Someone Better Tell Tom Selleck...

I never really thought of it as a roadblock to anything, let alone employment.

It was pointed out to me today over coffee by a pro in the field of employment-finding that sporting a mustache can be a stumbling point for many people due to the stereotype associated with a man with a mustache. What is this stereotype?

A few years ago, when Holly first came to Mt. Tabor Presbyterian where I was working, (and it was later told to me) her initial reaction to seeing me (I was leading singing at the time) was to question, “Who’s the guy with the molest-a-stache?” Upon hearing that I was the Youth Director, she was in disbelief.

This might be a good time to point out that many of the jobs I am trying to be hired for work directly with teenagers. “If you were my client I’d make you shave it off,” said my friend in the café.

My brain really fought this one, as I have really gotten used to the ‘stache over the past few years. “Obviously whoever considers a mustache as a sign that someone shouldn't be in ministry has never been to a Pastor’s Conference, where the mustache (along with a comb over - or at least a side part - and a cell phone in belt case) is almost a cliché among those in attendance,” I told myself. But maybe that is a part of the negative stereotype.

I reflected back on a couple of really good interviews that I have recently had that did not result in any sort of employment, and I wonder if wanting to work with teens and young adults while sporting a mustache is a poor decision. Goatees, on the other hand, have become quite popular among our society these days, crossing a generational gap that stops many other fashion and/or style progressions. However, it takes me a month or two to actually get a decent goatee going… apparently I need Rogaine for the chin.

At this point the decision was quite simple: the mustache is gone. I may not agree with some of the stereotypes placed on mustaches, but I understand that other folk might see something other than a benign attempt at facial hair. After all, Paul wrote “Be careful, however, that the exercise of your rights does not become a stumbling block to the weak. For if someone with a weak conscience sees you, with all your knowledge, [with a mustache], won’t that person be emboldened to [assume there is a darker intention that they too can follow]? …Therefore, if [my mustache] causes my brother or sister to fall into [or assume] sin, I will never [sport a ‘stache] again, so that I will not cause them to fall.”  (1 Corinthians  8:9-10, 13) Well, maybe not exactly that, but I get what he was saying, and so will consider what others see in a man working with youth that has a mustache.

The whole facial-hair-marks-the-good-or-bad thing is about to become a major plot point, as this weekend is the last for Trek In The Park, featuring the episode Mirror, Mirror. You know, the one where we can tell that Spock is evil based on if he has a goatee or not?

Now I just need to spend some time in the sun so that I don’t have a pale line between my nose and lips.
UPDATE: In the interest of several offended people, and that Tom has an epic 'stache, the original Title referring to Hitler has been removed.

Mission Chicken Part Two: A Photographic Tale

We flew in to Columbus, Ohio and picked up some vans to transport the students and the few of us leaders. Chicken quickly adapted to the new windshield and we were on the way to Indianopolis Presbyterian Church where we stayed the night on Greek Row of Ohio State University.

While Chicken slept, Brian and Tricie awoke early in the morning with a student who had neck pain due to the hard floor. As Brian walked past a window, he looked out and saw a body in the early sunlight. Seeing blood on man, they investigated, called an ambulance and, while the students slept, Police and Paramedics came and took the poor fellow to the hospital. We later found out that he had drank a considerable amount of alcohol at a frat party, passed out on the stone ledge of the church's stairwell, then fell off and cracked his skull. We figured if nothing else came of this trip, the fact that we were able to find the man and get him medical attention made it worth it.

The next day we drove out of Ohio into West Virginia and watched as the city turned to private unincorporated towns and finally into Logan. The downtown showed many dilapidated buildings, some actually falling apart.

We drove up to the New Life Fellowship building where YouthWorks has it's home and moved in to the 3rd floor with 2 other churches and a group of young men from inner city Akron. The church bought the buildings, which was once a middle school, from the city about 12 years prior for $10.



Each student and leader was assigned a locker in the old school hallway. They operated as makeshift mailboxes where notes of encouragement, quickly sketched drawings, papers of flirting, and the occasional phone number were exchanged. Chicken, while chaperoning the hallway, unfortunately received no mail.



Many happenings came about, which will be told in person or possibly later on this blog. On our way home, we had some good old turbulence.


We had a layover in Las Vegas, where the temperature was about 112 degrees. We chose to stay indoors during this time.

Weird is not so weird...

As I sit in Powell's books downtown, I realize just how out of fashion wearing a suit can be. Hundreds of people walk by, and many look at me like I am somehow against the accepted norm here. Earlier today I was walking the sidewalks of hawthorne and received similar looks.

Me by the Powell's Pillar

Now, I admit that a suit is rarely my wardrobe of choice, but I had an important job interview today (not to mention I just plain look good in a suit) and then visited some friends while on the east side of town. It may be that I am simply not part of any crowds that regularly, or even irregularly, dress in such a fashion. But when did attiring oneself in a suit become such a strange and abnormal thing?

It seems everwhere I look I see stickers encouraging readers to "keep Portland weird", but the irony is that I am standing as the weird dressed in my astonishingly good looking suit here in Portlandia.

Guess I win, eh?

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