Signs It Might Be Cold

I am from California. The part of California that doesn’t have snow for 72 years. The part of California that when it does have its once-in-a-life-time-snow shuts completely down and tries using street sweepers on the snow. The part of California that posts freezing advisories during the weather bit of the news. The part of California that is afraid of freezing temperatures. The part of California that thinks fog is winter. The part of California that can wear flipflops all year if it wants to.

Now I am not completely ignorant of what the rest of the world calls winter. I was born in Colorado. I have visited my grandma in Chicago. I have been skiing. I have been to the mountains in January. But there is something about living in it, somethings you just don’t expect. So here are my top 5 signs it might be colder than a Californian is used to:

1) The snow on the rim of the chimneys is still there even though there is smoke coming out.
2) You go outside and think, “Wow, it is rather warm today.” You check the day’s temperature and learn it was 28 degrees F, instead of the 8 degrees F of yesterday.
3) You stop wearing your glasses on errands because they fog up when you go outside and when you go back inside.
4) Your neighborhood 7-11 mini store’s freezer section is out on the sidewalk. Below is the seafood section:


5) Your neighborhood 7-11 ministore’s freezer section is more frozen than if it were in the freezer inside. Below is the ice cream section:


So yeah, it is a little cold here. And it is only the beginning of December. Folks keep telling me to wait for January before I can say it is cold. They are crazy. It is cold now. But that could just be the California talking.

How To Buy a Skillet in China

First, you must find the little store you went to last time. Oh, there are other places to buy skillets, but you have some other things you want to buy that are only at this store. Besides, the other places are very expensive. After wandering down a side street, getting yelled at in very bad Russian by a random pedestrian trying to show off for his friends, walking down into an underground meat market where Fear Factor should set up shop for an episode, you finally find it tucked in a corner.

Second, you start looking at the pots and pans available. The store owner will soon catch on that this is what you are looking for and will start pulling out options from hitherto unseen nooks.

Third, shake your head at each wok pulled out and make motions for “smaller” and “flatter.” On the off chance she remembers some English from middle school, also say these words along with “too big.” Just to make sure you have covered all of the bases, say “skillet” as well.

Fourth, repeat step 3 several times until you are convinced that you have seen every wok the store has. Proceed to speaking English with your roommate and decide that they do not have one, so you will just buy one at the expensive store.

Fifth, the lady rummages through one last pile before you leave and pulls out…a skillet. Nod your head vigorously, point frantically and say “Yes, yes, yes! That one!”

Sixth, because you are someone who wants to learn what this cooking instrument is, motion to the skillet now cradled in your hands and shrug. Try saying “Name?” or “What is it?” after the blank look from the store owner sets in. Motion again more emphatically. The response will most likely be a stream of Chinese from which it is impossible to pick out any individual words at all. Just nod your head and smile.

Seventh, when the store owner starts her rummaging again, shrug and follow her. Once she starts pulling out lids and placing them on top of the skillet you are still holding, you realize that instead of figuring out you wanted the name of the pot you are holding she has interpreted your charades to mean you are asking for a lid for your new cooking implement. You decide it is too much hassle to try to explain you had been asking for the Chinese word, not another piece of cooking equipment, especially since a lid would probably be a good idea to get anyway.

Eighth, smile happily once the lid of acceptable diameter is located, but point questioningly at the hole in the center where the nob should be and is not. The store owner will shake her head and wave her hands in the universal “I know, I know, hold on” gesture. Just stand still with your skillet and nob-less lid.

Ninth, the store owner will rummage more, this time pulling out a lid that does not fit but that does have a nob. Unscrewing the nob, she will take back the lid you are holding and put the cannibalized nob on it. When she hands you back your now fully operational lid, smile, say thank you and do not think about the stripped lid. In due time, should it be purchased, some other lid will suffer the same indignity for it until there are no more nobs and the world for lids ceases to exist.

Tenth, finally you come to the part of the process where you pay for the skillet and its lid. Be sure to pay more than you should. This is traditional for foreigners, regardless of whether or not they speak the language or how many years they have spent in the country. Should you also purchase other items from the store overpaying will be made certain by the fact that you will be given a total without individual prices noted. Simply hand over the money, exchange xie-xie’s with the store owner and be happy that you were able to find everything you wanted in a country that does not always have what you are looking for.

Eleventh, arrive home and decide to put your new purchase to use, after washing it of course. Crack a few eggs, cut up some onion and tomatoes, plug in the contact cooker and prepare your stomach for a good old fashioned, almost-like-home omelet. Place the skillet on the cooker and turn cooker on to the desired medium heat. The cooker will beep. Lift the skillet and place back down to assure the cooker that there is a cooking instrument on it. The cooker will beep. Repeat previous step, this time a little more forcefully, although not so violently as to break your only means of cooking food. The cooker will continue to beep. Realize that the cooker is having some sort of mother bird complex will not accept a skillet from a different store.

Twelfth, decide you still want an omelet and proceed to cook your ingredients in the wok, purchased from same place as the cooker will accept. The omelet will become more like scrambled eggs and you will have to combat uneven cooking due to the wok’s curved shape, but you will be successful and the taste acceptable. Be content despite purchasing for too much money a pan that you cannot use because you have just eaten an almost-omelet, the entire reason you went searching for a skillet in the first place.

Thirteenth, decide to go looking tomorrow for a rice steamer so you can make crock pot chicken.

Pets for Dinner

So you want to eat some meat tonight? How many of you Americans actually thought about the meat that you eat? That it is the flesh of an animal, an animal that was once moving and making noise?

Some of you have, I am sure. I am not so blind or borish as to think that all Americans believe milk comes in cartons and meat is made in little plastic packages. Some of you who have thought about such things have decided the appropriate course of actions is to become vegetarians. One defense I have heard from vegetarians is this: Being a vegetarian does not stop an animal from being slaughtered for food, but not being part of the destination somehow mystically absolves a vegetarian of the guilt of the animals who are still eaten. I am not sure if I can agree with this reason, but that has to do with my beliefs on the Fall, a theologial question which is not my present topic.

Please understand that I have nothing against vegetarians; I just really love my meat. I say this having not only thought about the slaughter of the animals I eat, but also having seen said slaughter. How could you be so callused? you ask.

Once again, it all began as a child. My neighbor owned a steer. Barbeque was kept in the back yard behind our back yard. My brother and I would pull mulberry leaves off of the tree to feed him. Poor thing had eaten all of the ones he could reach. He depended on us for his favorite snack. Having a full grown steer eat from your hand and then pick his nose repeatedly with his tongue is not something you forget. Neither is the shot from the butcher when he is finally slaughtered or your neighbor making a windchime out of the partially cured horn.

My brother and I had begged my mother to let us watch the butchering, but she had said no. I think she was afraid that we would be traumatized. If that was the goal, then maybe we should not have seen the calving at the fair the year before when the man had to wrap a sizeable chain around the little calf’s front hooves and yank the poor thing out. After seeing that, my mind associated brutality more with birth than with death. We did not get any of Barbeque to help him live up his name, but I would not have had a problem if we had. Perhaps it is because I just have the ability to compartmentalize rather well. I have learned over time that this is not always the best response, but for our friend the steer and his fellow slaughtered it does seem appropriate.

Why must you talk about this? My children are reading this!

Only to let you know what it is like in other parts of the world, dear friends. But since there may be little eyes, I will warn you…the next part is a bit more gory.

The restaurant downstairs slaughtered a sheep yesterday. We walked by just after the neck slicing. The Old Testament was suddenly more real as I watched the butcher pull the head to the side so that the blood flowed freely into the pan below. Up to this point, I had only seen chicken blood. Oh, I had gone to the grocery store here and had seen the slabs of meat and some blood. This was something different. Unlike Barbeque who received a shot before being cut up, this sheep’s cause of death was having his lifeblood drained from him. Blood the color of my own flowed and flowed and still flowed before finally our walking took us past and we could no longer see the flowing.

We had an errand so we did not stay. When we came back from our errand, the butcher had moved onto skinning. Again I did not get to stay to watch as there were other matters more important than gathering stories with which to gross out my roommate. Besides, the restaurant has bought another sheep, so I will have another opportunity later.

My point in musing over all this gruesome event is the commonplace-ness such an act has here that is not present in America. To be sure, blood is shed daily in both places. But how many of you have seen it on the sidewalk? Here, many hands are sticky with it. Here, the streets behind many back doors are stained with it. I will leave you to think on that one. As for me? I will still eat meat, but now as I do I will have an attitude of thankfulness that the final blood has been spilt.

Get Around, Get Around, We Get Around

Please note that this was written several weeks ago and I am just now getting the chance to post it. I have since changed apartments and no longer have the wonderful sights I am about to describe. But I do have similar sights, to fill later posts.

People watching is fun. A cheap form of entertainment, unless of course you are watching at Disneyland. Then it becomes an expensive form of entertainment. I have discovered the perfect spot for people watching. My bedroom window at the apartment I am currently staying at overlooks the street below. And since it is on the second floor, I am high up enough that I can see a good bit and low enough that I can still see the people.

My street is by no means a busy street, but there is a steady stream of traffic. What do I see?

Cars and more cars. Many are taxis, but more and more are private owned. Most cars are Asian makes, with a few Russians thrown in since we are so close to the border. I have also seen some really nice looking Mercedes and Volkswagons go by. To date, there has also been one Ford and one Chevy. Seeing those brought a smile to my face.

Motorcycles. Most of these two wheeled motorized contraptions would probably not be called motorcycles by enthusiasts in the States. Mopeds are probably the technical term. The few real motorcycles I have seen makes me want to intoduce the Harley to the streets of Hailar. I can just see a Hog rolling down these streets. The part I would love to see the most would be the pedestrian reaction. Unfortunately, the speed of traffic here (considerably slower than America) would probably annoy any true Hog and they would just roar through and leave the entire city wondering if the alien invaders had passed them by.

Bicycles. China is the land of bikes. Unlike India which seems to be in a competition of who can put the most people and/or stuff on one vehicle, China has sensibly adopted the one rule. One bicycler can have one passenger. This passenger does not perch precariously on the handlebars like we did as children. Instead, all bikes have a short little seat over the rear wheel on which to perch precariously on the back. Most people ride sidesaddle, as it were, but I have seen a few adventurous and younger souls hanging on astride the narrow seat, most of which are padded with a thin foam. Children like to play the balance game, but girlfriends will use the opportunity to hold their boyfriends. No one falls off though, at least that I have seen. I did see a mom yesterday attempting to teach her son how to balance. He looked to be about two, almost past the size for the little children’s baskets that take the place of the rear seat on some bikes in America. He didn’t seem to thrilled at the idea.

Bikeshaws. I am not sure what the official name for these contraptions is but it is as if someone chopped off the handlbars and front wheel of a bicycle and attached replaced it with a front loaded, two-wheeled cart. It is sort of like a backwards rickshaw, though never for people, at least not that I have seen. They carry everything from garbage to vegetables. Some wander slowly through the neighborhoods, calling Ping-no at various intervals. No, that is probably not what they are saying, but that is what it sounds like. I asked what they were saying. The answer was “I think they are selling ice cream.” When I commented that it didn’t look like there was ice cream in the cart, the only answer was a shrug. So I don’t feel to bad about not knowing what they do.

Pedestrians. Many people walk everywhere. And in a smaller town like here, that is perfectly possible. Most women wear heels of some kind. The practical part of me wonders how they do not trip and fall on the bumpy tile-like sidewalks.

For a side note on all traffic, I have noticed that umbrellas and facemasks are in vogue. Umbrellas to keep the sun off. Lighter skin is considered more beautiful. (If this is truly the case, my legs should have about the same value as Helen of Troy’s face, not that I am eager to start any sort of violence. Besides, Paris was an idiot.) I am not really certain what the facemasks are for, but I think they are to keep the wearer from breathing in pollution. Most of the facemasks are made of cloth and some have eyelet lace designs. Women ridding bikes also wear these, although a standard variation is a gauze scarf drapped or tied over the face. My American mind is much confused on this one.

The rest of the traffic is made of a various buses for public transportation, a donkey cart or two (they assist with the sewage and garbage disposal process) and a couple of kids on rollerblades. Navigating traffic is a lifesized game of rock, paper, scissors. Bus beats car beats motorcycle beats bike beats ped, with the ped not beating anyone. Anyone higher up on the vehicle food chain isnt going to move out of the way. Not the mad house or cacophany of sounds that Indian traffic is, but all in all it makes for an entertaining scene.

My new apartment is on the sixth floor and does not have a street below. I am excited to move in, but will have to locate a new form of entertainment. Perhaps I will go downstairs and outside and talk to my neighbors. They probably won’t understand me, but that hasn’t stopped me yet. Don’t worry, I still only say good things about you.

The Little Insect That Did

Remember that joke about mosquitoes in Minnesota needing tennis rackets to squash them with. Well, I have been introduced to their distant cousin.

We went outside the other night and there in the lamp light was a swarm that would have made Hitchcock do a whole different film. Ever wonder what the Egyptians saw? This was about the same thing, only mosquitoes instead of locusts and under a lamp instead of over the entire country. Just a taste of the terror they must have felt at the sight of that cloud coming to devour. Which was more than what we were giving the mosquitoes.

Know the most annoying thing about a mosquito? She can fly around a room, land on you, be swatted away, only to fly for three more hours, waiting patiently until you fall asleep to land on you again, this time actually sticking her needle nose into you. The next morning you wake up with a half dozen more itching bumps just because the damn thing was too quick for your swats and too nocturnal for you to wait her out. If thorns didn’t exist before the fall, perhaps mosquitoes didn’t either.

And we are not even going to mention the case of squishing a mosquito while you are half awake with your lip as she was biting you. Ok, maybe we will. I just really hope I was the first bite of the night, cause if not that brings a whole other ick factor to the situation that I am steadfastly not thinking about.

I have heard that mosquitoes like O type the best. In high school, when we studied genetics, I did the percentages of the likelihood of my blood type based on my mom (O) and my dad (A). (I don’t remember the positive or negative part now.) It was 75% in favor of A, but I never was tested. The scientist part of me always wanted to know, though. Thanks to the mosquitoes, if the number of bites I have gotten is any sort of proof, I believe I have inherited my father’s blood. I suppose they are useful for something.

Going back to those Minnesotan skeeters, the mosquitoes here might be their long lost relatives. My theory is that a few of their ancestors hitchhiked on the Siberians who came across the land bridge and became the many tribes of Native Americans. Sustained by the blood of those hardy individuals, the mosquitoes only grew larger.

But here in Northern China, they have subsisted on the same diet and remained the same. Although that might change. With the introduction of milk as a staple into the Chinese diet (along with other Western foods), the average Chinese is getting taller and larger. Perhaps their mosquitoes will too. In that case, be afraid, be very afraid.

So how do we deal with these pesky bloodsuckers? My solution, aside from a dosing of deet and praying for wind, has been to not give them any skin to bite. Oh, they try. Part of me feels sad for them, trying in vain to get their noses through my sweater and into my skin. I am forever thankful that my jacket is thick enough that they cannot. My face is still open though.

Anybody know where I can buy a burka in China?

Chewing, Swallowing and other Eating Processes

Did your father ever tell you “Chew your food; you’re an animal”? Mine did. Of course, he could have just been quoting Matilda, but something in his eyes told me it was more than just a quote. There was wisdom to be learned here, my young padawan.

In America, good little boys and girls are instructed to chew their food into an unrecognizable state. Some people advocate the chewing eat bite 100 times. Others would say that if Lileks couldn’t compare it to one of his 50’s recipes, you shouldn’t swallow it yet. And those children who do not follow one of the above, receive quotes like I did or little side glances or not quite so sympathetic noises when the cud comes out one way or the other in an untimely fashion.

But all of this negative social pressure doesn’t really work on children who don’t care about social pressure. Take me for example. Despite all of my parent’s quotes, I am still a fast eater, mostly because I don’t chew long enough, whatever that is. There was also that term served at a camp run by “an organization for young women” where we were only given 10 minutes to eat. That psuedo-boot-camp might have had a lingering detrimental effect on my chewing habits, but we will save my stint at being Oliver for some other post. Today I wish to enlighten you all on another, perhaps more effective way of controlling how much children chew.

(A quick note lest anyone take offense at what I am about to type. I am thoroughly enjoying the cuisine here. The versions in America simply do not do it justice. Yes, there are a few more exotic things I have discovered that I just cannot eat, but for the most part I am enjoying Chinese food. That said, there is been a bit of a learning curve when it comes to the actual eating part. And that is where this discussion resumes…)

Leave some bones in. Believe me, children will take the threat of their intestines being torn to shreds by an errant bone fragment much more seriously than they will Mommy cautioning them in her best you-better-listen-now-voice to chew slower. I am not exactly sure why. Maybe Berkley could give me a grant and I could study the phenomenon and find out. Until they do, we will have to rely on empirical evidence that this is just true.

Let us consider the pros to this approach.

The poor cook, who has more than enough to do, does not have to go through the entire carcass, picking out every little last bone. She has other food to cook rather than waste her time with little bones. Just let her chop it up into roughly portion sized pieces and let the eaters do the work.

The meat will still be hot. All of that time taking the bones out takes time. Time that the meat will be cooling instead of being eaten.

The pieces will be big enough for the eating utensils to handle. Let’s face it, in the land of chopsticks, this is a very important culinary consideration. Go tearing all of the meat to little bits just to get those pesky bones out might mean that you spend the next several hours chasing around those illusive meat bits you rescued from being stuck to a bone you could have easily picked up. Wouldn’t it have been easier to pick up the meat laden bone with the chopsticks, put it in your mouth, pretend you had a sunflower seed, eat what you want and spit out the rest? You might actually gain calories, which I hear is one of the main purposes for eating.

Conversation will be enlightened. Junior is studying biology in school. You are quizzing him. He doesn’t remember what a vertebra is. You point out the piece of bone he has just finished chewing around. This, of course, presents a perfect segue into the difference between vertebrates and invertebrates. As a result of your cooking choices, Junior scores a perfect on his test the next day.

Now for those pesky cons. Hmmm…aside from a perforated bowel, I really can’t think of any. And those only happen if a) you know you should chew and you don’t or b) you are a visitor to this new land and you don’t know all of the tricks to eating yet. If the problem is the former, just slow down. Live life as the bones come along with meat. If you find yourself in the latter situation, pay attention to your lunchmates. If they are spitting out bones, the probability that you will have to as well is rather high.

Now that we know the dangers of the fireswamp, we can chew here indefinitely.

10 Reasons I'm Not Dating (Response)

Ok, so this is my response to a friend's post on Facebook. I don't have Facebook, so my response is going here. As he says in his disclaimer, this is for humor's sake with a dash of mildly serious sarcastic wit. *smiles and flutters eyelashes* My comments are interspersed between the 10 Reasons I Cant Get A Date.

(Disclaimer: My intent on this blog is humor. So if any comments offend you I truly apologize but please keep in mind that I'm only joking. Also, I don't want this to turn into a woman bashing blog [although that would be fun] lets respect each gender affirming that we're both equally created in the image of God, so please enjoy the blog and feel free to comment).

R: That is what I am doing now. So no getting annoyed at me. :)

10. Girls feel intimidated because I'm a seminary student: Well, that may be true but all you need to get into a seminary is to say you're a Christian and have money. The truth of the matter is that I'm really not that smart and I fine every possible loophole to escape through to hide that fact. So far, so good, I haven't been exposed for the idiot that I am. Yet.

R: If a girl is intimidated cause you are a seminary student, she probably isn’t the kind of girl you should want to date anyway.

9. I ask out girls that are too busy: This is usually some lame excuse to avoid saying, "I'm just not interested in acknowledging your existence nor am I interested in spending any of my valuable time with you." However, call me naïve or just down right ignorant, but the girls I ask out are student athletes in real difficult majors. So the excuse might be legitimate (the emphasis is on "might" - even though they make it seem like they don't even eat or sleep; maybe they're robots in disguise, like the Transformers but instead of cars they're hotties). Some of you might be asking, "What about the girls who are not student athletes you ask that still say they're busy?" Let me think about that for a while. .... uh, I got nothing.

R: Are you saying you have had just as bad luck with non-athletes or that you haven’t asked out any non-athletes? Just curious. And why only athletes? Are they somehow better then the rest of us? Or is it just cause they are fitter? Cause if that is the answer then you ain't got no place to be whining with #8…if you won't go out with me unless I’m hot, then don’t go crying if I don’t go out with you if I don’t think you’re hot. As for the don’t have enough time, if she doesn’t have enough time for a date, she probably isn't the kind of girl you should want to date anyway.

8. I'm just not attractive: Granted, I know that I'm not that most attractive guy but am I really that ugly? I thought girls could look past that stuff and see the heart of the person? It's the guys who are shallow pigs that are driven by selfish motives and ambition, isn't it? Have I somehow been misinformed?

R: No, you are not physically ugly. But keep up this whining and your heart gets uglier by the second, at least to us girls who “look past that stuff.”

7. Lacking a wide social context: What I mean by this is that I'm only expose to certain types of girls (i.e., athletes refer to ..9). I have friends that tell me I need a "wider social context" to be expose to different types of girls. But I know what I like and what I want. For instance, I have a roommate who is dead set on landing a hotty who is interested in philosophy. Although I don't deny their existence I just never have seen one (sort of like unicorns & lepercons. I could picture one of his conversations going like this - Roommate: "Honey, do you think God is temporal, pretemporal, or supratemporal?" Hotty philosophy babe: "Well dear, I think He is atemporal, which makes it possible for Him to be both transcendent and immanent." If there is ever a smokin' hotty that talks like that I'm sure to fine my lepercon riding on a unicorn chasing Aslan the talking Lion down Imperial Highway saying the "The British are coming ... the British are coming" [ok, I know that wasn't funny] - yes, I also believe that he will die alone). However, it never occurred to me that athletic girls might not give a rip about me because I don't play soccer (play soccer for real and not just on Nintendo; On a side note, I was catching some of the World Cup and I admit that they're were some great soccer highlights but I've never seen so much constant flopping. You just tap a player and it looked like they were gunned down by a sniper. If I wanted to watch grown men fake getting hurt I'd watch pro wrestling). But hey, maybe it's that outside-the-box type of thinking that I need to be opened to a "wider social context" that my roommate is talking about.

R: So you are only interested in soccer girls? What about volleyball girls or softball girls? Your roommate might be on to something…kind of hard to get a date if you lock yourself in a monastary, physically or metaphorically. And if a girl isnt going to date you because you don’t play soccer, she probably isn't the kind of girl you should want to date anyway.

6. Influences from the feminist movement: Now let me begin by saying that I know the feminist movement is a reaction from abusive, insensitive, irresponsible, dead-beat men who won't own their decisions or be held accountable for their actions. So of course women have a breaking point, which they finally say, "enough is enough, we don't need men they suck!" Even though some woman might not call themselves a "feminist" they're still influenced by the movement even though they might not be aware of it. For instance, when I open the door for a lady I'm given a look that says, "Did you think I couldn't open the door myself, you stupid jerk!" When I don't open the door for a lady when given an opportunity I'm looked upon as a rude insensitive bastard. Well, quite the pickle indeed. Forget about asking for a date, I just don't want my head taken off.

R: If a girl thinks all men suck, she probably isn't the kind of girl you should want to date anyway. I think I am seeing a trend here, but that could be me.

5. Over ambition (this could be attached to ..6 but I'll make another category anyway): Since more and more moms are teaching their daughters that they can't rely on a man, more and more women are career driven (this also relates to ..9). They're so focused on getting a college degree and establishing their careers there really isn't any room for even having coffee with a guy, let alone going on a date. What ever happened to women desiring to be good homemakers and mothers? It's really a noble desire. I'm not talking about being barefoot and pregnant (well, sort of) but realizing that women play a critical role in the lives of children in teaching and shaping their character for future accomplishments that would contribute to the goodness of mankind. Ladies, you don't have follow what the media tells you to do. Heck, if this career drive continues I fear that the human race will come to an end as we know it.

R: You do realize that you are asking out athletes, a subculture that thrives on ambition, right? And if the girl is one who wants a career (and since you obviously want stay at home), she is probably not the girl you should want to date anyway.

4. Girls don't know what they want: refer to heartbreak ..4 (what the heck, refer to all the heartbreaks I've written). I often wonder why some of the most quality girls I know end up with some of the biggest tool-bags I've ever seen. And girls probably wonder why some quality guys end up with airheads. Well, there's a simply answer for that, because they're freakin' hot. I'm still waiting for the answer to the first question.

R: Yes, we have no clue what we want. Whereas men know exactly what they want. So maybe it is a good thing we don’t know what we want.

3. I act too slowly: For me, when I want to ask a girl out I need some time to muster up the courage. But almost to a fault. For instance, when I finally called this one girl to ask her out she immediate said that she was "flattered." Oh great, the "F" word, I knew where this was going (ladies, a word of advice, if you say the "F" word 'flattered' the guy is already bracing himself for rejection). It turns out that she got a boyfriend just a week and a half ago. Crap!! That's just the story of my life, running behind schedule.

R: Thanks for the advice. I will keep that in mind if I ever have to tell a guy no when he asks me out. That is of course assuming I will be asked out. Cause you know that is what I live for…rejecting all of those men that come lining up.

2. The "friendship zone": Now I've never heard of this notion until recently. Apparently the ideal of having a strong friendship as a foundation before you move into a romantic relationship is outdated. I've befriended girls before and have said to myself, "Hey, I think this could go somewhere." Only to hear the reply, "I only think of you as a friend." It seems like when a girl gets so comfortable with a guy as a friend, they enter something called the "friendship zone" (even against his will - sounds more like the twilight zone to me) and can't break out of it no matter what (kind of like prison or death row). Doesn't really seem fair to me to get sentenced into the "friendship zone" when the cause is simply being a faithful friend, while the girl goes on dating the insensitive, irresponsible, dead-beat. On top of that, when (emphasis in "when") they have problems, who does she confide in?? That's right, the dude that she sentenced into the "friendship zone," because he's "safe." Yes, the mind of a woman is truly a mystery.

R: You think you have it hard trying to figure out girls. Try being one. Having a guy who is a friend means that you don’t have to be so careful what you say, you don’t have to be so cautious in what you do, you don’t have interpret what he does and you don’t have to interpret what he says. That is valuable to a girl, especially when we seemed to be designed to always be on our guard. And it scares the hell out of us to think of that friendship changing, whether or not that really is how it goes when you go from friend to girlfriend. Ok, yeah, that might be a little insecure. But how about this…I will own up to my insecurities and you own up to yours?

1. I'm Asian: I know that I joke about this often but I gotta tell ya, I think there is some truth to it. I live in a predominately white community and go to a predominately white school. Now don't get me wrong, I think white women are beautiful but I've notice that they don't have an affinity towards Asian men (I'm open to dating Asian women, I even dated one a few months ago. She didn't turn out to be the most stable person to say the lease). They, white girls, like cowboys that still hunt for their food, haul hay, know how to work a chainsaw, about 6'3 in height, loves country music, and likes to shot animals for sport. I think I fall short of every major category. Now I would tie myself in a pretzel for the right girl but I have to admit my limitations. I could learn how to hunt and how to work a chainsaw but I can't grow another four inches and I've given country music a try (really ...I have ... honesty ...I have ... truly ...I have). I didn't figure this out until it was too late. I would cook meals for certain girls only to realize that they didn't want me to cook the food but to hunt it down and kill it myself. That's difficult in Southern Cally, considering cars already hit the only animals that are around here anyway. The last time I checked the class schedule there wasn't a Cowboys 101 course offered, so I guess I'm done for.

R: If a girl won't go out with you because you are 5’11’’, then she probably isn't the kind of girl you should want to date anyway. As for your other beefs, sounds like you are already a cowboy, just minus the Stetson and the Colt.

Well, I guess that does it for my list. I'm open to any suggestions or ideas about how to get a date. I think I'm going to set myself on fire now.

R: Are you really sure you want a date with a girl who is athletic, plays soccer, doesn’t like seminary, wants a career and just dispises men in general? Cause it sounds like those are the ones you are asking.

Why are you so worried about getting a date? You are in seminary, don’t you have slightly more important things to do? And even if you are no longer in seminary, aren’t there still better things to do than agonize over women?

Like working on the virtue of contentment. There’s a hobby you should get into. Might take up some of that free time you have since you aren’t on a date. Instead of finding a girl, how about working on becoming the man you should be for the girl. That is much more productive, because even if you never find her, you will still be a better man.

To start, I recommend Rudyard Kipling’s “If”. I might not be an athlete. I might not be “hot.” I might care less about my career. I might care less if you are in seminary. I might not care how tall you are. I might not care if you are my friend or if you are safe. I might not care if you don’t like country. But I certainly care whether or not you can live if...

Cacophony of the Soul

What is emotion?

Why did God give it to us?

Have we ever felt a pure single emotion that isn’t complicated by other ones?

I don’t know the answer to the first two questions, but I will venture an answer for the last one.

No. I have never had a moment where there was only one emotion beating in my heart.

Yes, there have been times when one emotion is the loudest or most popular or the director of all the others. When my grandpa died, when my “kids” prayed to receive Christ, when I have sat with my dog on a quiet Saturday. Grief, love, peace. All of those emotions were first in my heart. But I cannot deny that there were others in the background, still tinkling upon their instruments. Lostness, hate, joy, thankfulness, contentment, anticipation. It is kind of like those bands named after the lead singer. Charlie Daniels is the name we remember, but Carolina and Saigon would be missing something if there weren’t five other people playing.

In moments where one emotion stands tall understanding ourselves is made that much easier and that much more treacherous. I can identify that one emotion playing the loudest. That is not bad; it is very good. We need identify what we feel. Just feeling goes nowhere and does nothing. When one emotion takes the lead, I am much more able to examine it and either deal with it or encourage it.

The danger comes in ignoring or forgetting the other emotions still playing. I could not fully deal with the grief from my grandfather’s death until I had faced the anger singing the backup vocals. There is sure to be some psychiatrist out there who has explained it better and been paid more for said explanation, but for my layman brain that is what the mind science comes down to.

But what do we do when our heart is hosting The Vienna Boys Choir instead of The Charlie Daniels Band? A group of emotions are all singing in our soul. How do we know what we are feeling if we can’t pick them out from each other?

(Now, perhaps, is probably the time for me to admit I don’t have the best musical ear. Pretty sure it’s not a better one. It doesn’t even qualify as a good one. Meaning that my musical/band analogy is probably going to fall apart right…about…now… So sit tight and enjoy the concert ‘cause I am going to keep typing.)

When a choir sings, telling the individual singers apart isn’t easy. And if you do manage to isolate just one, it is only for a moment. Add in a piano, guitar, drums, bass, etc. and if your mix artist or sound guy isn’t on top of it, cacophony is the result.

Speaking of sound guys, ever seen a sound board? Most people have, but I figured I should check. My church has a small one. After working back in the sound booth doing other things for two years, I am still afraid of it. All of those little tiny knobs to do heavens knows what. Our sound guys turn them, but I can’t always hear the difference. I do know where the “She’s gonna blow! Kill her quick!” slide is. And I have used it skillfully. Once. Other than that, I leave it to Master Brian and his Mighty Minions.

Aside from getting in a props to the sound guys at Grace EV Free, I mention this because sometimes my emotions seem to be controlled by a similar soundboard. See, I am going somewhere with this. My sound guy capacity does not magically expand in the metaphorical realm. It is only slightly more sophisticated than it is in the literal realm – I know where a few more buttons are in addition to the kill switch.

I am getting better at the emotional sound board thing, but there are still days when the only thing I can say to my concerned roommate when she asks me how I am doing is “Mmmmahfloooo!” - not the most intelligent nor communicative of noises available in the English language.

I have decided that what I need is a headset on my emotional soundboard, the kind that hooks up individually to the different imputs. Put on those headphones, push the little button in the correct row, and all you hear is what that mike is getting. If only my soul could do that.

But I can’t. I am still human. (Still…as if I could turn into anything else.) And as much as my pride hates it, I’m still in need of fixing. And I can’t fix it myself. Try as I might, if I fiddle with the nobs, I am going to ruin something before I realize what I am doing.

But what do I do with those “Mmmmahfloooo!” moments?

I can’t make them go away. But I can get out of the way so the One who created my soundboard can bring out the song my heart is failing miserably at singing. Even better, He will help weed out the emotions that shouldn’t be playing in that particular song anyway.

So will I ever feel a single pure emotion without all of this mess?

Probably not. Life is always messy. At least on this earth is. Perhaps in heaven before the throne. Until then, just get used to nonsensical noises.

Mmmmahfloooo.