So for now, just mark the time at 7:52 p.m., November 19, 2007. At that very moment, I declared myself a Baha'i.
Category: personal
the day the sun crossed the equator
Now here I was again at Gillson Beach with the dome of the Baha'i Temple behind me in the distance--this time as a Wisconsin resident writing 150 miles from my home. Nevertheless, Lake Michigan was once again witness to the many conversations going on in my head, and boy, they were talking up a storm this time.
on a quiet walk through James Madison Park after dropping a heavy piece of news
After I made my last post, I decided to go out for a walk to James Madison Park for some exercise and to think quietly to myself.
i am leaving Mahikari
But what I’ve posted about Mahikari is only half the story. It was only half of me talking.
hand sanitizer for a “touchable world”
Yesterday, I crossed a line I never thought I would cross. I bought a bottle of hand sanitizer.
white knuckled driver in Chicago
But when I moved to Wisconsin, a funny thing happened. I found myself driving among polite, civilized people. And I haven’t been the same since.
black, white and “purple rain”
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in this thing called nostalgia. Electric word nostalgia, that means years ago, and that’s a mighty long time. But I’m here to tell you, there’s something else--the afterword…
my skinny on fat
I believe that the War on Obesity will ultimately be no more effective than the War on Poverty, the War on Drugs, and the War on Terrorism, because, as is true in the previous examples, the war instigators know little about what it is they are fighting.
tribute to D. Boon
I went to a number of punk shows when I was in college. I listen to very little punk nowadays—when I do, I usually grow tired of it after about ten minutes. But I've never grown tired of the Minutemen--indeed I listen to them now more than before. They did not fit the stereotype of spiked, pierced and leather-clad punk rockers (which usually wasn’t accurate anyway), they were just three regular guys from San Pedro who played a high-octane mix of punk, funk, jazz and folk.
dreams are made of chicken stock
Mr. Neil Diamond: nothing personal, but I guess my brain considered you to be a useful allegory for something.