Thursday, March 19, 2009

Love and the Old Rugged Cross

I experienced what true love really means last night. One thing I appreciate about couples is hearing stories of what happens when no one is around. Morning showers together, foot rubs, watching movies on the floor... I finally have someone that is so present in my life and faithful that it finally happened.
I had been working on Mark's laptop doing homework and getting easily distracted by the television show he was watching. When I was almost finished, his show was over and he came and sat with me at the kitchen counter. Instead of going to bed, I asked if he would read to me. He grabs the current issue of Time magazine and starts reading a story about Christian music and the influence that Calvinism has on music, down to the decade.
I realize this might not excite most of you, but initially the story was intriguing. And honestly, if someone loves you enough to read to you instead of crawling into a warm bed, you're bound to listen to almost anything just to get them to stay with you.
Apparently, a hymn popular in the past few decades has been "The Old Rugged Cross," my mother's favorite hymn. So I say, I know that one. And begin to sing it for him.
As told to me a year ago by one of my best friends--a killer good lead guitar player--while singing Cake's "Stick Shifts and Safety Belts" at 1 a.m. with a room full of stoned hippies: "Morg, I think you're tone deaf."
You can imagine how well this went, singing a hymn with no music. I realize this and look to see if I can find a tune to sing along with. Here is what I find:
http://www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/o/r/oruggedc.htm
The music is absolutely awful, along with the photo of the man. Yet I continue to sing through the chorus and another verse. And what do you think Mark did during this fiasco? He sat, patient and smiling, just listening to me. I called it quits after another go through the chorus and then we both cracked up. And finally, I know what it feels like to be loved for all the good and all the not so good.

Do you have anything intriguing and not so secret that you'd love to share about your love? I'd love to hear about it.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Southern Hospitality: Heritage not Hate?

I like to play this game with myself. I mostly play it in the car. Or while walking my dog. Or going to the library. Anytime I'm out and about in the South.
It's called, "Count the Confederate Flags."
I see them as patches on jackets, as bumper stickers, but by far my favorite is flying from the back of a beat up pickup truck.
I saw seven in half an hour on my way home from work a few weeks ago. This has really started to bother me. I want to know the meaning behind why people still fly the Confederate flag with such pride knowing the feeling of such deep suppression degradation that it carries for an entire race of people.
So, I decided to begin asking people what it means to them, and perhaps start documenting this journey, whether it be through photographs or interviews.
I plan to make this journey with sincerity, mostly to save myself from name calling or worse, but I do believe this will stir up some knowledge I have been ignorant to in the past.
I hope I make this worth your while, too.

too good to keep for myself: California Goodwill and Abbey Road

three shots of scotch and this is what you get...‏

Don't act like you've never been there....these is down-trodden times....

So, I saunter into the Goodwill the other day like I own the place. I mean, I come from Kentucky, where you walk into a thrift shop, you see an old baseball card you know is worth $20, and you talk the 70-year-old woman behind the counter into selling it to you for 30 cents. It sounds cruel I know, but you only think so because I said she was 70. This is the way of the world though, and I'll expect no less when I'm 70, if I make it to 70.

Anyhow, my friend informs me that the way of the thrift-store world doesn't apply in well-cultured California, to where I recently moved -- the location of the Goodwill mentioned in the above sauntering.

So, I saunter into the Sacramento Goodwill. Of course, I am immediately bombarded with the smell of dusty old clothes and that sound of those plastic coat hangers with the steel hooks grating against metal as mostly women finger quickly through throw-away yellow and orange dresses from some recently deceased aunt's collection, looking for a find.
Looking for a find. Oh, I found my find -- mind you. And I was sure I had it cheap because I saw the store clerk behind that glass counter they put all those red and yellow shit-ugly bead necklaces inside -- like they're worth something.

I ain't even gonna waste your time with the "I ain't racist but" schpeal, because that shit is tired.

The guy behind the counter was a 70-year-old wrinkledly old black man with a raspy-voiced laugh that echoed harsh -- like you know he used to play a lot of poker -- but the dude was so old that I figured he didn't know shit.

So there it was. My find. Not much really I guess, but this is Goodwill, so you take what you can get. Things are supposed to be like $2. One gets excited easily.

Look it up on eBay. About $30 for an original, plastic-sealed, vinyl Beatles Abbey Road. I ain't even that much of a Beatles fan, but I know a find when I see it. (I already have one, just not in mint condition like this one).

So, it's got a $25 price tag on it. What, suddenly Goodwill got the Internet?? Is there that much difference in a mid-western Goodwill and a left-coast Goodwill (I heard that, "left-coast", on the radio today out here, bunch of wackos).

I called Old Smokey over and I'm like, "Is this an old price tag from somewhere else"???

To continue with the theme of sauntering, he actually did saunter over, with a swagger, kind of a bouncing on his hips in a dance sort of way to prolong the time it took him to get to the counter. He bounced enough to knock 20 years off of what I expected was his age. He did it just to make sure that I understood that he was no fool.

"Maaaannn....." he actually paused like this, the old shit. "Thaaatt's Abbey Raaaoooaaad."

What the hell, I said to myself. Why would a a crotchety old retired poker-playing black man know jack about the Beatles?

Well, he did. The find was done, and I was stuck while Kartika painstakingly slowly grated through those steel-hooked plastic coat hangers....Why, I don't know, but I bought one T-shirt that with a Camaro and a cop car that says "Smokey and the Bandit" on it.




~Sent to me via email from J March 2009

My Jesus, My Savior: God Understands

http://www.matt-hughes.com/images/blogimages/Meet_Logan.wmv

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Southern Hospitality: Low country boil, where have you been hiding?





Beaufort, South Carolina, couldn't have been a more perfect weekend. Peace was present with every member of the family, even as I was greeted the first time, and with a warm, loving, unexpected hug. It's life as I always imagined people might have lived, but with much more fun and relaxation. And a wonderful partner to share it with. I'm still shining from the trip.