Prayer of Confession

Heads were bowed, eyes were closed and hands were folded as the pastor led his congregation in a Prayer of Confession and Declaration of Forgiveness. Everyone was still and silent and pastor’s soft words were heard plainly from the pulpit.

“We come to you Father mired in and cognizant of our transgressions...”

In the front row, between two fatigued parents, sat a young girl. She looked to be somewhere in years between five and seven, but was a tad stout and had the ornery air of a person who enjoys rebellion, which rendered an accurate age assessment impossible. To that point during the service she had made a number of mischievous dalliances toward inappropriate behavior, but she had never gone so far as to cause a disturbance. Only my eyes, peeled as they were to youthful societal infractions, picked up on her desire to sin.

With both parents distracted by the prayer, the young girl saw her opportunity. Posterity will never know exactly what she did that scratched her sin itch, but it must have been satisfying because it immediately drew a “SHHHH” from one of her parents.

Pastor continued his prayer:

”We acknowledge our shortcomings and humble ourselves in Your presence knowing that You and You alone...”

The girl in the front row succumbed again to temptation and this violation put her over the threshold. Mother grabbed daughter’s wrist and marched deliberately toward the back exit. Both women were wearing stylish sandals that made a distinctive flip-flop sound as they moved, such that even without lifting my head I could track their location.

“We disappoint You routinely – such shortcomings are in our nature – but You in Your benevolence see fit to correct us...”

The walls of the church building were thin and the sound of a sobbing girl was not restrained to the nursery room. Apparently her rebellious desire was extinguished quickly by a stern look from mom and in its place were shrieks of expectant agony. The girl knew she was going to get a spanking and everyone in the sanctuary knew it too.

“Save us heavenly Father from the punishment of eternal damnation and the flames of hell...”

The retort of a blunt impact reverberated around the room and was followed by a bellow of unrestrained agony punctuated at times by girly sobs. Another smack was recorded in the ledger or our ears and more screams reinforced pastor’s prayer.

”You know our hearts and minds, please see our penitence...”

“I’M SOO SORRY MAMA!” The temptation was firmly erased from the young girl’s mind and her only thoughts were for her own comfort. Although she was hidden from view, I am sure tears were streaming down her cheeks and that sitting down would be unpleasant for the next few minutes.

Another voice, much quieter than the young girl’s sobs and more feminine than the pastor’s prayer joined in saying “It’s OK, honey. Come on; all’s forgiven.”

“Thank you Father for sending Your son to give His sanctifying blood on our behalf...”

The flips-flops made their way back to the front of the sanctuary, accented by gentle sniffles from the young girl. Daughter looked embarrassed and mother appeared oblivious to the fact that the entire church had witnessed her meted punishment. Pastor made no comment, he only concluded his prayer:

”In Your blessed name we pray, Amen.”

I Smoked Some of Coach’s Peyote

My track coach is a first rate beast. To hear him tell it, he’s fought grisly bear’s with his bare hands, run just shy of the world record pace in the hardest sprint distances, killed with his bare hands, been on dates with the most beautiful women, built a four story building with his bare hands, coached the state’s best track stars, and killed some of the state's best track stars with his bare hands, just to name a few of his escapades.

"If you ain't first, you're last." - Coach

He’s done it all and he’s done it well. Success just isn’t interesting for him anymore because he’s experienced so much of it. Fast speeds to us collegiate runners are slower than his middle school times and he doesn’t see much reason to praise performances that are so far “below par.”

“If you can’t run the mile under four minutes, why do you run it at all?” - Coach

Our coach has the spirit of Vince Lombardi, the reputation of Chuck Norris, the endurance of John Rambo and the heart of Rocky Balboa. He’s got the dominance of the Sixties Celtics, the touch of Jordan and the legend of Tiger; he’s a one man Hall of Fame.

That’s why a lot of eyebrows were raised when we discovered a snuff box in coach’s glove compartment that read “Coach’s Peyote – Do Not Touch.”

In case you’ve never been on an Indian Reservation, peyote is a highly hallucinogenic compound derived from the juice of a cactus that is used in religious ceremonies by our indigenous brothers. According to ancient custom, the stuff is powdered and placed in a pipe to be consumed ritually. By ritually, I mean sitting in a cave for several days until even cactus juice seems attractive. It’s also supposed to be very noxious smelling and induce feelings of nausea in the user. We never knew coach was a Native American, but that really didn’t really matter; he had a hallucinogen!

What I did after the discovery was highly experimental and is not suggested for any of the faithful FCN few to attempt on their own. In fact, peyote is designated only for use in Indian religious ceremonies according to Title 42. So unless you want to got to jail and spend a lot of long years with people like me, don’t do what I am about to describe, ok kids?

We did a little research to find the right coagulants and mixed up a batch. One of my fellow track runners was an old hand at rolling a joint (a skill he never explained) and I was soon equipped with a lit peyote “stick” and a series of chanted instructions to “puff, puff, puff!”

Native American tradition says that when you inhale the peyote fumes, an image of your “spirit animal” will fill your senses. My first whiff filled my mind with the bulging image of my track coach, whistle, stopwatch and all. Then I felt it; inhuman strength began welling up in my arms and I felt a quiet power fill my chest and loins. I had the ability to predict any outcome, win any bet, swim any ocean, jump any canyon and smash any window. I could even climb every mountain, ford every stream, and follow every rainbow until I found my dream.

I didn’t know how, but inside I knew I had a great hand with the ladies, could race a 4x4 brilliantly and how to pinch the jugular with finger and thumb for a quick, quiet kill. I could feel thick hair bursting through the skin of my chest.

That’s when a coughing spell hit. As quickly as the images appeared, I was my old lonesome self once again. Gone were the supernatural abilities and astounding skill. My coach disappeared into a cloud of vapor and I immediately doubted whether or not I had even seen him in the first place.

It took over twelve hours before my system flushed all the peyote out and I relearned my lesson about consuming exotic unknown substances. But it was all worth it to see the hollowed shell of a man who met us in coach’s place at the next practice. Gone were his pompous posture, long-winded stories and excessive gloating. No longer were his criticisms so harsh and he even lost a little weight.

While we were stretching, Coach looked us over and asked with an accusatory note, “Has anyone been in my truck?”

Stronger Than It Used To Be: Level 23 Gel

The other day I went to the drug store to pick up some hair gel. You know, the stuff that causes your hair to appear wet even hours after it dries and can, if applied liberally enough, make the user look like a used car salesman. Well, I got to the hair care section after a few minor disruptions (you wouldn’t believe the monstrosities you have to walk past to get to the hair gel) and began sniffing out a deal.

If you have never been through the hair gel aisle before, understand that the process of searching for a product that is both sticky and cheap is fairly complex. Many providers have inexpensive imitations that flake away within minutes of application and make the user’s head look like dead grass patch. As a contentious male, I avoid these brands.

In order to let consumers escape these rip-offs, the industry has come together to create a set of objective criteria for determining hair gel strength. Each bottle has, in a clearly identifiable marking (black lettering on a white background, 12 point font, English and Spanish, etc) a number from 1-10 (the index was originally 1-5 but has since been expanded to make for better accuracy). Some brands call this hierarchy the “Strength Level” or “Power Ranking,” others just label it clearly as the “Industry Standard Hair Gel Viscosity Determiner.” Whatever the name, a gel shopper knows his number and tries to align price with power.

My number is 10. When I first started using gel, I experimented with lower numbers, but I soon found these to be terribly lacking in fortitude. After several embarrassing incidents surrounding Level 8 hair gel, I moved up.

I am beginning to get the feeling that gel companies know we consumers tie level with quality. As I perused the aisle yesterday I noted something for the very first time: Gel No. 11. The industry standard allows for no such product strength, but somehow an outlier (Ronald's Sticky Hair Stuff) was able to deliver the stronger gel anyway. Intrigued, I read the back of the bottle. The product was not imported (made in Hydrectemy Maryland, a city as fun to live in as it is to say. I think we may have a reader from that town). In fact the bottle had been approved by the USDA for consumption (I think they meant hair use). Somehow, using probably illegal and definitely unethical tactics, the company was able to make a stronger hair gel.

Needless to say, I purchased the number 11.

Yesterday I applied it for the first time…and it flaked off within an hour. This stuff is a complete scam! Less powerful then even the level 8 product I started with! I can’t return the bottle because there is a small paragraph of fine print hidden beneath the barcode that says “Industry Standard Hair Gel Viscosity Determiner Level 5.” In fine print beneath the 11 the bottle ads an addendum that its measure is out of twenty.

I'd been had.

As I got into my car this morning to file an official complaint with the drug store, I looked down at the gear shift and noticed something I had never seen before. My car has seven gears. It really doesn't need seven gears, but it has that many anyway. Unconcerned, I started the vehicle and drove the ten minutes to the drug store. Along the way I passed signs for a Grande Combo at Taco Bell (now with 7 more tacos than the Surgeon General advises), an ad for a computer with 3 terabytes of storage (sold for less then my current machine), a sign for McDonald's double happy meal now with supersized sodium and a dog with five legs.

Only slightly fazed, I parked between a couple of monster trucks that obvious consumed more gas per mile then my economy car did in a week and marched dutifully into the store. It took a while to find the hair care section (I got stuck in the perfume aisle, comparing Chanel No. 6, 110% Love and Rose 35), but when I did a shock was waiting for me. A new kind of hair gel was being sold right next to the Level 11 stuff I had purchased earlier. And this new bottle claimed to be Level 23.

I grabbed the bottle and ran to a customer service assistant who couldn't have been more then 90.

“This is a lie,” I said, exasperated.

The woman's face wrinkled into a smile and she shook her head gently. “No, sonny, that's the way it works.” She began to explain that marketing is like inflation, the value of a product doesn't really change but the numbers that describe it are always increased to give consumers the perception that they were getting more for their money.

She told me that she sang in a choir and was startled one day to see three “f”s on a musical score (double forte is supposed to be the limit). When she asked the conductor about the change he informed her that he wasn't happy with the volume he was getting and wanted to make the performance louder. The clerk was satisfied with this answer until she turned the page in her music and noticed that the three “f”s were followed by the word “EXTREME!” and the next page had the word “Blast” followed by some spittle marks.

“I told the conductor that 'extreme' is not an Italian word and that 'blast' and spittle don't give any musical direction, but he didn't seem to care anymore. He was happy with his volume.” The clerk, whose nametag read Shirley, gave me a sympathetic grin and sighed. “That's just the way things work these days. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, I think I'm alright.” Just then, the words of a Johnny Nash song from the 1970s flashed through my mind and I felt enlightened. Of course! How could I have missed what was so clearly in front of me? Level 23 gel was better, Chanel six was an improvement on 5, cars do need 7 gears and the Surgeon General is wrong about tacos.

I smiled at the clerk and placed the hair gel on the conveyor belt, ready to purchase the stronger product. Shirley shook her head sadly, removed her nametag and pointed to the clock. It was the end of her shift. Then she walked outside and drove away in her monster truck, leaving me with an inexpensive bottle of Level 23 gel.

Every day is...

Ronald Reagan once said that Republicans think every day is July 4^th and Democrats think every day is April 15th. We agree wholeheartedly. But, in typical FCN fashion, we feel the need to expand a little. Here's what our team came up with:

Republicans think every day is July 4^th

Democrats think every day is April 15^th

Green Party members think every day is October 31^st

White people think every day is Columbus Day.

Black people think every day is Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

New agers think every day is New Years.

Christians think every day is Easter.

Calvary Chapel members think every day is the last day.

President Bush thinks every day is President's Day.

Indians always think it's the anniversary of Little Big Horn.

John Kerry thinks every day is Veterans Day.

The folks at Butter Ball think every day is Thanksgiving.

Nancy Pelosi thinks every day is Election Day.

Kim Jong Ill thinks every day is the Day After Tomorrow.

Dr. Neil Clark Warren thinks every day is Valentines Day.

Bill Gates thinks every day is payday.

The Pope thinks every day is All Saints Day.

Rednecks think every day is the 1^st of September.

The Spanish think every day is the day before tomorrow.

The British think every day never ends.

Coyotes think every day is a full moon.

Dogs don't care what day it is.

Visor Vanity

The other day I hopped into a car with a few friends and started my normal on-the-highway daydreaming routine. My brain was flat-lining as I watched the little white lines wiz by and I began to reverie of happy things. On this particular occasion, I believe the daydream involved a beautiful woman and a lot of ice cream. Anyway, my thoughts were interrupted when my friend in the passenger seat pulled down the visor and looked at herself intently in the mirror. She stared for a while, squinted and then opened her mouth for an oral inspection. There were no visible marks on her face, she wasn’t adding makeup, her hair looked well quaffed and she hadn’t eaten anything in the last two hours so she wasn’t conducting post facto dental hygiene. In short, there were no conceivable reasons for her to be using the visor at that moment.

Now, we all know and love girls. This post isn’t meant to knock girls – that subject has gotten old – rather it is a critique of what I like to call Visor Vanity: the urge a passenger has to use the car’s built in mirror to ensure that their good looks remain intact. This phenomenon isn’t isolated to girls; I have, on more than one embarrassing occasion, caught myself pulling down the visor for a quick peek. And I am not a girl. It’s not that I’m particularly sensitive about my features (I often go through my morning routine without ever glancing at the mirror, but that’s probably because it is so covered in grime that such a look wouldn’t be productive) or that I seek regular approval (excepting, of course, in my love life) or that I am very, very extremely vain.

So why do we thus abuse the visor? I think it has something to do with the popularity of photographs.

In the old days, pictures weren’t that common. Most of them were grainy, black and white and, if you go back far enough, daguerreotypes. Mirrors were the only opportunity to find out how we looked. Today, with every trinket on the market photo-enabled – from the cell phones that take pictures, to those little cameras over stoplights – our picture can be found all over the place. The other day I even found a picture of myself in the local obituaries. I am still trying to figure out why I was thus honored. Anyway, pictures give us the likeness that others see while a mirror provides the mathematical opposite of that image. When we see a picture, an image of ourselves is ingrained in our minds. But when we look in the mirror, that picture is contradicted. In an effort to convince ourselves that either the photo or the mirror is accurate, we must constantly look in the mirror. Some people have a similar problem called Photo Vanity, but that only occurs in the left-handed.

Test this out. Grab a picture of yourself and go to the mirror. Which image do you like better? The one in the mirror or the one in the photo? Odds are you’ll like the mirror better.

In response to Visor Vanity, I have taken a picture of myself and put it up as my background on my cell phone and computer and pasted it all over my bedroom, coving a full length mirror. This picture reinforces the correct image of myself and, hopefully, obviates the need to pull down the visor.