Lesson #2: "Being wanted is more significant than being needed."

To know me is to know my dad. I'm Ed's son. So much of who I am, so much of what I do, has been formed by my dad. These posts are a series of reflections on some life lessons my dad taught me. They are based out of the eulogy I did for my dad's memorial service on April 7, 2010.
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Life Lesson #2 - Being wanted is more significant than being needed.

Some of you may know that I’m a magician. My dad was a big part of that aspect of my life.


















Dad took me to conventions, bought me equipment, helped me create and critique my shows. He taught me the business end of magic: how do book and log shows, how do talk on the phone and interact with people. Most significanly for my life today, it was my dad who Dad taught me how to speak in front people and how to have a "presence" before a group.

I started doing paid magic shows when I was 9 years old. By the time I was 12, during the Christmas holiday, I was doing school assembly shows, weekend banquets and dinners. I often would have as many as 6 or 7 shows on a weekend.

The problem was that I needed to get to these shows. Obviously, at age 12, I couldn’t drive.

I needed my dad to drive me to the shows.

If you think about it, at that stage of my life, I was totally dependant on my dad to do the things I wanted to do.

Over the years, many times during those trips, he would say to me: “Paul, right now you NEED me to go with you to these shows. You need me to drive, to help you move equipment. You are dependant on me. But one day you won’t NEED me anymore. One day, you will be able to do it on your own. And my goal as your father is to make you independent so that you don’t need me. But then, maybe you will ASK me to go with you because you WANT me to go.”

See, being wanted is much more significant than being needed.

Being wanted involved choice.

Being needed is a kind of obligation.

Being wanted is about free will. It's an act of love. A choice of presence.

I can still remember the first time when I was able to drive and ASKED my dad to go with me. Not because I needed him... but because I wanted to spend time with him.

My dad taught me that love, isn’t really love, if it is not freely chosen. If it is simply out of obligation.

He taught me that being wanted is more significant than being needed.

Dedication

Johnny Ace Palmer is one of my all-time favorite magicians. If you are not a magician, you probably have never heard of him (although he has been on TV several times). But among magicians, he is one of the best close-up performers in the world.

My dad and I met Johnny probably 30 years ago. He was a just a local kid performing in a Magic Convention talent contest in Columbus. No one knew his name. He was far from famous. In fact, one night after the evening activities were over, dad and I were going to our hotel and we walked past this car in the convention parking lot. And Johnny was sleeping in his car. He didn't have enough money for a hotel room.

So dad and I invited him (and his animals -- doves and peeps) to stay with us in our room for the rest of the convention. We took him out to dinner with us, hung out with him. If you have ever seen me do the trick when my ring vanishes and it appears back on my finger... Johnny taught me that one (and btw, does it MUCH better than me!)

Months after the convention we opened the mail and there was a small check from Johnny -- trying to pay us back. My dad returned it to him... in shreds... with a note saying something like, "We hate to return this check to you, not because of the current value of the check, but because we believe the signature will be really valuable some day."

Years later, when Johnny had become famous, he was headlining at the same convention where he slept in his car. Dad and I were there -- and Johnny returned the favor. He saved me a seat right up front. After his show, there was this huge line of people (including me) waiting to get his autograph. He saw me there and called me to come up with him. That night, he took dad and me out to dinner and introduced us to all his famous friends -- for a young magician like me, this was one of the highlights of my life.

I sent Johnny an email to tell him about my dad's death. I was not sure he would remember us and not sure how he would respond. But almost immediately, he sent a return email. I'm including our correspondence below.

Honestly, I have had trouble grieving my dad's death. I haven't cried much at all. Until today, I haven't really felt much emotion... any emotion. But the gift of this short email exchange is that it somehow opened me up to feeling again. And I cried.

I cried because I wanted to tell my dad something... and I realized I could not.

Maybe I've moved out of "denial" - I didn't realize I was there. But in an odd way, it feels really good.

I miss my dad. I would have loved to have read him this email exchange. Instead, I let you read it.
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On Apr 17, 2010, at 8:28 AM, Paul Risler wrote:

Hey Johnny

Hope you are well. I'm hoping you still remember me... my dad and I met you years ago at the Magi Fest... which I hear you are coming to next year! I'm buying my tickets. :)

Hey, I wanted you to know that my dad died in early April. He had been getting sick for a while... bunch of stuff wrong... so although it wasn't expected, it was anticipated. In fact, one of his "last request" is that we go and see you. We had talked about coming to see you at the Magic Castle this April if he was doing better and then he went back into the hospital. He died the week you were performing.

I wanted you to know how much he loved your magic... more than that... how much he appreciated you. I just started getting back into magic this year (went to the Magi-Fest in Feb for the first time in probably 10 years or more -- and without dad). So it will be weird going next year.

Anyway... hope you are well. Just wanted you to know.

I still may come out and see you sometime. I will call to make sure you are actually around. :)

blessings,

Paul Risler

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Dear Paul,

You and your dad are fondly remembered.

Your note is much appreciated.

As you probably know, instead the appearing at the Magic Castle the week that includes April Fools Day, I am performing this week. Tonight, I will dedicate my first show to you and your dad.

It will be great to see you at the Magi-Fest.

Please do come visit; whenever you are able.

Once again, thank you for the note.

100% His,

Johnny

Life Lesson #1 - Everyone needs a "Secret Store"

To know me is to know my dad. I'm Ed's son. So much of who I am, so much of what I do, has been formed by my dad. These posts are a series of reflections on some life lessons my dad taught me. They are based out of the eulogy I did for my dad's memorial service on April 7, 2010.
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Life Lesson #1 - Everyone needs a “secret store.”

When I was little, dad would take me to a convenience store. It was about a 10-minute drive from home... out of town, over a bunch of windy roads. The funny thing is that we actually drove by several stores to get to it; I always thought that was strange.

But this wasn’t any store.

This was the “secret store.”

Now, there really was nothing secret about it. Of course, Mom knew about it. She also knew when we were going and how long we would be there, what we would buy (usually chocolate Yohoo and something called a "Slim Jim" – an oddly-flavored meat product with a shelf-life just 15 years shy of a Twinkie). So the secret store wasn’t really much of a secret to anyone.

But, of course, to a 7-year old boy, everything is much cooler if it is a secret.

In fact, we had secret stores, secret snacks, secret sandwiches, secret adventures – which I honestly only realized the other day that our "secret adventures" now seem remarkably like pulling weeds on the back patio of our house. (Wow, our secret adventures were actually my dad violating child labor laws. But at the time it seemed fascinating! And it was a secret!)

So Dad and I went to the secret store... because everyone needs a secret store.

Of course, only in college did I discover the real secret.

The real secret was not the store.

The real secret was the 10-minute drive from home; out of town, over windy roads. Just my dad and me. I found out later that the store was partially chosen for that very reason. Another investment of his life into mine. A break in our lives where, for 30 minutes or so, a dad had the undivided attention of his little boy.

And so now, every Saturday morning, the tradition continues.

Now, every Saturday morning that I’m in town, since my now-5-year-old daughter was 3-months-old, I’ve taken her out to breakfast.

She calls it the “House of Breakfast.”

It's really a secret store.

And the secret is, of course, that it’s a 15-minute walk.

And I grab my daughter’s hand... and I feel that little hand in mine. And I pray that time would stand still.

She jabbers on about squirrels and worms and about her pretend friends...

At least that is what she talks about for now.

But one day it will be about boys, and body image; peer pressure and life plans. One day she may need to talk to her dad about hard things and will need an opportunity for that to happen.

And it was my dad who taught me how to create the kind of space for that kind of conversation to happen.

One of the things I appreciated about my relationship with my dad is that we lived with no regrets. When my dad died, there wasn’t a single thing I needed to say to him that I hadn’t said a dozen times. There wasn't a single thing I needed to hear from him that I hadn’t heard over and over.

Maybe that was the real secret of the secret store.

Life Lessons from My Dad: An Introduction

So this week I did my dad's funeral.

Yeah, that was strange to write.

To know me is to know my dad. I'm Ed's son. So much of who I am, so much of what I do, has been formed by my dad. He was my best man at our wedding. He was my greatest cheerleader. My dad was my hero.

As I write these words, I'm sitting alone in a hotel room, wearing one of his favorite shirts. Honestly, one of my hopes in writing these posts is simply to grieve. To make my dad's death (and life) real. To process with my words.

Because my dad died on April 2, 2010 (Good Friday), I really haven't had the chance to let it sink in. Between Easter services, caring for my mom, doing the funeral, officiating a wedding this weekend (and having to be "on" for all of this stuff), I'm not sure I have really grieved. Who knows, maybe I won't grieve in the way I expect. I've been around death enough to know that everyone grieves differently. But, for as much as I was honored to be the "pastor" at my dad's funeral, in some ways I felt cheated from just being "son."

So I write these words as Paul: Ed's son.

First, let me put this out there: Eulogies, of course, are meant to accentuate the positive. It only makes sense. Even the word, “eulogy” is from the Greek meaning, “Good Words.”

So to begin with...

I just want you to know that I’m not going to write about the time when I was 9 and he lobbed a shoe across the room at me to get my attention (I had drawn on the wall with a marker). Or the way he repeated himself over and over - giving the same instructions; telling the same stories. Or that dad could be a bit stubborn at times. Or that he labeled everything – I mean everything - with blue painter's tape (notebooks, bottles, boxes, antifreeze, detergents -- you really have to see it to believe it).

And I’m certainly not going to talk about my dad having at least 100 spiral notebooks laying around the house in various locations -- with random phone numbers, maps, drawings of things he wanted to build, rough drafts of letters he was writing or cards he was sending, lists of medications, restaurant recommendations, newspapers clippings... all often in the same book, but neatly written with little tabs on the sides to section everything off; tabs usually made of blue painter's tape.

I’m not going to talk about those things.

Okay, a few of those idiosyncrasies might sneak in every now and then.

So I want to start by writing the obvious: my dad wasn’t a perfect man. He had his faults. He had imperfections. I'm sure he didn't always treat my mom as she deserved. I’m sure many people could even look at the way he parented me and find fault. He wasn’t a perfect man, a perfect husband, a perfect father...

But he was perfect for me.

I believe that, in my dad, God gave me what I needed to be the man I am now. In profound ways, much of the best of who I am, came from my dad. My dad was God's first act of grace to me.

So I invite you to give me some of what is the most important thing you have: your precious time. The moments you spend reading these posts over the coming weeks you will never get back. They will be lost forever.

But my hope is your life will be enriched by me giving you glimpse of my dad and what he taught me about life.

Dad's Eulogy

Eulogy \ˈyü-lə-jē\ - from εὐλογία, eulogia, Classical Greek for "good words."

This week I did my dad's memorial service.

wow.

As a part of that, I was asked to do a eulogy. A eulogy is different from a funeral sermon, in that a funeral sermon is about God and God's action in a life. A eulogy is about the person. It's intended to honor the person and their life.

Good words about my dad's life.

It was actually pretty easy to write. In fact, I had to cut in down quite a bit. So I have decided to make a bunch of post about lessons my dad taught me based on this eulogy and include stuff I cut. This may take awhile. It's going to be a series longer.... maybe longer than my series on Revelation! (Okay, probably not).

These are going to be long posts. Honestly, I don't expect you to read them. I think if you do read them, you will understand more about me. I think you might even learn a thing or two about life. But I post these for me.

It's time for me to start process this week and I started blogging years ago as a means to do that. So I invite you into my thoughts. My past. My life.

Ed Risler: July 8, 1933 - April 2, 2010

I'm glad I listened to your stories over and over.

I wish I could listen to them again.

Beauty

This is going to sound rude - it's not meant to be - but I'm discovering that most people look better to me in two dimensions.

What I mean is that I can know a person for years and never think, "Wow, that person is attractive." But when I take their picture, I see something in them I didn't see before. Maybe it's that I ALLOW myself to see something in them when I look through the lens that I don't see in "real life."

With that said, there is no woman more beautiful than my wife. She is beautiful, bright, funny, godly -- and no camera anywhere can capture her beauty.

Wow

I have cursed the man that you have made me,
as I have nursed the beast that bays for my blood.
Oh, I have run from the one who would save me.
Save me Hosanna!

O Hosanna! See the long awaited king, come to set his people free.
We cry O Hosanna! Come and tear the temple down. Raise it up on holy ground. Hosanna!

You have crushed beneath your heel the vile serpent.
You have carried to the grave the black stain.
You have torn apart the temple’s holy curtain.
You have beaten Death at Death’s own game.

Hosanna! O Hosanna! Hail the long awaited king, come to set his people free.
We cry O Hosanna! Won’t you tear this temple down, raise it up on holy ground.
O Hosanna! I will lift my voice and sing: you have come and washed me clean. Hosanna.

Andrew Peterson (Resurrection Letters, volume II)

Again

poured out.

Got to love the news

"Re-creation" -- seriously?

Nothing else needs to be said

What really happened to the dinosaurs

Love Rubs Feet

This post was written back on May 5th. I often write posts and never post them. Honestly, for me, much of blogging is personal journaling. But I was thinking about this again this week, looked up the post, and decided to go public with it.

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This weekend I'm teaching on love. It's a sermon I have done before... actually several times. I heard another pastor at a conference give this basic outline back in 1991 and said to myself that day that I wanted to preach that outline every year of my ministry. Well, that hasn't happened. But I have given this outline maybe 5 or 6 times between the two churches I have served. Of course, some of the content changes... I would get bored with it otherwise... but the simple message is a good one:

Love boldly.

I have been thinking about love a lot lately. And much of it is born out of pain. I have been watching my parents struggle through dad's decline. I have another man I deeply respect who is in a battle with leukemia and doesn't seem to be winning. My friend and co-partner in ministry has a mom who is fighting her own health issues. In the midst of all of this darkness... there is this light. It's the love I see breaking through in these dark places.

Today I sat with this man named Paul. He is a pastor of sorts. And he is one of my heros. I had heard of him before I came to Athens and was really excited to meet him. In the past couple of years he, his wife and son became a part of the church I pastor. And at first, honestly, it was kind of wierd to have this guy who I kind of looked up to, be a part of my congregation. But in these years I have gotten to know him, his wife and son and I have seen a spiritual maturity that just blows me away. (Maybe I will write more about this another time).

But for now I just wanted to say: true love is really hard.

It rubs feet.

It changes bandages. It cleans up messes. It calls out the best in people. It forgets the worst in people.

So often our culture thinks of love as naked bodies writhing in pleasure. We even call it, "Making love."

That's stupid.

I'm not even sure "love" happens in the first years of marriage.

Love is when it becomes difficult. Sacrificial.

Love is when you talk to that friend and you don't want to talk.

It's when you give and don't want to give.

When you call and don't want to call.

Love rubs feet.

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Paul Martin
June 28, 1946 - August 14, 2009

The "cutting room floor"

"And by the way, lest you think that Jesus taught some wishy-washy, "can't we all just get along" kind-of-message, let me just say it this way: Nobody ever crucified Big Bird."

Paul Risler

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I wrote that line for my sermon this weekend. For some reason, I just like it. But this afternoon, I cut it out of my message (as well as the whole larger section of which it was a part).

I hated to see it go.

People often ask me what's the hardest part of preparing a sermon. I think most people expect me to say that it's the research, or coming up with illustrations, or getting started, or ending the message...

For me it has always been the edit.

Almost without exception, every message I write (a finished message is approximately 20 half-sheets of paper long) is whittled down from about 40 pages. Usually the Tuesday before I preach a message, I have this 2-hour-long message that I run through. I take it on the treadmill, on the elliptical... I carry a copy of it in my coat pocket. I have even been known to read the entire thing into a voice recorder and play it in my car on long trips. I work on it whenever I have an extra couple of minutes.

And with each section, each paragraph, each line, I try to ask myself, does this REALLY support the main point? Does this REALLY make people wrestle with this text? Does this REALLY shed any extra light on anything?

Or do I just like it?

See, here's the thing: I think some of my best stuff ends up on the cutting room floor.

It's stuff I WANT to say, but I have to discipline myself not to say it.

Sometimes it's stuff I have poured hours into finding, wrestled with theologically and personally, mulled over anywhere from 6 weeks to a year or more. It stuff that I think is funny, or clever, or illuminating...

And it never gets said.

At least in that message. At least for now. Maybe there will be a time. Maybe there will be a season and I will give it a shot. But not now. Even if I WANT to say it.

Discipline.

Focus.

Wait.

It's good... but is it the best thing I can say?

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I think some of the best stuff in life ends up on the cutting room floor.

Or at least it should.

Each of us has so much to do and so many options. And sometimes, the hardest part in life is the edit. It is asking ourselves, "Is this REALLY going to add to my life? Is this the right thing for my life right now? Maybe it will fit better later, but given my priorities and what God is calling me to do... is this really what I should do? Is this really something to add to my schedule? Do I really need to take this on?"

Discipline.

Focus.

Wait.

It's good... but is it the best way I can live?

I think some of the best stuff in life ends up on the cutting room floor.

Sign him up.

I'm writing our worship leader now and trying to sign this guy up.

Oh my.

Gambling - Vote no on 3

For those who know me, you know that I try to hide my politics. I certainly believe that Christians can be Republican, Democrat, Libertarian, Green and just about any other label you can put on a political party. There are way too many things to divide us already.

With that said, I want to say a word about Issue 3, the casino gambling legislation. Rather than reinvent the wheel, I'm simply going to publish a letter written by the bishop of the West Ohio Conference of the UMC. I hope it sheds light on the issue and is helpful to you.

For my vote, I'm voting a big "No."

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For the fifth time in 19 years, The United Methodist Church and the Ohio Council of Churches are successfully mobilizing tens of thousands of voters from many faith communities to vote against casino gambling in Ohio. The gambling industry has mounted a well funded and deceptive marketing campaign to introduce predatory gambling into our neighborhoods. Issue 3, on the ballot in November, is a dangerous proposal which inserts new language into the Ohio Constitution, and creates a monopoly to run casinos in four Ohio communities. We call for an extensive effort to stop casino gambling from harming our citizens for these reasons:

1. Our position on gambling is consistent with our beliefs as United Methodists.

The United Methodist Church is very clear. Our Social Principles state that “gambling is a menace to society, deadly to the best interests of moral, social, economic and spiritual life and destructive of good government.”—2008 United Methodist Discipline, Paragraph 163,G. We also live by these Three Simples Rules from the founder of Methodism, John Wesley – Do no harm, do good, and stay in love with God. Gambling does harm to families, economies, business and changes the fabric of life in communities.

2. Casinos create an illusion of free money.

The lingering economic downturn in our state and around the globe is frightening and devastating to individuals, families and institutions. There is incredible pressure on our state and community leaders to turn to the lure of casino gambling as the answer to our economic woes. We understand this. Noted economists call this “casino capitalism.” Casino capitalism contributes to an illusion of free money by preying on those least able to afford it. Across America, predatory gambling has helped create a culture based on financial gimmicks, false hopes and pure chance. This culture has led to and perpetuates the massive economic crisis we find ourselves in today.

3. Casinos do not bring positive economic development or create additional jobs.

This fact is documented once again in a report on the statewide economic and social factors of Issue 3 recently published by Ohio’s Hiram College. Casinos have the opposite effect by ultimately pulling money out of the local economy. This harms existing businesses and causes thousands of hard working citizens to lose their current jobs. The out of state companies that will operate these casinos will deplete the Ohio economy further as they take their profits elsewhere. Casinos ultimately lead to the loss of jobs and small businesses in the communities in which they are located.

4. Casinos are predatory by their very nature.

Casinos make windfall profits for their owners from the gambling losses of our most vulnerable neighbors, deriving much of their profits from the poor who spend more than they can afford to lose. Proximity to a casino also increases the levels of addiction. National studies indicate that people who live within 50 miles of a casino are twice as likely to become gambling addicts.

5. The social costs as a result of casino gambling will exceed revenue 3 to 1.

Let this sink in – for every dollar gambling generates, it will cost the taxpayers of Ohio three dollars in social costs. Problem gamblers ruin their lives and harm their families through increased debt, bankruptcy, home foreclosures, divorce, spousal abuse, child abuse and suicide. Casino gambling always does more harm than good to families. This amendment is economic nonsense in a time when we most desperately need sound, sustainable economic policies.

6. Law enforcement will need increased budgets & manpower to manage higher crime rates.

Nationwide, studies of existing casinos and surrounding communities have consistently found that crime rates increase by 10% each year after a casino opens, including violent crimes against people. In addition, 40% of all white collar crime is rooted in the gambling industry.

7. The casino owners do not care about our state or our citizens.

The proponents of Issue 3, just like their predecessors, allege they want to operate casinos in order to help the citizens of Ohio. Nothing could be further from the truth. Their well crafted promises of economic development, jobs and millions in revenue are motivated by greed, not by good will. In reality, they are seeking extravagant profits for themselves and are fear-mongers, not benefactors.

8. It is bad public policy to allow for-profit casino interests to write their own section of the Ohio Constitution.

Yet, this is precisely what they have done. They wrote the language in the proposed amendment and they paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to gather signatures to place their self-serving proposal on this November’s ballot. Their language not only grants them an exclusive monopoly on casino gambling for all time, it also dramatically limits the ability of the Ohio General Assembly to regulate their activities. The amendment specifically prohibits our state government from controlling the days or hours of operation, the size of the bets or even the types of gambling that will be allowed.

The language of the constitutional amendment is frightening and has loopholes. In fact, the language states these monopolies can inflict on our citizens any type of gambling that is currently allowed in any other adjoining state or any new types of gambling these states may experiment with in the future, including live sports betting. These casino interests even dictated the maximum amount they will pay in taxes and wrote in an amount that is dramatically lower than in some of the surrounding states. Other language in the amendment creates a loophole stipulating they will not pay any taxes when cash is directly used to place the bets.

We understand that the gambling industry is well organized and well funded to exploit the current economic pain and fear experienced by so many Ohioans. Issue 3 is not about jobs. It is about altering the very fabric of our life together. That is why Ohio citizens have voted consistently and overwhelmingly against bringing predatory casino gambling into our communities each of the previous four times this has been on the ballot.

We urge every United Methodist congregation in Ohio to be a public witness against Issue 3. There is no legal prohibition against churches taking a stance on ballot issues. Please join us in this endeavor as we abide by our Social Principles and live out our Three Simple Rules – Do no harm, do good, and stay in love with God.

An Open Letter to my High School Class

Thanks to Facebook, I've re-connected with some former High School classmates -- I guess that is part of what we "old people" do on Facebook.

It's been good. It's fun to see my HS class all grown up. It is strange to see us with kids, jobs, and responsibilities. I've enjoyed following the threads of sharing memories. Catching up.

As I type these words, I realize that some of my former classmates may actually read this blog (although I'm betting most of you have more to do with your time than stalk my blog!). I hope this post is not misunderstood. In fact, I hope my words ring true to you as well. I would love to hear your thoughts, either here or in my inbox.

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Dear Former Classmates of Toronto High School

Recently, I got out my HS yearbook (yeah, I was trying to figure out a friend request). It was the first time I had looked at that book, or for that matter, even deeply thought about high school in years.

And as I looked at the pictures, matching names with faces, I realized something: At the time, so many of your opinions meant so much to me (I guess that is the way high school is for a lot of people). Today, I don't remember many of your names. Some I couldn't remember at all.

I realized that I had forgotten who the HS quarterback was, and I couldn't name more than two cheerleaders. I'd forgotten who was voted class president or prom King or Queen. (I did remember Gretchen was voted "Most Likely to Succeed" but only because she was my first girlfriend and my first kiss. Come on, I was in 5th grade, I think... so I'm sure she will own up to it.) But I had forgotten who was voted "Most Popular" or "Prettiest Hair," etc.

I don't say that to be mean. In fact, I'm kind of embarrassed by it. But it WAS a realization that the particular part of my life called "high school" was actually a very small part in the overall picture, and a fairly insignificant part.

I smiled when I looked up the section of the yearbook where we voted for "Prettiest Smile," "Funniest," "Most Talented," etc. I smiled because, at the time, those things actually meant something to me. I looked at the pictures of the guys who were so popular. I looked at pictures of the girls I had huge crushes on... I remember feeling like I was on the outside most of the time.

But here's the point: In those days my classmates' acceptance of me mattered. My day would rise and fall based on their opinion of me. Opinions based, not on any substantive character issues, but on who was "in" who was "out."

That is so sad.

And now, with age and perspective... I really regret the way I saw myself and others in high school.

So I'm writing this letter to my entire class to apologize.

I'm sorry for those of you I may have excluded. I'm sorry I made you feel like others made me feel.

I'm sorry for those of you I judged, or put into a box, or stuck a label on: "stuck up," "jock," "nerd" -- whatever. We label people to control them. To categorize or even dehumanize them.

I'm sorry for the years I lost because I cared more about avoiding you, or impressing you -- rather than caring for you or impacting you.

I'm sorry I was so worried about you noticing me, that I didn't really notice you.

I suspect many of us felt "on the outside" in HS.

I suspect many of us wore masks.

How stupid we were.

If I could do it again, I would do it differently.

So I commit to trying to live that way now.

Posting soon

Dear Blog

I miss you. I miss writing deep thoughts. I'm tired of posting mostly humor and video clips. I miss being vulnerable. I miss sharing my soul.

I realize that when I took you "public" that now hundreds of people read you. Your stats counter scares me. RSS readers find you whenever I post.

But I didn't create you for them. Yes, I want their interaction, I love to read their thoughts... but I don't need their approval in order to write.

I think we should meet again.

Soon.

The conclusion of it all

I'm sorry.

No really.

Don't watch this.

You won't get these 5 minutes of your life back.

That's just over 5 mintues. Over 300 seconds. And it's not really worth it -- watching a cartoon called, "Cows with Guns."

No really.

Dooooonnnnn't! Stop!!!!

cal

Too late. Tee Hee. I warned you.