Transcontinental, 3:30 a.m. Sunday Morning

Ring, ring, ring.

Heyya.

The return was late. The concert was great.

The pick-up was thirty seconds tardy. The drive out went quickly.

The dinner plans were poorly thought-out. The fault was entirely mine.

The allotted time for dinner was one hour. The restaurant wait was forty minutes.

The opening act was The Mammals. Their music was... well, I don't know, because we arrived after they'd finished.

The Nickel Creek set was mostly familiar. The Britney cover was pretty funny.

The venue was quaint. The lights under the balcony were a little weird.

The mandolinist was crazy as usual. The guitarist looked a little too tipsy.

The encore was surprising. Fleck and Meyer were onstage.

The concert's end was at 11:30. The time zone was central.

The late leave was until 2:00 eastern. The problem is obvious.

The adjusted estimated return time was 3:00 a.m. The dean was not amused.

The return drive was languid. The sleep deprivation was affective.

The arrival was 3:15 a.m. The drop-off was businesslike.

The girl is a catch.

But not for me.

For Her Amusement

It was late. Natasha and I were just arriving back on campus after going to see Nickel Creek in Chattanooga.

I pulled up and parked beside her car in the music building parking lot. Since my car wasn't tagged for dorm parking, I'd have to leave it here tonight and walk back to the dorm.

Natasha walked over to her little red Honda and unlocked it. "Hey... do you want a ride back over to the guys' dorm?"

"Sure!"

I walked toward the passenger door, but Natasha interrupted. "The passenger door's broken. You'll have to climb in the driver's side..."

With some ungraceful and amusing effort, I managed to get all six feet and two inches of me from the driver's side door into the passenger seat.

Soon, we had arrived at the front door of the guys' dorm. "Thanks for the ride, Natasha!"

I reached for the door handle, then chuckled. "I guess I'm trapped."

After a few moments' thought, I decided to roll down the window and exit that way. Somehow, I managed to climb out the window backwards, nearly falling out upside-down in the process. I landed in a rumpled heap beside the car.

Natasha leaned over to the passenger window, rather amused. "That was graceful. Are you.. okay?"

I dusted myself off. "I'm fine. You know I only did that so you could laugh at me, right?"

Natasha grinned. "Of course."

::

Several months later, I learned there was nothing wrong with Natasha's passenger side door. It worked fine, but since she told me it was broken, I never tried it. I guess that means I climbed out the window for no other purpose than for her amusement.

Anything for the ladies, I guess.

More Than Enough

The most famous and often-quoted of the Psalms begins, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want."

That's cool for David, I guess. But when I take stock of my own life, I see a jam-packed calendar that left me unprepared for a few assignments last week. I see a bank account balance torpedoed by the first tuition payment of the semester. I see a 6'2", 160lb toothpick in the mirror. I see my "mom car" out in the parking lot. And ya know what?

I want!

I want 25 hours in a day, and 8 days in a week, and a secretary to make sure I never forget things. I want a nice fat scholarship. I want 20 extra pounds of muscle, and I really, really, really want a 350Z. Or a Honda. Or a diesel rabbit, for that matter. Anything but the mom car!

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want."

I picture King David writing those words. David didn't want, because there really wasn't anything he could possibly want. David had it all!

"The Lord is my shepherd, who gives me all the hookups. I have wealth, health, youth, charm, good looks, and a whole nation I get to boss around. Of course I don't want!"

I grumble. "God, what’s wrong with you? How come you won’t be a good shepherd and give me all that stuff?"

Silence.

But is that really how it was for David?

I erase the mental image of King David with one of Boy David. A shepherd, the youngest of seven sons, working a dead end job in the middle of nowheresville.

"The Lord is my shepherd, who satisfies me in the most unenviable of circumstances. I no longer need to want."

I sigh. "God, what's wrong with me? Why am I so different from David?"

Silence.

I don't have the answer key, the magic formula, the as-seen-on-tv life fixer machine. This is the real world; not all Christians have dinner on the table or a roof over their heads tonight. And those who have food and shelter are busy fretting about their lack of money, lack of a boyfriend or girlfriend, lack of a good job, lack of a 350Z, or any of millions of other things. In some way or another, we all want.

To be continued...

It Grows On Trees

Fall, 1999.

"That's all for today. Have a great evening!"

I rushed out of the symphony practice room and carelessly dropped my violin into its case, simultaneously fetching a shiny new cell phone from my pocket. I didn't have the number on speed dial; I didn't need it. I'd dialed this number at least twenty or thirty times a week for the past two months.

As soon as the ringing stopped and I could hear that the cell connection had been made, I punched in a string of 28 digits containing a login ID, a PIN code, and some instructions for a financial symbol lookup. The first time I'd done this, it took me two or three minutes to navigate all the voice-activated menus; after two months, I didn't even have to hear the voice. I just pressed the numbers as fast as my fingers could move.

I pressed the phone to my ear and held my breath.

"The Standard & Poor's 100 Index. October put, strike price K. Three and one eighth."

Drat. Not high enough.

"High four and seven eights. Low two and three sixteenths."

My mouth dropped open. I punched another string of eight digits into the keypad.

"Today's activity: Sold nine hundred OEX October puts at four and five eighths."

Jill walked over to me, carrying her violin case.

"So what happened?"

I did some quick mental calculations.

"I made $2,500 during orchestra practice!"

::

True story. Perhaps someday I'll get around to writing out the rest of it.

Missed Connections: Mandy (More)

FADE IN on Wry hanging upside-down from bunk, handsfree in ear, cell phone on bed.

MANDY (V.O.): ... anyway, I've been talking about my boyfriend too much. I'm sure you don't really want to hear about him.

WRY: 's ok. I want to hear about what's important to you in your life right now, and if that's Rick, then I want to hear about Rick. I'm not jealous -- I'm glad you're happy.

MANDY (V.O.): Well...

Silence for several seconds.

MANDY (V.O.): Do you remember when you came up to visit me over the summer?

WRY: Of course.

MANDY (V.O.): Do you remember that look you gave me when you left?

WRY: Of course.

MANDY (V.O.): Well I... I mean, you're the... I can't...

Silence for several seconds.

MANDY (V.O.): I really like Rick, but I guess I'm just not really over you yet.

FREEZE FRAME

WRY (V.O.): *long sigh*. That wasn't in the script. Can we re-shoot that scene? Please?

Silence for several seconds.

WRY (V.O.): Hellooooo?

FADE TO BLACK

Yes, this really happened. Today.

The Wryde

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you a special behind-the-scenes featurette. In today's episode: the wheels that make Wry's escapades possible: the Wryde!

I have a painfully uncool vehicle.

Seriously. If coolness were circular like longitude, my ride would be so uncool it would be cool. But since that's not the case, it's just so uncool.

This vehicle is so socially deadly, I've kinda been wondering for the past few weeks if I wouldn't be better off driving a hearse or something. (Hey, at least that would be unique...)

So how is it uncool? Well, let me count the ways...

It's an old vehicle. It's a 1997 model. It has over 200,000 miles on it, and it's acquired a slight smell. The kindest possible way to describe this particular smell would be "unique," I think. No matter how much I clean it, it won't go away. And it gets worse when it gets hot and sunny.

Ah, yes, hot and sunny. Of course, with my luck and the Tennessee weather, it's a given that the air conditioner only works when it's already cool outside, which means I'm pretty much limited to planning dates that start pretty near sunset, or The Girl meets The Smell.

As far as datemobiles go, the only thing worse than this would be a dump truck. It's the very antithesis of sportiness and coziness. It's got captains' chairs! And they're so far apart, you could park a Mazda Miata between them!

This monstrosity goes 0 to 60 in 15 seconds, and that's when the transmission is in a good mood. It brakes like a cruise ship and corners like a freight train. And it's lucky to get 20 miles to the gallon.

Last week, one kindhearted member of my school's female population was sitting in the passenger seat, trying to think of something nice to say about my vehicle, and she was really grasping at straws. She said, and I swear I'm not making this up, "you're all ready to start a family. You're driving a 'mom' car!"

After I dropped her off that night, I fantasized about driving my "mom" car off a cliff.

I, Wry, drive a 1997 Dodge Grand Caravan.

There's a Minister Handy

Campmeeting. June 2006.

"Hey."

I looked up into a nameless face. Nameless, yes, but familiar. I'd seen her sitting in the back all morning. Alone.

"You play some really cool songs. Where do you get them from?"

I studied her for a brief moment. Shoulders high, weak eye contact, head turned slightly to one side. Definitely a little anxious. I smiled.

Her name was Mandy, as it turns out. She was eighteen, and had just graduated from academy. Over the remainder of the weekend, we chatted about everything and nothing in between meetings.

Saturday night, as we were packing up, I pondered the possibility of never seeing her again. I didn't like it.

"So... do you have any big plans for tonight?"

We wound up going out to see a movie. Dutch treat, because she beat me to the ticket counter.

The next morning I was supposed to be leaving for the twelve hour drive home. Instead, I called Mandy.

"So how about breakfast?"

"I would, but I'm kinda out of money."

"Don't worry about the money. How about breakfast?"

"Umm.. I'd love to."

"Great, can I pick you up in fifteen minutes?"

"NO! I mean, I need to take a shower and get dressed and stuff..."

(I've made that mistake a number of times. Laugh, if you must. :P)

"Ok, well... when can I pick you up?"

"Maybe in an hour?"

(How long can it take to take a shower and get dressed? Yeeesh.)

"Great. See you then!"

(Incidentally, I arrived exactly one hour later. She was still in the bathroom; I had to wait another five minutes.)

I never asked Mandy how many guys she'd dated, but she mentioned four different relationships over breakfast. And some really nasty break-up stories. I wondered what prompted her to keep trying with guys who treated her so badly. We talked for hours. I dunno how long. It was early afternoon before we were back in the car on the way home.

"You know, this is a first for me."

I looked over at her. "Hum?"

"I've never actually had a guy take me somewhere and pay for it."

Holding the Bag, continued

This is a continuation of this earlier post.

The group began to get louder.

A bottle of Absolut appeared from someone's bag. It was half empty. Kelsey got ahold of it and started drinking. Not much, mind you, but it doesn't take much to have a marked effect on a 17 year-old toothpick with an empty stomach.

I wondered how these girls' parents would have felt if they knew where their daughters were. Is this just another important part of growing up?

The volume of the conversation continued to increase. By this time, Adam and I had retreated a few feet and were chatting quietly.

Henry, the concierge, came over to the group and asked them to quiet down.

They didn't.

Patience wearing thin, he asked again, a few minutes later.

The drunk guys responded with some rather unoriginal obscene gestures.

Henry's patience reached its limit. He was a really nice guy -- I'd chatted with him a few times over the space of a couple of days. Apparently, he'd been having repeated trouble with these same guys, and he decided it was finally time to do something.

I don't recall the exact sequence of events that occurred next, but in the space of a few minutes' time, the drunk guys had been escorted out of the lodge by security with instructions not to return until 6 a.m. unless they were escorted by their parents. Henry was in a markedly bad mood, and he began searching in earnest for two things: alcohol and parents.

The parents were nowhere to be found, of course. Henry set off down several different hallways, knocking on various doors to no avail.

But what about the alcohol?

Ah, yes. That was still in the lobby, behind Kelsey's back.

The population of the lobby was back to the same six that had been there at the beginning of the evening. And as it turned out, I was the only one over 18.

Kelsey looked over at me.

"If he sees I have this bottle, I'll be in big trouble. Hold it for me!"

I hesitated.

She squared her shoulders in my direction, leaned in, composed an innocent, helpless look on her face, and put her hand on my shoulder.

"Please."

She was clearly used to getting her way. I wondered how many hearts she'd broken in her 17 years.

I removed her hand from my shoulder. "Henry's down the hallway. Throw it away. There's a trashcan behind you."

The innocence and helplessness turned to annoyance. "What? It's still half full."

"Is it worth getting in trouble over half a liter of alcohol that you didn't even pay for?"

"Well if you'd just take it, we wouldn't have to worry about that!"

::

There were so many things I wanted to tell Kelsey in that moment.

I wanted to tell her she was beautiful, and that make-up and tops down to here and suggestive body language aren't the only ways to be attractive to guys. I wanted to tell her that no amount of alcohol or friends or money or wild behavior would ever make her happy. But how?

::

I shook my head. "There are lot of things I'd be glad to help you with, but I won't help you save half a bottle of vodka. Throw it away. You'll be happier."

She blinked, as if disbelieving what I'd said.

She grabbed her purse, opened it up, wedged the bottle inside, and zipped it closed. The purse looked as if was preparing to explode.

::

It's been several years since I talked to Kelsey. I wonder if she's happy.

Chains and Peabodies

This morning, I intended to write more about one of the two unfinished stories from earlier this week. Instead, I think I'll just try to take a snapshot of how I feel right now. I want to save it for later; I want to be able to remember it.

If it's a color, it's faded, greyish white.
If it's a smell, it's death and pumpkin pie.
If it's a touch, it's a warm, friendly hug -- in handcuffs.
If it's a taste, it's the last tomato of summer.
If it's a sight, it's a retreating goodbye.

::

Lord i want to yearn for You
i want to burn with passion
over You and only You

-- Shane Barnard

Friends Forever?

Friday afternoon. Thank God the weekend had arrived.

As I was walking out of the no-cell-service area of Brock Hall, my phone started twittering. "1 Voice Message."

I assumed it was someone calling about a practice time for one of the three bands I'm playing with this weekend. Dutifully, I called my voicemail.

"You have one unplayed message."

I know, I know. Shutup and play it already!

"*beep* Hey, hope everything is going well..."

Huh? That's a girl's voice. And it's not Katie, so it can't be about band practice. And it's not my sister, so it probably isn't about a computer problem. And it's not Amy, Abby, Lisa, Melanie, Mandy, or Natasha, so it can't be... well, yeah, it can't be any of them. Not that I would mind talking to them, or anything. But who is this girl, anyway?

"... I was actually going to call and get some advice from you... "

Advice? Hmm. Whoever she is, I bet she's buying a musical instrument or having troubles with her computer. I seem to attract damsels in technological distress. Well, not really "attract" per se, but you know.

"This is Jill, and in case you don't have it, my phone number is..."

Jill. Jill!

::

Jill has a storybook life. She's twenty. Gorgeous. Ridiculously charming. Insanely talented. From a wealthy and close-knit family. Lead singer of a nationally touring band with interest from several labels. By all outside measurements, she has all the advantages anyone could possibly want in life. If accomplishments, possessions, and power bring happiness, then she, more than anyone else I know, should be happy.

Jill and I grew up together in a small town in North Georgia. For a few years in our early teens, we were very close -- perhaps not exactly dating, but... well, you know the drill in undefined relationships. Eventually, she met and started dating another guy, and I was crushed. We lost contact for four or five years. We ran into each other at a mutual friend's wedding earlier this summer and exchanged some awkward conversation, but other than that, we didn't talk for years.

So why would she be calling me? I couldn't fathom any possible reason, unless she needed some web site advice or something. But even that doesn't seem like the kind of thing for which she'd call me. They have managers and agents and those kinds of people to deal with those kinds of problems.

To be continued...

Holding the Bag

Whistler, British Columbia.

Club Intrawest Resort.

A midsummer night's mid.

A passerby would have noticed the circle of teenagers in the lounge. It was clearly a mixed group containing several sets of friends who decided to hang out together on this particular night. To whit:

• Adam and I, longtime partners in crime and programming pals who'd come up to Whistler for a few days. Both somewhat shy, we'd come down to the lobby to do some hacking on the resort's wireless connection. (Perfectly legal, of course.)



• Ben and Kevin, two British Columbia natives who, judging from the looks of things, were following the pretty girls around. Ah yes, and that brings us to



• Kelsey and Becky, the pretty girls from Seattle. Underage.

There was talk of Harry Potter and Myspace. There was Balderdash (who knew teenagers still played that game?) and mild random flirting (dear mother of cheese, when will they stop playing that game?). Generally respectable modern teenage behavior.

A pack of teenage guys wandered in from one of the many hallways. Loud, profane, obviously drunk, and determined to feel up the girls.

The girls don't object. I wondered if they felt beautiful. They certainly were, in spite of all the make-up.

To be continued...

Chaiteelottay

Experienced Rembrandt's coffeeshop for the first time last night.

It was delightfully charming.

Amy moreso.

Extraverts the world over must chuckle when they see a pair of shy introverts on a first date.

Gay as a Handbag Full of Rainbows

FADE IN on Wry hanging upside-down from bed-frame, talking on cellphone with hands-free headset.

MANDY (O.S.): Don't laugh! I thought it was going to be a Man From Snowy River type thing. How was I supposed to know something called "Brokeback Mountain" would be about gay cowboys? The box didn't say they were gay, it just said they were learning about love, or something.

WRY (laughing): Did you all watch the whole thing?

MANDY: Well, yeah. I closed my eyes during the yucky parts, though. I felt sorry for the guys, though. I don't think they liked it.

FREEZE FRAME

WRY (V.O.): I had a good laugh at Mandy's expense that day. But in fairness to her, I think I should tell you about a somewhat similar experience of my own.

::

'Twas the week before dorm move-in. I was absent-mindedly mowing the lawn, because mowing the lawn is an excellent opportunity to be absent-minded.

Dad's Avalon came up the subdivision's main street and turned in at our corner. Mom was driving; her left knee was giving her some sort of trouble; she couldn't drive her own manual-transmission car, so she was using Dad's automatic.

The car screeched to a purposeful stop in the driveway. Mom climbed out. She looked a little agitated, so I stopped to see what was going on.

"Next time you leave your CDs in Dad's car, warn me so I won't be in there singing along with gay love songs!"

I blinked.

"Ebbeh... err... what?"

Mom climbed back in the car, turned it on, and started playing one of my most recent favorite songs, "City Hall" by Vienna Teng.

Sure enough. It was all about the city hall lesbian marriages in SF a few years ago. (Lyrics)

That got me to thinking, though: In a lot of ways, the sentiments expressed in the music and lyrics of "City Hall" have a nobility and purity not present in most love songs; does the fact that both the singer and the subject are female negate its value? Not completely, I don't think. Partly, yes. But not completely.

Missed Connections: Backhanded Insults Edition

FADE IN on morning scene of coffeeshop in small downtown district somewhere in the southeast. Wry is sitting across the table from a gorgeous smile worn by an equally gorgeous girl. All three (smile, girl, and Wry) are enjoying themselves immensely.

MANDY: So Wry, what's the worst part of you?

WRY: I don't know about "worst", but one of my most annoying weaknesses is that I tend to have a hard time making a decision and sticking with it.

ZOOM IN on grainy shot of girl absent-mindedly rolling straw wrapper between her fingers.

WRY: What about you? What's the worst thing about you?

MANDY: My taste in men. Definitely.

CUT TO BLACK

::

FADE IN on external view of Wry's obnoxiously uncool ride puttering down a back road in southern Tennessee.

WRY (V.O.): So... how about this Wednesday evening?

AMY (V.O. via cell phone): Actually, Wednesday isn't good for me. I have to be at a farewell dinner for the chaplain that night...

WRY (V.O.): Good grief. You're busy all the time!

AMY (V.O.): Yeah, I guess I have a hard time saying no to anything.

FREEZE FRAME

WRY (V.O. to self): Oh, so that's why she agreed to a coffee date...

CUT TO BLACK

Standing on Friday

Today, SMC church met outside on the lawn beside Talge. It was a refreshing service; SMC is a wonderful church during the times when the smelly politics of church leadership aren't fouling things up.

During the singing time at the beginning of the service, we did an old camp song I'd never heard before. At least, I think it was an old camp song. And ultimately, it doesn't matter, because the story's the same either way. But still. It was probably an old camp song. And actually, we sang several old camp songs (or at least, several things I thought were old camp songs) that I'd never heard before, but here, I'm referring to a spec.... nevermind. On with the story.

I don't remember the exact words to the song we sang today, but it was one of those songs where you sing one verse for each day of the week, and the idea is that when you get to a day of the week on which you were particularly blessed, you stand up. Just a cool way to acknowledge God in your life, I guess.

We sang through Sunday to Thurday. I sat on the sidewalk, watching a ginormous bug bumbling around in the grass. And singing. (Me, not the bug. He was too busy bumbling. Or maybe he had a froggy, pubescent voice, and he felt too sensitive about it to be comfortable singing in public. I dunno. In any case, he wasn't singing.)

When we got to Friday, I stood.

::

Friday afternoon, Ben asked me to play bass for Adoration this weekend. Of course I agreed, so shortly before 6:00, I stopped by my room, packed up my bass, stand, cables, and 60lb bass amp, and headed for the back stairwell of the new wing.

There are very few things about my university that I materially dislike, but the dorm's stairwells are definitely on that short list. The new wing's back stairwell in particular is a real annoyance; you have to have a keycard to enter or exit the stairwell on the outdoors level, and you have to have a keycard to exit the stairwell on every other level. (If you read that carefully and I wrote it right, you'll notice that yes, it is possible to get locked on the stairs if you leave your keycard in your room. The only way to get out is to either wait for someone to find you, or try to make enough racket that someone will come to let you out.) To make matters worse, the stairwell's outdoor exit is locked at 8pm nightly; supposedly, it's necessary to keep drugs from entering the dorm. Whatever.

So this particular day, I was headed down the stairwell carrying around 80lbs of musical equipment. My room is on the top floor, so I had three flights of stairs to go down before arriving at the bottom, where I would have to drop everything, fish my keycard out of my pocket, unlock the door, pick everything back up, and hope that the door hadn't locked itself by the time I pushed it open with my bass amp.

When I was halfway down the stairs, I met a young man who was on his way up. I'd never spoken to him before; in fact, I don't remember ever having seen him before, but he saw the load that I was carrying, turned around, went back down a flight and a half of stairs, unlocked the door, and held it open for me.

In the grand scheme of things, his kindness was perhaps inconsequential, but it made a lasting impression on me. I still don't know his name, but I saw Jesus in that guy.

And that's why I stood on Friday.

::

Amy stood on Thursday. I wonder why.

Wrebellion

For the first time in his life, my friend Evan is interested in a relatively nice girl who is also interested in him. (Note that there are three important details in that sentence. He's had two at a time before, but never all three at once.) Thursday night, he and I were lounging on the floor of my dorm room, discussing the rather incomprehensible female mind. In the course of our discussion, he announced that he will never ask a girl before kissing her, or doing anything else, for that matter, and he'll never apologize if he does something she's not comfortable with.

His reasoning was simple: First, girls don't like a guy who asks. Second, you get more if you don't ask, anyway.

I wouldn't be surprised if he's right. Nevertheless, I don't think I'll ever kiss a girl without asking.

Why?

Because it's a demonstration of respect. Because it shows that she is more important than the physical enjoyment for which I could use her. If that's a turn-off to most girls, then I guess I'm not interested in most girls.

I, Wry, am carrying out a disorganized, mostly improvised rebellion against the things I dislike about the dating process. I don't really have any sort of revolutionary new philosophy or guiding principle that makes me act all weird. I just don't like what I see around me, and I'm trying to be different.

Phony Observation

Checking your cell phone is a lot like yawning.

It's contagious, and you do it most often when you're bored or uncomfortable.

The Butterfly Effect

I've never seen a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

Have you?

No?

Well, then. We're talking about something that neither one of us has directly experienced, so what I say next could be complete garbage -- you'd never know, and neither would I. But who cares? It's a neat little illustration, and it'll get the point across. Don't you love postmodernism?

I've been told that a butterfly struggles for quite some time to escape from its cocoon. It looks like it's fighting for its life, and it looks like it sure would be nice to give it a little help -- perhaps to just crack the cocoon open a little, so the butterfly wouldn't have to fight so hard.

But if you help it, it will die.

The process of escaping from the cocoon is what prepares the butterfly for the outside world. Without that struggle, it won't be able to survive, even though it's been set free from the greatest hurdle of its life.

::

As I mentioned before, I'm a freelance web developer and system administrator. From time to time, I'm requested to take on development projects for various ministries or fledgeling businesses at reduced or pro bono rates. Of course, it seems like a good thing to do, but sometimes, donating work to struggling enterprises is a lot like cracking open the cocoon. The fact that they can't afford web development services is often an indication that there are other more serious problems with the organization's long term plan.

I hate to be ruthlessly practical. I'll certainly never tell someone "I'm sorry, it just doesn't look like your ministry/business plan is going to fly, so I'd rather not donate my time to it." And I've pondered the idea that by refusing to help, I'm driving another nail into the cocoon-come-coffin.

Pragmatism is inevitable. But pragmatism makes me sad.

Missed Connection, Friday Afternoon

FADE IN on an in-car shot of Wry and unidentified girl. Zoom in on spedometer: 41mph. Pan out window to speed limit sign: 30mph. Cut to profile of unidentified girl.

GIRL: Wry, you drive really slow.

WRY: (Noticing speed, slowing down) Yeah, I tend to be pretty careful when I have a girl in the passenger seat. Not much of an undue risk-taker, ya know?

GIRL: (chuckling) I love going fast, especially with boys in the car. I take this road at about eighty.

WRY: Remind me to never ride in your car.

GIRL: Why?

PAN idly out the window as another 30mph speed limit sign zooms by.

WRY: Oh, no reason.

The Dipwad's Ox

"Hey Wry, this is Alan. Listen, I know you haven't been working for me in six months, but I really need your help. Three different clients have called saying the server is down, but the datacenter technicians say it's not their problem. Could you take a look at that for me?"

Thus began my 5 p.m. moral dilemma.

::

A little background:

Alan is a freelance web designer whose business has been on the rocks for some years now. I'm a freelance web developer and system administrator, and Alan was my employer off and on for around three years. Our working relationship ended early in '06 when he chose to leave his wife and children and I felt I couldn't support him in good conscience. It's a long and drawn out story that probably deserves a post in and of itself, but for the present moment, here's what you need to know:

• Alan left his family and is filing for divorce


• He considers himself a strong Christian and believes that God gave him permission to do this, in spite of the fact that his wife was not unfaithful.


• When they married, his wife had nearly a quarter million dollars in savings and investments, while Alan was $50,000 in debt. His wife covered his debts, and he squandered her remaing cash trying to get his web development business going. Of course, now that they're split up, neither one has any significant debt, but neither one has any significant assets either. He sucked her dry and ran off without so much as a "thanks for all the cash".


• Alan is making less than $20,000 a year, because he refuses to get a steady job. His wife is now getting a paltry $750 a month to support herself and their three children.

There's a lot more to the story, but the bottom line is this:

At this point in his life, Alan is behaving like a total boogerhead.

I know there are all sorts of murky moral and perspective issues involved in making judgements about the behavior of others, but for cryin' out loud, you've got to draw the line somewhere. The guy is being a jerk. He drained his family's finances dry, then walked out on a wife and three kids. And he believes that someday, God is going to bless him and his web design business is going to take off and make him a rich man.

::

Here I stand, by the side of the road, eyeing the dipwad's ditchbound ox. Of course, this particular ox looks less like a beast of burden and more like a beat-up, run-down server living in an excessively airconditioned corporate datacenter. But deep down inside, it's an ox, and it's in a ditch.

I note with a wry smile that this particular dipwad is, quite literally, my neighbor -- Alan and I lived two doors apart for a number of years.

The fact that Alan is being a dipwad doesn't make him any less my neighbor. And if I should love my neighbor as myself, I suppose that means I should love Alan as myself. But how?

How do you help the people you love, when they're in active rebellion against the things you know to be true?

I sigh. I stare at my shoes. I pray.

No bright ideas.

I open my laptop and contact the ornery ox. After a few minutes of investigation and experimentation, the problem is fixed. The ox returns to the pasture, munching grass and making money for the dipwad.

Rhyme or Reason

You're looking at the first post on a shiny new blog, which means you're probably expecting to see some sort of explanation of who, what, or why. But alas! None will be forthcoming, because, ultimately, some things just happen without rhyme or reason.

Isn't life grand?