SYDNEY--At a press conference earlier today, the legendary rock band AC/DC issued a surprise reversal of what has been a key band theme for the past 30 years. Lead singer Brian Johnson stated to the press corps assembled in front of the majestic Sydney Opera House, "Despite what we have been leading our fans to believe for these past few decades, AC/DC has come to the realization that rock and roll is, in fact, noise pollution."
Johnson, referring to the 1980 hit "Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution," went on to explain what led to the band's about-face. "For years, we have produced loud, heavy music on albums and during live performances. Late last year, we received a letter from the EPA, which included results from a study they had done of listeners to our music." The study found that close to 95% of all AC/DC fans listen to the band's music at a volume level of eleven on a scale of one to ten. This correlates to a decibel level of 120, far exceeding the upper limit of what is considered "safe" to most experts. "With the realization that we were causing most of our fans substantial hearing loss, we had no choice to conclude that our music was and should be classified as 'noise pollution' per EPA guidelines."
The band remained noncommittal about their future. "We're just not sure yet," said lead guitarist Angus Young. "Right now, we're thinking about doing an acoustic album with Yo Yo Ma, or maybe working on a project with the Kidz Bop people. But we still have to talk things through."
The announcement comes on the heels of another classic rock shock. Last Wednesday David Bowie issued a statement to Rolling Stone in which he wrote that he was "no longer afraid of Americans." Bowie declined further comment, but was seen later that day at Disneyland. He was allegedly eating an extra-long hot dog at the time.
It was 7:34 AM. I was still in my pajamas, sipping coffee and reading the paper. Bravo had a thing for Clint Eastwood movies. I don't know why; after having lived and worked with him for several years now, he made Clint look like a pansy. I was certain that Bravo had already completed his customary morning workout regimen, showered and eaten by the time he did his bad Eastwood impression (the still-wet but perfectly groomed hair gave it away).
"Feeling cheery this morning, are we?" I asked, wishing the headache that daily verified my caffeine addiction would go away.
"Yes." And with that, he was gone.
I had learned that short replies were never good. I finished my coffee, folded up and set aside my newspaper, and began cleaning my gun. I had just finished reloading it and placing it back in the holster when Bravo returned.
"Rico, come with me."
We were in San Diego at the time (on the lam as usual), and we proceeded to walk down to the harbor. Bravo pulled me into an alleyway between two buildings and began to explain.
"We have been offered $3 million to dispose of Frank Coletraine. His yacht is currently out to sea. It should be returning to harbor tonight. I have procured a boat and supplies for the job."
With that, we left the alleyway and met a man down by the water, standing next to a boat. He was a large, fierce-looking man, whose country of origin I could not determine. Bravo approached and spoke a few words to him in a language I did not recognize. The man's eyes betrayed his fear of whatever it was Bravo had said. He allowed us onto the boat, slowly backed away, then turned and ran as if for his very life.
The boat contained a scuba suit, some food and water rations, and a small arsenal of weaponry. "I didn't ask for these," said Bravo, as he dumped all of the weapons in the water. We headed out of the harbor and, once on the open sea, he bade me don the scuba gear. Bravo pulled a GPS device out of his bag and turned it on. It immediately displayed heading coordinates.
"I planted a tracking bug on Coletraine's yacht before he left," stated Bravo.
"And why, exactly," I asked, "did you not instead plant an explosive device on his vessel?"
"Where is the thrill in that?" was his reply.
Frank Coletraine did not deserve just to be blown up, anyway. He had introduced large amounts of illicit drugs into the California coastal region. He had felled ten police officers in four different skirmishes in the city. He was at the top of the CBI's Most Wanted list. He was also at the top of the Chinese Mafia's Most Wanted list, for recently kidnapping a senior member's daughter. Bravo had contacts within the Chinese Mafia, and they knew well of his exploits. They had hired him to get her back. No wonder Bravo hadn't just blown the ship to kingdom come.
We followed the GPS device's directions for about two hours when we finally saw it. A small spec on the horizon, Coletraine's yacht. Bravo pulled a small object out of his bag and handed it to me.
"Rico, you will place this on the hull of the ship. I will take care of the rest. We will meet back in the boat."
I took the item and we slowly took the boat closer in. A thick fog had begun to roll in, concealing us from our target. (Sometimes I think Bravo controlled the weather, too; the experiential vindication of that idea would not have surprised me in the least.) Guided by the GPS, we were able to row silently directly up to the yacht and secure our boat to her. I slipped into the water and began to swim toward the front of the boat. Once there, I submerged and attached the small device Bravo had given me to the hull. As soon as it was attached, it began to beep slowly. I was not desirous to see how long the beeping would last, so I surfaced and began to make my way back to our boat.
At that moment, I saw something. It was a large, black object that had fallen from the yacht to the water. Taking a moment to process, I realized it was a man, one of Coletraine's armed guards. A few seconds later, I saw another, similar object land in the water. And then another. And another. And another. I dodged the bodies floating in the water and made it back aboard the boat just as Bravo was coming off the yacht. He had the Chinese girl, still tied up, and he was sporting a bloody lip.
"One of them got lucky. Now let's go."
We untied the boat and started the engine. We were off. The yacht didn't move.
That night, back at the condo, I turned on the local news. (It was always interesting hearing reporters' interpretation of the events I had lived.) The Chinese girl was safe and back with her family, and 3 million of their dollars were safe with us. As expected, the top story was on Frank Coletraine.
"The US Coast Guard picked up infamous drug dealer Frank Coletraine today in his yacht, 25 miles off the coast of California. Coast Guard officials say they received an anonymous tip of Coletraine's whereabouts, and that they were able to locate his yacht due to a homing beacon that had apparently been planted on the ship's hull. Coletraine was found on the deck, handcuffed and shackled. Five body guards were found dead in the water, as well, and although autopsies have not yet been performed, initial examinations show no trauma of any kind. Upon arrest, Coletraine was found to be quite shaken and was repeatedly muttering the phrase, 'Go ahead, make my day. Go ahead, make my day.' Back to you, Tom."
I was fixing dinner this evening, when I happened in on my wife watching the tail end of Jeopardy. I walked in on the Final Jeopardy clue, the category of which was "European Place Names," I believe. The clue was saying that this European country's name was formed from the Greek words "one" and "house." Well, being a good (Koine) Greek scholar, I knew that house in Greek is oikos, and one is heis, mia or hen, depending on its gender. (Oikos is masculine, so one would expect heis.) I was racking my brain to try to figure out which country it was, but alas, time ran out. The answer? Monaco. What?
At least all three contestants missed it, too. Alex Trebec mentioned that in Greek, mono was "one," hence Monaco (mono+oikos). Now there's only one problem: Mono- in Greek does not mean "one," it means "only or alone," as in the only one of a certain class (e.g., "only begotten son" in John 3:16 is ho huios ho monogenes). As previously stated, heis refers to the cardinal number. It is true that the mono- prefix in English has come to mean "one" (monocle, monopoly), but I felt that this question was quite misleading and, well, wrong.
I looked on jeopardy.com for some avenue to inform them about their mistake, but of course they don't want to hear from Joe Sixpack about errors in their show, and I don't blame them.* So what's a frustated, overly educated future Jeopardy hopeful to do? That's right, complain to you.
Hey, at least you learned something. Namely, that I am a big nerd.
*Addendum, 5/1/09: I discovered today that Jeopardy does provide a mechanism for reporting errors on the show. I stand corrected.
Bravo had assured me that his plan would go off without a hitch. Given past experience, I had no reason to doubt him. It really was a run-of-the-mill job. We had contracted our services out to an elderly man, an Ecuadorian varón named El Corazón. El Corazón was the patriarch of an ancient and noble Ecuadorian family, a family who had been engaged in a feud with la familia Pudín for seventy-five years. El Corazón was nearing death, and he wanted to take the Pudines with him to the grave. He asked us to do what he could not, and we happily obliged, taking a large amount of his pesos in the process. It was nothing we hadn’t done before.
When we first arrived in Guayaquil, I attempted to befriend Pachoso Pudín, the eldest grandson in the family. He was a young man, close to my own age, and I knew from El Corazón that he frequented a coffee shop on the port. He was a loudmouth, a braggart, and our target. I walked into the shop on a Tuesday morning and nonchalantly sat down near him. I ordered a macchiato and listened.
“No, you are a fool! Do you know nothing about me? Do you think that I could not do such a thing?” Pachoso demanded.
“I did not say you could not do such a thing. I merely stated my belief that you would not do such a thing, señor,” replied the other man.
“I will tell you what I will do or will not do! Get out of my sight, cerdo!” The other man smirked and walked out.
I took the opportunity presented to me. “You seem to have a way with people, señor.”
Pachoso turned and glared at me. “¿Tienes un problema conmigo? Do you have a problem with me?”
“Not at all,” I replied. “I notice that you are a passionate man, a strong man. It seems strange that you are in a coffee shop bickering with whomever enters, when you could be…”
My pregnant pause was the bait. Pachoso was the hungry fish. “Could be what?”
“Could be using your passion and strength to your advantage.”
His mood changed from rage to guarded curiosity. “What is your name, señor?” he asked.
“Rico. My name is Rico Sabor, and we have much to discuss.”
*****
Later that afternoon I returned to the hotel room, where Bravo, as usual, was reading a book. Not lifting his eyes from the page, he gave a brief nod of assent as I walked past. I sat down on my bed and recalled the events of the day.
After piquing Pachoso’s curiosity, I had informed him that I was a businessman with ties to the Peruvian underworld. I had been in Guayaquil for a few months looking for a suitable partner for some under-the-table business transactions. I had learned of him through a mutual acquaintance of his uncle, and I informed him that I thought he had the machismo to handle any unfortunate “tasks” that might have to be performed. I promised him a large salary and a cut of the profits to boot for his services. Although he was already rich with his family’s money, he was greedy. He was also a scared man on the inside, and he sought to prove his own machismo to himself through violence. He readily agreed to the deal without so much as asking a single question. El Corazón had identified his weaknesses perfectly.
By now Bravo had finished his book. He was an adept and skillful reader—devouring five pages per minute and retaining every word with his photographic memory. He could quote Shakespeare at length when pressed, or memorize the blueprints of a building at a single glance.
Seagull Mini Jumbo M6 Cutaway QII. I bought this Seagull last week to replace my old S6, which was stolen last month. The MJM6 has a bright sound with a good amount of "pop" to it, compared to the S6's more mellow tones. I don't like its acoustic sound quite as well as my old guitar, but then again the MJM6 looks like it has hardly been played, and my old axe had years of constant action refining its sound. On the other hand, the MJM6 has a better preamp, so I am pretty sure it will sound even better plugged in than the S6. Plus, it looks totally awesome.
Seagull S12+. I have been wanting a twelve-string guitar almost as long as I have been playing. Finally, I got one yesterday. It replaces the other three guitars I used to have, which were stolen along with the S6. This guitar has the same great sound that my S6 used to have, except twice as many strings to produce even more of it. Plus, now I can play Life By the Drop just like SRV! Well, like SRV without the talent, anyway.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008, was among the most important days of the new millennium. Why, you ask? I'll tell you why. This is why: "Weird Al" Yankovic, one of my favorite musicians of all time, released his latest single, "Whatever You Like", on iTunes. It is the eponymous parody of T.I.'s hit song.
As usual, Weird Al has taken a hit song, improved the lyrical content and performed it better than the original. (Seriously, am I the only one that cringes at the horrible thought of T.I. singing? Stick to rap, T.) So, for your auditory pleasure, here is the better version of "Whatever You Like". You should still buy it on iTunes, though. C'mon, it's only 99 cents!
"You need an alias," said Bravo one evening, in his usual nonplussed way, over a cup of coffee in Tallinn.
"You've never even asked me what my actual name is. Now I need an alias?" I responded.
"Yes."
"For the next job, right?"
"No. From now on. Here." He slid a passport across the table. The name under the picture (how did he even get my picture?) was Rico Sabor. "Now let's go."
He stood and left the building. I hurried along behind him, clutching my new identity tightly. I could feel my heart begin to pound against the inside of my chest, just like it always did when it was time. (The ancient Greeks had a word for this--kairos, the appointed time. I knew exactly what they meant.) My heart's rhythm matched precisely the beating against the outside of my chest made by the .357 in my shoulder holster. I hated the gun, hated using it, hating everything about it, but it had saved my life many times. It was a lucky burden.
We were heading to the warehouse district. It was a 10-minute brisk walk from the coffee shop, but Bravo's efficient gate forced us there in eight. We walked along the steel facades until we reached the door of one of them. Upon it was painted the number 27. The door was slightly ajar, and we slid into the darkness.
After my eyes adjusted, I knew why we were here. Before us was a lone helicopter. It was one I had seen before. It belonged to a Colombian drug lord, and no friend of Bravo's. The man had, in fact, "disposed of" the only family Bravo had ever had, a half-brother named Emilio. The drug lord had disappeared a number of months ago and was presumed dead. Bravo was furious at the news (although only a skilled observer could tell this--it was the split-second look in his eyes), but apparently he had learnt otherwise.
"Stand watch," Bravo ordered. I thought I had seen that look again, for the briefest moment. Nevertheless, I drew my weapon and stood by the helicopter as Bravo entered the cockpit. Five minutes later, he exited. "Let's go."
Exactly nine days later, we were in Gdansk. I was watching the BBC news, when I saw footage of a lone helicopter. A tourist had captured it on tape. The helicopter was flying erratically, like a drunken bumblebee, although there was no sign of any mechanical malfunctions. The pilot could be seen waving his arms wildly, as if vehemently refusing an order of rancid steak. Then, without warning, he stopped, crossed himself, and jumped out of the cockpit to the city streets below. If he had a parachute, he did not deploy it.
"That was for Emilio," said Bravo, looking up momentarily from his book. For a split second, I thought I saw a look of joy mixed with sorrow.
Jessica and I went to Bicentennial Park yesterday to play a round of miniature golf. We ended up playing behind a couple of guys in their early 20s (if that old). Contra the posted rules, they were sucking down a couple of Coors Lights while playing. They were also cursing profusely. Oh, yeah, there were a bunch of little kids playing in front of them, too. The sad part was, I couldn't tell if they were drunk or just stupid--or both. Thankfully they left, but their negative example was a good reminder of a few things: 1) There is a reason why the Bible instructs us not to get drunk. 2) Having a vocabulary composed exclusively of monosyllabic vulgarities makes you look like a complete idiot.
I'm sitting here watching the Olympics on NBC. They're showing women's volleyball (US vs. Japan). It's strange that normally I would never watch volleyball, but since it's the Olympics, not only am I watching, I am rooting for the US. In fact, it seems like no matter what the event is--even if I have never heard of it--when it's Olympic time, then, by God, the US had better win! I'm even considering watching the US men's basketball team. (Hey, I just said considering.)
I get the chance to preach through the book of Ruth at church this month, starting tonight. When you haven't preached in a while, you forget the weight of the task. I will be up in front of God and everyone with the "definitive" word on Ruth. Who am I? Just some guy with a degree in biblical studies--almost. I feel pretty confident that I'm in the ballpark with my exegesis. Hopefully I can tailor the message sufficiently to keep the congregation interested. At least I'm in front of a very forgiving crowd!
Always remember: Jesus can walk on water, but Chuck Norris can swim on land.
For me, it's the simple things that are the best. In this case, behold the stupid little video game that I have lost too many hours to this week. We simple-minded folk know that one does not need a PS3 to be entertained. Just give us one button to press, and watch us devolve into grubby orangutans before your very eyes.
I’m currently watching a webcam of a colossal squid thawing and dissection. I have to say, this is amazing. Imagine two guys in a pool of saltwater measuring the clawed tentacles of a thousand-pound squid with eyes the size of dinner plates and a foot-long beak. Did I mention I have a phobia of invertebrates? (Please, in all seriousness, if you were to play a practical joke on me by exploiting this fear, I would very likely stop being your friend. I am not joking.) But that just makes it that much cooler for me. It’s like sitting at the top of the first big hill on a rollercoaster—you’re pretty scared and the adrenaline is pumping, but at the same time, you’re excited about the rush, too. So what would the rush be? I’m waiting for the squid corpse to revive suddenly and grab a defenseless scientist, drag him under and eat him. That would be so scary-cool. That’s why I’m afraid of those things, I think. They’re slimy and a lot like the alien in Independence Day. (Poor Data.) I think I have too active of an imagination.
Anyway, if you want to see something freaky, check out the mighty colossal squid. And the next time you're swimming a half-mile below the surface of the Antarctic Ocean, just be careful, okay?
My friend Doug and I have discussed at some length the stupidity of professional athletes. Why is it that so many young athletes have gobs of money and are doing what they love, only to risk it all on dog fighting, riding motorcycles and DUIs? Doug and I agree that if we ever owned a professional team, it would be written into every player's contract that when not at practice or a game, he may sit in his house and play video games. That's it. And we figure if we're paying some guy millions of dollars a year, that's not too much to ask.
Well, lo and behold, I found out there is already an athlete doing this. Shot-putter Reese Hoffa trains and plays video games. That's it. This is because he loves skateboarding but realized a few years ago the risk he was taking with every ride. Rightly so, he didn't figure that a few jumps at the skate park was worth sacrificing an Olympic medal.
I say, good for Reese. Maybe his example will get other athletes thinking the same way. They'd better start soon, either way...I've got my eye on the Broncos. By the way, on an unrelated manner, does anyone have $500,000,000 I could borrow? I have to, uh, go to the store.
So, in a former life (read: before I got a full-time job), I used to enjoy writing song parodies. I thought I would post one I wrote in 2006. Below is a link to the real song, if you would like to sing along. Enjoy!
Grills Parody of “Grillz” by Nelly 2006
Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill Got a whole top rack and on the bottom charcoal Yo, we ‘bout to grill us up some chicken with this one Yeah, I’m warming it up, so, so, so
I’m grillin’ dogs on the bottom, vegetables on the top Such a wonderful smell, I’m drinkin’ Coke on the rocks I got some mo’ on the table, gonna char me some brats If you like chowin’ on meat, you gonna like this a lot I got, like, butter and bread rolls, and Twinkies and Ho- Hos, Grillin’ out “er” day, in rain or snow I might be grillin’ on a nice day, drinkin’ iced tea On my porch swing, in my wife-beat Bring out the buns wit’, I can tell that they’re done wit’ You see, the restaurants all hate it, but my neighbors all love it ‘Cause when I (open up the grill I am divine I’m the best that you will find) I got a grill and meat tenderizer, you know what that means? It looks like Applebee’s, Outback and Black-Eyed Pea Are out of business forever, ‘cause I be grillin’ so good So if you catch me in your city, grillin’ in your neighborhood, just say…
Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook! Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)
How you doin’, ladies, it’s the grill man DP* I got my grill burnin’ hotter than infinity I got my apron on, I’m ready—throw me a steak If you think I’m lying, dude, you just made a mistake Now I’m grillin’ some Zucchinis wrapped in aluminum foil Never bakin’, fryin’, nukin’, God forbid that I should broil I put my money where your mouth is and bought a grill Twenty dogs, thirty steaks at once, you know I’m so for real My motivation is the hungry stares I’m generatin’ I’m goin’ into the house, I’m stallin’ ‘cause they waitin’ (that’s right) I got the ketchup, the mustard, the cheese I’m gratin’ But it’s my meat that’s got these onlookers spectatin’ My porkchops, make your tongue excited, the best imagined Open up the fridge and put some mo’ carrots on that salad My skills are mind-blowin’, keepin’ everybody filled Screw that George Foreman, cause I’m cookin’ on a man’s grill
Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook! Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)
Yep, got the matches, got the charcoal, got the bread Burgers so good make you woozy in your head Have some seconds, ‘cause I know you want Get addicted to my cheesy brats ‘Cause when you do, I know you, you’ll be back on the weekend Never fear, you’ll bring the beer, drinkin’ Killian’s and feastin’ On what I’m heatin’, a pile of meat and much more food than we can eat and Every cow is scared stiff and the sheep are all bleatin’ I ain’t dissin’ nobody, but let’s all agree on this I am the best with a grill there is The meat I’m grillin’, make your eyesight blurry Takin’ every bite is a flavorful flurry I got four different grills, it’s a wonderful thing One white, one yellow, one black and one green And on all of them, you know, I got my name in solid gold and a whole top rack and on the bottom charcoal
Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook! Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)
Boy, how’d you learn to grill that way, and how long did it take? Every time I see you, the first thing I want to say, is…
Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook! Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)
I had known Bravo for about three months at the time. I was not yet sure where he received his income. It seemed that he continually pulled from some bottomless reservoir of funds, and although he indulged in (and seemed to enjoy) extravagances occasionally (usually while putting up a front during a con job), in actuality he lived modestly. We shared a small, three-bedroom condo, sparsely furnished, and filled with bookcases. Most were his; I owned a few.
I was flipping through one of his copies of Madame Bovary when he walked in. As usual, it was impossible to tell his mood. “We have a problem,” he said.
“Really,” I responded.
He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine. He thought for a moment, looked at me knowingly, and walked out again, the full glass still on the table. “I’ll be back.”
In an hour, he made good on his word. I had dozed off in a chair. When I fully awoke, he was in the kitchen. He had returned to his glass of wine. “My patrons have pulled their funds.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just looked at him.
He picked up a slip of paper in his hand. “This is Plan B.” It was a lottery ticket.
“You’re crazy,” I said. “Do you know the odds of winning the lottery?”
He replied, “Do you know the odds of surviving a colossal squid attack?”
“No.”
“The odds are zero. It’s never been done. It can’t be done.” With that, he rolled up his left sleeve. There, just above the elbow, was a circular scar, about the size of the bottom of a coffee cup.
“A plastic surgeon took care of the rest. I left one as a reminder. A reminder that believing the odds is for suckers.”
At precisely ten o’clock that evening, he became a millionaire. At precisely 10:02, he went back to reading his book.
I have been noticing a disturbing trend. It seems that grammar, punctuation and spelling are on the decline in print. It seems as if in every book I read, I find a missing period or a misspelled word. I find typos in newspaper articles all the time. Today I saw a headline reading “Snowmobilers Go Father” instead of “Snowmobilers Go Farther”.
I’m not saying that everything always has to be in the Queen’s English. I understand that personal emails and even blog entries might have the occasional error, and that’s okay with me. There are people who make money writing and proofreading, though, and I think that they should have to be pretty good at what they do. I have to be good at what I do if I want to keep my job. They could at least reread their work, or run a spell-checking program (although this isn’t perfect).
So why are these violations of language slipping past? Are these people overworked? Are they lazy? Is there just too much information being published? Am I just too anal? (Please, no one answer that—it’s rhetorical.)
I only raise this issue because I have a “bad grammar” radar lodged in my brain. (I think it may have replaced my hypothalamus.) My wife can verify that anytime I come across an English mistake, it may as well be in big, bold red letters, underlined thrice and packing heat. I am not exaggerating. It seriously trips me up when I am reading, as if I were interrupted by fingernails on a chalkboard. It is almost a painful experience for me. Don’t blame me for my ranting, then: I am a victim of this disease. I’m sure I’ll track down a name for it sometime.
In the meantime, I think some federal funding is in order. I obviously can’t work under these conditions. I deserve free money!
That monkey was worth millions. It would soon be ours.
Bravo had learned of it from one of his countless, nameless sources. A pure jade monkey statuette, carved some 1200 years prior. It was made with such intricacy that archaeologists still had no idea how the artist had done it. It must have taken a lifetime of dedication to complete.
It was now housed in the Smithsonian, which is where we were. We stood before it. It was behind two layers of bullet-proof glass and a laser-beam security system. Two armed guards stood watch, night and day. I thought it was a lost cause--there was simply no way to get it. I glanced at Bravo. He had that twinkle in his eye. We left silently. I wondered what his plan was.
As usual, he didn't tell me what he was going to do. He only told me that I would wait outside.
We would steal the monkey the following day. We had learned that every evening at 6:10 PM, right after close, the museum switched its electricity from the power plant to a generator they owned. They ran the generator until opening the next day. During each of these switches, the power went down for 10 seconds. This was our window of opportunity.
The next evening, we entered the museum thirty minutes before it closed. Bravo slipped into a janitor's closest. I visited the monkey, reported back to Bravo and left the building. I bought a hot dog from a vendor outside and waited.
At precisely 6:12 PM, Bravo calmly walked out of the museum, a book bag slung over his shoulder. He signaled to me. I fell in line behind him. We approached a grey Ford Mustang. In fifteen seconds, Bravo had broken in an hot-wired it. We were a mile from the scene before the police were alerted.
Back at the hotel, we watched the ten o'clock news. The lead story, of course, was the theft of the jade monkey. Two security guards had been killed. There were no visible marks on them. The empty case bore no marks on it, not even a fingerprint. The monkey had simply disappeared, and the lives of the security guards with it.
I was stunned. I turned and looked at Bravo. He did not look at me. He seemed bored with the news. He turned off the television and picked up a book. I turned away from him and tried to sleep, wondering.
National Teachers' Day isn't until May 6, but as I was writing up a post on Dr. Reeves' new book, I began to think about all of the teachers and professors who have influenced me over the years, the ones who made a profound difference in my life. I present them to you now (in no particular order), as a way of saying thanks.
Dr. Douglas Groothuis - Although I don't always agree with him, he single-handedly reinvented the way I think and opened up my eyes to the wonderful world of philosophy (in which I am still quite the neophyte). He also challenged me to increase my vocabulary by his own example.
Drs. Rodney Reeves and Bing Bayer - They taught me Greek and Hebrew, respectively. They also taught me to get excited about the Bible.
Richard Irby - Mr. Irby was my senior English teacher. Everything I know about grammar I learned from him. His may be the most valuable class I have ever taken.
Vic Noordhoek - He was my junior-high and high-school cross-country coach. He got me started down the path of running, and coached me to all-State honors my junior year.
Mark Misch - He was my college cross-country/track coach. He took me as a 17:00 5K runner and turned me into a 15:00 5K runner, and reignited my passion for the sport in the process.
There are many others who have influenced me, but these would have to be on the top of the list. (No offense to those who didn't make the list; you're still important to me, too!) Where would I be without such people willing to pour themselves into a skinny white kid? I don't know, and I don't want to know. How does one repay this debt? I suppose by pouring himself into others.
So apparently the world is going to end on December 21, 2012. No really, it's true. Google it. I'll wait...Are you back? Good. Let's continue.
So doomsday is December 21, 2012. The Internet says so. So do the ancient Mayans. So how will it end? I think some possibilities are...
Attack Of The Radioactive Hamsters From A Planet Near Mars: Lots of rodents, death and destruction. "Weird" Al Yankovic becomes a prophet, but unfortunately no one is alive to notice.
Hillary Clinton gets elected to her second term as president, resulting in mass suicide.
Aliens invade the earth and unleash their most fearful weapon--a device that renders all televisions, computers and radios inoperable. People are forced to go outside and interact face-to-face with each other and the environment. Not knowing what to do, they are defenseless. Final score: Aliens 6,500,000, humans 0.
Meteor strike. Very cliched. Also not very likely, since obviously Chuck Norris would just roundhouse kick it back to where it came from.
Nobody tells God that December 21, 2012 is doomsday. He finally hears about it on December 14, but checks his daytimer and realizes that he already has another meeting that day. The earth is spared.
