ben and bob

I guess this delighted me a little bit too much to keep to myself.
Simply this:

I had a dream last night that Veggie Tales came out with a full length, live action Christmas movie. Ben Stiller played Bob the Tomato.

That's all.

samurai, yogi, pacifist, and husband

a buddy and i are tossing around some ideas about being good guys in this world we live in. asking each other some questions and offering each other the conversation that results.
this week's question was simple and cliche (and gender exclusive so, to my female audience, please make adjustments where necessary -- my thoughts aren't exclusive, just my language in this entry):

what does a man of strong character look like?

my response:

the samurai's code of honor (bushido) contains a commitment to yu, or courage. this was a style of heroics that is more than fearlessness. it is courage that is tempered with wisdom. not a brash rushing into danger, but a wise willingness to face danger when necessary; not as a means of demonstrating his quality but as a natural extension of the good that has been cultivated in his heart. he does not desire death but neither is he deterred by anything from performing an act that he knows to be right.

"namaste" is a salutation given and received in india and nepal and elsewhere. it is a sanskrit word that, taken literally, means "i bow to you". but as a gesture it's meaning has grown and when a person greets another saying "namaste" they are in effect saying with humility and gratitude, "that which is divine in me reaches out to that which is divine in you". think: jesus when he told the story about the sheep and goats and "whatever you did for the least of these you did for me". namaste -- i see you, hear you, feel you as someone to be cherished, and i offer you my attention, my presence, my love.

in order to be wise in courage and to be attentive to others a man has to have a supply of patience. and that patience must come from a calm place in his heart, a place that is at peace. in the midst of tumultuous surroundings he must have the resolve to believe in the possibility of peace.

the band on my finger symbolizes a promise of loyalty. keeping that promise does not mean perfection, does not mean the absence of conflict, does not mean the absence of questions such as, "am i really the man i claim to be?" or "do i have what it takes?" being loyal means that when you look at the golden/silver/platinum band hugging your finger you remember and believe the answer to those questions, that yes you are and yes you do.

ideally a man of strong character is brave, compassionate, patient, and faithful.
that's why a man with strong character is also relational. because ideals aren't sufficient; and when ideals fail a man needs support or forgiveness or encouragement to be and believe in who he is. those things can be offered only from without, though they can come from the most unlikely places (so he is wise to keep his heart open and his wits about him).

a strong man is steady and available and vulnerable and honest and befriended.

by the way...

http://www.dannyiskandarphotography.com/slide/laurenaramwed/index.html

enough said.

Going to the desert next week..

There are some who seem to me to be content with very little; content to have jobs that require their days and then content to pass their evenings and nights in whims of entertainment, modest friendships, mediocre romance or religion. They don't hope for much, content to walk. I like to walk. But I want wings to turn my stride into flight from time to time. I want passionate oblivion to come crashing into what's happening right now; for it to get all tangled up, perpetually. I want storms to always ruffle my feathers while the wind unfurls my wings.
My restlessness is not discontent. I do not feel condemned by restlessness but compelled by it. I am not thirsty in order that I may writhe in my thirst but so that I will seek out a drink. My soul goes to the desert because there are elements of nourishment there, not because it is barren.
Yet in the very barrenness lies that nourishment. And the nourishment is space. The space to stretch out all my limbs, to open my lungs, and to spread my questions freely and expansively -- nakedly even -- until they dry out and crack like the lips that uttered them, leaving me sore and finally silent enough to escape myself, unhurried and unharassed enough to collapse into something that is something like peace.

a rant

The menus have a sufficient, even significant, amount of selection to them at the restaurants I'm working for. The finer dining of the two ranges from a glorified tofu dish, to a goat cheese and portobello mushroom ravioli, right on through to the market priced fillet mignon, with several nods to the sea (scallops, salmon, a nightly seafood special) in between.

About a month ago the chef derived a burger that could hold its own with the other dishes, presumably in taste, and absolutely in presentation. The burger is speared with a stack of olives and grape tomatoes, grilled according to the customer's order, adorned with the perfect proportions of complimentary ingredients, and befriended by an ornate tin, lined with a billowing linen napkin, full of French fries seasoned with duck confit.

You wouldn't expect a hamburger to make its way on to the menu at an establishment like this one, but - coming from a devout vegetarian - this burger does itself well. I immensely enjoy setting it before a guest. The visual encounter alone frequently elicits "oohs" and "aahs".

Imagine my surprise, my disappointment, my aghast when I chanced upon something less than appreciation the other night. It was not chagrin or criticism or disapproval that I encountered. I would have welcomed such a response in place of the one I received after setting the delicately crafted dish down in front of a guest.

"Thanks." And without taking so much as a pause, a breath, a moment to actually intend the gratitude just offered, "Could I have some ketchup?"

Some ketchup? You want some ketchup to go with your twenty-five dollar hamburger and fries? Are you a little worried that the chef back there in his "kiss the cook" apron might have, sometime during his culinary education in Paris, failed to learn how to make the food taste good on its own? You a bit nervous that he forgot to include something that would have made the meal better? I'll go ask him for a side of ketchup... and get slapped in the face for insulting him. No, I won't ask him, I'll just see if I can scrounge up some ketchup packets in the back, somewhere next to the creme brulee, or the fondue, or the bruschetta, or the olive tapenade. Honestly, you want some ketchup?

I thought all of that right away, but no more than that because she kept opening her mouth wider and wider and managed to display her ignorance more completely, "And some mustard... and," she looked to a friend, "Should we get some mayo? And some mayo."

It was pretty well precisely at that moment that I went ahead and stopped believing that the customer is always right. The customer isn't always right. The customer isn't always anything. There is potential for the customer to be right, or gracious, or naive, or rude. There are a lot of possibilities. One thing I have come to expect from time to time in the midst of my interactions with human beings is an attitude of entitlement. But the perfectly horrid coupling of entitlement and rash ignorance was nearly more than I could stomach. That the customer is always right is a dangerous myth marinated in flattery. It holds no true merit.

I do believe in customer service, in lovingly wanting what's best for other individuals. I don't believe in telling someone outright that they are stupid (even when the occasion implies it). I cordially tried to talk her out of ruining the artwork that had just been placed in front of her. I tried to talk her into perhaps waiting and trying the food before conceptualizing how she (also a credentialed culinary expert?) might better it. You don't let someone do themselves harm without a bit of a struggle, some effort at interference. Nonetheless, sometimes you end up squirting each of an assortment of condiments into little silver ramekins, arranging them on a small white plate, keeping a smile on your face, and quietly lamenting the poor soul's demise.

Two-toos

I'm waiting tables at a small restaurant/pub/brewery by day and running food for a fancier fine dining establishment by night. At Scholar's Inn (the latter) last night one of the gentlemen that washes dishes asked me if that was a prison tattoo. He was referring to my right forearm. I don't think he could see my left one, but there's a tattoo there too. I have two new tattoos.
Upon taking to heart the Hebrew words Shalom and Shekinah I decided to take them into my flesh as well, a covenant of sorts, a permanent reminder.
The Hebrew language as a whole intrigues me - it's longevity, the elusive nature, fertile stories that have been told and carried with it. It isn't impossibly elusive, but it seems to be that, in order to interact with it and receive it's fullest impact and meaning, a person needs a hefty propensity toward imagination. This is true of all spoken and written words, but it's easier to forget with the language one uses everyday, and easier to remember (for me) when the language is backed up with countless generations of tradition and utility, and a touch of sanctification.
So the simple, stolid nature of the Hebrew script, and the fervent, florid meanings of the Hebrew words got under my skin.
Shalom - peace. A wholeness to hope toward. A desire for unity. A desire for unity at the expense of hatred, not at the expense of diversity. I reach out my right hand to the world, to my neighbor, and with it an extension of peace; remembering that all children, women, and men are my kin.
Shekinah - presence. The divine dwelling amongst earthen vessels. Linguistically this word is feminine, and carries with it an image of God, who is every bit as much Mother and Beloved as Father and Lover, wandering the dusty wilderness of this earth and these relationships that we belong to. Dwelling amongst us, wandering with us. I reach out my left hand to the world, to my neighbor, and with it an extension of presence; being present to those who are around me, and receiving their presence as a gift. Both necessary to who we are and who we are meant to be.


O Thou, far off and here, whole and broken,
Who in necessity and in bounty wait,
Whose truth is light and dark, mute though spoken,
By Thy wide grace show me Thy narrow gate.
(Wendell Berry)