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Thursday, Jan. 13, 2005
Just a few random thoughts on another random house-husband sort of day.

Man, Iím sick. My son came home with a simple cold a few days ago, cured it within 6 hours apparently, then passed it along to me. The fact that I actually saw him for no more than 30 minutes on that or any successive day lends mystery to how he managed to pass it on to me in the first place, but holy snotrag.

I drank orange juice, took pills, Nyquil, slathered on the bear grease and bundled up on the recliner. Nada, no cure in sight. This morning I canít even talk from all the wall shakiní coughing Iíve been doing, and yesterday I did something I probably havenít done since I was six. I slept damn near all day. I mean 24 hours worth. Miserable, dope addled sleep where you wake only to ingest more pharmaceuticals and note the time.

I havenít been to the Watering hole in 72 hours. Maybe thatís why Iím sick.

Iím hoping the phone doesnít ring with some really hot prospect for work on the line, since right now I canít do much more than croak out a half-whispered request to e-mail me. ĎCause honey, you ainít getting a conversation out of old Outfoxed today.

Laryngitis is a bitch.


Batten has a good point about what happens when orphans and tsunamiís and well meaning adults happen to collide in the same place, especially if that place happens to be a country with a religion other than conservative Christianity.

I spent the first 25 years of my life in a very structured conservative Christian environment. Iíll go so far as to claim to be an expert on the subject. If I never set foot in a church from this day forward, I will have spent more time in one than 95% of anyone you can name, and thatís no exaggeration.

But I donít think that you can claim any sort of grounded understanding of the breed until you step outside the magic circle that the church tosses out there. When you get to the outside and look in, you may start to get this sick and very un-Christian like feeling about the whole bunch. Jennís example is a very good one - a lot of Evangelical Christians refuse to accept that there just might be other world viewís that have the right to coexist with their own, and using a bunch of orphaned kids as a ploy to once again pass the collection plate is about the worst use of Godís name as Iíve seen recently. Not to mention the whole Great White Father aspect to it all.

I know several of you that read this have very staunch views about religion. It may sound as though Iím an embittered former Christian and in need of a great deal of prayer and supplication. Let me gently remind ye, my friends, that Christ might have hung out with gamblers and thieves and whores on many an occasion, but he didnít take up a collection to enfranchise them, nor did he make an overt and unwanted attempt to evangelize them right there on the spot. Just living an example is usually the best way. Buy a ího a hamburger, donít you know.

I know Iím being blasphemous. Remember, Iím the guy who can speak neither in tongues or any other way right now. Also, does supplication have anything to do with beer? You know, like . . . supped?


Wow, I just tried to talk out loud ( to myself, which is always dangerous) and nothingís coming out! If I go up to the Hole today Iím gonna have to make up some appropriate flashcards . . .


I know this. Any time (like today) when itís 74 degrees before May in my neck of the woods the locals start flocking to the beach. After Memorial Day the tourists come in and take the place over and nobody local goes anywhere near it unless theyíre trying to make money off some shmuck from Quebec or Jersey.

I have vivid memories of skipping school as a high school senior and going to the beach in February when it was 80, yanking off my shirt and laying in the warm sand. Watching small boats offshore, watching females stroll along the water. Local kids trying to jig up a crab or two with a chicken neck and a piece of string. Idly wishing I had a six pack on ice.

Gave me the shivers, just now. The yearning shivers.

I could do with a stroll on a someoneís long gray pier somewhere, with lines and lashing underfoot, and a splintery bench at the very end. That sounds very good right about now.

That, and hot tea. With a big dollop of my Mennonite grandmaís honey. Right from the comb, right from the hive.

My Grandma would know what to do with orphans, and Evangelicals, and laryngitis too. But I could have shown her how to jig up a crab. She never did have much use for the beach, bless her heart.

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