Ushering in the New Age

I would like to share with you a tidbit about myself that qualifies for admittance into that lofty category often referred to as "little known facts." It is not that I am ashamed of or highly motivated to conceal this information. It is just that I have rarely had the occasion to share it, and in the few occasions that I could have brought it to light my admirable modesty restrained me from doing so. The fact is, for a few years I carried the estimable title of Assistant Head Usher at my church in America. Actually, I believe the complete title was Senior Assistant Head Usher in Charge of Maintaining Quality Control and Assuming Head Ushering Duties in the Event of the Absence of the Head Usher (SAHUCMQCAHUDEAHU). This is quite a weighty title and demands a broad set of shoulders to carry it about. One cannot simply stuff that title in one's pocket. It drapes over its bearer like a heavy blanket and is apt to bend the back of the man ambitious enough to take it up. Such a man is oft tempted throw off the blanket and walk freely through the world again, yet the needs of those poor souls searching for a seat in the sanctuary compel him to suffocate under the weight of his position a little longer. In truth, these men do not stumble into this title. No, they are born for it and fate invariably directs them to their end. They have little choice in the matter.

Great blushing accompanies the penning of this revelation, as it has never been my intention to boast of the burdens it has been my lot to carry, no matter how lofty the titles and accolades that are part and parcel of their calling. I share it now so that you can properly understand and appreciate a new turn that life in Taiwan has taken for me. I have recently joined the ushering staff at my church here. It did not take long to the ushers here to recognize a brother in their midst. We are, after all, something of a small, close-knit fraternity and can instantly identify others who are born to be ushers. By spotting the telltale marks and scars of one who has born great ushering responsibilities, the ushers here were astute enough to determine that I am not of the plebeian offering-taking sort, but rather of the ushering noblesse (once again, much blushing). Thus, they hastened to entreat me to take my place among their ranks. Not wanting, or feeling the need, to hoist once again the heavy mantle that I had already set aside, I agreed to join the lower ranks of their ushering hierarchy. At first, they refused to have me stoop so far, and pled with me to accept at least the position of Assistant Head Usher in Charge of Packet Distribution (AHUCPD). However, my humble, yet firm, insistence on taking no greater title than the simple "usher" eventually won the day. I blush once again to mention the many tears that were shed by the ushering community here after witnessing so noble a condescension.

As difficult as ushering may be, it does not come without its perks. In America, I had the pleasure of sitting in the very back by the door. This provided an excellent vantage point from which to watch the congregation and get to know who left the sanctuary frequently. I also sat very near the door that led to the kitchen. It seems that my various duties often forced me to venture over in that direction, where various goods were sometimes stored and in need of inspection. Here in Taiwan, the perks consist of getting to dress up in a white dress shirt with a tie and black slacks. This exciting combination is accompanied by a yellow armband sporting Chinese characters. I have not found the kitchen yet.

My first two Sundays found me greeting all the parishioners at the front door. Not much was required of me at this post. My duties consisted solely of shooting a phrase in Chinese at each comer and giving them a slight bow. In this process, the phrase generally ricochets back at the usher in its bow-less form as the people rush past. This performance begins twenty minutes before the service starts and continues for twenty minutes after the beginning as well. Those who show up later than that, and there are quite a few of these people, do not deserve to be greeted.

The bow here in Taiwan is worth a short digression. There are actually several forms. The first, and most common, is little more than a quick thrusting forth of the head followed followed by and equally quick snap back. It makes it look as if the head is kept on by some sort of rubber band that snaps the head back into place if it moves too far. This is a brief and quite moderate show of humility and thanks. A more advanced form of the bow is a quick nod of the head. The chin bounces off the throat. The humility/thanks level is higher in this second mode. The nod may be accompanied by a slight slumping of the shoulders if an extra does of humility is called for. The next mode involves a descending of the whole upper body. This is not achieved by a stiff bending at the waist, however. It is more of a retreating of the posterior regions which in turn draws the trunk of the body down. A nod may be added but must take place simultaneously. The final mode is a stiff bending of the waist that nearly forms a ninety degree angle. This is rarely seen and conveys the highest degree of humility, thanks, and respect.

I experimented with all the different modes while greeting the church goers. Eventually, I settled on the posterior retreat. I felt that mode gave a decent representation of my humility without making a obscene show of it. This was well received by the members and guests of the church. Soon large lines formed as people waited to come through my door. I am fairly certain that many people came in, exited through another door, and got back in line to be greeted by me once again. I noticed a number of vendors in the area as well, offering various snacks, memorabilia, and authorized pictures of each person's entrance into the church while being greeted by me. I blushed often and deeply.

I am not sure at this moment where all this new ushering road will take me. I am hoping not to become one of those soulless ushering celebrities. It would be much better if I could retreat into the background. Or maybe just retreat into the kitchen.

Touch Your Heart

Being something of a tropical island, it is in Taiwan's best interest to promote itself as a desirable tourist destination to those who find the idea spending time on a tropical island desirable. After all, Taiwan is a beautiful place. When it was discovered by Portuguese explorers in the sixteenth century, they draped over it the romantic title Ilha Formosa. Translated into English, this name is equally subtle and romantic--Beautiful Island. Due to Taiwan's tropical and beautiful nature, you will soon notice an intense advertising campaign designed to whisk you away from your comfortable homes on your next summer vacation and drop you into the burning bath of Taiwanese humidity. The good citizens of Glencoe, Minnesota have no doubt already noticed the striking new billboard over Pete's Paint & Pizza. It prominently features a group of three Taiwanese people with huge, gaping smiles. If one did not know better, one would think they are screaming in anger at some poor soul picking up a pizza. However, we are able to deduce that they are actually well pleased with life on a tropical island by the fact that two of the three have positioned their tightly balled fists directly below their chins and have thrust both thumbs high into the air. The third had tried to follow suit, but had been unable to resist the natural Taiwanese instinct to flash peace signs when taking a picture. Under the picture is this enticing plea:

Traveling At Taiwan!

Wonderfulness of beauty pleasure!

Tread in nice beeches [sic]! Swim on a shiny ocean!

Participate in lush vegetables! Throw down in palatable fruits!

Do not think that the fine folk of Glencoe will be the only be people to have their town graced with these masterpieces. I am told that in the next few weeks the the residents of Monowi, Nebraska; Yachats, Oregon; and Bucksnort, Tennessee can expect to enjoy the fruits of the Taiwan's tourism bureau soon.

Of course, no place can expect to draw hordes of visitors if it does not first concoct a catchy slogan. In this particular endeavor Taiwan has succeeded. Liberally scattered about the island are signs containing the name Taiwan colorfully splashed across the top. Under the name we find the phrase "Touch Your Heart." The real beauty of this slogan is that no one can be quite sure what it means. To name a couple of options, it may be either a declaration (Taiwan will touch your heart) or an injunction. When I first arrived in Taiwan, I took it to be the latter. Upon seeing the slogan, I would immediately place my hand over my heart in a reverential manner. Standing thus, I felt a strong urge to lustily belt out an anthem to the country. So great was this urge that, not knowing a Taiwanese anthem, I made one up and proclaimed it to the world. It followed roughly these lines:

Taiwan forever,

Standing in the sea!

We will cease never

To sing our praise to thee!

These lines were sung repeatedly to a tune that vaguely resembled both the CIU alma mater and the Russian national anthem. This seemed to be in the general spirit of anthems and relieved the pressure I was under to sing.

When these lines spontaneously burst forth from my lips, I had no idea what a hit they would become. After touching my heart and singing praises before numerous signs throughout the Taipei, the song caught on, and it is now enjoying its fourth straight week atop the charts with no sign of decreasing in popularity any time soon. During the recent election cycle, every candidate made the song a prominent part of their truck and scooter announcements that they paraded around the city(The elections are over now, by the way. Thank you for your support. I was elected to some post. I think I am now a county coroner, but I am not quite sure yet.). I am working on a techno version now that should go down in annals of music history as one of best pieces ever. They will never stop playing it in Eastern Europe.

However, a recent revelation has changed how I view the "Touch Your Heart" slogan. I now think it might be a declaration. The revelation came in the form of another slogan I found on a bike rental shop. This particular shop allows customers for a small fee to enjoy a jolly spin around the city on cheap bikes. The proprietors woo potential customers with the line "Fun The City!" At first I took this to be another injunction in which the noun "fun" had been changed into an imperative verb. Thus, it would carry the weight of a command for passersby to enjoy the town. After a moment's reflection, however, I realized that it was not an injunction but a declaration. It was a shortened version of the statement "You can have fun in the city." This makes sense. Taiwan is a small island with about 459,000,000 people and 510,000,000 scooters. Space is at a premium. The inhabitants of the island have learned how to economize space at every turn, even in their slogans. Why use seven words when you can use only three? Such is the brilliance of Taiwan. "Touch Your Heart", then, is a shortened version of "Taiwan Will Touch Your Heart." Heck, it might even be a shortened version of "Taiwan, The Beautiful Island, Will Touch Your Heart If You Come And Visit Us And Trod Upon Our Beeches." The genius of this ability to say so much with so few words should attract more visitors that ever. Who knows what all they are really saying with all that is written on their billboards?

Keep all of this in mind this year when you tune in to the Visittaiwan(touchyourheart)andleaveallyourmoney.com Bowl. I think it will feature a thrilling matchup between Dartmouth and Western New Mexico University (Go Mustangs!). The real highlight of the game, though, will be the mandatory halftime interview with the president of the bowl game.

Sideline reporter: Mr. President, why did you decide to get involved with a bowl game?

President of bowl: We is happy happy to has a bowl! Very Good! Come Taiwan! Have much bowls! Many funs! Tootle about in tropicalness of beauteous island!

Sideline reporter: I'm sure you're happy to have these two fine institutions in this game, and it has certainly been a fine game so far. What message would like to send to them as they go out there in the second half?

President of bowl: Cheer up!

Sideline reporter: Thank you so much. Before we go back to you guys in the booth, the president would like to sing us a song. Mr. President?

President of bowl: Taiwan forevers...

That will be my proudest moment.

Welcome to the Family

It has come to my attention that some people who read this blog have never even met me. This shows that some of my readers have an intense interest in gaining an accurate picture of Taiwan. They have searched high and low for a careful and objective report of life on this island. This search has led them to this blog, which is marked by its factual accuracy and its uncanny ability to stick to relevant aspects of Taiwanese culture. I would like to take the liberty, however, of stepping away from my reporting and introduce myself to those who don't know me.

To really know me, you must first know my family. Let me introduce you to them. We must first go back to the fourteenth century when the first known Thigpen was the Lord High Sheriff of London. This was a time when surnames were still just coming into vogue, and the bearers played fast and loose with the spellings of their names. The Thigpens of yore felt free to spell their names Phippen, Fitzpen, Tippen, or any other variant that they could grab as the mood struck them. Before this time members of the family decorated their given names with fitting adjectives. Thus, at the very tips of the roots of our family tree we find such sobriquets as Alfred the Abashed, Roland the Ridiculous, Bartholomew the Baffled, and Lucius the Lugubrious. Lord High Sheriff Phippen/Fitzpen/Tippen/Thigpen, however, ditched the descriptors in favor something that was a little easier to change the sound and spelling of when necessary and wasn't easy to guess simply by watching his behavior. He was a jovial soul and was well like by Londoners. He was so well loved, in fact, that many of the people enjoyed giving him large sums of money at important times. He was well bred and always felt it incumbent upon himself to give gifts to them in return. Some of his superiors, however, were jealous of his popularity, and they dispatched of him.

None of the immediate descendants of this first Thigpen were sheriffs themselves, but they did have close relationships with sheriffs. It seems that the Thigpen blood was sporting right from the start. These men lived for the hunt. They were also patriotic, considerate, and conscientious men. Not wanting the king's land to be overrun with wildlife, so they took it upon themselves to occasionally cull the forrest of game. They were so fond of hunting that they were not content to be one dimensional sportsmen. Not wanting to be hunters only, they thought it sporting to be the hunted also. They got up with the king's sheriffs set up a nice little game where the Thigpens would hunt the animals and the sheriffs would hunt the Thigpens. It was great fun, and the Thigpens led the sheriffs on a merry chase. It seems that the double duty was too much for many of the Thigpens and the sheriffs won. At least this is my interpretation of the events, since the record of these men ends rather abruptly. The last thing I can find about them is that they died with their heads held high and their feet off the ground. Incidentally, this has been the traditional manner of passing for the most notable of Thigpens.

A number of Thigpens took to the sea in the sixteenth century. The most prominent of the seafaring members of the family was Bart Thigpen. He was an excellent entrepreneur. Bart excelled in what might be called the import/export line of business. He imported merchandise from merchant ships and exported long, sharp, pointed metal sticks and large, heavy, round iron balls. Throughout Bart's career, he kept up a friendly rivalry with one Admiral Clemens. Whenever these men's ships crossed paths they would take to shooting at each other as a way of encouraging each other to hurry on their ways. Eventually, Clemens grew old and crotchety and lost the spirit of the game. In this irritable state, Clemens resorted to low and dastardly tactics; he lay in waiting for Bart one night off a small island that Bart sometimes used as a warehouse for his goods. It was on this island that Bart's life ended in the aforementioned traditional Thigpen fashion.

There has hardly been a war of any size since the fourteenth century that hasn't found a Thigpen fighting bravely. It has not always been the case that the Thigpen was fighting in the war itself, but you may be sure he was fighting somewhere. The world has always been able to count on a Thigpen taking a step when duty calls. Even if a Thigpen was unable to take up arms for some reason, he would still do his part. Take Rufus Thigpen who lived during our American revolution for example. Rufus was unable to join the fight due to a certain spinal condition. Did he stay home, though? Not Rufus. He might well have been known as "The Encourager." At every battle he was right there behind the army giving it bold words of courage. He took care of the baggage, making sure that any goods that a soldier carelessly left behind before going into battle were not lost forever upon the field. Rufus was also useful in case the battle went poorly. He had a special knack for showing the army how to get to safety quickly. Quite a useful fellow, that Rufus. The only mistake he made was when he mixed up some of the goods he was keeping safe and tried to sell a particular trinket to a soldier who had previously been in possession of said trinket. This humorless soldier failed to see the sincere nature of the mistake. Rufus died in the traditional fashion.

There have been some Thigpens who have stepped out of line, so to speak, and brought some dismay to the family. Every family has its black sheep. One such disgrace is the infamous Owen Fitzpen whose life in England spanned the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. He was a merchant seaman by trade, and somehow did rather well for himself in his own dull, honest way. On one trip, however, he was relieved of his goods by Turkish entrepreneurs in the Mediterranean and was taken aboard their ship. One would think that Owen would now seize the opportunity to go into a legitimate business and join forces with the men who obviously thought highly enough of his capital to relieve him of it. Not Owen. He refused to see a good thing even when it hit him right in the face. Rather, He took on the role of a slave, and for seven years he served in servile servitude. Was he content with his lot in life, though? Not at all. Unlike St. Paul, he was not content with whatever state in which he found himself, and he rebelled against his masters. Not only did he rebel, but he also led ten other Christian captives astray by encouraging them to rebel as well. For three hours these eleven rebellious souls fought against sixty-five well meaning Turkish entrepreneurs. In the end, Owen's forces won the day, and they sailed the ship to Spain. There he was offered a position in the Spanish navy if he would convert to Catholicism. Owen was greedy, however, and wanted to see how much he could get for the ship he had taken instead of turning it over to the Spanish crown. In order to decline the Spanish offer, he used the excuse that he was Protestant and could not convert to Catholicism. He then sold his ship and sailed back to England. The family was so upset by Owen's shenanigans that they erected a monument telling the story, hoping that it would serve as a warning to other ill-disposed lads. Owen, ever rebellious, refused to die in the traditional fashion, choosing to die peacefully in his sleep instead. Owen's grandson could not bear the shame; he adopted the "Thigpen" spelling of the name and sailed for the New World. This is a true story.

There are some Thigpens who are famous though not known by name. For example, the man featured in what has been called the greatest country song ever sung was a particularly romantic Thigpen. That is the story of great-uncle Clem and his love for Mable Lou McGowen. You have, no doubt, encountered many quotes, poems, or essays whose lives are due to "Anonymous." Many of you may think that Anonymous was an ancient Greek writer. Not so. Anonymous refers to a long line of Thigpens who were not quite sure how to spell their names.

This leads us to the present crop of Thigpens, and a bumper crop it is. I sprang up with a whole peck of brothers. Even as little sprouts, though, we were quite versatile. We grew up as pirates, cowboys, wild animals, knights, professional athletes, pioneers, sailors, and heroes of every war ever fought. Well, most of us did, anyway. One younger brother was reserved as something of a servant who waits upon the rest of the family's every need. He has never had any fun or adventure. The most exciting thing he ever does is listen to Simon and Garfunkel songs. My parents were thoughtful enough to have enough sons to allow for one such servant.

I myself graduated from college and immediately headed off to a land where my blond hair and blue eyes would be appreciated enough to land a decent job. Having done a lot of serious writing in school, and having a lot more to look forward to when I go back to school, I decided to start this blog to keep my serious writing skills in shape. My inspirations for this writing are Mark Twain and an uncle of mine who used to tell my brothers and I stories when we were seedlings. I plead with you not to go read Twain, because you will never come back to this blog. Go read some G.W.F. Hegel. You'll come back to me then.

I must say in all honesty that I am extremely proud of my family and my name. I would not change names with anyone. I'll hang on to it no matter how many times I have to repeat it and spell it for people I meet. I am not even planning on changing the spelling, though I am thinking about adding a descriptor to it. Something along the lines of TJ the Tedious Thigpen.

You now know me as well as my own mother. That was a very ambiguous sentence, so let me rephrase it. You now know me as well as my own mother knows me. Consider yourself a part of the family. Just remember what your proper manner of dying is now that you are one of us.

Hitting the Stump

I have never meant for this blog to be one of the many political blogs that now proliferate the internet. While I may hold certain political views, I have always endeavored to dwell upon more important topics, such as hair, dancing typhoons, Chinese legends, and grapes. These are the topics that the majority of people around the world want to delve into, and fortunately, these are the topics on which I am most qualified to speak. However, my world seems to be now engulfed in elections, so I feel compelled to turn this blog's gaze upon the more trivial matter of politics. Yes, in a few days average man and woman will, by the press of a button, help to shape the course of world events. This is the time when you and I can let our voices be heard. I guess it does have its serious side. Who knows what the ramifications of our choices will be? With the state of the world as I write, these elections may be the most important in our lifetime. If I remember correctly, there are also some elections going on in America.

I am all fired up about the elections that will soon take place here in Taiwan. I have no idea who is running for what. In the end, it really doesn't matter. What really matters is the process of electing people and that we as responsible citizens get fully behind a candidate and use this time to express our stand on the issues dearest to us. I have found that the essence of running for office isn't much different here in Taiwan than back in the States. There are men and women making opaque promises and then demonizing their opponents for making what amounts to the same opaque promises. I find this to be the truly brilliant part of politics. Absolutely anyone can be a politician. Just promise something in a convincing tone and then condemn whatever comes out of the other guy's mouth.

In a campaign what really matters is how you get your "message" out there. Here in Taiwan, tissue packets are a popular way of doing this. Over the last few weeks, my mailbox has been filled with these packets. This is timely since it is getting colder and more people are getting sick. We will spend this fall blowing our noses all over candidates' platforms. I stated earlier that the essence of running for office is the same here as in the States. Nothing shows this more than the pictures of the candidates that found on these packets. There is, of course, the mandatory steely eyed look that shows this particular candidate has a determined eye on the future. Not to make the candidate appear too harsh, though, there is also the picture of him with a caring look while holding a little child. The combination of these two pictures assure us that he will be able to lovingly carry us into the future.

Another campaign approach that is popular here is to hire small trucks or even scooters with loudspeakers attached. These vehicles roam the streets blaring out the soothing tones of various candidates telling us why we should put them in office. I have a deep appreciation for these recordings, though I haven't an inkling as to what they say. Every time one passes me by I fill the air with hearty shouts of anger or approbation. I have ardently campaigned for these candidates on street corners. I have pleaded with passersby. I have cajoled old ladies and little children into supporting one person or another. I am just trying to do my part.

Having said that, my efforts in this campaign have left me feeling like I have not done quite enough. In a word, I feel empty. Thus, I have decided to throw my hat in the ring. I know it may be a little late in the game, but I think I might just have a chance. The reason I believe I have a chance is because I believe that the hard working people of this country will believe in a man who believes in something. And what I believe in is values. Of course, my opponents will say that they stand for values too, but no one is really sure which values they are talking about. Let me be perfectly clear about my values. I stand for the good values. What values are those, you ask? Let me be clear about this. When I say good values, I mean the values that the hard working people of this country hold to. I will work hard to preserve these values. I pledge to give you back your country. By my hard work, I will show you that I understand you--the hard working people of this country. This is what sets me apart and what makes me the only choice in this election; I believe in values and hard work. And I believe in you--the hard working people of this country. Now I ask you to believe in me, and when you believe in me you are really just believing in yourselves. You are believing in the hard working people of this country! You are believing in the values that you believe in! You are believing in getting this country back on track! You are believing in taking the power back from politicians and putting it in the hands of the hard working people of this country! Vote for yourselves by voting for me! Vote for your children! Vote for values! Vote for (insert mascot of your favorite team)!

Of course my opponent doesn't believe in anything. He is a nihilist. He doesn't believe in values. He doesn't believe in the hard working people of this country. He used to be a part of a secret cultic society bent on taking over the world, but he doesn't even believe that anymore. That was too much work for him. He has no character. I guess he doesn't believe in prosperity, either, because if he is elected no one will have any money. Our children will starve, and they will all come down with a new and deadly strain of influenza. So let's make sure he isn't elected! Don't vote for the devil! Vote for yourselves--the hard working people of this country!

This won't be my first foray into politics. Some of you will remember that I almost became governor of the State of South Carolina a few years ago. That was all quite by accident, however, and this time I am in dead earnest. If I could just figure out which country I want to hold office in.

Wherever I wind up running, one of the most prominent planks in my platform will be bringing back the things that once made us great but now lay inexplicably discarded by the wayside. For example, I will push through a bill that will put the dimmer switch back on the floorboard of your vehicle. Just this week during my school's Halloween spelling bee (because nothing says Halloween like a spelling bee) I realized another loss our society has sustained. We all had to dress up in costumes, and not wanting to spend any money on said costume, I raided the school's Halloween box and came away with a Viking hat with a wig attached and a red cape. Now, Vikings have gone by the wayside and that is indeed a loss in some ways. However, the real societal loss that this costume revealed to me is that of the cape. There was a time when capes and cloaks were all the rage, but some dull witted generation ditched them. These people are in the running for the title of "The Worst Generation." Every respectable gentleman should be able to wear a cape and rapier on the street. Once upon a time men were men. Once upon a time men wore capes. Let us return to these times. I will take us there (I now have a steely-eyed determined look). I will do this for our children (understanding, caring look). Follow me.

Haircut

I was once a little boy with hair. That is a true statement. It is also true that I never gave serious thought to my hair. All I knew about my hair was that on occasion Mom would give me a haircut, and on these occasions she would invariably make the comment, "T.J., you have a great head of hair!" She would then proceed to cut the bulk of it off. Most people, upon having such accolades poured regularly upon their heads, would grow justifiably vain of their locks. I never fell prey to such vanity. The praise was, after all, coming from my mother, and mothers are notoriously biased when it comes to their children's tresses. Even after developing a particularly admirable patch of white hair, though, I abstained from growing fond or careful of my hair. I consider this to be a rather remarkable part my identity.

I feel that it is in no way contradictory to follow this statement of carelessness as to the quality of my hair with the admission that it is a matter of concern to me where I get my haircut. It may be, in fact, that the reason I care about where I get my haircut is because I care little for my hair. Cutting my own hair is not an option. That would be spending too much time on my own hair. I am a barber shop guy. I want to get my haircut to the classic sound of Merle Haggard while sitting under the constant, unwavering gaze of an eight-pointer hung on the wall. I want to exchange lies with the barber about our most recent fishing trips. I want to get a get a Coke from a fifty year old Coke machine when the shearing is done. Most of all, and this is an absolute must, I want to refrain from even the slightest hint of any conversation about hair during the entire time I am at the barber shop. It is largely for this reason that I hate going to hair salons. There is nothing good about a hair salon. I have no desire to have some guy running his hands through my hair and talking about "possibilities." If I can't have a barber shop, I prefer to take steps such as going to church during the week and having the church secretary do the shearing. This was my course of action throughout college (for those of you who don't know me, yes, I went to college).

Why, you ask, am I spilling so much figurative ink over my preferences of the setting in which the hair is taken off the old noggin? Well, a couple of days I had a new haircutting experience here in Taipei. I went to a tiny place near a night market where one may find three dollar haircuts. The haircutee approaches the emporium and deposits a hundred NT bill into a machine that then spits out a ticket with a number printed on it. Ticket in hand, he stands patiently on the street until his number is called. At this time he enters the establishment and spends about 10 seconds inside before exiting with a fresh new outlook on life. Yes, these barbers are quite efficient. The barber's sheet barely has time settle down before it is whisked off again. In those few seconds, follicles are severed and then sucked up by a shop vac that is waved a few times over the head. One might think that they would leave a mangled mess on top of their victims' heads. This isn't, I don't think, the case; though in keeping with my usual attitude towards my hair, I haven't given to much thought to the quality of its post-haircut state. I wasn't in the shop long enough to be sure, but as far as I could tell, there was no Haggard in the air, deer on the wall, or Coke machine near the door. This is not optimal haircutting conditions, but there was also no time for talking about "possibilities." Thus, it was an acceptable place in which to leave part of yourself behind.

In other news, a typhoon has found Taiwan to be rather intriguing and has engaged in an elaborate dance with the island. It rushed past once and then decided that Taiwan might just be worth a second look. Since then it seems to be making some sort of ceremonial step around the island. Somehow the typhoon has decided that the best way to win Taiwan's heart is to pour out incessant and unceasing rain on it. The typhoon is wrong. It has been raining for a week now, and Taiwan is tired of it. Stop making a pest of yourself, Megi. Take a hint and go away now.

Sun Moon Lake Trip

This past weekend took me to Sun Moon Lake. This celestial pool is located in central Taiwan and is generally esteemed for its beautiful setting. It is nestled at the feet of Taiwan's low but sharp central mountains. Upon first hearing of this lake, one is curious as to the origins of its name. The story is straightforward enough. Years ago in a time of peace and harmony, the tribal people lived in concert with nature and gave themselves to the enjoyable pursuits of farming and head hunting. One day, however, a rather annoying event occurred; the sun did not come out. Equally annoying was the fact that the moon did come out that night either. It seems that a dragon had eaten both of these celestial bodies. This was unfortunate. After a while, the villager found that their crops wouldn't grow. They also discovered that hunting heads was much more difficult in the thick, heavy darkness that ruled the world. Finally, one young, loving couple, who were for some reason running around under the sobriquets DaJianGe and ShuiSheJie (henceforth Ge and Jie), decided to undertake the restoration of both sun and moon to their rightful places. In the course of their travels in search of the sun and moon, they discovered that the offending dragon lived in the bottom of a deep lake. For a while they were unsure of how to proceed, but then they stumbled upon the aged wise person that is required for every such story. This sage matron informed Ge and Jie that the dragon would die if they threw the golden scissors and golden ax into the lake. This seemed reasonable enough to Ge and Jie, so they went in search of the lethal objects. The search proved successful and the objects proved lethal. The problem now lie in getting the sun and moon back to the sky. Enter sage matron once again. If Ge and Jie would eat the dragon's eyeballs, she said, then they would grow tall and strong. This also seemed reasonable to the two, and they ate the eyeballs. Indeed, they grew tall and strong, and they tried hurling the sun and moon back into the sky, but these bodies just would not stick. Enter sage matron yet again. She suggested using two giant palm trees near the lake to help prop up the sun and moon. This too seemed reasonable enough for Ge and Jie, and they put the sun and moon on the palm trees and lifted them up into the sky. Finally, the sun and moon stuck in their places and everything returned to normal. Ge and Jie remained by the lake to make sure the sun and moon did not fall again. Eventually they turned into two mountains that can now be seen by the lake. To commemorate this event, the tribal people initiated celebrations, the highlight of which is what one source of mine calls "The Holding Ball Dance." Some people are skeptical of the whole story because they do not believe that a dragon could swallow the sun and the moon. Such skepticism is ridiculous. Many is the time I have seen the sun and moon look smaller than a quarter. Besides, I have seen the two mountains with my own eyes.

I went down to the Sun Moon Lake area with a good friend. While down there, we decided to visit the Formosa Aboriginal Culture Village Amusement Park. I was quite excited about this part of the trip. In an age when many of the downtrodden and oppressed people groups of the world have been given their dues (not including a certain brother of mine), I was pleased to hear that Taiwan's aboriginal people were being recognized with a theme park. I was particularly anxious to personally visit this ode to the Native Taiwanese people because I have Native American blood coursing through my veins. It was a perfect opportunity, I thought, to show our support for our brothers on this island.

Just before my friend and I entered the park, I found a place to change into my loin cloth and moccasins. Thus accoutered, I proceeded directly to a man wearing the colorful garb of a Taiwanese tribesman. I addressed him in this manner:

How! Me travel over great lake from land of tall wikiups! Me come smoke um up peace pipe with Taiwanese brothers! Extend um right hand of fellowship, show um solidarity! Me son of Bald Turtle Buddy and Squawking Dove Susan. Bald Turtle great brave many many moons ago. Squawking Dove great squaw. Have um up many sons, make um up great teepee. Me, you now go on heap big hunt. Kill um water buffalo. Then we go on warpath. I take um scalps, you take um rest of head. Later we go to heap big gambling wigwam, win um wampum!

As I was thus expressing my support, my friend who had accompanied me to the park built a fire and began to do a traditional dance around it. I had not anticipated this, but I found it truly inspiring. There was nothing for me to do but drag my new native friend a few laps around the fire myself.

So far everything was going beautifully. I decided it was time to take the next step. I loudly announced:

We make um up unwavering, indestructible concord! We make um blood brothers!

I then whipped out my knife and was in the process of drawing blood from my new native friend's hand when the whole thing came to an abrupt halt. I was viciously attacked by several men in uniforms and thrown from the park. This behavior seems rather inexplicable at first, but upon further reflection I realized what had taken place. The uniformed men were members of a tribe that was at odds with my new friend's tribe. The pact between my tribe and my friend's tribe would have signaled a shift in power, spelling great danger for the uniformed tribe. I will not be put off by their rough tactics, however. I am now seeking to once again open up channels of communication with my new friend, ensuring him that I will bring many a tomahawk in his tribe's defense in their time of need.

Overall, it was a great weekend. I finally got to a place where I didn't at least feel like I was in Taipei. Mountains, lakes, amusement parks, and friends seems to be a winning weekend combination. Try it sometime. Just look out for uniformed people.

The Plan

There are times in the course of human events when the human for whom the events are coursing is faced with identity forming moments. These moments shape how people will view us for the rest of our lives, or more jarringly, how we will view ourselves for the rest of our lives. I faced on of these moments this week. There are two roads that can that can be taken when one is faced with one of these moments (I would suggest taking the road less travelled by); one may dash heedlessly down the road of panic, or one may, with firm and confident step, stride down the road of courage. I was faced with one of these moments this past week. It was a moment when my identity as "a native English speaking person who is capable of teaching his or her language to Chinese children living in Taipei" hung in the balance. Of course, this is an essential part of anyone's identity, and we have all questioned how we would fare if we were forced to determine the matter once and for all, just as we have wondered whether, with a gun pointed at our faces, we would stand true to our belief or we would cave and don that Florida Gators jersey. Parent demos were this past week, and I knew going in that this go a long way in determining whether or not I was capable of teaching English here in Taipei. Of course, you are asking which road I took. Did I panic or did I stand strong? Well, I did neither; I cheated and pulled out the magic lesson plan.

The magic lesson plan was shown me by a coworker at school. He took me down to a dark cave and initiated me into The Circle of the White Moon English Teacher's Society. As a member, I was given this magic lesson plan. This lesson plan contains all the elements that please those who need to be pleased. All I needed to do was to follow the plan and success was guaranteed. That was easier said that done, however, for I forgot to factor in the dark power of nerves. They attacked, causing me to say things like "Good morning, class" at 4:00 o'clock in the afternoon. These wicked powers did not stop there, but pressed on causing me to forget key elements of the magic lesson plan's incantation (i.e. activities in the plan). It didn't help that I, thinking that it would impress the society, made significant changes and adaptations to the magic lesson plan in order to have it fit more to my teaching style. This is good in theory, but it requires that one first actually have a teaching style. Thus, I wound up confused as to what I was doing at times. "Let's play a game, kids...No, wait, let's read now...Hold on, that comes later...let's work on some spelling...Um, let's all go home." What these evil nerves did not take into account, though, is the fact that I cut a mighty pathetic figure when I am confused and nervous. I somehow compel sympathy from all who view these spectacles. With a great tide of sympathy sweeping o'er the room, then, I was able to get past the demos.

On a more serious note, I would like to note that I really am getting to like my kids a lot. They are great. I have a good job, and am looking forward to getting better at it. My kids make the job easy to like.

I got my health insurance card this week too. Taiwan has a nationalized health insurance program. Believe it or not, it actually works really well. You can do whatever you want with that information. What is really important about me receiving my insurance card was the revelation that came from realizing I was born in 1971. The Chinese have a different calendar than the one that we use in the West. They are eleven years behind us. My insurance card states that I was born eleven years before I was actually born. At first this is disheartening, as it would seem that I am already 39 years old. Then, I realized that I was looking at the problem from the wrong direction. Right now it is 1999 here in Taiwan. This means that I am now living eleven years ago. I feel like I get to go back to when I was 17. This explains why, as I mentioned in an earlier blog, the people here all look so young. They are all living back in time. So for those of you who want to turn back the clock a little bit, you should come visit me here. I would only suggest this line of action, however, for those of you who are over the age of eleven. I am not sure what would happen to a five year old child who chanced to venture this way.

(For any philosophers who happen upon this blog, I am well aware that I played fast and loose with the term "identity" in the first part. What I am not sure of is why the heck you're reading this blog.)

The Grapes of Eshcol and the Ocean

Last Wednesday was Moon Festival here in Taiwan. I received many gifts from my students, including a gift of three bunches of grapes. Now you may ask, "Who would give three bunches of grapes to their teacher on Moon Festival?" First, let me condemn you for questioning the liberality of my students. Second, let me say that this student is one of the brightest and most pleasant students I have ever had. Third, let me say that this was one my favorite gifts of all time. These weren't just grapes; they were GRAPES. Each one was about the size of a child's head. Each of the three bunches weighed approximately forty five pounds. This was not, as some of you might suspect, due to chemical treatment or exposure to radiation. This is a special breed of grape. Size was not the most amazing aspect of these grapes, either. The flavor and texture was unlike anything I have ever experienced in all my years of grape consumption. The flavor evidenced a close relationship with the muscadine side of the family, only without much of the tartness. They were fleshly picked from some remote mountain in Japan and flown almost directly to my classroom. So good were these grapes that upon first sight and taste, I immediately decided that they must headline a blog.

A word about Moon Festival. This holiday comes on the fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month. Obviously, this fell on the twenty-second of September this year. There are certain things you must know about this holiday. First, it is traditionally celebrated by eating moon cakes. I will let your imagination inform you as to what a moon cake is. Second, on the night of Moon Festival, you can look up and see the three beings that live on the moon. The first being on the moon is a woman who, in something of a tragic accident, floated to the moon after drinking too much of a special elixir. The second being is a man who sent to the moon as a punishment for being too lazy. He was instructed that he had to chop down a self-regenerating tree before he could return to earth. The lazy bum is still up there hacking away. The third being is a rabbit who gave his very flesh as food to save three hungry old men. As a reward for his sacrifice he was sent to live on the moon. I had to teach these stories to my children at school. The difficult part of it was explaining how the moon was at once a place of punishment and reward. I had to tell my kids, with a stern look and disapproving air, that if they didn't diligently do their homework, they might find themselves sent to the moon for their laziness. Then, I had to tell them, with a tone of hopeful expectancy, that if they sacrificed themselves for others, they might get rewarded by being sent to the moon! The juxtaposition of these two stories engenders certain pedagogical difficulties. The third thing you should know about Moon Festival is that school are out. This is important because a certain teacher did not have to go in to work.

A quick word of advice for those who may someday find themselves living and working in a large city on a tropical island: don't forget that you are living on a tropical island. For most of my time here, I have been stuck in a big city and have been living a rather boring life. My normal schedule has been to get up in the morning, head off to work, come home at night, eat supper, go for a walk, come home and read a book. Nothing tropical or islandish about any of that. This Saturday, however, I was reminded of where I live. Some friends of mine at school invited me to go snorkeling with them. Having never engaged in any such activity, I jumped at the opportunity. We hit the eastern coast in the morning. The eastern coast boasts some beautiful scenery, with the mountains dropping straight into the ocean. We snorkeled for a while, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself, even after ingesting half of the Pacific Ocean. However, conditions weren't optimal for snorkeling. The ocean was rather rough and murky, due to a typhoon passing north of Taiwan. One of my friends suggested that surfing might be a better idea under these conditions. Having never surfed before, I heartily agreed with the assessment. Thus, we headed out to a local surfing hotspot, rented a couple of boards, and hit the ocean. Actually, it would probably be more appropriate to change the last part of that sentence from active to passive--I was hit by the ocean. I got pummeled. I would hop on my board and start paddling my way out into the ocean only to be picked up by a wave and slammed back on the beach. When I would finally make my way out a bit, I would get myself situated to catch a wave and then muff the whole surfing process horribly and get tossed rudely from the board. Yes, I went twelve rounds with the Pacific. I must humbly admit, though, that the last three rounds saw me standing up, riding my way onto the beach. I may have been standing shakily, but I was standing none the less. After surfing, we went to a cafe on the beach, had a cup of tea and looked out at the gorgeous coastline. It was a lot of fun, and I am grateful to my friends for taking me out for the day.

I could use your prayers this coming week. I have parent demos this week at school. This means that all the parents come on a special day and attend a class with their children. It also means a lot of work for the teachers, especially for an inexperienced one like myself. A bad class may spell the end of amazing grapes for me. Even besides that, though, I would like to do well. I will let you know how it goes.

Natural Disasters

Typhoon Fanapi twirled its way across Taiwan today. In past lives, I lived close enough to the Atlantic coast to catch some of the fierce hurricanes that hurled themselves off the ocean, but this was my first experience with their Western Pacific brothers. I must say I was sorely disappointed. The rest of this blog will show just how justified this disappointment is.

A friend informed me early last week that a typhoon might soon hit the island. I stated that in light of such an imminent occurrence, it would be wise to hustle down to the hospital to be vaccinated against so formidable a foe. My friend quickly checked my march to the doctor by giving me to understand that a typhoon was not a disease but a storm. This brightened my countenance considerably, and I began to make all the necessary preparations for the onslaught. These preparations mainly consisted of loudly and regularly proclaiming that I would not be evacuating inland. It was here that my disappointments began, for no one seem to pay my proclamations any attention whatsoever. As a matter of fact, they laughed and mentioned the fact that Taiwan was a small island that would be hit in its entirety by the typhoon, making the move inland futile. It became obvious that further preparations were necessary, so I went out and bought a life preserver and an inflatable raft. Thus armed, I anxiously cast my eye out over the vast expanse of the ocean that cradles this little island, looking for the first signs of Poseidon's fury.

Upon learning that the typhoon would arrive over the weekend, I was thrilled at the opportunity to go to church in the midst of the raging storm. One is exposed to a completely different demographic at church during blizzards, tornadoes, and hurricanes. We can probably throw volcanoes into that mix as well. The natural disaster crowd is similar to the holiday crowd, only a good bit more obnoxious. The holiday crowd meekly slide in and out of their pews, hoping that the regular attendees won't notice their presence any more than they have noticed their past absences. The natural disaster crowd, on the other hand, loudly proclaim their presence. They seem to think that going to church under stressful weather conditions makes up for any amount of Sundays missed under normal conditions. It really works out perfect for them. On these Sundays they can't be out on the lake anyway, so they might as well go to church and get credit for all the Sundays that they do spend on the lake. It also seems to give them a level of spirituality and commitment far beyond those who regularly attend but are reluctant to venture out when the chances of serious injury or death are significantly higher. Thus, the foul weather Christians enter the edifice and commence immediately and gleefully to objurgate roundly their fair weather brethren. It really is a sight to behold. Yet even this pleasure was denied me, as church was cancelled due to the oncoming storm.

Nothing, however, could cancel the storm itself, and that is all I really needed. The typhoon struck around 3:00 Sunday morning, but I decided it more advantageous to wait until daylight to venture out. I slept through the night, then, and when the sun finally rose, I got up with it and prepared myself. I first saw to the inflation of the raft and donned my life preserver. With a deep breath, I then dragged the raft out to the street. Here I must pause and say a word about my little apartment. It is on the first floor and is completely walled in, leaving no way to look out onto the street. Thus, I cannot truly gage the conditions outside from my apartment. However, there was a typhoon out there, and I knew exactly what I was going to do once I left my apartment, walked down the corridor to the front door of the apartment complex, and exited out on to Tai shun street. I would launch my raft out onto the free-flowing river that had once been the street and begin my search for that lone constant of any true storm; that staple of and enduring monument to all inclement weather; that beacon of hope and perseverance; that shining light in the darkest of moments--the Weather Channel reporter. There actually were no hurricanes, tornadoes, or blizzards before 1982, which was the year the Weather Channel was launched. There really wasn't any such thing as weather at all. Few people seem to be aware of this fact, but upon the slightest reflection it becomes obvious that this must be the case. Anyway, I planned to guide my raft up to the light pole to which the reporter was clinging and then offer myself to be interviewed. This interview, of course, would be replayed every 45 seconds, and I would gain enduring fame and glory. I even had my speech worked out.

Yeah, I'm just out here lookin' to be o' some help to some poor soul out here who is trapped and don't got nowhere to turn. I seen this thing commin'. Felt it in my bones. My liver always starts actin' up too just before one lands. I alway knows exactly when they're gonna hit. My friends always tell me to get the heck off the island, but in all my years I ain't never run from one of these dern things. I just always come out here tryin' to be a Good Samyrian to those in need. I figured the gangster probably didn't leave town, so somebody better hang around to try and head 'im off...

This was my moment.

You can imagine, then, the utter dismay and confusion when I opened the door and launched my raft out onto a little child. I shouted at her to climb into the raft and out of the river, only to notice that she was standing on firm, though damp pavement. No free-flowing river. What was worse, there was very little rain. I panicked and dashed up and down the street looking for the reporter. There was none. I only found people walking in and out of beauty salons, convenience stores, and vegetable markets. There I stood, my moment of glory cruelly snatched from my hands. I gave the raft to the little child and slunk back inside.

I seems that the storm had hit hardest during the night, but even then it wasn't all that bad. The mountains that surround Taipei protected the city from much of the typhoon's fury. It's just not fair.

This came on the heels of my experience with an earthquake at school not long ago. I knew that earthquakes were common here, so I had been waiting with great anticipation for my first good one. In the middle of class the building began to sway, and I sprang into action. I hustled the kids out into the hall, verbally fighting back the craven instincts I knew to be engulfing these little children's hearts. I screamed of courage, heroism, and clearheaded action, only to notice that in the other classrooms teachers calmly spoke of the past perfect tense. It seems that earthquakes only merit a passing remark here.

I'm moving.

Things I Have Learned

I didn't write a blog last weekend. No doubt you were wondering if there was a good reason for this glaring omission. You may rest at ease. There was. I was at a church retreat (I would like to say here that I have always disliked the term "church retreat." Are we really that defeatist?) No, no--I did not go to the "True Love" singles retreat ("Singles retreat" is an acceptable term). Some of you are wondering why I wasn't at this particular retreat. I am asking this same question. A better question, though, is why anyone else went when they knew I wouldn't be there. Rumor has it that this annual event is one of the better singles retreats to be found anywhere. Supposedly, on the opening day the sheep are separated from the goats, and neither group gets the first sniff of their counterparts until a dinner on the last day. In the intervening time, each group is told how to talk to that freakish sort of person respectively called either a male or female. This most likely leads in the end to five minutes worth of recitations over dinner followed by thirty minutes of either awkward silence or repetitions of the same memorized conversations over and over again. I have always gravitated towards the awkward silence myself, being partial to silence in the presence of strange beings.

I myself was at a retreat for foreign members of the church I attend. The church decided that they were tired of being offended routinely by foreigners who are oblivious to Taiwanese customs, so they kindly put on a retreat to show us how to understand Taiwanese culture and live therein. One important thing I learned at the retreat is that Asians are not a minority here. That explains why I have seen so many of them since arriving in Taiwan.

This might be a good place to share another aspect of Asian culture that I learned not long after arriving here. Asian people are without exception twice as old as they look. You often hear of sweet, old Japanese ladies living to be 115 years old. I have always been slightly skeptical of such stories. Now I know that they are utter nonsense. That sweet old lady was actually 230 years old. At some point in her life people just gave up counting and started going by how old she looked compared to people of other cultures. Some people have suffered great consternation over the prodigious life spans of some people recorded in Genesis. It is not a problem for me at all. They were Asian. Methuselah probably looked about 23 when he went left the earth.

This cultural difference has cause me some some difficulty, though. I have at times treated my elders like children.

Me: Well hello there, cute child! How are you this fine morning? Did you just get out of school?

"Cute child": Yes, I did just get out of school.

Me: I'll bet you sang the ABC song today. You probably know it so well by now!

"Cute child": I sure as heck hope I do. I have been teaching it for the last 20 years.

Me: Of course you have! I knew that! Can you teach it to me sometime?

I now assume that every person I meet, no matter how young they look, has made his or her way around the sun at least 45 times. This has led to some attempts at profound conversations with newborns, but at least they aren't offended.

I will end this blog with a book recommendation for anyone who may be interested. I think I feel guilty for presenting page after page of poor reading material, and therefore am obliged to suggest something better. This book is nothing like my blog. It is called Liturgical Theology by Simon Chan. It is the best contemporary Christian book I have read for some time. It maybe a little bit of work for some of you, but it is worth it, even if you wind up disagreeing with it. If you wind up getting it, don't give up in the first few chapters, which are probably more difficult. Make your way to the end. I like it because it is a good step towards many of the things I have been thinking about and working on over the past few years. I send this out in my blog, so that I don't have to recommend it to too many people individually. It also saves all of you from having to lie by saying, "Why that sounds great, T.J. I think I will run out and get it now!", whenever I see you next.

Weekly Update

I started teaching my junior high class this week. We gather together (to ask the Lord's blessing) for little over two hours on Saturday mornings. This is the highlight of the week for these sixteen kids. In Taiwan, the junior high years are spent in a monk-like devotion to study. Every child (or more likely, every child's parent) longs to get into a top high school. This is accomplished by doing very well in junior high, as the students are placed in different high schools according to their test scores. Thus, they spend all their time studying and preparing for tests. For this reason, they exude boundless gratitude for the opportunity to get up early on Saturday mornings to spend two hours sitting in another classroom. They were so overwhelmed that they were unable to express their gratitude. As a matter of fact, they were unable to express anything. Yes, I received two hours of silent gratitude. It was rewarding. Allow me to give you a peek inside the junior high classroom.

Me: Alright guys, I am really looking forward to getting to know you over the course of the year. I am really excited about this class! Let's start with you giving me your names. What's your name?

Student 1: (silent moving of the mouth)

Me: What is that again?

Student 1: (more of the same)

Me: Um, can you spell that?

Student 1: (more of the same)

Me: Very nice! I am so glad to have you in the class! And what is your name?

Student 2: (through similar facial expressions and movements exhibits a close relationship with Student 1.)

Me: (after realizing that it is somehow culturally inappropriate to ask junior high students their names) Well, guys, I am so excited about our lesson today that we are just going to jump right in!

(blanks stares)

Or maybe I will jump right in. This is going to be great guys! Today we are going to Alaska! How many of you know where Alaska is?

(blank stares)

(Pointing to a student who hadn't made the slightest movement or sound) That's right! It's a part of America that is adjacent to Canada and just across the Bering Straight from Russia! It's inhabited by the Aleutian Indians, who are eskimos of the first rank! All Alaskans subsist on walrus meat, use whale blubber for just about everything, and wear seal skins (nothing like using false stereotypes to generate interest)! They live in igloos and get around by dogsled. There is an adventure to be found around every snow bank!

(blank stares accompanied by a sniff from the back of the room)

But today we are going to read about one of the greatest adventures ever! It involves scaling sheer walls of ice on towering mountains, a death defying plunge of 45 meters from said ice wall, and a frantic rescue operation! This tale is soaked in peril and wrung out by heroism! It is guaranteed to have you on the edge of your seat (I now sound as if I am giving a movie review)! Who's up for doing some reading?

(blank stares)

Before we start, let me set up the story and give you a taste of what we're in for by throwing myself from this fourth floor window to the pavement below!

(blank stares)

I will now ask that you leave the classroom. You have seen enough.

In other news, the Monkeys' season is over. We lost today 6-5 and were eliminated from the post-season tournament. I must say that we didn't go down without a fight. We staged a brilliant 9th inning comeback to take the Giants into extra innings. However, we were taken out by a bases loaded single in the 11th. I went 1-4 with a solid single to extend my hitting streak to a season high 3 games. I can also make the claim of getting a hit in every game I played this season. I would like to remind my brothers, that this is not the first time I have been able to make this claim. This will be the last time baseball is mentioned in this blog for a while.

I will now end with some fantastic words gleaned from yet another notebook I recently acquired. It is just a small notebook with a cover that flips up, but it looms large in terms of carrying great weight in the "Good said" world. Boldly printed in the center of the cover are the words "Good Idea." Nothing special so far, but things rapidly improve from here. Just under "Good Idea" stands the phrase "in yours head freeidea." In the top left hand corner we find this gem: "Must therefore maintain an optimistic heart also has the intelligent brains." Even this phrase does not exhaust the glories of this notebook, however, as it goes on in the bottom right hand corner to say, "Has many ideas in yours life is needs to move the brain to think." I am going to leave it at that. Nothing more needs to be said.