Dowhoop dillies smack my apple with a canned curry bracelet. Take me to the ballgame and play pumpernickel on my pajamas. I wallow in the hollow holla if you can hear me or need a pixy stick because I know a guy with a mole and hammock. To Legit to quit the armed forces until I get my free lemonade stand. Hold my hamburger while I digest my waffle. I got a bag of tricks the size of New Hampshire and a hamster that eats dumpsters for breakfast. Tell me a story about candle wicks and their lusty busty brethren and their ham hocks. I divided the spoil between a Polynesian immigrant and my pirate roommate who sacks and pillages like Rainman on Trivial Pursuit.

"When you honor the sanctity of love, the person is exalted and pleasure ensues. But when you seek pleasure for its own sake, it is the person you profane and weariness which ensues."

Ravi Zacharias

This is the finest line in all love relationships. I love Melissa more than anything in the entire world and that brings me so much pleasure. I enjoy holding her hand and kissing her and being next to her all the time. There is nothing explicitly wrong in this. However I know there is a line. There is a time in which we seek pleasure for its own sake, leaving each other as vehicles of pleasure and loving partners. The line is so fine, and being still outside the marriage covenant is so hard. Not consummating my love to Melissa is contrary to everything that I feel inside. But the truth here is that weariness ensues. I think that I wonder what makes relationships so hard sometime and I think it is this. There is nothing wrong with pleasure as a byproduct of love, but pleasure as a separate end inside of a love relationship, is detrimental. God please help me to interweave my life from outside of its compartments. Love must touch all parts of my life.

"That's why we sing for these kids, who don't have a thing except for a dream, and a f----n' rap magazine who post pin-up pictures on they walls all day long, idolize they favorite rappers and know all they songs. Or for anyone who's ever been through s--t in their lives, till they sit and they cry at night wishin' they'd die Till they throw on a rap record and they sit, and they vibe. We're nothin' to you but we're the f----n' s--t in they eyes. . ."

Eminem -- Sing For the Moment

Love him or hate him he is tapped directly into youth culture. Scratch that he is culture. So his message is that there is no message from me or anyone, just music. I don't know if he would say it like this but this is like a textbook argument for existential transcendence through art. So he can reach kids not just because of simplistic vulgarity or because of violence, as so many moralists would like to think, but because he speaks to the reality of something people experience. So what can an artist take from this who has a different view of reality than that of the hip hop superstar? Maybe just that kids want authenticity. They know life isn't peach and cookies and cream and cakies, its poverty, its suicidal thoughts, and its broken homes, its pain. Christ can't be real to anyone when he's identified with "not Eminem", or with empty morals and false ideals. Don't boycott. Let's worship Christ with our art by passionately seeking to be more real than anyone else out there.

Yesterday when I was taking the train back to my apartment there was an absolutely classic moment. Imagine with me a L-train car with their strange seventies decorum and hard carpet covered seats. Sitting in the seat directly caddie-corner across the doorway is a pair of black Velcro shoes. Follow now with me up the legs of a ridiculously pale and hairy white man. His shorts were plaid of the golf short variety and he wore a dingy T-Shirt with a band that I had never heard of plastered across the front of it. His balding bald head was covered slightly by a pair of enormous head phones. The kind that block all sound but your own pathetic music choice. His eyes are closed and the only sound on the train is this strange rocker half whisper-screaming to his Discman which is pumping white trash rock into his balding bald head. I specifically heard three words: rock, Hate, and Jews. Did I have myself a Nazi-punk on my hands or what? Man was he weird looking. He didn't fit any stereotype except his own creepy style that is hard to pin down. And so he sang all the way into the city. Absolutely freaking hilarious. He at one point opened a map of Chicago and continued his balding bald head banging and soft-scream rocking. Did I mention that he had a slight lisp that was quiet apparent when he screamed so softly. Was he a tourist with his map? A lonely, ugly, Nazi tourist? Boy am I going to do some impressions of this guy.

"Whether people grow fat by joking, or whether there is something in fat itself which predisposes to a joke, I have never been quite able to determine; but certain it is that a lean joker is a rara avis in terris"

Edgar Allan Poe-- From his short story Hop-Frog

I too have always wondered why I am not grouch of the first order. One day I will weigh enough to make jokes. One day. Look out belly here I come.

And so my summer begins. I still have school next week but I am going home for memorial day this weekend. In reflection on my first year away at school I feel like I have accomplished very little sometimes and other times I feel like it has been an amazing experience. I am definitely living in two places at the same time, trying to keep my loyalties completely to the woman I love and still go to school. I am so ready to have some focus again. I think that pulling yourself in two directions at the same time doesn’t accomplish anything except for quartering yourself.

3 days. That is all that is between me and all that makes me happy. I am so ready to be able to hold her again. Happy Anniversary Baby.

Like a babbling brook that can't shut up I discipline myself in the art of annoyance. I wind the cord of Orville Redenbacher popcorn on a string around my ashy elbows and drink hot toddy. Displaced in the classification behind the philosophy shelf that no one ever reads from. I bleed the same as a Jew from the merchant of Venice. I siphon the meaningless wheat from the chaff that I will make into rice crispy treats. Tsunamis creep into the crypt I have prepared for my cat. Yawn. Stretch. Morning.

I don't want to go to Tokyo no more. They took my hair net. I am not blaming the Japanese people, it was their government. I wouldn't want to start an Asian holocaust over a hair net but I think that drastic measures should be considered. I declared war on Japan instameaditly. Quicker than a jack rabbit gets hit with his own spit when he hulks a jack rabbit loogy in the wind. My declaration doesn’t mean much, I'm told because of my nation-less status. However I am in the process of talking to some very important nation's that are quite national and full of complete nation status of a first rate variety. Once my posse is formed we can expect the demolition of those inferior hair net nabbers in no time. I suggest a sacking of the city of Tokyo to commence immetainiously. Quicker than a dead goose plays hooky from physics class. Than post-sacking I say we have luau looting party and all wear our re-confiscated hair nets. I'll show those dirty Japs how to treat a lunch lady.

"Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free.
Nor chaste, except you ravish me."

John Donne

Take me to your breast Oh Lord. Let me lean my weary head against you. I am nothing without you. Chastity is worthless unless I give myself to you. Ravish me Oh Lord. Set me free from my freedom with the prison of your breast. Let me be nothing but your beloved.

A Love Poem

Absolutely fascinated with her everything
My mind races to places she resides
Memories and Hopes mixed into forever
She is mine. She is mine.

Her smile illuminates my everyday
Pictures can only whisper of her beauty
I am putty in her soft hands
I am hers. I am hers.

My skin shivers at her every touch
Commitment and Passion personified in kisses
If only tomorrow would come.
We will be one. We will be one.

Happy Anniversary Beautiful

"If the sexual fantasies of the average person were exposed to view, the world would be horrified." Leo Tolstoy

I had a nightmare last night. Some people call them dreams, or fantasies, I find the most nightmarish dreams of all. My Dream is of my wedding night with my amazing fiancé. But sometimes my unconscious haunts my closed eyes with false desires. Not that I feel responsible for my actions in dreams or for their content, it's just they always seem to catch me off guard. I have seen far too much of the darkest side of human sexuality to claim no responsibility. By choice I exposed myself to the images of these nightmares. It hurts me so much to know that. I hate it. I know that I am not alone though. This timeless Tolstoy quote keeps me from feeling ostracized and alone. My accountability brothers are the same way. We share in our broken lives trying to understand why we still dream of the nightmare. I know that God loves me. I know that I have so much worth as Abba's Child. I know that he just wants me to love him and live in his love. The truth is that I am still frustrated. Maybe my focus is still too much on my own failure and not my worth as the child of God. My sin is not finished. I will sin again, in reality and in my dreams, but I know that those sins are forgiven and were paid for my loving Abba. I am now free to live.

As the clock ticks down on chosen experience. I question the choice I can not revoke. I hate the requirements of life. I want with all of my heart to reject the need for anything but God. I hate forced learning and fake education. I just want to be done with this now. To complain and complain is to feel ones own unimportance. My soul can not grow when my priorities are skewed.

I am living a dream. She is here and I am living a dream

Man 1: Hello Ho-Bag

Man 2: Hiddy Ho Ho-Bag

Man 3: Hey Hey Hey Ho-Bags

Man 4: What's a Ho-Bag?

Man 1 2 & 3: Duh!

Man 4: No seriously is it good or bad?

Man 1: What's good?

Man 2: What's bad?

Man 3: Your momma.

Man 4: What? What's my momma have to do with ho-bag

Man 1: I don't know you tell me.

Man 4: Listen Ho-bag my momma was . . .

Man 2: You don't know what it means and you said it anyway that makes you a poser a po-bag

Man 4: So a ho-bag's a hoser

Man 3: The maple leaf will reign long after the death of the stripes and stars. There will forever be a Great White North where momma jokes on playgrounds will be the salons for the young philosopher kings. The demons of ingnorence shall never peneatrate her borders. Relative to the wind and anchored to the ice she screams of fish and bear, moose and forest, hockey and Labbat Blue. Vive la Canada. Vive la Canadian slang.