A "Huxta-position" of an Evening

Its always better when you stick around for the punch line. "Knock Knock," "Whose There?" "Orange," "Orange who?" or "Whats the deal with cereal?" These are all meaningless phrases without the kicker that makes it all worthwhile. Thus begun our Saturday night. I had heard a little too late that Bill Cosby was going to be in town at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center. When I relayed this news to Rebecca on Friday night, she replied with, "Oooh, I'd looove to go." And, like every good husband knows, when your wife would "looove" anything, you do everything you can to make that happen. I also agreed, this would be a fabulous show. I think deep down we might all love to be one of Rudy's friends bouncing from side to side on Dr. Huxtable's knee. Unfortunately, when I went online all the tickets for the event were sold out. So, as it came closer to 8p.m. on Saturday night we got dressed up as if we were going to still see the much anticipated comedy show. After all, there are always scalpers. Apparently, always, except for Bill Cosby. I had a burning wad of cash that I had retrieved from the ATM just waiting to be spent on over priced tickets. Round and round we circled the event center on foot. Not a scalper in site. What an utter disappointment. There would be no jell-o pudding, no "dad is great, he gives us chocolate cake," no dead panned, eyes bulging, stares, not even any ranting about social justice. So, then we decided to go into the lobby to see if any bold individual might be standing around holding two tickets in the air. Nothing. Then, on the big screen tv in the lobby, Bill Cosby appeared. The show was being broadcast from the stage to the lobby so real ticket holders wouldn't miss a minute. It was kind of like going to a mega-church in Franklin, where you weren't holy enough to make sanctuary seating, so you got to watch the service from the choir robe closet where all the spill over goes. We waited patiently for him to begin speaking. Then the lobby crowd quickly thinned out. This was nerve racking. I wanted to catch at least one joke before the ushers were "on to us" and escorted us towards the door. Then he says, "When you are this old, its no longer a senior moment." A pregnant pause followed. It was torture. The usher was walking towards us. What to do? ..we had to bolt. There you have it, half a joke. I have no idea what followed. I tell myself it was pure comic genius. In my imagination Rebecca and I have tears in our eyes from the hilarity of it all. Instead, we later ended up at a "joke" of an asian restaurant called Pearl Fusion Restro. Restro was a very appropriate word for this place. This made-up trendy title, sums up so much of the dining experience. It was not nearly good enough to be a "restro-rant" and the owner must have been so lazy that he didn't worry much about the service, food or even finishing the label of his eating establishment. I will give it this. The coked out greeter, often making out with various male customers at the bar, almost made up for the entertainment lost by missing an evening with a comic legend.

Luck o' The Irish?

Last night Rebecca and I had the pleasure of sitting in the creaky pews among the ghosts of Nashville-past at the Ryman Auditorium, country music’s mother church. I had purchased some scalped tickets online for the show, so there was anxiety built around how the situation might play out. It turns out that the tickets were legit and we had the entire row to ourselves. The setting was perfect to celebrate the memory of one of our more romantic and memorable dates of 2007. Last year Rebecca and I had gone to the great little art house theatre, the Belcourt (anytime you can drink a draft beer or glass of wine and watch a movie I’m all for it) to catch the modern musical, “Once.” The songs from the movie were haunting and stayed with us for the past year. The Irish couple that had made this little indie movie went on to win a surprising Oscar for Best Original Song and have sold out shows all over the U.S. As we eagerly waited for the Swell Season to begin, we had to sit through a fairly painful set of tunes from the opener. To his credit, I think he would be an enjoyable listen on a sunny Saturday morning while cleaning the house, but for the most part it was a real snoozefest. If anything, I felt for the drummer who looked like he was just told that he was going on tour with a "real star" and he played with the same emphasis that he would had he found out that the star was The Boss or Tom Petty. He was really a distraction as the stoic singer barely moved an inch. This all was quickly forgotten as I heard the first few notes of "Falling Slowly." The simple piano riff and sweeping harmonies blanketed us in warm perfection. Song after song the duo of Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova pulled you into their world of passion, heartache and quirky Irish anecdotes. The latter was probably the most charming thing of the evening. The entire band seemed truly honored to be playing for the crowd and told several stories to show their appreciation. The story that stuck with me the most was that he admitted that he had spent 18 years dreaming of how to go down this path (presumedly success with music) and he kept running into the same wall over and over. He mentioned that sometimes you need to turn away from your path and wall and begin walking in a seemingly completely different path. In his scenario he said we often end up walking all the way around the world until one day we realize we are walking on the other side of that wall and we've come full circle never realizing that we've achieved what we originally had set out for. Its simple, but its simplicity made a lot of sense.

King Me..

I read an article this morning in the San Francisco Chronicle concerning the state of Obama’s current demeanor and how its linked to his recent upswing in the polls. They claimed that his feisty attitude has been spurred on by advisors and other Democrats to get “tougher” and “show more passion.” Appropriately, he followed suit and ripped McCain over recent flubbed up comments and missteps. While this might lead to greater popularity and the ultimate success of calling the White House “home,” I can’t help but think about how this is the same man who has constantly been calling for the debates to be cleaned up and focus on the issues and demanded the media back off of Sarah Palin when news broke about her daughter’s teen pregnancy. These are the qualities that make his character so appealing to me as a voter. I think I am most definitely in the minority. This need for outward strength, often ignorant strength, seems to be an inherent need that the masses have always cried out for. It reminds me of several places in the Old Testament, where the Israelites cried out for a king, even though they more or less had direct access to the living God. Later in the New Testament as Christ walked among the people, they still weren’t satisfied. They wanted the noble king with an iron fist to rule and lead their people. What is this need that we all have to be led?..insecurity? force-fed hope? or are we all too afraid of our own inherent, intrinsic abilities and where they might lead us?

Tennessee Tadpoles

After nearly 11 years in Nashville, I have slowly but surely been converted into, at best, a fair weather Tennessee Titans fan. It’s hard not to root for your hometown team a little bit..especially when your quarterback has possible suicidal tendencies and refuses to call his mother every night, or our formerly famous nicknamed cornerback had more felonies than minutes of playing time. That has all the makings for lifelong fan loyalty. Although, I do have one small quam with my local pro football team. Who hired their graphic designer? It has irked me since its inception. The Tennessee Titans logo has to be one of the worst designs in all of major league sports. Sure, I could be from San Diego where bolts of lighting dart across the helmet and jerseys of their Chargers or from Jacksonville where their Jaguar, with its grotesque teal tongue, could devour my body in seconds, but alas I’m from Nashville where we will get our poor perspective, flaming sperm/tadpole all over you..and that’s just gross. I mean Titans..that’s pretty scary, right? Well.. how about a matching fearsome logo? I think the problem lies in that most people have no idea what a Titan is ..I’ll admit..I just wiki-ed it. So here begins my petition to replace the Titans’ logo with Kronos’ sickle, Coeus’ fearsome brainwaves or at least a big sharp sword..because if nothing else swords are and have always been scary. At this time in professional football when it lags behind all other professional sports in viewership and general popularity due to its poor graphic design team, I beg of you, please petition to give the Tennessee Titans a new logo.

Bedside Service

Sometimes Sunday mornings come a little bit quicker than expected. Its not that we were clinging to Saturday night and stayed up too late, but more a classic case of one of those making-excuses-or-maybe-mom-will-forget-me-and-not-notice-that-I'm-still-sleeping-and-go-to-church-without-me Sundays. We stayed in bed and watched old Buster Keaton shorts on youtube and then had breakfast shortly before falling back asleep again. When we finally got up, we figured we should probably hit the night service at one of our "back-up churches." This term is not to diminish the quality of these churches, but I think everyone should have a good backup when you sleep in late or maybe there is a guest speaker from the children's puppet team mission to Deleware. Today we went to the service where we always feel hot. I'm not sure if they have an a/c issue or maybe the Holy Spirit is just giving us a gentle reminder of what is to come if we keep missing Sunday mornings. While the service was nice, although a tad more traditional than I tend to prefer, I couldn't help but be thoroughly impressed by their sense of humor. About a third of the way through the service I whispered to Rebecca, "Honey, why is that woman (probably in her later 40s to early 50s) wearing a large white t-shirt with a screen printed picture of Usher (the famous R&B singer) on it? Rebecca paused and with a smile on her face said, "I think its because..well..shes their usher."...so impressed..so very impressed.

A Wounded Soldier Stance

Just put a flute in my hand or tom drum around my neck and I will fit in perfectly with those famous boys coming out of battle. It all started as I lazily walked down the stairs of the creepy corridor known as the Mosaic Church basement/storage area last Sunday. This area could easily double as either: the beginning of a haunted house, a place where you’d tell friends that the last owner “used to keep the slaves,” or a very intimidating wine cellar for your creepy French friend with teeth all askew. So as I began one of my first strides at the bottom of the stair case, another church volunteer was rearranging some boxes filled with children’s toys and accidentally bumped into a large black box with a black sheet draped across the top. The box quickly tipped over and squarely hit me across my right thigh and knee. She offered a quiet mumbled “..sorry ‘bout that.” I didn’t know if I should cry or yell some obscenity, this was church after all. She realized how badly I was hurting when I couldn’t lift the black box off my leg by myself. As it turns out, this previously presumed empty black box was actually the top of a piano. The two of us used our force to get the piano off of my leg and all week I’ve enjoyed watching my bruises go from black to purple to yellow. To add insult to injury..no..actually to add injury to injury I was hurt again in soccer practice last night. As preparation for Saturday when we are playing a group of young men who are already performing facial artistry with their zig-zag designs in their teenage beards, the coaches played against some of the players. As I came up simultaneously on the ball as one of the larger players on the opposite field, I cocked my leg back for a big down-field pass. I think she had a similar idea. I caught the tail end of her cleats against my bare legs. Again, not able to show how bad it hurt, I played on with a little limp. After the game I put my leg under the glow of some street lights and saw that I had bloody cleat marks and two black and blue golf ball sized lumps on my shin. Last night I propped my legs up on some pillows on the couch as Rebecca and I watched a movie and applied a frozen pack to my shins..that was until I noticed the pack (formerly included in a gift of gourmet brownies sent to the house) read “DON’T APPLY DIRECTLY TO SKIN.” Perfect..

Beckham and Hyde or Egyptian Exodus

The following somehow all took place in just under 24 hours..
“C’mon Ref!..that was a ‘hand ball!’” they screamed incessantly over and over. “Call both sides!!” they spat out as their eyes rolled from frustration. This was less of an introduction or baptism into the world of officiating sports, and more of a dropping from the local bridge into parent infested waters. It was all smiles and “oh we’ll be patient with you,” at the beginning of the longest 48 minutes of my life, but somehow quickly this fierce need for victory and the taste of blood rose up in parents and coaches around the perimeter of the field. The other coach, other than myself, for the YMCA soccer teams age 10-12, who has told me how easy this would be because of the children’s age, was also coaching these 8-10 year olds. He told me, "don’t worry about offsides or accidental hand balls," but then something in him snapped after I blew my whistle to begin the game. He began to scream at the children as if they were his own and they had disrespected their mother or colored with crayons all over the walls. He invented new rules to the game and actually charged the field to plead his case that a goal should be reversed. It was wild to watch the demeanor of the children on his team turn with his rising temper. One cherub faced chubby boy even screamed at me after I did finally call a hand ball that he had swatted at..”I DIDN’T DO THAT!” I retreated into that place in my brain that I often go at work when monotony seems too difficult to bear. I numbed myself and watched in dismay as seconds ticked away at the pace of hours. Finally, time was up. I don’t know who won. I didn’t care. I didn’t congratulate anyone, I just walked off the field. After all, I had to coach my game in less than five minutes. That story is far less interesting and much more gratifying. I have a fairly disciplined group of mainly boys who worked hard and nearly beat the hot-headed coaches team. We lost 6-4, but my little guys made some genius passes and displayed impressive ball control. We’ll get ‘em next time..oh..and that was the first and last time I will ever don the black and white stripes of a part time referee.
Shortly after the morning excitement of cleats and clamor, it was time to drive with Rebecca to the Nashville “Lost Boys Foundation.” She is currently writing a paper on “culture and adjusting to a new life in the United States.” She was assigned to pick an individual who has recently moved to the States and interview them on the ups and downs of their adjustment period. She had just finished reading "What is the What" by Dave Eggers and we had also recently watched several movies about the atrocities in Sudan and had good friends spend several months as medical missionaries there. We were both very anxious to meet Gabriel and listen about his journey and life. We pulled up to the center which is more of an art gallery and studio than meeting place. The boys, now men, works were displayed. There was an abundance of tribal masks and clay cows. He proudly and humbly showed us the artwork that he had crafted. We made small talk and then made our way back to the back of the studio. Rebecca and I sat on a dirty couch and he pulled up a fold-out chair. It didn’t take but a few questions, before he pulled us into his story of escaping from “the enemy.” He was 9 years old and on the run for months and ultimately years, starving and sleep deprived. He was focused only on survival and looking for the next fruit tree that would provide him with a little more life. He mentioned that he was sad at the fact, but he didn’t pray during this time. He said maybe his elders did, but that the only thing you can think about is “how to continue surviving.” It was amazing, a moment that makes you want to rearrange everything in your own life...a moment where the plight of people and the reality of faith and God come crashing together in front of your eyes. Towards the end of our conversation he suggested we try going by a local Egyptian market where he enjoys doing his grocery shopping. He said the food was similar to what he might find at home in Sudan. After we thanked him for his time, we promptly went down the road to this market. At first it was a great time, looking at the different kinds of baked breads and notating prices for Rebecca’s paper. Then suddenly, I suppose we stood out for what we were...tourists in a place we didn’t belong. The store owner came over and asked us if we needed any help. We commented that we were just browsing. He told us he knew why we were there and it was for competition. He laughed a demeaning and disapproving laugh, similar to Jafar (sorry for the random Disney reference...I’m quick to admit I have very little experience with middle eastern culture, where maybe I could sound much more educated in my analogy). Rebecca told him that we were there because she was writing a paper and he dropped the issue after several more frustrating comments. He never kicked us out exactly, but it was obvious we weren’t welcome. With that, we fled from little Egypt and drove back to a side of town we were much more comfortable and welcomed in.
This odd day would only lastly be made odder by a true “cherry on top.” Rebecca and I had decided that it was such a beautiful and mild night out that it would be a great time to open our windows and let a little bit of the sound of nature into our bedroom. We had been in bed for a few hours when at 3:37am I was startled awake by the sound of a screaming woman running down our street, yelling “Nooooo..Nooooo.NOOOO!!!” Then it happened “BANG, BANG, BANG!!” By this time Rebecca and I were staring into each other’s eyes. “Was that..?” she said. “Yeah! Someone definitely just got shot.” I whispered back. “Do you want to close the window?” she suggested. “No way! I’m too scared.” I admitted. So together we laid in bed, too afraid to go to the window to observe the events that might have happened just after. I’d like to tell myself that some kids were playing with fireworks and chasing each other around the block at 3am last night, but I’m afraid it sounded much more like an Ice Cube video than that. With that, we forced ourselves back to sleep and I woke up early to play guitar in the praise band at church. I had a lot to praise God for..namely life away from: crazed parents, fierce lions and starvation, and gang bangers with pistols. Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day..

The daily event of a sudden loss in cabin pressure..

Its always the most difficult to wake up on the days when the sun is hidden behind the clouds, never sneaking through the cracks in our bedroom’s blinds, and drops of rain beat against the drain in a slow rhythm that lulls me momentarily back to sleep. Its days like today that I question how I ever got to work. I don’t remember the routine turns, the songs on the stereo or the new jackpot displayed on the Tennessee Lottery billboard that looks down on me each day on the way to work along Murfreesboro Road. It is in this sleepy coma that I find myself sorting through spreadsheets, emailing financial goals and calculating how far my daily numbers are off from goal. Then suddenly, I find myself in a completely different locale. Its dusty here and the palms are scattered among the pre-Colombian ruins. It sneaks up on me and takes over daily like the common cold, without warning, without a noise. Today it was the Yucatan peninsula and I gazed up at the Mayan ruins while shuffling through various other captivating excavation projects. I took a ten hour bus ride where I was only one of a handful of gringos riding down Mexico’s 110 to the Pacific Coast. I remembered enough Spanish to make basic conversation with the man sitting next to me and understand that he was visiting his niece in Colima. He told me that it was the first colonial town west of Mexico City (I know..my comprehension is impressive). I got off the bus before my final destination of Manzanillo at Pascuales where I rented a surf board and fell more times than I stayed on the board, but the moments where I stood atop the swells were pure ecstasy. Then just as suddenly my phone rings or a managerial shadow looms behind me and I’m back in my carpeted cube staring at a framed picture of Rebecca or a pinned up picture of Michael Jackson that reads “Remember…it could always be worse.” Yesterday, I was bicycling across both Ireland and Thailand and my legs never got tired. Who knows where next week will take me..

Things Left Undone..

My mom and dad got home this evening from their recent European trek across Germany, Switzerland and Italy. The trip held special meaning to them for several reasons, but the main was that it was a kind of finishing of something that was left undone. All the years of being dragged to my tepid grandmother’s house outside St. Louis, I vividly remember the huge fairy tale scene that was painted and framed above her stiff, towel lined couch. I don’t believe the depiction of the snow capped mountains and the quaint chalets were actually of Switzerland or Germany, but my grandmother would always specifically refer to one of these locales as she would gaze and sigh, “someday I will get over there.” But like most of us, her dreams and her reality rarely crossed paths with one another and she passed away eight years ago without ever seeing the cities where her ancestors came from just one or two generations prior to her upbringing in Indiana. It seemed like poetic justice tonight when both my mom and dad said that Speyer, Germany, the home of the Hoffman side of the family, was their most pleasant surprise of the trip. They commented on how perfect this little town was and what a shame that the guidebooks don’t even mention its existence. My dad even believes he located the evangelical church that his grandfather attended before coming to the United States. So somewhere in that great by-and-by, I’m sure my grandmother shyly smiled from her quaint chalet as she finally got to see the mountains that hang majestically over Speyer, Germany through the eyes of her son and daughter-in-law.