For Emilio

"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.

Random Thoughts.

• 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.

Pinch Hitter 2 - Destroyer of Free Time

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.

But hey, at least I beat it.

WARNING: HIGHLY ADDICTIVE

Calamari, Anyone?

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?

Athletes and Video Games

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.

Grills

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)

C’mon.

*Close personal friend Doug P.

Bravo's Infamous Plan B.

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 didn't sleep for a week.