Tomorrow's the day, and as you can see, I am quite ready. I'll be on a plane by noon tomorrow and arriving in Anchorage about nine hours later to meet up with Danny who will be flying in from California. You can keep up with my travels at Danny & Micah's Excellent Alaska Adventure where we will try to update as often as possible from the road.
This song is dedicated to the hardworking employees of Superamerica.
Routines can take on a robotic nature at times, but it was not until recently that I discovered that it can be the other way around as well. Or so it seemed anyway on my daily routine stop at Superamerica, where Mrs. Roboto works the cash register every morning. Every day she greets me with the same emotionless "good morning," and bids me farewell with the equally emotionless "have a nice day." She looks right at me but has never seen me. Each and every one of her actions can be predicted with pinpoint accuracy. Never a hint of emotion or an attempt to socialize with customer or co-worker. Not once has she shown a sign of recognition at my appearance, though I am there most every day. I often attempt to sneak a peak at the back of her uniform to see if there is a switch.
Day in and day out, the questions grow in the back of my mind. Is there a soul behind those lifeless eyes? Have you ever laughed? Have you ever cried? Do you sing along to the radio in your car? Or do they turn you off and store you in the closet at closing time?
Another new day, and there she is. Morning is busy. I wait in line with my Mountain Dew and egg salad sandwich. Her hair is silver, and neatly put up in a bun. Her glasses went out of style fifteen years ago. She cares not. "Good morning four fifty-nine have a nice day good morning eight ninety-seven have a nice day." Customers come and go. She is unflinchable. She knows where every brand of cigarette is without a second of hesitation. She speaks the total before it even appears on the cash register. Nothing moves her from her routine. I am next.
We've met before haven't we? Doesn't matter. I could have landed from Mars this morning. The routine begins. "Three fifty-nine." I hand her a five. I know she will lay my change on the counter but I hold my hand out anyway. She lays my change on the counter. I turn my hand over and pick it up off the counter. "Have a nice day," she says, eyes already pointed at the customer behind me. It's then that I spot her weakness, and a plan begins to brew.
The next morning. Same as the previous morning. I await my turn. I hand her a ten. Change forthcoming. I try to get my hand under her hand to block the path to the counter, but she has lightning quick speed. I'll have to be quicker than that.
The next morning. Same as the previous morning. I'm ready. I see the open spot on the counter and my hand is ready as if I'm prepared to draw my gun. In one lightning-fast motion, my change hits the counter before my hand can even move forward. Frozen under pressure. I'll try a different approach next time.
The next morning. Same as the previous morning. This time I pay with Visa. I hand her my card and she swipes it and lays it on the counter in the same motion before I have a chance to blink.
This morning. Same as the previous morning. Back to cash. This time I hand her a twenty. My change will be sixteen dollars and seventeen cents. An odd sum like this will gain me precious milliseconds. My heart races. This is the day. She pulls out a ten, a five, and a one, and aims for the counter. But this time, in a move that would make Mr. Miyagi proud, my hand is there first. I close my hand around the bills and then glance up to meet her eyes. A brief moment of disbelief, a small glimmer of emotion in her eyes, and then..."Have a nice day."
My attempt to copy the cover of Suttree...
Here's the cover:
Here's my attempt:
(Shot this morning on the Mississippi.)
The first time I ever saw a real live mountain, and the first time I ever traveled outside of the midwest, I was 24 years old. I was in Wyoming, traveling west on I-90. I had spent the night in Gillette. I awoke early that morning and got back on the road. In the distance I spotted a strange cloud formation. I thought it was odd, but I didn't think much of it. I'll never forget the moment when I realized that it was a mountain. It was huge! I kept driving as it slowly began to emerge more clearly on the horizon. I had never seen anything like it.
I spent some time in Seattle, Washington that year. On one particularly clear day I was driving around the city with some friends and I spotted a huge mountain in the distance.
"That's Mt. Ranier," they informed me, "the tallest mountain in the continental United States."
"Cool," I said. "Let's swing over there for a minute and get some pictures."
The looked at each other and giggled, and then turned to me and in a very condescending tone stated, "Umm....it's like two hours away."
I learned two things that year: mountains are big, and I am small. As I drove across Montana and Idaho the first of many times, my breath was taken away by the sheer magnitude of these things. It is an amazingly satisfying feeling to lose yourself in something bigger than yourself. As John Piper says, "No one goes to the Grand Canyon to increase
self-esteem. Why do we go? Because there is greater healing for the
soul in beholding splendor than there is in beholding self. Indeed,
what could be more ludicrous in a vast and glorious universe like this
than a human being, on the speck called earth, standing in front of a
mirror trying to find significance in his own self-image?"
And so it is that this feeling is but a foretaste of the glory that we long for - not the glory of self, but the glory of self-forgetfulness in being caught up in what is truly glorious. Indeed, we could not know what glory is if these pointers were not there. As C.S. Lewis once said, "Nature never taught me that there exists a God of glory and of
infinite majesty. I had to learn that in other ways. But nature
gave the word glory a meaning for me. I do not see how the 'fear'
of God could have ever meant to me anything but the lowest
prudential efforts to be safe, if I had never seen certain ominous
ravines and unapproachable crags. And if nature had never awakened
certain longings in me, huge areas of what I can now mean by the 'love' of God would never, so far as I can see, have existed."
In three weeks I will stand before Mt. McKinley, the tallest mountain in North America. They say you can see its peak from 100 miles away. My goal is to get a fresh lesson in the meaning of glory so that I will have some idea of what I'm talking about when I refer to the glory of God. And yes, I'll be leaving my mirrors at home.
Ever since a new hockey team arrived in my town and decided to call themselves the "Wild," the Blog has dedicated itself to exposing ridiculously unoriginal, unappealing, and uninspiring sports nicknames, logos, and uniforms. Now the Blog has searched the archives of sports history and is finally able to present to you the authoritative list of the worst 10 sports nicknames ever:
#10: The Minnesota Wild
It took me two years to figure out that this logo was supposed to be two images in one. I still can't figure out what the nickname represents. Here are a few options from Webster:
Your guess is as good as mine.
#9: The Chicago Orphans
(No logo available)
That's what the Chicago Cubs were called from 1898 until 1901. There must have been a reason behind this, but not knowing what it is simply makes me wonder what the mascot must have been. A child in rags walking around asking if anyone has seen his parents?
#8: The Miami Floridians
An ABA basketball team from 1968-1972. What's with the one multicolored letter in the midst of the black letters? Once again, I am filled with questions that need answers. It's a good thing this trend didn't catch on, or else we'd have leagues full of teams like the Spokane Washingtonians, the Jackson Mississippians, the Albequerque Newmexicans, the Des Moines Iowegians, the Houston Texans....Oh, wait...
#7: The Houston / Dallas Texans
Long before this horribly unoriginal nickname was used by the NFL expansion team in Houston in 2002, it was used by the Dallas Texans (above) from 1960-62 (who have since become the Kansas City Chiefs), and the Houston Texans of the WFL (below) in 1974.
And then it was resurrected again in 1996 in the Arena Football League:
But wait...there's more...
#6: The Honolulu Hawaiians
I kid you not. They were another WFL team from 1974. No wonder that league only lasted one year.
#5: The New York-New Jersey Hitmen
I could throw the entire collection of XFL teams into this list, but I only have room for ten so I'm picking one to represent all (sorry, L.A. Xtreme and Memphis Maniax). Haven't you ever thought to yourself: "hey, I could really get behind a team that celebrates my city's history of murder and organized crime."?
#4: (TIE) The Toronto Northmen and the Memphis Southmen
Two more winners from the WFL. And they're both bears for some reason. Inexplicable.
#3: The Miami Vise
And here I thought that it couldn't get any worse in Miami than Floridians. Apparently they've used up all the names of fish and other animals so there's nothing left to do but name their teams after a TV series. This team didn't even last as long as the TV series; they were only around for one year (1987) in the Arena Football League. Don't ask me what that logo is supposed to be.
#2: The Boston Beaneaters
The Atlanta Braves went through five nicknames (Beaneaters, Doves, Rustlers, Bees, Braves) and three cities (Boston, Milwaukee, Atlanta) before arriving where they are today. Let this be a lesson to teams like the Wild that it's okay to change something if you don't get it right the first time.
#1: The Green Bay Packers
No explanation needed.
(HT: my dad)
For more extensive Alaska blogging go here.
There have always been two things I've wanted to see before I die. One is a Vikings Super Bowl win. The other is Alaska. Too bad I can't whip out my credit card and order a Super Bowl win for the Vikings on expedia.
At long last, my lifelong dream of seeing Alaska is about to come to fruition. I suspect that this is about all I'm going to be able to think about for the next month.
I will be flying for only the second time in my life, which is the only downside. I would rather have driven up, but lack the time it would take.
Here's the plan (so far as there is one).
Man, 31 days is a long long time. Don't plan on reading about much of anything else on The Blog until then.
Pending approval, I'll be on a jet plane pointed towards Alaska in 32 days, 4 hours, and 36 minutes.
Who cancelled spring? Minnesota, like a woman, changes its mind without notice.
This is where Mike Zoss drugstore used to be, where the Coen brothers hung out growing up in St. Louis Park, MN.
The sun'll come out tomorrow.
It was a simple plan. I was to go to the store, exchange money for goods, and come home in time to watch the afternoon hockey game.
Strike one: I needed a couple new pairs of jeans for work because I keep destroying mine. Apparently I wear the most popular pants size on the planet because I can never find what I want in a 33/32. I leave the store without pants (except for the ones I'm wearing).
Strike two: I wander into Half-Price Books to pick up my next Cormac book. There it is. I pick it up off the shelf. It's not in the best shape, but that's why it's half-price, right? I look at the price. It's marked down from $24 to $20. I do some math in my head and then wonder why the store isn't named Five-Sixths Books. No way I'm risking strange germs on every page to save four bucks. I'll go home and get it brand new off Amazon.
Strike three: At least I know I can find what I want at Sports Authority. I need a certain piece of excercise equipment. What it is isn't important. What is important is that I know they will have it. I am willing to pay for it, because I need it. I spot it on the far wall. Dozens to choose from! I pick the one that makes me look the fastest, disregard the high price, and walk towards the counter. After a few minutes I realize that I should have brought a Snickers bar because I won't be going anywhere for a while. The line is longer than the Great Wall of China. Apparently half the Twin Cities decided to meet at Sports Authority on Saturday morning. This is no good. I put my item back on the shelf and leave empty-handed. From now on I do all my shopping online.
Recently at the place where I work they've started putting up signs all over the building that state how committed they are to quality and excellence. Every time I see one of these signs I get the image in my head of a girl who feels that she has to wear a sign around her neck that says, "I am pretty."
"The acid test of biblical God-centeredness - and faithfulness to the gospel - is this: Do you feel more loved because God makes much of you, or because, at the cost of his Son, he enables you to enjoy making much of him forever?" (page 11)
Just to clear up a question that I've been getting a lot lately....
...and possibly create another one.
Are
You
Ready
For
Some
Football?
Vikings. Packers. Monday Night. Opening week.
My grandfather and my great-grandfather were both born in the same year.
How can this be? Well, I just realized, while going through some family history yesterday, that my mom's dad's dad was born in 1894 in Mitchell, South Dakota. That same year, my dad's dad was born across the ocean in Denmark. Somehow a descendant from each of these families found each other in a Minneapolis coffee house in 1976 and produced me. And they didn't even have internet access.
Hidden among the cornfields along highway 55 in northwestern Minnesota on some of the flattest land you'll ever see is a little town called Tenney. Having recently discovered that America's smallest town was only three hours away, my curiosity finally got the best of me. So I rose early on Saturday morning and made the three-hour drive in 2 hours and 57 minutes, took some pictures, and then made it back in time for lunch.
The town did not match the pleasant picture that I had created in my mind. It consists of a large grain elevator next to the highway and a few dilapidated old buildings along with a few run down houses and trailers. There is one dirt road that runs through the town like a horseshoe. You can walk a circle around the town in about 10 minutes. There is nothing pretty about it. Everything appears desolate. But having seen it now, I like it even more and I can't wait to go back when I can spend some more time there. Perhaps the townspeople would be kind enough to invite me out for the next town festival?
Speaking of the townspeople, I did not spot a single soul in the town (real or imagined). Not one person peeking out their window at me or walking out to get a newspaper. Not even a dog barking. Nothing. I began to wonder if there was really anyone living in this town that suddenly seemed like something out of Cormac McCarthy's The Road. The only sound in the air was the wind whipping through the barren trees and an occasional car passing on highway 55. I wanted to knock on a door but feared that I would only be met by the ghost of a 19th century lumberjack and his quilt-making wife.
Nevertheless, I am now more fascinated than ever by this town and its six residents. I want to know their stories. I want to know if they are happy in their little town without a single satellite dish, or if they feel trapped in Tenney like a woman stuck in a dead marriage. Perhaps they have discovered a kind of joy in simplicity that we city folk can never know. Or perhaps they long to escape to civilization and curse the day that they were born in this desolate corner of the universe. I want to know.
There's nothing like eating breakfast in a Perkins on a weekday morning and being the only person under 60 for making a person feel young again.
So there I was, just getting started on my bacon cheeseburger and discussing the events of the past week with a friend when we both became increasingly aware of the conversation taking place behind me in the next booth. We ceased speaking and communicated only through facial expressions as we couldn't help overhearing the lively conversation between four pastors that seemed to center around Calvinism in general and limited atonement in particular. It went something like this:
Pastor 1: So the way I see it, the problem with Calvinism is that it leaves no room for man's will.
Pastor 2: Well, whatdya expect? If I'm not elect, it doesn't matter how much I want to come to Jesus, he's not going to let me because he didn't die for me.
Pastor 3: And if I'm elect, what's to worry about? I've got a free ticket to heaven so why bother following Jesus?
Pastor 4: They just don't seem to understand that man has a will. God says that whosoever will may come.
Pastor 3: Amen.
Pastor 2: Amen.
Pastor 1: Amen.
After solving this centuries-old problem in the corner booth at Perkins on Friday morning, they paid their check and headed off to their churches to get ready to tell their flock the good news on Sunday. My friend and I were left there wondering if we should've turned around and said something. But we didn't so here's this:
Ever notice that from the moment you decide to watch a DVD until the moment you are actually seeing the opening credits appear on your TV screen you've lost about twenty minutes of your life?
I miss VHS. Here are a few more random things I miss:
The Blog has suffered from a lack of any kind of meaningful updates lately because its author has been working like a horse for the past month. We've been abnormally busy at work lately and I have been working my fingers to the bone as a result. This is how it is in the printing business -- there are times of plenty and times of lack, and this is the former. I find it humorous how quickly people forget this. There will come a time when it will slow down and people will go into a panic because there is no work. Then it picks up and people think they will never get a break. But that's the way it's always been and probably always will be. At least until paper is replaced by e-books, that is.
On top of working lots of extra hours I've had more responsibilities than ever before. I've been pouring myself out for this job over the past month and giving it all I've got and I come home every morning feeling absolutely drained. My hands are frequently cut up and bruised, I have a fresh scar on my forearm where I burned it while in the process of burning a new belt for a machine (and screamed like a little schoolgirl in the process), and every muscle in my body seems to ache at the end of the day. I feel the way John Grady Cole must have felt as he was bringing his horse back from Mexico. It's a good feeling though. A satisfying feeling. I couldn't imagine having to sit at a cubicle all day.
Even so, I am able to hold my job very loosely. I enjoy it, but I don't ever want to get to the point where I depend on it. I never want to be in a position where I can't walk away from it at any moment if the situation calls for it. A big part of that has been fulfilled in getting my credit card balance knocked down to the lowest it has been since I was 18 years old, which I finally did this past month as I watched it dip down to $1,875. I ran up a pretty big credit card bill in my early twenties when I packed up and headed out west without any kind of a plan (much like John Grady Cole). I spent the rest of my twenties paying it off. I just think of it as my student loan from the School of Hard Knocks. Now the end is in sight.
Speaking of All the Pretty Horses, I managed to find the time to read the book and watch the movie last week. The book was phenomenal. Cormac McCarthy continues to blow me away the way he always exceeds my expectations. The movie, however, was horrible. Rumor has it that this is because Billy Bob Thornton originally made the movie four hours long but the studio forced him to cut it in half. Thus it captured nothing that made the book great, so skip the movie and read the book.
The vending machine at work ran out of Mountain Dew last night. Thus I had to run down to the corner market to get me some and I thought of this:
"Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! All rebels, insurgents, dissidents, and protesters against the King! Hear the royal decree! A great day of reckoning is coming, a day of justice and vengeance. But now hear this, all inhabitants of the Kings' realm! Amnesty is herewith published by the mercy of your Sovereign. A price has been paid. All debts may be forgiven. All rebellion absolved. All dishonor pardoned. None is excluded from this offer. Lay down the weapons of rebellion, kneel in submission, receive the royal amnesty as a gift of imperial love, swear fealty to your sovereign, and rise a free and happy subject of your King."
Just as it is true that "there are rare species of joy that only flourish in the rainy atmosphere of suffering," so it is that there are rare species of joy that can only flourish in Minnesota.
Example: the girl working the drive-thru at Taco Bell was singing to me yesterday as she brought me my lunch. She was literally singing, "I've got sunshiiiiiine for a cloudy day..." And while she may have missed the point of the song, it was only because she was groping for something to sing that reflected the mood around my state yesterday because there is no song yet written about what it's like to experience 42 degrees for the first time in months. "What a beautiful day!" she exclaimed as she handed me my fountain pop, "I can't believe it's supposed to get up to 42 today!!!"
Truly a conversation like this can only take place in a northern paradise called Minnesota. The first sign of spring changes everything for everyone. Even the murderers and thugs were out picking daisies and hugging puppies yesterday afternoon. There is nothing quite like it.
Where else can 42 degrees be a cause for celebration and merriment? It is only through the misery and hardship of a long cold winter that such joy can emerge. It is the direct product of suffering and perseverance -- the first evidence of things hoped for but not yet seen. But there is more to come, and we wait patiently for it, walking through the slush and the mud and the ice, realizing that it is only temporary, because we know that there will come a day when we will be able to walk outside in a t-shirt and feel the warm breeze blowing through our hair once again. And on that day, only a fool would say that he enjoys this day to its fullest in spite of living through thirty-one Minnesota winters rather than because of it.
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