot man, what the hell, you gimme that whole pot and I'll give ya them new tires I been meaning to put on that truck. Now get r done, man."
Jacob: First swear to me.
Esau: Look here you @*!# piece of *$#!. Gimme that soup 'fore I kick your ass so hard you'll have to drop your pants just to chew your food.

His nickname was Red. This is also because of the color of the soup. This is like calling a guy Bud because of what he drinks.

Esau lived at home until he was 40.

Esau married two girls at once.

Then Esau married a few more times.

Jacob and Esau were prophecied to be two nations struggling against each other. Esau was the Southern nation.

There's a lot more, but I'll leave it at that for now. To conclude, here is a picture of what I imagine Esau might have looked like, were he to have gone to the racetrack one day.

Monday's with Murray

Murray: "And that's just the Visas..."

What do Kiera Knightley and Daler Mehndi have in common?

This is a question I lay in bed pondering each night until I fall asleep. Actually, tonight is the only night i've ever thought about this, and it's only because of some quick Google research I just did.

Preface: As I was working on some stuff earlier this evening, I turned on the tube for some background noise, hoping to find a good history channel special or the animal planet marathon. Instead my channel surfing stumbled across a video starring my favorite actress. Keira Knightley. Bend it Like Beckham has been on my list of must see movies for a while, not because I had to see the move, but because I must see Keira. Perhaps its because she's cute as a button (or as Dave Page says, superfly). Perhaps its because of her cute accent. Probably its both. Either way, Keira Knightley is must see TV.

The movie was not that great. I kept working, looking up only when I heard her voice. But then I heard something else, music that made my ears perk up like a watch dog's. It was Indian pop rock. It was Daler Mehndi.

As it turns out, it probably wasn't Daler Mehndi (though I haven't searched deep enough into the Bend it Like Beckham credits to see). But it definitely was bhangra music, a type of Indian harvest folk dance music, which apparently has seen quite a revival in recent years thanks in huge part to Daler Mehndi and his blending of this folk music with upbeat hip hop rhythms.

For those of you unfamiliar with Daler Mehndi, check out one of his popular music videos, Tunak Tunak Tan, and then try to imagine what life were like if 35 wild college males, all living on the same hall, were to adopt this as their "daily soundtrack" and incorporate it in every aspect of life, from skits to walk-off's to naked dance parties to study music. Welcome to life on Second South. Those were the days...

For those of you who know firsthand the Daler way, I bring you glad tidings of great joy. The Daler Mehndi Fan Club is giving you the opportunity to be the Dalerious DJ ”M” by hosting a TUNAK TUNAK TAN REMIX CONTEST. They are taking your entries now.

Life is good.

Also, apparently we are not the only ones to have learned the Tunak dance and recorded it on video.

Business at MPC is really good...

...so I bought a new car.

Here it is in my driveway this morning.

Actually I'm just kidding. That is not really my car. I don't even own a car. I own a truck. My truck is in the shop, however, having the engine worked on, so they gave me a rental car for the weekend. This is it. Sure beats your Sebrine, huh Marshall Rowe?

Vengeance is Allah's

The fighting Gamecocks of the University of South Carolina upset Cincinnati in the basketball NIT quarterfinals tonight. Some will argue this is because two of Cincinnati's starters were declared ineligible 2 hours prior to the game.

One of the starters who was not allowed to play is named Jihad Muhammad. With a name like that I would have declared him ineligible too, mostly for homeland security reasons.

I can only hope, for the safety of Carolina fans everywhere, that Jihad Muhammad takes losing better than I do.

Topographic Variety

My conversation in line at the USPS yesterday:

Me: (to the cute latino girl working behind the counter) That's a beautiful name.

Carolina (the cute latino USPS employee): Thank you.

Me: That's where I'm from, so I'm a bit partial. (she smiled shyly, but I could tell my charm had won her over)

Carolina: Ahh. So why are you in Florida.

Me: Roofing. Business.

Carolina: So you are making lots of money?

Me: Hopefully. (I was hesitant to answer - I didn't want her to love me simply for my money)


Pause in the conversation as she gets my stamps.


Carolina: Will you ever go back?

Me: To Carolina? Oh yeah, most definitely.

Carolina: You do not like it here? Why not? It is so nice, we have beaches .

Me: Yeah, but its just too bland here. I love it at home. We have beaches in Carolina, but we also have forests and mountains and lakes and rivers and colors and smells that Florida doesn't have. And space, we have a lot more space. Everything is crowded here.

Carolina: (laughing) We have mountians. Just drive down Sample and you will run into a Mountain.

Me: That is not a mountain.

Carolina: Sure it is.

Me: Well, south florida doesn't have seasons. I mean, its still officially winter and its 74 degrees outside.

Carolina: Ok. You win.

Me: Do you have any free stamps?

Carolina: (wink) nope.


And that is how you flirt with a postal worker.

On being a salesman

Being a salesman requires a certain sort of charisma and charm. It requires that you be good at the art of "small talk. It requires a sixth sense of being able to pick up on little bits of information unknowingly supplied to you by the people you are trying to sell to and turning that information into conversational topics that slowly earn you confidence and trust in the mind of the customer. It requires you walk a fine line between humor that puts your customer at ease and humor that makes you look pathetic. It requires that you lead the customer to a decision, rather than push them there. A good salesman should be able to anticipate the customers questions and concerns and confidently answer them without sounding like a condescending jerk know-it-all. Patience and Persistance are salesman virtues.

I'm not sure if I possess these qualities. But I'm working on it.

My sister, Ashleigh, and my friend, Tricia, went to the Phillipines last summer. This is important info because it works its way into what I call my "experiences that I can share to help build confidence and relationships to get sales repertoire."

Pictured below is Victor and Maria. I sold them a roof. Maria is a 3F person. Filipino, Fiesty and Friendly. I called her Ate Maria. She liked that. While I tried to explain the legal mumbo-jumbo of our contract to her husband, she kept bringing me magazines with Filipino male models, explaining to me how beautiful they were and pointing out the ones that she thought I resembled. Her husband told me I should take my roof earnings and move to the Philipines, where I would live like a rock star.

I used Shleigh and Tricia's experiences in Manila and Los Banos to gain her favor, which in turn encouraged her and her husband to sign my papers. I am slowly becoming a good salesman.

Monday's with Murray and GW

I was sitting at the BFD doing some work when Brien entered the office with the mail. Without saying a work, although I could hear him smiling, he plopped a small wooden gavel down on the desk (pictured below) and handed me a handful of papers, which included a picture, an award, and the following PRESS RELEASE:


FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

BRIEN MEYER APPOINTED TO BUSINESS ADVISORY COUNCIL

Washington, D.C. – The National Republican Congressional Committee announced that Brien Mayer has been appointed to serve on the Business Advisory Council (BAC) in recognition of valuable contributions and dedication to the Republican Party.

Meyer will serve the state of Florida and is expected to play a crucial role in the Party’s efforts to involved top business people in the process of government reform.

The Business Advisory Council is part of the National Republican Congressional Committee, and is dedicated to making sure that small business has a voice in Washington.

Meyer, who has long supported Republican ideals, particularly debt reduction and tax reform, will be a key member of the Council.


Lest you accuse me of joking, I have included pictures as proof that I speak truth.

This also reminds me of one of 211’s most memorable quotes, which to this day Stephen Strawbridge loves to recall. During our sophomore year of college (2000-2001) Brien Meyer was overheard talking on the telephone in his closet office, firmly chastising someone on the other end of the line by saying “I don’t care who he’s running against, George Bush is a good man!”

Meet Murray, my yellow dog Republican friend/roommate/landlord/partner.

Things that unnerve me while standing on the edge of a 10ft. roof...

Things that unnerve me when I'm driving my truck...

Show us the money

Today was an important day for MPC. Actually, yesterday was also important, and helped prepare the way for the important day today. Yesterday we finally purchased our liability insurance. We are now fully legit and ready to do business. This was important for numerous reasons, perhaps most importantly because we can now receive leads from our leads companies. Since Monday afternoon the leads have been pouring in.

Because of these leads, we were able to accomplish something that no one in the history of MPC has done to date - collect a check. Yes, after months of expeneses and billls, MPC has finally begun to get some income and revenue. woohoo.

Here is the Sleuth with the check.


and here is Murray preparing to do submit our first insurance claim, as a result of the Sleuth's sale.


Floridians, prepare to be served. Insurance companies, prepare to be pestered. Roofs, say hello to ol' Slippery. Life outside of work, prepare to suck.

Monday's with Murray (and Hansel)

Normally, on Monday's I put pictures of Murray on here because of his inherently photogenic nature. He is pictured here with my sister, Shleigh, who is also pretty dang cute on camera.

However, neither can compare to my male model friend, Hansel Pharaoh. He's so hot right now.

An ode to SB06

Blest be the tie that binds Our hearts in Christian love;
The fellowship of kindred mind Is like to that above.

Before our Father’s throne We pour our ardent prayers;
Our fears, our hopes, our aims are one Our comforts and our cares.

We share each other’s woes, Our mutual burdens bear;
And often for each other flows The sympathizing tear.

When we asunder part, It gives us inward pain;
But we shall still be joined in heart, And hope to meet again.

This glorious hope revives Our courage by the way;
While each in expectation lives, And longs to see the day.

From sorrow, toil and pain, And sin, we shall be free,
And perfect love and friendship reign Through all eternity.

Look away, look away, look away Dixie land

I received my first letter of acceptance/denial for law school. As they would have it, the folks at the University of Mississippi have extended the hand of fellowship and have graciously asked that I attend their law school this fall. Although Ole Miss was not my top choice by any means, it is nice to know that I have a fall back school, and it is somewhat a relief for the waiting game to finally be broken.

Some would say that Ole Miss is in fact a perfect fit for me:

1. It's Deep South.
2. They appreciate their college football.
3. I already dress like an Ole Miss boy.
4. The school is in Oxford.
5. They are Rebels.

I do not disagree with these things.

While we're on the topic of acceptance letters, my sister Jennifer has also been accepted to another school - this one a little more prestigious than Ole Miss.
And Brittany is going to Covenant next fall.

Them Luthers are getting ejumucated.

SB06

Working for yourself makes you feel young. What I mean is, because we at Meyer's Pride basically set our own schedule, Brien and I are looking forward to being able to take off a goodly portion of next week to entertain some out of town guests.

How does this make you feel young, you ask?

By out of town guests, I mean 14 college students (my sister and friends, Brien's sister and friends) on spring break staying in our humble mansion. By taking off work to entertain, we enter in to their world, thereby reliving and experiencing vicariously through their visit the whole phenomenon known as spring break.

Being in construction sales is like Old School for the working man - all of the fun of college, with none of the entangling comittments of the real world.

Roofs of Florida, I promise to revisit your well being next week. In the meantime, try not to leak or anything.

Craigslist turned Tom & Jerry

The 3 Blind Mice are officially in hiding and have enrolled in a government relocation program. After Mel, we thought our Craigslist ad was one of the best things we'd done all year. However, several email solicitiations and propositions have put these mice on the run - the following is the tamest excerpt my conscience would allow me to quote (also because I know you South/Central boys would appreciate the Anchorman associations that come to mind with "afternoon delight").

"three blind mice. cat on the prowl. i am in margate here is my number if u are in need of some after noon delight."


Baaah.

Monday's with Murray (and guest Diamond Dave Page)

Dave Page is in the house. And with him, his (and our) best friend, Jack. Jack has grown since he used to live with us in Flinstone, in this picture i have included other important items in my life, as comparative size referents. Dave has not changed much - still as loveable as always.

Speaking of loveable, how can you not love the autistic teenager from New York who's made headline news with his 20 points in the last four minutes of his high school basketball game?. I saw the report on CBS yesterday, and I've rewatched the CBS video report about 4 times now - every time I tear up, just like at the end of Rudy. Plus, the coach's name is Jim Johnson.

Le Tub v. McDonalds

Last night we visited Le Tub, a local hamburger joint. I went in part because Brien and Jamey had been before and highly recommended the burgers. Also, GQ magazine, which has Top Lists on everything from the 20 Worst Dressed British Males to the 10 Most Hated Athletes, had rated Le Tub as the #1 Hamburger You Must Eat Before You Die.

I took this to mean that I was about to spend $10.50 for the best hamburger in America (which Brien noted meant by default was also the best hamburger in the world).

I was wrong.

Supposedly, getting cheese adds $2 to this already expensive vegetarian nightmare, so I prepared to save some money by bringing my own cheese. Unfortunately, I left the cheese on the counter at home. This disappointment subsided temporarily when we arrived at Le Tub - the place looked pretty awesome. Situated on the intercostal waterway, the restaurant resembles the Swiss Family Robinson's tree house, only spread out right along the edge of the water, and not quite so high up off of the ground. In between some of the tables, the bamboo and the palm trees are several porch swings, and the place is lit by a few lanterns and the ocassional tiki torch. This would be a sweet date restaurant.

The fact that the restaurant was decorated with toilets everwhere should have been a sign that things might get crappy.

We almost decided against eating there when we were told there was about an hour wait. However, this seemed like a small sacrifice for the best burger in the world. We ordered and then waited for 1.5 hours for our food. The lady was nice enough to keep bringing us chips and salsa, but that was about all we got. Unless you order alcohol, the only drinks you get you have to fetch for yourself with a Dixie cup from the orange cooler around the corner.

It was the worst burger I ever ate. Besides being too big to fit in my mouth, it was charred beyond belief. The burger was about 2 inches thick. Nearly 1/2 inch of that was burnt. The middle was barely cooked. This was hard to notice in the dark, but a picture later revealed the rare meat that was hidden by the crispy crunchy outer crust. I pray this is not the last post I make before I die from Escherichia coli. Everyone finished their burger except Dave and I. We complained, and the lady gave it too us for 1/2 price. On the way out I noticed the said "Complaint Department" - it pointed to the parking lot dumpster.

Le Tub was Le Gross and Le Burnt. The atmosphere was pretty Le Cool, but it was way over Le Priced and the food/service basically Le Sucked. I want my Armando's.

The only thing that redeemed the evening was that 45 minutes into the wait we decided to call Mel, our friend from Craigslist.
She sounds Le Sweet.

Saturdays with Slippery Sleuth

Monday's with Murray was off this week. It should return next Monday. In its place, we offer a free sample of Saturdays with Slippery Sleuth, this blogs secret, daily, subscription e-mail newsletter glimpse into the life of one Manville's founding fathers (by invitation only). For those of you who do not know the history of the nickname "slippery sleuth," this entry is not for you.


Jim (the water purifier salesman who came to our house to test our water): So who drinks the Zephyrills water?

Murray: Me.

Jim (scoffing): That's the worst bottled water you can drink.

Slippery Sleuth (proud that unlike Murray, he hasn't poured his money in crappy bottled water): I don't. I drink a Nalgene full of this tap water. Ha ha.

Jim: (holding up the test tube of tap water) As you can see, the water you are drinking from the tap is very hard water and is basically chlorine and sediment. This stuff is almost lethal.

Slippery Sleuth: (silent)

Jim: Now, Jason, come here and try washing your hands with the tap water, and then with the purified water.

I washed my hands vigorously under the alternating streams of "pure" and "unpure" water.

Jim: Feel that!! Feel how your hands are all SLIPPERY?!? They're SLIPPERY aren't they? (looks at Brien who has begun to laugh) You want to try? Look at Jason, he's all SLIPPERY.

Slippery Sleuth: (laughing hysterically) Look at me Murr. I'm all SLIPPERY.

Murray and Slippery laughed at Jim all the way out the front door.

the end.

I asked for 3/4, not 5/8...stay focused

Installed a new garbage disposal. Put in a new ceiling fan/light. Disassembled, cleaned, reassembled and fixed a clothes dryer. Cleaned tile grout. Installed a GFCI. Sprayed the house with exterminator bug spray. Fixed a broken refrigerator ice maker. Corrected a poorly and mislabeled circuit breaker box. Begun work on new kitchen cabinets. Minor engine repairs and tune up on my truck (new air filter, spark plugs, fuel filter, clean battery leads, etc.). Removed overgrown trees and bamboo and minor landscaping. Unclogged dryer vent on roof and in attic crawl space.

The list goes on for the things I have done in just the last 3 weeks since moving to Florida.

And that’s just house work, aside from all the work associated with starting our own business.

But as I’ve piddled around on these different projects, there have been numerous times that I was thankful for at least two things my father has given me: a great set of tools, and a work ethic that that is heavily informed by a Do It Yourself philosophy. Growing up with my dad and grandfathers, I learned quickly that a man can fix just about anything around the house/garage, given the right tools, a patient and inquisitive mind and a long Saturday afternoon. They also hammered home (no pun intended) the fact that DIY usually saves a lot of money. And it’s rewarding.

John Derbyshire touches on this a bit in the National Review this week, where he observes the growing decline in the “hunting population,” and wonders if this not symbolic of a greater cultural trend, that of a declining working class. What caught my eye was how he notes that this could also be evidenced by our attitude toward home repairs and what we in the old days called household “chores.” We are becoming/have become a culture whose first move when it comes to “work” is toward their cell phone (or Google) rather than their toolbox.

It’s like when we were kids and would yell across the house requesting the spelling of some vocabulary word from our mother. Whereas my Mom made me get a dictionary to look it up, our culture is used to having the spelling yelled back to them.

Is that wrong? Maybe not. Of course, if you prefer to spend your hard earned money on somebody who’s willing to earn it by some hard work, that’s your prerogative. But not me - I’d rather do it myself. Maybe I can save some money, or perhaps take the money I saved from buying a new clothes dryer and instead buy that new dryer for somebody in my church or community who can’t afford a dryer at all.

To top it all off, I think it’s no coincidence that the more we are content to have someone else do our work or fix our stuff, the more stuff we will be inclined own. The accumulation of stuff – the Great American Dream. But what’s the old adage – the more stuff you own, the more your stuff owns you? Or as Rich Mullins put it, the stuff of earth competes for the allegiance I owe only to the Keeper of all good things. Perhaps by being forced to spend a Saturday afternoon or a Monday night trying to fix the hot water heater, I’ll be a little less inclined to buy that new household gadget that I probably didn’t really need anyway, and in the process I’ll be rid of one less thing to distract me from my King. Plus He delights in our hard work, too.

So, do you think there will be hunting and NASCAR in heaven?

A typical day's work.

I've decided this blog needs more pictures. To follow, therefore, is a pictoral account of a typical day's work at MPC.


1. This is Murray, hard at work at the BFD in our SFO.

2. This is me, doing what I usually do when Murray is hard at work. Yes, that's right, eating giant pancakes with my fingers and a bottle of syrup.

3. This is a typical tile roof. Note, although the roof may look like it's in okay shape, despite patches of breakage, this roof like most has been totalled by the insurance company and will be replaced completely. And this is on top of all the roofs that are covered in blue tarp around town.

4. Sometimes I let Brien run the calculations, just so he can stay on top of his math skills and hopefully get the hang of things.

5. This is the possum that apparently rooms with us. He lives in the yard/tree behind our house.

You won't find this on Ebay

We received this scam email message recently in response to an upright piano Brien was selling on Craigslist (Brien usually reads this email out loud with a heavy Indian accent):

Hello,
I am agent interested in immediate purchase of your item.After several consideration over the advert placed on the website,my client who has really shown interest in it and would really want to issue the payment in form of Money order.....Will you be accepting a Money order? The Money order that will be drawn by my client would include the cost for
shipping this item to my client and my commission would be included on the same Money order......We shall solely be responsible for the shippment of the item. Provide your CONTACT NAME,ADDRESS AND PHONE NUMBER if you are interested in selling so that I can have it forwarded to my client for immediate payment issuance. Please contact me asap via email for futher questions as regards this transaction.If you really show willingness in selling this item asap.Thank You and I am expecting your response ASAP.
BEST REGARDS.
TRACEY

Our response:

TRACEY,

PLEASE TO FORWARD US YOUR FULL NAME, CREDIT CARD NUMBER AND THE AMOUNT OF YOUR CREDIT LIMIT, AND WE WILL BEGIN THE NEGOTIATING PROCESS.

MUCH OBLIGED.

ON BEHALF OF MY CLIENT, BRIEN M.,

JASON

Father Abraham had many sons, many sons had father Abraham...

Since moving to Florida I have been rereading the book of Genesis, in part because I find the stories of the women and men of faith to be both inspirational and insightful in the ways my current situation mirrors theirs. The story of Abraham is one to which I constantly return, particularly when I find myself faced with difficult or significant life decisions. It is no coincidence that Abraham is named “the Father of our Faith,” and in real life moments where the gap between my intellectual assent to God’s sovereign goodness and my actual practical trust seem miles apart, my soul is encouraged by the exemplary obedience of Abraham. Even more encouraging is the fact that every character in the book of Genesis, even our spiritual forefathers, is decidedly fallen. Sometimes I feel like God is saying "You know Jas, if ol' knuckleheaded Jacob can do it, my grace is surely sufficient for you." Abrahram is no exception.

Consider: God’s call to Abraham consisted of very little more than a call to “go forth.” No destination. No real direction. It’s almost like a divine spin off of the Nike ads – “Just go forth.” The one thing Abraham clung to was God’s promise to bless him, to prosper him, and to make his name great. In that ancient culture, there were really only two pursuits that concerned most men – land and descendants. God offers Abraham both. And He ultimately fulfilled His promise in ways beyond Abraham’s imagination. It wasn’t easy, and there are several things that I’ve thought about lately as I’ve read through the difficulties and failures, trials and successes that Abraham endured in the process of following God.

This is the most recent: when God called Abraham, it seems he required that Abraham leave what was familiar (his country) and what was familial (his relatives and “his father’s house.”) The difficulty of that type of move is something with which I can sympathize. This nomadic spiritual journey bit hits kinda close to home. It was difficult for Abraham too, I’m sure, and it wasn’t like God was appearing to him every day to remind him that he was doing the right thing. It looks to me that there were years, often decades between God’s visitations with ol Abe, in between which he was forced to wrestle with God’s direction and faithfulness as he walked through the valleys from one spiritual mountain top to the next. I reckon that's why Abraham built altars whenever God appeared and promised - altars that served as constant reminders in the daily grind to keep going, because God has promised.

But even when Abraham was separated from his last remaining ties with family (Lot) because of strife and a “falling out” of sorts, God renewed and reiterated His promise with his beloved Abraham. It is often in those moments of difficulty that, as Matthew Henry says, “God will abundantly make up in spiritual peace what we lose for the preservation of neighborly peace.” Abraham had had to give up what God has promised him – descendants (through Lot) and the land. Surely he doubted God’s goodness at times. Yet MH again notes, “Communion with God may, at any time, serve to make up the want of conversation with our friends; when our relations are separated from us, yet God is not.”

For those of you who read this blog, particularly you Chattanoogans, know that I miss you each very much. Florida has been great, but it's most glaring shortcoming is that none of you are here. But I pray for myself, and each of you, that your communion with our great God be ever more sweet, and know that while distance separates us, the Spirit is ever present. I am discovering again the joy of God’s word and the sweetness of His presence, and while our relationships in this life are God given blessings to mirror the many facets of his character, would that God commune with us in such a way that all friendships pale in comparison to the depth and richness of Jesus’ gracious love for us.

Sola Deo Gloria

The Homeowner's Association

Florida and I butted heads this morning. Thus far I’ve overlooked many of the less desirable aspects of living in south Florida, and I’ve put up with things I normally would detest – the ubiquitous suburban sprawl, the overwhelming concentration of wealth, the tolls, and a general community vibe that is most concerned with appearance (be it individual or corporate). Look up materialism in the dictionary and you will find Coral Springs and Ft. Lauderdale listed as synonyms.

As of this morning, I’ve added another suburban enemy – the homeowner’s association.

I should have seen it coming. My first morning here, our next door neighbor woke Brien and I up by knocking on our door, quickly welcoming us to the neighborhood and then announcing that he was the president of the Homeowner’s Association and that the U-haul trailer I was unloading couldn’t stick out in the road like it was. It overhung our driveway by a foot.

For many of you who grew up in places where everyone has the same mailbox and the biggest local debate is whether or not to rebuild the community pool, an HA is probably a normal thing. Part of me understands it – the concern that the neighborhood look nice or that you don’t get somebody with an overgrown yard or a car on blocks requires a governing body to maintain certain standards. Somebody’s got to regulate. But for me, a guy who grew up in a house where you couldn’t see or hear the closest “neighbor” and the “neighborhood” consisted of a green sign and historical marker 1 mile up the road, the idea of some “other group” telling me what I can and can’t do in my property/house is a foreign and frightening concept.

We received the following letter this morning, VIA CERTIFIED MAIL.

Dear Mr. Meyer,

It has come to the attention of the Board of Directors that you are parking commercial vehicles on the property overnight
which is in direct violation of the Association’s Governing Documents and Rules and Regulations.

Please cease and desist from this illegal parking practice immediately.


Are you kidding me? They didn’t even mention it to us or give us a call, they just wrote us a letter and sent it certified as if we were some delinquent debtor on the run from Johnny law. And a commercial vehicle? In a way, I think Wilma Mae, (my truck) and Brien’s truck (whatever her name is) will take this as a compliment. I think. But commercial vehicle? Come on, we’re just two dudes with trucks. Where’s the crime in that? The rules section regarding commercial vehicles also stipulates that any vehicle deemed “a nuisance” by the Board are also illegal. Apparently the guy with the Hummer down the street is ok, because that gigantic piece of gas guzzling metal is definitely a necessary part of residential living, but a pick up truck – that’s excessive. Cease and desist? I expect by the end of the day to see a guy with a megaphone in our front yard yelling “cease and desist,” as if we were some violent rioters or our house was harboring suspected criminals. I blame this all on Reconstruction.

I do not like HA’s. I do not like them, Sam I am. I located our copy of the “governing documents,” and will be having a bonfire tonight in honor of our Homeowner’s Association. All are welcome. Be sure to bring your own kindling.

The BFD

“Brien has lost his mind.” That was all Jamey could say for the entire remainder of the afternoon. Brien had summoned us after church on Sunday to meet him with my truck to pick up a desk he had purchased on Craigslist. We arrived at a neighborhood that required a check in at the gate that was more strict than most military bases I have been on. By neighborhood I mean small city. It was some sort of a planned community, with “small” enclaves of 50 house neighborhoods off to each side of the main road. Man made lakes, golf courses, clubhouses, etc. No house under $1 million.

The man who owned the desk was an executive recruiter for a company that makes nice desks. He had a picture of his first $ billion on the wall. The desk was made of solid maple. It was huge. Despite the fact that his small children were constantly around us as we moved the desk, this exec cussed up a storm. We’re not sure, but we believe that he was the originator of the name by which our office desk is now affectionately known – BFD (cf Doom and BFG).

Did I mention the desk was gargantuan? It took all of my and Brien’s truck and over an hour to load it all up. Jamey continued to lament that he wasn’t at home watching the Olympics and napping and repeated his “Brien had lost his mind” claim like a broken record.

Three Men and Two Trucks. Jamey was still in his church clothes. Brien had come straight from his soccer game wearing short shorts and socks pulled up over his knees. I was the only one dressed to move. The cussing exec couldn’t believe we hadn’t brought pads, blankets, and tie downs for the desk. I couldn’t believe the exec cussed in front of his little girl. Jamey couldn’t believe Meyer’s Pride had purchased such an enormous desk – this was the type of desk that Bill Gates has in his office. Brien couldn’t believe the cussin exec had thrown in a wall picture as part of the deal – complete with papers of authenticity.

We got the BFD home. Moving it out of the cussin exec’s huge house with four of us was difficult, moving into our average home with three of us was purt near impossible. We got it halfway in before we realized that it wouldn’t fit down the hallway and around the doorway into the office. It got stuck. There we were with Bill Gates’ BFD and nowhere to put it.

Jamey reminded Brien that he had lost his mind. Brien lamented this rash purchase. I laughed. Then I got to thinking – the BFD might fit through the window. A few quick measurements confirmed my suspicions – BFD would fit through with an inch to spare. A few calls and we had organized a group of guys from church to come by the next night to help with the move.

The guys arrived promptly the next night. Brien and I showed up minutes later…with the BFC we had found and purchased from Craigslist. By BFC I mean a leather sectional sofa with a double sleeper bed. It’s green. After giving the guy cash for the sofa, we went to move it out of his house. It got stuck in the front door. The guy was confused. His wife was convinced it wouldn’t fit. Brien and I were stunned by the possibility that we had purchased two BFPOF – a BFD that wouldn’t fit in the house, and a BFC that wouldn’t fit out of the house. Thankfully, the guy had a big enough hammer, and we managed to beat it through the front door.

The recruits had heard about the BFD – they had no idea about the BFC. They were not excited about the BFC. But, with an army of able bodied men we were able to fit the BFD and it’s many pieces through the window and into the office as well as move the BFC into the living area.

Below are some pics of the BFD and the BFC. We have applied to be members of the local BFBusiness Bureau.

The Angry Left imitate Napoleon Dynamite

"Some Democrats are furious that their party doesn't have its own ideas. Others say they do have ideas; they're just keeping them secret for now. That sounds a lot like the high school geek who insists that his girlfriend is really hot but lives in an undisclosed location in Canada." —Jonah Goldberg (editor for the National Review Online)

Napoleon Dynamite: My old girlfriend from Oklahoma was gonna fly out for the dance but she couldn't cause she's doing some modeling right now.
Pedro: Is she hot?
Napoleon Dynamite: See for yourself.
[hands him Deb's glamor shot sample]
Pedro: Wow.
Napoleon Dynamite: Yeah, I took her to the mall to get some glamor shots for her birthday one year.
Pedro: I like her bangs.
Napoleon Dynamite: Me too.


Speaking of Goldberg, I just stumbled across Jonah Goldberg's recent editorial about Kayne West. I think he summarizes well my general sentiments when it comes to rap music and the rap culture, although I confess I sneak a listen every now and then...the beat is just so dang catchy.

Three Blind Mice, down but now out

Craigslist almost came through with a BFD (think BGF from Doom, then insert Date instead of Gun).
The following is our daylong email conversation with Melissa, the first and only real taker on our Craigslist ad we submitted last night. Our emails are in ALL CAPS...
===================

Just wanted to let you guys know that you're all very brave. Good luck.

THANKS. I TAKE IT THAT MEANS YOU ALREADY HAVE PLANS FOR TONIGHT?

No Plans. But I live in Miami Lakes. Look at you, your last name is [Sleuth], related
to [Famous Sleuth]?

I HOPE WE'RE KIN, BUT THE [SLEUTH] FAMILY TREE GETS A BIT PATCHY A FEW HUNDRED YEARS BACK. IT'S ACTUALLY A PROJECT I'M STARTING TO WORK ON.
WHERE IS MIAMI LAKES? DO YOU HAVE TWO MORE FRIENDS THAT WOULD WANT TO JOIN US FOR DINNER?

Miami Lakes is where Don Shula's Golf course is (its sort of North of Miami). I do not have 2 more friends that could join us because it's a school night and most have that to take care of. You guys are too funny, who's idea was this?

A SCHOOL NIGHT THEY HAVE TO TAKE CARE OF, HUH? THIS MEANS ONE OF THREE THINGS:

1) THEY ARE TEACHERS. IF SO, I PROPOSE WE MEET YOU FOR DINNER, AFTER WHICH THEY CAN GO HOME TO PREPARE FOR SCHOOL.
2) THEY ARE STUDENTS. IF THIS IS THE CASE, WHAT FEMALE STUDENT EVER PASSED UP AN INVITE FOR DINNER ON VALENTINES DAY TO STUDY FOR CLASS?
3) THEY HAVE KIDS THAT ARE STUDENTS. IN THIS SCENARIO, THEY SHOULD PROBABLY BE OUT WITH THEIR HUSBANDS TONIGHT ANYWAY.
YOU'RE EXCUSES AREN'T HOLDING MUCH WATER. WHAT SAY YOU, MELISSA?

You guys sound rather interesting (untraditional). Will you guys head over to Miami Lakes? Im a little sick but I'm willing to make sacrificies.
I think the answer is (2). Poor them.

I FIND US PRETTY INTERESTING.

WE ARE WILLING TO HEAD TO MIAMI LAKES, BUT ONLY IF YOU CAN PROMISE US 3 DATES. FROM THE BEGINNING THE THREE BLIND MICE WERE IN THIS TOGETHER. SURELY TWO OF YOUR FRIENDS CAN SPARE 2 HOURS FOR DINNER. NO ONE STUDIES THAT MUCH. YOU'RE NOT, NEITHER SHOULD THEY.

Hey [Sleuth]

I'm willing to work this out. What time is best? If this is starting to drive you crazy call me at [NUMBER REDACTED TO MAINTAIN MELISSA'S PRIVACY].
I'm 22. Mel

P.S. R u guys paying for our dinner too?
==================
** Note: at this point, Jamey, Murray and I began working feverishly to secure dinner reservations at a restaurant somewhere between Coral Springs and Miami Lakes. And of course we were paying. Jamey found most places were booked by now (surprise), but got us the Chili’s at Pembroke Pines

In addition, Melissa now had competition. I had received an email from someone named Bill Bonds, which said the following:
I am a married white male living in Pensacola.
Middle-aged, bald, and morbidly obese. Also a virgin,
have one child, and enjoy Texas hold-em. Good luck in
your quest :)

P.s. The curley haired guy is the cutest!

A little unnerved by a married white male being interested in us, I quickly created a Hotmail account (the3blindmice@hotmail.com) and responded:

Bill (or should I call you Willy?),

Thanks for your inquiry (despite how indirect you were) into a possible date with us tonight (even if you are all the way in Pensacola). I can sympathize with your last minute desperation.

However, I regret to inform you that our ad has already been answered and we have successfully secured our dates for this evening.

Sorry, but as I'm sure you know, you gotta act fast on these things. Tis the nature of Craigslist. The good deals go quickly.

Best wishes on your "quest" as well.

Sincerely,

Three Blind Mice

==========================
At this point, Melissa emailed me back.


Scratch that, Fever went up. Good luck, I hope u do this next year.


MELISSA,
WE ARE SAD TO HEAR YOU ARE SICK. AND THAT YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO MEET US FOR DINNER. I'M SORRY I WASN'T ABLE TO GET BACK TO YOU EARLIER TODAY, WE WERE OUT AND JUST NOW GOT BACK. HOPE YOU FEEL BETTER, AND IT HAS BEEN GREAT TALKING WITH YOU TODAY.
SINCERELY,
[SLEUTH]

Sweet response.
Happy Valentine's Day to the three blind mice (wink).
-Mel

As the saying goes, "Craigslist was not a lady tonight. Craigslist was a bastard."
At least I have Murray.

Our first hit

Just received our first bite from the Craigslist ad we submitted last night.


Just wanted to let you guys know that you're all very brave. Good luck.

Mel


Replied:

thanks. I take it that means you already have plans for tonight?



Stay tuned.

Mondays with Murray, III

We are the poster children for Craigslist. Everything we have purchased for the house thus far has come from Craigslist. More on that later.

From the dinner conversation tonight:

Jeff: You are craigslists addicts.
Brad: Do you guys buy food on craigslist?
Jamey: There are girls on craigslist.
Jason: Hey, maybe I could find on Craigslist the Valentine's date y'all have been teasing me about.
Brien: (slamming his fist on the table) That's it! It's on. Tomorrow we find three girls on Craigslist and take them out for Valentines dinner/dates. The bet is on. You have less than 24 hours to find a Craigslist Valentine. (pulls out his Blackberry with internet access and begins to sort through the Craigslist ads)

So far, we haven't found anything/anyone worth calling. However, we do have a request ad out there, should you care to peruse. Or contact us. Serious inquiries only.

Supercuts

"Supercuts offers free haircuts to the public during advanced educational classes. All haircuts are performed by licensed proffesionals who are learning a specialized system of cutting that allows us to create mistake-proof results. We can trim your current style or design something new depending on your preferences. Free haircuts are available for men and women BY APPOINTMENT ONLY on Thursday February 9th and Friday February 10th. To take advantage of this free offer please call our studio hotline 1-888-888-7778 ext 1404."


Sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? Yet this was the Craigslist ad to which we responded, and which had led us to venture out on Thursday afternoon in search of the Ft. Lauderdale Supercuts. It was’t that surprising a move – we love a good haircut, and Brien loves anything free. He also loves all things Craigslist.

Thanks to competing directions from Mapquest, Yahoo and Google, Brien’s Blackberry guided us to the Supercuts, 30 minutes late. The lady at the front escorted us through a maze of hallways in the back of the store, where we finally entered a hidden room bustling with activity and jammed pack with free haircutters. We felt like we had stumbled upon Santa’s secret workshop.

Brien got a lady (who’s name escapes me) who based purely on looks and demeanor would have made a great Citgo gas station attendent in North Georgia, except for the very thick New York accent (have we mentioned that Florida is NOT the South?). She was a pro. Brien hadn’t even finished his usual entertaining small talk before the lady had finished his haircut. 7 minutes flat.

We got Rita. Rita was a sweet woman, and we’re sure some grandkids somewhere loved spending time with her on Sunday afternoons. The problem was, Rita was very soft spoken and timid, especially compared to her counterpart cutting Brien’s hair and the Type A woman teacher who never stopped talking the entire time we were there. Rita spoke very little English. Rita also loved playing with our hair – the first 2 minutes she just stared at our head and kept running her fingers through our hair. It was kind of freaky, actually.

What had attracted us to the ad was the phrase “we can…design something new depending on your preferences.” Our move to Florida has given us the tabula rasa life – we’re starting fresh, and perhaps a new hairdo would be in order. But whenever we asked Rita for her professional opinion and gave her the blank check to “do with our head what you will” (well, except continuing to run her fingers through our hair – there would be no more of that), Rita would say “I don’t know, what do you think?” Apparently, the only other phrase she had learned from her Spanish-English dictionary was “Umm, let me get teacher.”

She got teacher. The first question teacher asked was how much skin we wanted. What? “On the sides, how much skin do you want – do you want to see skin?” We didn’t understand the question. It sounded kind of scandalous. Brien later swore that he overheard the conversation and thought they were discussing a potential circumcision.

We knew we were in trouble when it took Rita about 30 seconds turning the clippers over and around before she found the switch to turn them on.

She sprayed us down with water, and with a comb divided our head into quadrants. A part down the middle, and then one on the sides in either direction. Rita was very particular, and by particular we mean slow. She carefully measured each individual hair before cutting it with the scissors. We were able to track her progress because Rita would not move to a quadrant until she had completed the previous one. Rita was still on Quadrant 1 when Brien left his chair.

Midway through the haircut, we realized that Rita was not cutting our hair short enough. We mentioned that maybe it could be shorter? This was a mistake. Looking like she had just watched us take candy from a little child, Rita returned to Quadrant 1 and began shortening. At that point we think she realized that the hair in Quadrant 2 had already grown back to the length of Quadrants 3 and 4 – the length it was when we first arrived. Surely this was a disheartening realization for both Rita and us.

When we had first arrived in the hidden training room, there was a lady sitting in the chair between us and Brien. As Rita worked on our quadrants, we observed the situation next to us. The woman was obsessed with getting her hair cut like the model on the magazine page she had ripped out and brought with her to Supercuts. She wanted to look just like the model. A quick glance in the mirror revealed that she did not look like the model at all, and no hair cut was going to fix that. The woman also had a small child in a stroller. The baby was not excited about the free haircuts - at least that's what we took the constant crying and screaming to mean. We thought that surely the woman was nearly done with her cut and would soon calm the child, but her obsession with the model required multiple recuts by the trainee, and eventually the teacher, thus prolonging the baby’s, and our, misery.

Rita was unnerved by the crying. We think she might have been crying too. Soon we noticed that Rita’s hands were shaking strongly. So were the scissors. Our mind raced to recall the story Dad had told us of how he used to get his haircut at the correctional institution in Columbia. In hindsight, he had realized the absurdity of a small boy being shut in a room with an inmate who was armed with scissors and a straight edge razor. Not that Rita was a criminal, but her shaking hands and those scissors could have posed a serious threat to our head.

As the minutes ticked by, Rita looked more and more nervous, and our hair continued grow and regain its former glory. Out of the corner of our eye we could see Brien in the mirror. We couldn’t see his face, only his shoulders, but their rapid up-and-down movement let us know he was laughing hysterically at the plight we were in.

The haircut took 1 hour and 15 minutes. Thankfully they were not charging by the hour.

We are scheduled for a return visit in 6 weeks. We hope Rita has graduated by then.

The World's Fastest Growing Religion

One of the reasons I so appreciate my friendship with Elissa.is that there are many things, art being one, that she is so much more learned and thoughtful about than I. Truth be told, I'm the classic shallow guy that prefers a sports poster to a Monet (well, maybe not exactly, but you know what I mean). Her comments are always relevant and thoughtful, and very much appreciated.

I have two additional thoughts to Elissa’s recent discussion (and my follow up comments) regarding this past week’s Muslim rioting in response to the Danish cartoon kerfuffle.

First, there is a big fundamental difference between what drives Christian reactions and Muslim reactions to things like this cartoon or Serrano’s portrait. I believe “true Christianity” does not encourage these violent reactions; “true Islam” does. You and I would both agree that the far right Christian extremists who quickly write off someone like Serrano and condemn all involved are not acting in line with the true Gospel. We would want to explain to a nonbeliever that bombing an art gallery (or abortion clinic) in the name of Christ is not true Christianity. Christendom is full of "false churches" or "false gospels (medieval Catholicism, the Crusades, maybe even the “fundamentalist retreat” of the early 20th century), all of which I would argue have perverted our faith. Christianity is unique because we recognize the gap between how we ought to act and how we actually act. Honestly, I’d be afraid that if someone had to judge the merits of Christianity by watching me for a day, they’d be turned away by the hypocritical inconsistencies of Scripture and my life. But at least we recognize the gap.

The Muslim reactions, however, are not unordinary. The violent riots are a direct outworking of what they believe. That is what I think John Piper.was getting at. Islam is a violent and aggressive religion, BY ITS VERY NATURE, and is not open to criticism or critique. And, regardless of how in vogue or politically correct it is currently to accept Islam as a viable religion, Islam is at its very root opposed to and hostilely against Christianity. Sure, we make a distinction between Islam and what President Bush week referred to in the State of the Union as “radical Islam; the perversion by a few of a noble faith into an ideology of terror and death.” But the real difference is only that the “radical Islamists” have decided to act on what their theology (via the Koran and Hadith) actually teaches. If all Muslims lived like the Koran taught, we’d have a much bigger war on terror than we can ever imagine. Just like if Christians actually cared for the poor and afflicted like Jesus taught, we might have a better answer to questions of poverty.

See, for Islam, there is NO dichotomy between sacred and secular, cf. Christian theonomists. While I, as a westerner, can advocate a theory of religious plurality and freedom of religion because I think it works well as a secular political structure, Muslim’s find it difficult to grasp this concept of free religious expression. I take offense to certain mockeries of Christianity, but I also recognize that there is certain level of discourse that takes place within a democratic society that I allow, even if I disagree. Like Piper said, I know that persecution comes with the Christian turf, so to speak. But when the Muslim religion is challenged, or when someone who is not a Muslim does something that Muslim’s cannot do (i.e. depict Muhammad), they react. Often violently. Piper mentioned Rushdie. Ayatollah Khomeini (sp?) condemned Rushdie to death and ordered Muslims to execute Rushdie and the publishers of his book. This is no Senator Helms speech. There is a significant difference between Christian and Muslim reactions. There is a spiritual (and at times literally physical) battle between Christianity and the Prince of this world – I believe Islam v. Christianity is one of the major battle fronts in our day.

Second. Elissa, I’m confident that you are able to appreciate art and artistic expression on levels far beyond me because of the depth of your training and experience. I can only hope to glean from your wisdom. But I often find the philosophy of art a bit slippery, and explanations like Serrano’s don’t always help me, but seem more like the legalese crafted by witty lawyers that I’ve read everyday for several years now. If I don’t like a piece of art or seem to misunderstand it, I am quickly ushered to the author’s intent and told how I am supposed to view this work. Other times the art fails to elicit any reaction on my behalf, or seems meaningless to me, at which point I am told that the art is what the viewer makes it, that there is no one meaning, so even if its nothing to me it could be full of value to someone else. To me, this reduces art and its critique to an individual level, and erodes any sense of collective appreciation or collective standards for art. I, however, find value in some collective social standards. Depth or no depth, art appreciation or not, most people (Christian or otherwise) see the placement of the crucifix in a bottle of piss as a very inflammatory and derogatory gesture. That says something to me. I too find Serrano’s work offensive. Just like I find the F-word offensive, and no argument from anybody about how it “no longer really means what is used to mean” or “its ubiquitous usage negates any cultural taboos” is going to change that. Regardless of how Serrano may try to justify it, his artwork offends me. It does not help me redefine or personalize my relationship with Christ. And I think he has grossly misunderstood the Eucharist, its elements, and any meaning found in the juxtaposition of celebrating the “body and blood of Christ.” Is he free to make this art? Sure. Except that his art was federally funded through the NEA, which means my tax money paid for his “expression.” And except that in my opinion this type of artistic expression is done, and encouraged, less for the expression and more for the political/power motivations.

This was my big bone to pick originally with my comments on Elissa’s blog regarding the “Danish cartoon fiasco.” Both then and now I am most interested by the reactions of the Muslims to the cartoon, and the media’s reaction to the Muslim reactions. By and large, the media has been sympathetic to the Muslims, and few Muslim’s have been apologetic for their violent reactions. There is a double standard, and once again Christians get the fuzzy end of the lollipop.

For example. The New York Times will not print the pictures of the Danish political cartoon. The Times said this: "(We) and much of the rest of the nation's media have reported on the cartoons but refrained from showing them. That seems a reasonable choice for news organizations that usually refrain from gratuitous assaults on religious symbols."

Sounds good so far. Except that this past week the Times also ran an article entitled "A Startling New Lesson in the Power of Imagery" which included a picture of a dung-covered Mary. No bombs in Mohammed’s turban, but crap on Mary? Please someone define “gratuitous assault.”

Serrano’s work was published in the LA Times and Boston Globe in 1989, and Serrano was featured in a New York Times fashion spread. Or how about "Corpus Christi," the play with a gay Jesus who had sex with some Apostles. Any detractors were condemned by The New York Times as having "contempt for artistic expression."

There seems to be a double standard.

As a humble Christian, I should be and have a right to be offended by mockery of my Savior, and I should also be careful not to intentionally or maliciously offend others, misguided as their faith might be. I too once walked in darkness. But while we are taught to turn the other cheek and rejoice in persecution, Muslims are taught to fight back. While Christians are maligned by a majority of the cultural elite despite the fact that cultural mainstream is broadly “Christian” (84% of Americans claim to be “Christians,” however loosely that term applies), Muslims are applauded and exonerated. We are judged by a double standard. In a post 911 America, I find it hard to understand why the religion that inspired the terrorist attacks on our country gets off so easily.

I refuse to play by those rules, and I do not believe that the current Muslim behavior is similar at all to the way Christian’s have previously reacted to similar situation.

Then again, that's just my opinion.

A note to Tricia

Since relating the story of meeting Tricia's ex the other day, I have received an overwhelming amount of emails regarding this situation. James has also received several emails, and in hindsight I realize that linking to his flickr account may have been a poor decision on my part. Apparently things between Tricia and James were more heated than I realized, which led to a more "nasty" breakup than I first understood. It is still a rather volatile situation. Had I known this, I probably would not have brought all of this up on my blog. Unfortunately I can't change that.

I would, however, like to address Tricia's backlash.

Tricia, I have confirmation from both Ashleigh and James that they do not know each other and have never "cheated" together. The fact that my sister was never in Young Life limits further any potential connections they could possibly have had. While making up stories about my sister may somehow alleviate any pain and embarassment that you obviusly are harboring over your relationship with James, shifting the blame to someone else through fanciful fabrications in no way makes me, or the readers of this blog, sympathetic to your plight.

I am sorry that things ended sourly with you and James. But, you've never lived until you've loved, and you'll never love rightly until you've learned from loving wrong. At least you loved James. I can only hope that you have learned from that.

Tales from Meyer's Pride, The Illustrated Children's Edition

Here are the faces of Meyer's Pride Construction, LLC, which you can read more about on our new WEBSITE.

It's a small world, after all

You just never know who you might run into these days.

For instance, on Saturday Murray and the Sleuth went to the grocery store. We were waiting in line at the deli counter, stuck behind a family with two parents, three shopping carts and about 4 or 5 kids (depending on who had taken off to find something new in teh store that they hoped mom and dad would buy). They finally finished, and the deli lady looked at us to assist us in our sandwich meat shopping. As we began to place our order, we noticed that the family that was in front of us had left one of their more important items - a kid. As we completed our request for honey maple turkey and simultaneously wondered what to do with the lost little boy, a woman came running over from behind the fresh bread, yelling at us and the deli lady that it was in fact her turn in line. We disagreed, and so informed her. Apparently, the little boy did NOT belong to the family in front of us, but was in fact this lady's own boy, who she had left as a "deposit" in line to secure her place in the deli meat queue. We thought that was lame. She thought we had cut in line. Deli lady thought we should get some cheese with our meat.

We were in line again today, this time at Office Depot. After about 10 minutes of waiting, the copy center was ready for us, and we for it. As we stepped up to get our copies, a woman who had been in line behind us scooted around and began to order in front of us. The Office Depot lady look helplessly at us, hoping we might intervene and assert our Constitutionally guaranteed "line rights". We were about to put our foot down when Murray realized that the lady who had just cut in front of us was the same lady from the deli line at the grocery store the other day. The boy was nowhere to be seen. She probably had him saving a place in a line somewhere else.

Some call that karma. We call it two times in 4 days that that lady was a jerk.

We tell you that story of strange meetings as a preface to this one. We met this guy at church last weekend named James Poole. He was a nice fella, and we enjoyed talking to him. We discussed the usual - hometown, current jobs, where we went to school, etc. When we mentioned Covenant we noticed in his eyes that something registered. "You just graduated recently?" he asked.

"A couple years ago - 2004."

"Ohh. You didn't happen to know Tricia Williams did you?"

We couldn't believe it! Yeah, we knew Tricia. She was only like one of our good friends and one of our sister's closest friends.

"How do you know Tricia?"

He seemed a little sheepish, but he responded anyway, "Uhh, we dated a little in high school.'

"Really?"

"Yeah, sort of. We met at a Young Life camp and kept in contact for a long time. Saw each other on ocassion at different Young Life events. You know, the summer camp fling kinda dating relationship thing."

"uhhuh."

"We had it pretty bad for each other. She sure was a firecracker. But I guess we were young and a little wild."

"Yeah, Tricia is pretty wild. So you were really diggin her chili, huh?"

"Pretty much. We called each other boyfriend and girlfriend for a while, but then after a year in college things kinda ended on a sour note."

We couldn't believe this! First, we didn't even know that in a Former Life Tricia had lived the Risqu'e Life with a Young Life fling. Second, the chances of us meeting him were about as slim as getting cut in line twice by the same person in one week at two different stores. We were a bit dubious of the whole story, and told James so, but James convinced us it was true, and as proof, the next day he sent us a link to his Flickr account.

Sure enough, there is Tricia. Underneath her picture are the words "My Ex." A little creepy, we must admit. But hey, we met a friend of Tricia!

Just goes to show you never know who you might run in to.

Tales from Meyer's Pride, Chapter 2

I was very proud of myself. Since I had moved down here to Coral Springs, most of the driving around town had been done by Jamie (if the three of us were together) or Brien (if it was just him and me). This was mostly because Jamie's car was the only one comfortably big enough for us all, plus they wanted me to get a feel for the city without having to drive.

Last night, however, I ventured out on my own.

Brien was at soccer practice, and I was working on a collage while I watched the Duke v. UNC game. I needed some supplies, so I headed out to Kmart. 10 minutes later I had what I needed and was back in the neighborhood (you can't beat the convenience of the suburban sprawl).

As I pulled in the driveway, I decided to park on the left side of the driveway, rather than the right side where my truck had sat since I arrived. This was my attempt to mix things up a bit, you know, give our driveway life a little variety, and keep the nosy neighbors entertained. After all, my truck hadn't moved since i returned the Uhaul trailer last Friday, so I'm sure the concerned folks on the neighborhood homeowners association board were wondering what kind of unemployed bum had domiciled in their quaint little Floridian enclave. This parking job was also my subtle way of signaling to Brien (he would notice when he returned from practice) that I had weaned myself from his and Jamie's geographic care and had courageously braved the roads of Coral Springs on my own. Without a map. As my truck rumbled into the driveway, I was glad my dual exhaust was so loud - perhaps the noise would bring someone to their window, and my plan would be noticed instantly. This was most excellent.

When I got to the front door I fumbled in the dark for my house key, but even once I found it I was having some difficulty getting it to fit in the keyhole. Where was the light when you needed it? Then I remembered - I had specifically left the light by the front door on when I left for Kmart. It was off. Somebody was in our house.

I quickly stepped back, surveyed the situation, and then decided to take a peek in the window to see if I could see anybody. This proved difficult as the lights inside the house were off as well. My nose was pressed hard to the glass and I cupped my hands around my eyes, but I couldn't make out anything inside. Suddenly, I realized that I didn't remember there being a window next to our front door, and as I quickly whirled around I noticed that the dying palm tree that Brien and I always laughed at was absent from next to the walkway.

I was at the wrong house. I darted back to the driveway, glanced around and saw the familiar front door of MY house - one driveway down the road. I ran to get in my truck, slipped and fell into the garage door. The noise reverberated off the concrete and echoed back from the house across the street. Surely everyone in the neighorhood was watching. My truck rumbled as I turned the ignition - why was it so STINKIN loud?!

Fairway View is shaped like a "q". we live on the straight drive just below where the "circle" connects to the "stem." I drove around the circle, hoping that somehow that would divert any observers' attention. I'll never know if this plan worked. Finally I pulled back into the driveway of our house.

I parked on the left side, but my enthusiasm had been curbed. So much for being ready to drive on my own in coral springs. Perhaps I need a few more weeks of practice.

The Angry Left, Part 3

Perhaps you've heard the phrase "stuck on stupid" thrown around lately, particularly if you read the right wing blogosphere or listen to any of a number of conservative radio talk show hosts. The phrase has been around for awhile, i'm sure, but it got really popular in the conservative/republican vocabulary when it was used by Lt. Gen. Russel Honore (who has helped lead the Gulf Coast relief effor) last year when he responded to a dumb question asked by one of those ubiquitous ignorant-but-think-they're-brilliant journalists.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Well here's a picture worth at least three words - "stuck on stupid." It doesn't get much more stupid than Cindy Sheehan and The Right Reverend Jackson.

Palmetto Pride

This is actually a comment from Johnny T regarding the previously posted GFCI saga, however, I find John's anecdote extremely humorous, and I didn't want the brilliance to get lost in the comments shuffle.

John wrote:

The South rises to the occasion...

Intrigued by this post, I called up a Wal-Mart in good ol' Columbia, South Carolina. Assuming that the guy in sporting goods who handles the selling of guns and knives and hunting licenses knows more about electricianing than the electronics guy, I asked to speak to someone in sporting goods. Once I reached the old codger, I asked him if I could buy a GFCI there to which the Southern Wal-Mart Dude replied:

"Ain’t that a Ground Fault Circuit Interrupter?”
“Yes sir.”
“Yeah, we got ‘em. But not in my section. Come on over and I'll show you where they are."

I then thanked the guy for being in Columbia and not moving to Florida. Not knowing the preceding story thus being slightly confused, he said “Sure. Have a good’un.”

Mondays with Murray, II

Murray: I’m telling you Jason, they’ve got everything down here. House. Church. Sun. Money. Girls. It’s all here waiting for you, just bring your own toothbrush.

An arial shot of Broward County

This is our territory. Blue = business

An update on the GFCI

Murray is currently trying to install the GFCI. He has been shocked several times in the process. This looks to be a more dangerous task than we first thought.

Perhaps it would be best if we just abstained from hair drying and/or any contact with bathtub water.

Tales from Meyer's Pride

Meyer’s Pride Construction, LLC, is officially in business. Our first task was a trip to Walmart. The reason for our visit was due to a bit of advise that the home inspector had offered to Brien on the recent walk-through in Brien’s newly purchased home (hereinafter referred to as “Manville South” and/or “Monster Garage”). The inspector informed Murray (in his heavy British accent) that, besides being a “cosmetic eyesore,” the outlet in the master bathroom needed to be fixed because it could be “potentially lethal.”

We arrived at Walmart and began our search for the Ground Fault Circuit Interrupter, the device that would apparently correct the lethal outlet. We soon spotted a blue vest with the words “How may I help you” emblazoned on the back. Pay dirt. The following conversation then ensued between Brien and the Walmart employee:

Murray: Excuse me, do you know where I could find a GFCI?

Walmart dude: A what?

Murray: A GFCI. Ground Fault Circuit Interrupter.

Walmart dude: What is that? I don’t understand what you’re talking about.

Murray: A GFCI.

Walmart dude: I can’t understand you.

The old Walmart dude walked away. It was at this point that I realized that I was no longer in the South, but in the 6th Borough. First, judging by his demeanor, accent, age, the thick glasses, and the mesh hat he was wearing, the Walmart dude was obviously a former Navy man, a northeasterner who had retired to the sunny south beaches to fulfill his lifelong dream of working part time in the appliance section of Walmart. This dude was a Yankee through and through. Second, after listening once to Murray’s rapid and sometimes difficult to understand speech patterns, he was no longer interested in trying to figure out what Murray was saying. Or to help us. So much for customer service and southern hospitality.

We searched a little longer and found another employee. She referred us to the service counter in the home appliance section. We arrived only to find our friend, the Walmart dude, solely managing the home appliance counter.

Murray: I looked in the electrical section, but I couldn’t find a Ground Fault Circuit Conductor.

Walmart dude: A what? (he leaned in really close to Murray’s face) I don’t understand what you’re saying. (there was an edge in his voice – he was annoyed)

Murray: Ok, it’s a thing you put on your outlet so if you’re drying your hair with a hair dryer or something and drop it in the bathtub it won’t electrocute you. It’s an electrical thing.

Walmart dude: I was a carpenter for thirty years, I don’t know electrical stuff. But I’ve never heard of this thing. What’s it called again?

Murray: A GFCI. I’ve never bought one, but my building inspector told me I needed to get one.

Walmart dude: So you just bought a house and the inspector told you this? He’s bullshitting you. I’ve never heard of it in my thirty years of carpentry. But tell me what you think it does, I want to learn something here.

By now, Murray, me and Jamie were all laughing a the Walmart dude’s antics and jokes. At least he had lightened up a little bit. Murray again explained what he thought the GFCI did. Jamie then piped up and asked Murray if he even used a hair dryer and if this would ever be an issue, to which Murray laughed and replied with that famous playful smirk, “No, but you know the inspector guy said it was lethal!”

Walmart dude: The guy told you this? Why the hell would you be drying your hair in the bathtub anyway? Are you boys done messing with me?

Murray: (laughing) We’re not messing with you.

Walmart dude: Yeah right, you boys are all laughing and having a good time, but now I’m gonna get back to what I was doing before you hooligans came along, which was nothing.

To confirm that we were crazy, and that Walmart dude was justified in his ignorance, he began to ask every person that walked past if they knew what a GFCI was. The kitchen lady didn’t know, the three high school boys pushing a large cart didn’t know, and the guy who was clearly Walmart’s electronic expert hadn’t heard of it. Walmart dude then turned to the girl that had just showed up to take over the home appliance counter and said:

Walmart dude: This guy here claims to be looking for something that lets you stand in a bathtub full of water and drop your hairdryer into it and not get shocked. You ever heard of anything like that?

She hadn’t. She only knew paints.

Walmart dude: You need to tell that british inspector to go back across the ocean to his queen. What does that queen do anyway? She makes $4 million a year for doing what? I mean, our President doesn’t do anything, but at least we don’t pay him $4 million a year. (I make no claims as to the accuracy of Walmart dude’s knowledge of the queens salary)

Murray: Uhh…

Walmart girl who only knows paints: I’ve called the area supervisor, he’s coming over to show you where the GFCI is. (to the Walmart dude) Murray, I told you, I don’t know anything except paints.

Walmart dude’s name is Murray!?! Go figure.

We found the GFCI. Brien took it back to Walmart Murray and had him read the letters out loud. G-F-C-I. We had won.

So in case you were wondering, there is such a thing as Ground Fault Circuit Interrupter. Meyer’s Pride Construction, LLC now owns one.