Mission Chicken Part One: Background

Chicken on Rooster ('10)

Last year, as we prepared to enter the United States of America from Mexico, where we had been working with orphans near Ensenada, we were met with many hawkers of food and trinkets while in line to cross the border. Much to my amusement was a seller of rubber chickens attached to suction cups, so I splurged the $1 and bought it. It then hung from our van's front window until we left to get on our plane to fly back to Oregon. Much to my chagrin I realized that I had left the chicken on the van window. However, 3 of our group was still in California and salvaged the Chicken, taking it on their merry way visiting prospective college campuses. Many photos were sent to my phone of the adventures of Chicken until it came back to Oregon once again. From then it has been a faithful lookout on the windshield of my 3 cars which I have owned in the last year.

Chicken at "home"

Chicken flying cross-country

Now it is time to go on a new Mission trip with the students from Calvin Presbyterian Church, and in response to popular request, the Chicken will be coming along to chronicle - thru pictures - our journey. Check back for more Chicken Adventures...

...and I Ain't Got Nobody

After several hours of catching up, eating leftovers, and watching movies and Robot Chicken episodes, Jenn and I decided to head out to Voodoo Donuts Too... at 10:30 on a Saturday night. As we headed towards downtown, we noticed several police cruisers with their lights on and officers directing some sort of traffic off of the main road... and then we saw that they were bicyclists; naked bicyclists. 

Portland Naked Bike Ride 2011

I forgot that the end of June brings on throngs of thongs via naked folk on bikes. Last year a couple of friends and I were standing outside of my apartment building when all of a sudden hundreds of bicyclists emerged from the dark of night... At least when they surprised me this year there were only a dozen or so, but still the whole thing is intriguing. See, it's not very warm at the end of June in Oregon. I wonder if they do that on purpose, so as to discourage certain bodily responses within the swarm of bare skin rolling down the street.

But anyway, we got to Voodoo Too... I didn't really consider how busy it would be with the downtown location closed for renovations. Apparently Jenn anticipated the line stretching out the door and around the back half of the building, but I did not. I also didn't realize what a tourist attraction it was; well dressed folk taking pictures of each other in front of the building, alongside the delivery vans, and inside the small building. Facebook received dozens of uploaded photos as we waiting in line next to excited women who saw Voodoo Donuts on the Food Network recently. 

Voodoo Dozen +
our favorites...

After half an hour or so the uber tourist Food Network folk had enough and left, since we hadn't even made it into the building yet. But we certainly didn't have anywhere special to be, so why leave now? Which is what brings us - an hour and ten minutes later - to the front of the line, still deciding on how many donuts we want and which ones to choose. So many choices. So we let them make it for us. VooDoo Dozen, handpicked by the counter guy... You'd think that with so many possiblities that we'd get 13 different donuts, right? Apparently not. He was rather unimaginative and we got duplicates of chocolate glazed, coconut chocolate glazed, sprinkles, and blueberry cake. Lame. At least Jenn got her favorite, Grape Ape. I had to purchase an additional maple bar just to get one (NEVER ask if they would put in your favorite; they won't) Luckily, I had church with the Youth Mission Team in the morning, and they made short work of the half a dozen that bored us into not eating them the night before.

$5 5-Gallon Bucket
of Voodoo Donuts!

If that's what you get by ordering the VooDoo Dozen, I'm just gonna get a $5 Bucket of donuts next time. Last time we did that, we got over 60 donuts, and plenty of crazy good ones too!

Just another Saturday Night...

So I wasn't expecting much in the way of deep thoughts or anything. I was simply driving across town to hang out with my friend Jenn, watch a movie, and chill. As I was driving on Powell, I passed a convenience store and noticed a rather overweight young woman sitting on a walker eating something from a paper plate. It's one of those scenes that often gets a humorous or stereotypical comment from me or someone else around. But that's not what happened. My brain recognized the scene as one where I would usually see a stereotype, but then there was a disconnect.

In that split second, as I glanced over while driving by at 40 miles per hour, I didn't see a stereotype, I didn't see the punch line to a joke; I saw a person, who is usually shunned by those around her. What I saw saddened me; not because of her situation, but because of mine...

I read in the Bible that Jesus would look at a crowd, or a person, or a situation and he would "have compassion on them," which would usually lead to him reaching out, healing them, touching them, welcoming them, going to them... and sometimes when he did that the religious authorities in witness just about lost it, that an up-and-coming young rabbi would touch an outcast, an unclean person, a sick person, a needy person, someone looked down on with disdain.

In this moment where I looked and saw this woman on the side of the road, there was a subtle connection made that strove to break my heart... I had compassion on someone, and my response was to reach out to them. Here is the horror: I don't know how to reach out to this person. I call myself a Christian, I look toward the teaching and example of Jesus Christ in how to live life, and I don't know how to touch.

And here I am again, writing about it on this blog. I did not go back and stop, taking time to say hello to the young woman. Apparently I can do that with homeless, with convicted criminals, with the sick and dying in a home or hospital, with liberals, with conservatives, with so many accepted stereotypes, but this situation, this person, shattered the illusion I have that I am actually caring about people in a tangible way.

I wonder if my discomfort, the opening of my eyes might be in the politics of it, or in my Lake Oswego upbringing, or my illusion of busyness, or the identification of a proper service-worthy demographic (ex: homeless, poor, imprisoned) as set forth by many churches, schools, colleges, non-profits, etc as the demographic [alone] that must be reached. Or is it simply that I saw a person that could have needed, or wanted, someone to acknowledge them as a person worth talking to, or even reaching out to in a more physical way (I know that part of my soul wanted to embrace her). I'll never know now...

But something has changed. My soul screams out to reach out and find people who are in need of a connection, of a neighbor, of someone to include them in the community [that I seem to be going on and on about so much of the time]. Years ago I remember waiting tables and feeling this way towards a couple of the regulars who were elderly widowers who would come in for a bowl of soup by themselves. I made a point to be available for a conversation if they were in the mood for it, much to the detriment of my tips (old single guys ordering soup don't tip much compared to heavily intoxicated groups of business men), but to the satisfaction of my soul. I'm not sure I understood it then... but maybe now, in the fleeting glimpse of a woman sitting on the side of a busy street, I get it. Maybe now I can learn to stop, to acknowledge, to touch...

Pretzels...

Pretzels Rule. That is all.

Pretzel Sticks

Shower Power

Scott Adams' Vision

What is it about taking a shower or bath and brilliant thoughts? Seriously, some of the best ideas that I've ever had occurred while in the shower or taking a bath. Scott Adams frequently refers to engineers doing their best creative thinking while taking a shower (which is unpaid time) versus near-brain-dead living while in the office (which is paid time)…and if Scott said it, it must be true, right?

Brain Stimulation Simulation

Here’s the problem: the thoughts don’t follow me out of the vast quantities of water. I mean, I’ll get in the shower, start to rinse off the dirt, and my brain will kick in and think of some clever, witty, deep, world-changing, end all wars, understand women, type concept and while I lather and rinse some more, the idea will come to fruition and I’ll be like, “Woah! It all makes sense now! I can’t wait to get out and share this with the world/start doing this!” Then I turn the water off or drain the tub and a song or something will come into my head, just behind the epic idea that will bring peace to the nations, and slowly the brilliance will fade under the catchy riff or annoying jingle. It’s almost like drying off brushes mind altering ideas away along with the water. Suddenly I’ll remember that I had an epiphany during my daily cleansing ritual, but have nothing more than a vague notion, like “Men don’t understand women,” or “God is really big,” or “there’s something about oxygen that’s important.”

Shower Technology That Works

There’s got to be a way to be able to record these thoughts while still under the thought-provoking influence of the shower. Paper and pencil is thrown out from the start. I’ve tried installing a dry erase board; the condensation ruins that pretty quickly. I thought old school about a chalk board, but water + chalk = sludgy mess. My computer instructions tell me that water will utterly destroy it, so I’m not willing to chance that. But there’s got to be a technological answer. I mean, I have a water proof CD/mp3 player hanging from the shower head, so it can be done, right? Think about military warships and submarines. They have some of the most technologically advanced computers controlling everything from the toilet flushing to the launching of nuclear missiles, right? It’s not like in a combat zone someone’s going to say, “That’s it boys, a few drops of water hit the control panel, the carrier’s out of commission. I guess the war’s over, eh? Who would have guessed that water would somehow get onto a ship that’s in the middle of the ocean, huh?” So the technology must exist. I can’t imagine that a submarine has warnings on it that read “No water allowed!” If that’s the case, someone’s doing it wrong.

Stealth Bomber Failing Due to Clouds

What we need is like a waterproof iPad with suction cups on the back to stick to the shower wall. I’d have an epiphinal idea and simply turn around, poke a few virtual keys on the touch screen, and end world hunger. Sweet. But no; if a mere drop of water touches my tablet computer, a hidden little indicator turns red, condemning the unit to nothing more than a paperweight or possibly a doorstop. I mean, how can they sell these things in Oregon and Washington? I even asked when I got my last cell phone, “Will rain touching my phone void the warranty?” They told me yes, and gave me examples of just such a thing happening… in Florida. Apparently the humidity was too much and the little indicator turned red. So current consumer technology fails to work in rain, heat, humidity, direct sunlight, and cold. No wonder we need climate controlled homes and cars! I mean, does anyone remember the Stealth Bomber from the mid-90s? It was stealthy as long as it wasn’t sunny or rainy or cloudy or windy or cold or hot.  And the cost for each one was only in the several billions of dollars!

Waterproof Technology?

Tomorrow I’ll be testing a new technology for shower thoughts. Well, actually it’s old technology. I have my daughter’s Etcha-Sketch key chain. Let see how far back in tech I’ll have to go to thwart the power of water… 

What's In A Blog?

So I'm kinda wondering what this whole blog thing is about anyway. Oh, it's fun to tell an amusing anecdote occasionally, and I enjoy soapboxing about various subjects, but I hear that many people simply blog to share their life. I'm not sure if my life is even that interesting outside of the much-exaggerated tales of woe or battle between myself and various everyday happenings.
I'm still working this out. Maybe this will induce me to do more things to prove to a blog reader that I do, in fact, have a life. Possibly. Or I could just write about mundane things, like how I got a Laptop Holder for my netbook in the mail yesterday...it even has a drink holder and cooling fans! Yes, that's just what a reader would want to take time out of their day to be informed about. Or possibly not...

The Life-Changing Laptop Holder
(with Advanced Cooling System)

So I think this blog will be a mix of the mundane, humorous thoughts, mindless drivel, deep reflections, annoyed responses, and the like. That way the title really becomes appropriate. and I can sit and type away about how tough life is now that the left click button on my netbook has ceased to function, and it will be ok... or maybe how the power input on the netbook switches between battery and A/C on it's own... or how the USB ports are taking coffee breaks without telling me first, causing scandalous amounts of data to corrupt itself because I was working on something.
See, it's already intriguing...

Ghosts of Little League Past

Roan! The ball is to your RIGHT!

I went with my parents to watch my nephew’s baseball game yesterday, which is something in itself; I actually left the house. But more than that I reminded me (and my parents) of when I first started playing baseball as a child. Oh, some things have changed, such as the generator-powered pitching machine, guaranteed to “throw” strikes, and the absence of the communal helmet that every boy on the team had to share when at bat some 20-30 years ago. These kids all have their own helmets, and are they fancy; streamlined, vented, designer colors, etc. And not a wooden bat even visible among the dugouts. But fancy equipment changes and requirements aside, not much is very different. Parents drive their trucks up on the lawn and watch the game from the comfort of the cab, eating fast food and not having to defy the elements by standing in the wind, rain, or sun. Younger children watch with their fingers curled through the metallic fences, waiting for a foul ball to crack their little knuckles that poke through the criss crossed design. And of course watching the game is still barely voluntary by the fielding team… this is where my parents’ recollection of little Kevin comes in.

Me, 1983

You see, my nephew is out drawing intricate designs along the baseline in the dirt using his cleats. When he is in the outfield, his little hands are constantly in the grass, searching for what cannot be seen by the adults standing along the edges of the field. Ah, I recall the wonder of that field of grass well; after a few batters have failed to connect with the ball, my attention wandered off into the search for a four-leaf clover, witnessing the trek of several species of bugs, and the consideration of what animal shapes the clouds overhead were forming. My nephew has this multi-tasking form of baseball down pat; his instincts are there: He hears the ball hit the bat and runs to stand on the nearest base, glove at the ready… if only he was actually facing the direction of the ball being thrown to him.  Ah, what fun, these games where the kids run around, throw the ball wildly, and have the time of their lives! This is the kind of baseball that I could watch on a regular basis.

Daring the runner to step off

As we leave, my parents show no mercy comparing my childhood fielding tactics to those of the most humorous seen today; a player throwing his glove up in the air to himself, batters who refuse to swing (or swing after the ball is in the catcher’s mitt), players facing the wrong way, runners who forget to stay on the base when the in-fielder has the ball, the player who didn’t care that the runner on the next base wasn't going, he was going all the way home anyway, and, of course, the runner who flaps his arms while running to first after getting a hit that four players of the other team all went for, but none of whom actually picked up the ball. Yes, this is America’s sport, isn’t it?

Community: Only $9.99 (+ 10%)

I was recently looking through the want ads (yes, I'm still unemployed) for ministry workers in several states, and found many of the churches offering Community. Great! I'd love to be a part of a Community! Looking deeper, I found that Community happens at their building, during specific hours on Sundays and Wednesdays. I also found that to be part of these Communities one is expected - by God no less - to hand over 10%+ of their income to show just how much a part of the Community they are. And that I must pay full attention and honor to each song and video to help build this Community. And if I really wanted to be part of that Community then I would buy  the pastor/worship leader/praise team's CD of original worship songs. And I wouldn't drink beer, watch South Park or R-rated movies, listen to non-Christian bands, wear tank-tops or sandals, hacky-sack, shoot pool, or be divorced because that's not living Authentically. Then I would be a part of a Community.

On second thought, maybe I'm not supposed to be a part of a Community if that is the case. I think instead I'll publish this post and go next door where my neighbors have invited me to a BBQ with no cover charge.  I think maybe tomorrow I'll go watch a movie with some friends at the local McMenamin's and talk about our week over a pint. Then later this week I'll get together with some friends and play songs that praise God that we didn't write and are probably over a decade old. We may even throw in a Creedence or Pink Floyd cover after a bit and we're just jamming and having a good time. I hope to drop by at some random time and visit some friends across town this week when I have time and nothing else is scheduled. And this weekend I'll probably go to a church down the road and spend some focused time on God.
But Community? I think I'll just keep living with my neighbors and friends, thanks anyway.

*Update: I think this church just might encourage Community.

Washing the Car: A Springtime Epic

So the sun, a symptom of Spring, finally showed itself after a slow start of rain, wind, rain, cool temps, rain, clouds, a hint of sun, and rain. Noticing that the temperature had also risen with the sun, surpassing 80 degrees for the first time this year, I felt obligated to wash my rather dirty car.

The Grape Stratus

Normally I simply use dish soap or mopping liquid, but noticed that my dad had a bottle of honest-to-goodness [brand name withheld to discourage litigation if for some reason a corporate big-wig just happens to come across my blog while looking for market research or possibly porn] Car Wash concentrate. Excited by my find, I moved my car into position (away from mom's rosebushes and the newly planted lawn), unraveled the hose, armed myself with a car washing mitt, and mixed the Car Wash concentrate with some water in a bucket that was nearby.

As I put the lid back on the bottle of Car Wash, I noticed the Cautions and Directions on the back and paused to read it. "Directions: Use on a cool car." Already I had failed, since I doubt many people would describe a late-90s grape-purple Dodge Stratus as a "cool car," but figured cool is in the eye of the beholder. I read on: "wash in the shade to avoid sun." Really? the only reason that I'm washing my car is because of the sun! Somewhat discouraged I continued: "Avoid days with high glare; may cause sun spotting." You've got to be kidding me. "Do not wash car during rain or high winds." They really sell this stuff in Oregon?! So according to the direction on the bottle of high-class Car Wash concentrate, I can't wash my car in the sun, the rain, the wind, a cloudy day, or if it's only a sub-par class vehicle.

Mitt, Hose, Bucket

I washed it anyway, and sure enough, mere seconds after scrubbing an area, it  dried the [can I call it soap?] into a nasty, dribbly film onto the purple paint of my car, as promised. I quickly consulted the bottle, and found the last step to be "rinse car, then dry immediately with a chamois." I don't know about a "chamois" but my mom gave me the Super-Pack of sham Sham-WOW! for Christmas (not the name brand, but a knock off that lacked the criminal, annoying spokesperson), so I figure it will do the trick. I finished washing the car, rinsed it, and noticed that the icky dribbly film, while no longer being 3-dimensional, had imprinted itself on every surface of the car, including the windows. "No problem," I thought to myself as I whipped out the sham-Sham-WOW! As I unfolded the brand-spanking-new cloth, a bit of paper fluttered to the ground. Curious, I picked it up. "Instructions" the heading read.

By this point you'd think I would have had enough of reading directions, but I went ahead: "Before using  your sham-Sham-WOW! product, thoroughly soak with water and wring out." Huh? But I wanted to dry my car with it, do I really need to get it wet? Isn't that contrary to the point? Hesitantly I approached the car with a dry piece of sham-Sham-Wow! It soaked up the water, but the mess of film still remained. Ok, they must have really meant the "get it wet first" part (though I had just gotten it wet, it apparently didn't count). I went into the kitchen, thoroughly soaked a different piece of the Epic cloth, and confidently strode up to the car. This time it didn't even soak up the water, and the streaky film was beginning to mock me (in a way that only triumphant inanimate objects can do). By this time the sun had disappeared behind some clouds that had wandered in to watch me fight with washing my car, snickering to one another and apparently inviting friends, as more clouds came to cover the sun and give one heck of a glare to the sky. Sure enough, as the label warned, this immediately crusted the streaky film onto my car to the point that even rescrubbing it failed to give a nice clean shiny spot.

sham-Sham-WOW!, Car Wash liquid,
Blue Rag of Awesomeness.

Grumbling and glaring myself, I returned to the hose and soaked the car, mixed some "no-streak" dish soap in the bucket with some fresh water, and began quickly scrubbing with the soap, rewashing the entire apparently-not-cool-enough-for-real-Car-Wash car. Once finished, the shine of the sparkly grapish paint shone through a mere watery film which began to dissolve under the friction of my old hospital-issue blue rags (remind me to tell you about these sometime, they are the best darn rags ever!!), just as the sun began to hide behind the tall pine trees that surround the neighborhood, ashamed that it was beaten by such a home remedy.

Smiling at my successful solution to the name-brand Car Wash debacle, I rinsed the contents of the bucket down the driveway, put the hose away, and picked up the bottle to put it back in my dad's garage when I noticed a warning on the bottom of the label: "Do not allow wash water to enter drains, lakes, rivers, oceans, or any other body of water." I glimpsed up to see the last of the soapy water pour down the storm drain of the suburban curb, no doubt poisoning the drinking water for the local pit-bull population that lived further down the street. I can live with that. Then I finished reading the label, "Offer empty container for recycling. If unavailable, throw in trash." Finally, options that I can live with. It's not like I was planning to keep it for posterity anyway.

Neighborhood Pitbulls

UPDATE: The label of the Car Wash also read that "[brand name] absolutely guarantees its products will meet or exceed your highest expectations. If you are unsatisfied for any reason, contact us for a full refund." My highest expectation is that I would remove the cap, rub the bottle 3 times, and a genie (or at least a local illegal immigrant) would pop out and wash my car for me. Somehow I doubt they will grant a refund for that.