Editor's note: Pecadillo and wife are celebrating their first anniversary by driving from Los Angeles to the scene of their wedding last year. In lieu of his annual blogpost, Pecadillo submitted this series of Tweets last night.
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Let's just say I'm glad there weren't too many other people around to observe my "power stance" whenever dracula flew by.
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Somehow, the trophy wife was already able to fall asleep. Not me. I want to be awake when lockjaw sets in.
Showing posts with label Pecadillo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pecadillo. Show all posts
13 July 2009
The Adventures of Pecadillo
by Pecadillo
Editor's note: Pecadillo and wife are celebrating their first anniversary by driving from Los Angeles to the scene of their wedding last year. In lieu of his annual blogpost, Pecadillo submitted this series of Tweets last night.
Editor's note: Pecadillo and wife are celebrating their first anniversary by driving from Los Angeles to the scene of their wedding last year. In lieu of his annual blogpost, Pecadillo submitted this series of Tweets last night.
20 March 2009
Adventures in Husbandry
Pecadillo Returns to the Blogosphere
by Pecadillo
When we got married last summer, Mrs. Pecadillo and I received many generous and useful gifts from our friends and relatives. One handy gift, bestowed on us by another Officer of the Law and his Mrs. Officer-of-the-Law proved an essential home appliance the very day after we opened it from its gift wrap.
It was a warm Tuesday afternoon. Having just returned home from a Cruise in the Caribbean, our Honeymoon had come to an end. Mrs. Pecadillo was at work, her first day back since the wedding, and I was at home, still on my vacation from work and with little to entertain my feeble, child-like mind. Most of the day had gone by; a wonderful day filled with far too many naps to count. To the untrained eye, it would appear as though I had accomplished little to nothing—and there may have been some truth in that. I knew I needed to do something, but what? My wife keeps the house immaculate, and after all, it's an apartment. There was no lawn to mow and there wasn't anything to fix. All my guns were already clean, the garage was organized, and there were no more pictures to hang. I had to find something to do. After all, I didn't want to let on that my wife had married a bum—at least not this early in the game. Still fresh out of premarital classes, I decided to test my well-documented ineptness of all things domestic and attempt to be productive around the house in my wife's absence; I decided to do the dishes.
A chore of this caliber is a rare feat for me to accomplish. Most kitchenly duties are beyond my meager capabilities and the kitchen in our new apartment proved to be a very strange and unfamiliar place. We hadn't been back in town long, but there were just enough dirty dishes to justify a single load in the machine. Whilst loading the dishwasher, I looked under the sink in search of dishwashing detergent. There was none. However, at the time I felt my options were still wide open. Under the sink I found multiple bottles and containers that appeared to be a large soap collection
of varying types and uses. To me, soap was soap, to a certain extent. I'm a guy—but I'm not a Neanderthal; I know the difference between dish-cleaning soap and people-cleaning soap. Obviously a bar of Irish Spring thrown hastily into the dishwasher would not get the job done. I even knew that the girly, body-wash soap that had just recently made its way into my bathroom was also not an option for the dishwasher. However, while surveying the vast collection of dish-cleaning soap found under my sink, a thought occurred to me: how different can all these soaps be? Sure, none of these soaps say that they are meant for the dishwasher, but they're basically all the same thing, right?
I would soon learn just how different they really are.
As I rummaged through the cleaning products under my sink, I eventually settled on a bottle of Dawn PlusTM, Odor Eraser Dishwashing Liquid Detergent. This particular bottle boasted a "splash of lime" scent that I was thoroughly and eagerly anticipating. I had it all planned out, the lovely Mrs. Pecadillo would return home from a long day's work in about an hour. At the door, she would be greeted with a strong and pleasing scent of pure, old fashioned cleanliness with just a hint of lime. The kitchen would be clean, the sink would be empty, and perhaps our stacks and stacks of wedding gifts would be organized. And who knows, the carpet might even get vacuumed while I was at it. I was apparently too busy thinking of more things around the house to clean that I failed to read a few other words written on the bottle of soap. These words, printed in a much smaller font than the rest, were "Ultra" and "Concentrated." These two, tiny little words proved to be the most significant and important words on the whole bottle. Why they were printed in such tiny letters and hidden behind a sunbeam graphic, I'll never understand. As I later discovered, these words indicated that this particular bottle of soap contains 30% more cleaning ingredients per drop than the leading, non-concentrated brand, and thus, much less of this soap is required to get the job done. This is something they should teach men in premarital classes.
Not noticing the important information hidden on the bottle's label, I quickly administered what later proved to be approximately 7 times the required amount of soap typically needed for a single load of dishes. At the time, the only soap I had ever put in a dishwasher was soap that was meant exclusively for dishwashers. Every dishwasher I had ever used has had a small soap container built into the door of the washer that the operator is supposed to fill with dishwashing soap. Not realizing the vast intricacies in soaps that I was dealing with, I filled the container to the brim with the ultra concentrated, super-soap. I even poured a little extra over the dishes themselves just for good measure. I then closed the door with confidence, started the cycle of the dishwasher, and retreated to the living room couch for a little sit-down.
I still had almost an hour before Mrs. Pecadillo would come home from work. That was more than enough time to vacuum the floor, take out the trash, and finish organizing the wedding gift piles. According to my calculations, I had the better part of a half an hour of "me time" before I would need to actually get back up and finish the chores I had assigned myself. Break time was here and I felt like I had earned it. After all, visualizing yourself cleaning a home can really take a lot out of you. Besides, I work hardest and fastest when I'm under a little pressure.
I woke from my nap approximately 25 minutes after starting the dishwasher. As I slowly rose from my favorite spot on my favorite couch, I surveyed the living room and wondered aloud if the load of dishes alone would be enough to account for my day.
Finding it hard to regain the motivation I had briefly experienced moments before my most recent nap, I sauntered into the kitchen to get a better view of the living room. Upon entering the kitchen, my bare feet encountered a terrain they did not immediately recognize. A delayed reaction, possibly related to the day's over-napping, allowed me to walk into the center of the kitchen before noticing the eerie ground on which I tread. I looked down and observed that my feet had totally disappeared. The floor was gone, my feet were gone, everything below the middle of my calves. . . gone. Again, the sleep-educed delayed reaction was playing a significant factor in my psyche. Staring down, I was suddenly jolted wide awake with the discovery that I was standing shin-deep in a blanket of little white bubbles covering the entire kitchen floor like a mound of freshly fallen snow. This unwelcome mass of cleaning product seemed to be flooding out of the dishwasher door. I quickly theorized that there was indeed a big difference between the soaps I had found under my sink. The apparent over-dispensing of soap proved too much for the little dishwasher to handle. The growing buildup of soap suds on the other side of the dishwasher door must have been so powerful and relentless that it literally forced itself to seep out of the water-tight seal between the dishwasher's door and frame. Smaller wads of the soapy lather poured out of the ventilation panel located on the lower portion of the dishwasher door. These less intimidating, mini-masses of suds quickly joined forces with the mighty foaming beast, increasing it's size while taunting me as it consumed my lower half. This dubious monster of white bubbles where the floor used to be was growing before my very eyes, multiplying in size and frothing around my bare ankles like a boa constrictor or a villainous blob from a bad SciFi movie. I was literally sinking into an abyss of my own foolishness and I did not know what to do.
When just then, the very idiocy that had caused this predicament took over completely. I actually thought to myself:
If I throw a couple flashlights in there, this is gonna look just like the pool scene in Gremlins.
Brilliant. Thankfully, I came to my senses and realized my first order of action must be to stop the problem at its source. With that, I stretched out my hand to the dishwasher's control panel. Turning the large round knob counter-clock wise, the cycle was halted. For a moment, froth continued to pour out of the ventilation panel of the dishwasher however as the sound of water draining out of the machine crescendoed like a sigh, the froth ceased to pour. For now, I was safe.
As the proverbial smoke cleared, I discovered that the growing soap beast on the kitchen floor that had once shown no sign of slowing its steady proliferation was now a stagnate body of bubbles, cut off from its life source.
I had won.
A wave of pride swept through me. I had conquered the beast. In a mano a soap battle, I had shown myself the victor. But I wasn't in the clear just yet. Mrs. Pecadillo would be home in literally minutes, and I still had a massive mound of soap to get rid of. But how?
A mop might have worked, but probably not as fast as I would need it to. I'd seen my wife use one of those Swiffer Sweepers® but I feared something like that would only spread the soap around and would not soak it up. I estimated that there were approximately 10 to 15 gallons of soap suds on my kitchen floor. There was literally no portion of the floor left uncovered. A mop was out of the question. Towels wouldn't work either; it would take hours to soak up that mess and it would require using every towel we had. How could I explain that a day where my only accomplishments were napping and a single load of dishes caused me to soil every towel we owned? What I needed was. . . a wet/dry shop vacuum. Yes, of course! We had just been given one for our wedding! Like a foam-covered cheetah, I pounced on our neatly stacked piles of wedding gifts. Rifling through the hoards of decorative bowls and George Foreman grills, I searched for the red-and-black vacuum that I knew was my only hope. "I got it" I yelled to no one in particular. The machine, still in its white-and gray-cardboard box, read "TWO GALLONS." If the shop-vac held only 2 gallons, I would need to get started soon. I looked at the clock and estimated that I had no more than 12 or 13 minutes, tops. With that, I tore open the shop-vac box with more energy and enthusiasm than a 7-year-old on Christmas morning. Shreds of cardboard and paper flew all over the dining room. I had no time for instructions or warranties, It was go time.
Like a flash I forced the electrical cord into the wall socket. Having not read the instructions, I began vigorously pressing the many buttons on the vacuum at random, hoping one of them would activate machine. After a few moments of looking like Helen Keller with a Bopit®, the vacuum turned on. I grabbed hold of the long black hose attachment and thrust it deep into the mouth of the soon-to-be-dead soap monster that was covering my kitchen tile. Within seconds the shop-vac sputtered like a burping baby, indicating that it needed to be emptied. I quickly poured the contents of the small vacuum into the kitchen sink and put it back to work on the tile. Moments later, I repeated the process a second time. Then a third, and a forth. I eventually lost count after 7, indicating that there had been more than 14 gallons of soap foam on the floor. After continuing the process of sucking up the soap from the tile a few more times, the kitchen floor began to look close to normal. While drying off a few problem areas, I glanced at the clock and realized that Mrs. Pecadillo could literally walk in the door at any moment.
I took a step back and assessed the situation; I was actually looking pretty good. The kitchen tile, aside from a few remaining wet spots was shimmering in the natural light of our apartment. The massive amount of soap that had previously filled the entire length of the kitchen floor had actually cleaned every spec of dirt off the tile. I couldn't remember the floor ever looking so good. It literally looked as though I had spent the entire day on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor, and then another few hours polishing it. I stood there for a moment admiring the fantastic cleaning job I felt I should have been proud of when I heard it:
"Honk, honk."
I knew exactly what that unmistakable sound meant; Mrs. Pecadillo was home. She had just parked and locked my Dodge Charger which she had inherited through marriage. I knew I had about 30 seconds before she would walk up the single flight of stairs, round the corner, and ultimately enter into the front door of our apartment. Those last 30 seconds allowed me just enough time to empty the remaining contents of the shop-vac into the sink, soak up some last residual wet spots, and hide the lingering evidence i.e. shop-vac, dish rags, and flashlight (I had tried the Gremlins thing. . . it worked). I retreated to the rear closet on the back patio with the aforementioned evidence. As I returned to the living room/kitchen area, the front door opened. In walked the lovely Mrs. Pecadillo, somehow managing to look more beautiful than when she had left that morning. The exchange went like this:
Mrs. Pec: "Hi, sweetheart. How was your—why does it smell like lime?"
Pec: "Ummm. . ."
During this brief greeting, she walked directly into the kitchen and approached the dish washer. Did she know? Could she tell what had happened just from the lime smell? I broke out into a cold sweet.
Mrs. Pec: "You did the dishes?!? Oh baby, thank you so much! I was gonna ask. . ."
The shine off the kitchen tile had caught her eye and she was now in a full trance.
Mrs. Pec: "Oh my word! Baby, you cleaned the kitchen floor! You're amazing, how did you get it so clean and shiny? I could never get it that clean."
Pec: "It actually wasn't that hard. I kinda learned a new way. Call it an ancient Chinese secret."
Mrs. Pec: "Well I think you're amazing. Man, I am so thirsty, it was so hot today. Are there any glasses in the wash?"
Pec: "Uhhhh. . ."
How I could have forgotten to empty the soap from the interior of the dishwasher, I'll never know. I hadn't even touched the dishwasher since stopping its cycle and halting the growth of the soap blob some twenty minutes prior. Logically, if the machine had been so full of the soapy monstrosity that it was literally seeping the froth through its watertight seal, there would still be an unnatural amount of soap in the dishwasher. If opened, the machine's door would surely release multiple gallons of soapy suds back onto the floor in a steady river of foam. There was no stopping Mrs. Pecadillo; her hand was already on the handle of the dishwasher door. As she lowered the door towards the ground, a large cloud of steam shot out of the opening like a mushroom cloud and dissipated into the ceiling. When the air cleared, Mrs. Pecadillo found herself standing directly in front of a monsoon of foaming soap, reeking of lime, and pouring out onto the floor. Mrs. Pec quickly slammed the door shut to stop the massive flooding while simultaneously shouting an unintelligible noise I doubt could ever be fully explained or interpreted.
The jig was up; I was caught. I knew the time had come to face the music and explain what I had done. That's when I said it; the only thing I could say:
Pec: "What'd you do?"
by Pecadillo
When we got married last summer, Mrs. Pecadillo and I received many generous and useful gifts from our friends and relatives. One handy gift, bestowed on us by another Officer of the Law and his Mrs. Officer-of-the-Law proved an essential home appliance the very day after we opened it from its gift wrap.
It was a warm Tuesday afternoon. Having just returned home from a Cruise in the Caribbean, our Honeymoon had come to an end. Mrs. Pecadillo was at work, her first day back since the wedding, and I was at home, still on my vacation from work and with little to entertain my feeble, child-like mind. Most of the day had gone by; a wonderful day filled with far too many naps to count. To the untrained eye, it would appear as though I had accomplished little to nothing—and there may have been some truth in that. I knew I needed to do something, but what? My wife keeps the house immaculate, and after all, it's an apartment. There was no lawn to mow and there wasn't anything to fix. All my guns were already clean, the garage was organized, and there were no more pictures to hang. I had to find something to do. After all, I didn't want to let on that my wife had married a bum—at least not this early in the game. Still fresh out of premarital classes, I decided to test my well-documented ineptness of all things domestic and attempt to be productive around the house in my wife's absence; I decided to do the dishes.
A chore of this caliber is a rare feat for me to accomplish. Most kitchenly duties are beyond my meager capabilities and the kitchen in our new apartment proved to be a very strange and unfamiliar place. We hadn't been back in town long, but there were just enough dirty dishes to justify a single load in the machine. Whilst loading the dishwasher, I looked under the sink in search of dishwashing detergent. There was none. However, at the time I felt my options were still wide open. Under the sink I found multiple bottles and containers that appeared to be a large soap collection
of varying types and uses. To me, soap was soap, to a certain extent. I'm a guy—but I'm not a Neanderthal; I know the difference between dish-cleaning soap and people-cleaning soap. Obviously a bar of Irish Spring thrown hastily into the dishwasher would not get the job done. I even knew that the girly, body-wash soap that had just recently made its way into my bathroom was also not an option for the dishwasher. However, while surveying the vast collection of dish-cleaning soap found under my sink, a thought occurred to me: how different can all these soaps be? Sure, none of these soaps say that they are meant for the dishwasher, but they're basically all the same thing, right?I would soon learn just how different they really are.
As I rummaged through the cleaning products under my sink, I eventually settled on a bottle of Dawn PlusTM, Odor Eraser Dishwashing Liquid Detergent. This particular bottle boasted a "splash of lime" scent that I was thoroughly and eagerly anticipating. I had it all planned out, the lovely Mrs. Pecadillo would return home from a long day's work in about an hour. At the door, she would be greeted with a strong and pleasing scent of pure, old fashioned cleanliness with just a hint of lime. The kitchen would be clean, the sink would be empty, and perhaps our stacks and stacks of wedding gifts would be organized. And who knows, the carpet might even get vacuumed while I was at it. I was apparently too busy thinking of more things around the house to clean that I failed to read a few other words written on the bottle of soap. These words, printed in a much smaller font than the rest, were "Ultra" and "Concentrated." These two, tiny little words proved to be the most significant and important words on the whole bottle. Why they were printed in such tiny letters and hidden behind a sunbeam graphic, I'll never understand. As I later discovered, these words indicated that this particular bottle of soap contains 30% more cleaning ingredients per drop than the leading, non-concentrated brand, and thus, much less of this soap is required to get the job done. This is something they should teach men in premarital classes.Not noticing the important information hidden on the bottle's label, I quickly administered what later proved to be approximately 7 times the required amount of soap typically needed for a single load of dishes. At the time, the only soap I had ever put in a dishwasher was soap that was meant exclusively for dishwashers. Every dishwasher I had ever used has had a small soap container built into the door of the washer that the operator is supposed to fill with dishwashing soap. Not realizing the vast intricacies in soaps that I was dealing with, I filled the container to the brim with the ultra concentrated, super-soap. I even poured a little extra over the dishes themselves just for good measure. I then closed the door with confidence, started the cycle of the dishwasher, and retreated to the living room couch for a little sit-down.
I still had almost an hour before Mrs. Pecadillo would come home from work. That was more than enough time to vacuum the floor, take out the trash, and finish organizing the wedding gift piles. According to my calculations, I had the better part of a half an hour of "me time" before I would need to actually get back up and finish the chores I had assigned myself. Break time was here and I felt like I had earned it. After all, visualizing yourself cleaning a home can really take a lot out of you. Besides, I work hardest and fastest when I'm under a little pressure.
I woke from my nap approximately 25 minutes after starting the dishwasher. As I slowly rose from my favorite spot on my favorite couch, I surveyed the living room and wondered aloud if the load of dishes alone would be enough to account for my day.
Finding it hard to regain the motivation I had briefly experienced moments before my most recent nap, I sauntered into the kitchen to get a better view of the living room. Upon entering the kitchen, my bare feet encountered a terrain they did not immediately recognize. A delayed reaction, possibly related to the day's over-napping, allowed me to walk into the center of the kitchen before noticing the eerie ground on which I tread. I looked down and observed that my feet had totally disappeared. The floor was gone, my feet were gone, everything below the middle of my calves. . . gone. Again, the sleep-educed delayed reaction was playing a significant factor in my psyche. Staring down, I was suddenly jolted wide awake with the discovery that I was standing shin-deep in a blanket of little white bubbles covering the entire kitchen floor like a mound of freshly fallen snow. This unwelcome mass of cleaning product seemed to be flooding out of the dishwasher door. I quickly theorized that there was indeed a big difference between the soaps I had found under my sink. The apparent over-dispensing of soap proved too much for the little dishwasher to handle. The growing buildup of soap suds on the other side of the dishwasher door must have been so powerful and relentless that it literally forced itself to seep out of the water-tight seal between the dishwasher's door and frame. Smaller wads of the soapy lather poured out of the ventilation panel located on the lower portion of the dishwasher door. These less intimidating, mini-masses of suds quickly joined forces with the mighty foaming beast, increasing it's size while taunting me as it consumed my lower half. This dubious monster of white bubbles where the floor used to be was growing before my very eyes, multiplying in size and frothing around my bare ankles like a boa constrictor or a villainous blob from a bad SciFi movie. I was literally sinking into an abyss of my own foolishness and I did not know what to do.When just then, the very idiocy that had caused this predicament took over completely. I actually thought to myself:
If I throw a couple flashlights in there, this is gonna look just like the pool scene in Gremlins.
Brilliant. Thankfully, I came to my senses and realized my first order of action must be to stop the problem at its source. With that, I stretched out my hand to the dishwasher's control panel. Turning the large round knob counter-clock wise, the cycle was halted. For a moment, froth continued to pour out of the ventilation panel of the dishwasher however as the sound of water draining out of the machine crescendoed like a sigh, the froth ceased to pour. For now, I was safe.
As the proverbial smoke cleared, I discovered that the growing soap beast on the kitchen floor that had once shown no sign of slowing its steady proliferation was now a stagnate body of bubbles, cut off from its life source.
I had won.
A wave of pride swept through me. I had conquered the beast. In a mano a soap battle, I had shown myself the victor. But I wasn't in the clear just yet. Mrs. Pecadillo would be home in literally minutes, and I still had a massive mound of soap to get rid of. But how?
A mop might have worked, but probably not as fast as I would need it to. I'd seen my wife use one of those Swiffer Sweepers® but I feared something like that would only spread the soap around and would not soak it up. I estimated that there were approximately 10 to 15 gallons of soap suds on my kitchen floor. There was literally no portion of the floor left uncovered. A mop was out of the question. Towels wouldn't work either; it would take hours to soak up that mess and it would require using every towel we had. How could I explain that a day where my only accomplishments were napping and a single load of dishes caused me to soil every towel we owned? What I needed was. . . a wet/dry shop vacuum. Yes, of course! We had just been given one for our wedding! Like a foam-covered cheetah, I pounced on our neatly stacked piles of wedding gifts. Rifling through the hoards of decorative bowls and George Foreman grills, I searched for the red-and-black vacuum that I knew was my only hope. "I got it" I yelled to no one in particular. The machine, still in its white-and gray-cardboard box, read "TWO GALLONS." If the shop-vac held only 2 gallons, I would need to get started soon. I looked at the clock and estimated that I had no more than 12 or 13 minutes, tops. With that, I tore open the shop-vac box with more energy and enthusiasm than a 7-year-old on Christmas morning. Shreds of cardboard and paper flew all over the dining room. I had no time for instructions or warranties, It was go time.
Like a flash I forced the electrical cord into the wall socket. Having not read the instructions, I began vigorously pressing the many buttons on the vacuum at random, hoping one of them would activate machine. After a few moments of looking like Helen Keller with a Bopit®, the vacuum turned on. I grabbed hold of the long black hose attachment and thrust it deep into the mouth of the soon-to-be-dead soap monster that was covering my kitchen tile. Within seconds the shop-vac sputtered like a burping baby, indicating that it needed to be emptied. I quickly poured the contents of the small vacuum into the kitchen sink and put it back to work on the tile. Moments later, I repeated the process a second time. Then a third, and a forth. I eventually lost count after 7, indicating that there had been more than 14 gallons of soap foam on the floor. After continuing the process of sucking up the soap from the tile a few more times, the kitchen floor began to look close to normal. While drying off a few problem areas, I glanced at the clock and realized that Mrs. Pecadillo could literally walk in the door at any moment.I took a step back and assessed the situation; I was actually looking pretty good. The kitchen tile, aside from a few remaining wet spots was shimmering in the natural light of our apartment. The massive amount of soap that had previously filled the entire length of the kitchen floor had actually cleaned every spec of dirt off the tile. I couldn't remember the floor ever looking so good. It literally looked as though I had spent the entire day on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor, and then another few hours polishing it. I stood there for a moment admiring the fantastic cleaning job I felt I should have been proud of when I heard it:
"Honk, honk."
I knew exactly what that unmistakable sound meant; Mrs. Pecadillo was home. She had just parked and locked my Dodge Charger which she had inherited through marriage. I knew I had about 30 seconds before she would walk up the single flight of stairs, round the corner, and ultimately enter into the front door of our apartment. Those last 30 seconds allowed me just enough time to empty the remaining contents of the shop-vac into the sink, soak up some last residual wet spots, and hide the lingering evidence i.e. shop-vac, dish rags, and flashlight (I had tried the Gremlins thing. . . it worked). I retreated to the rear closet on the back patio with the aforementioned evidence. As I returned to the living room/kitchen area, the front door opened. In walked the lovely Mrs. Pecadillo, somehow managing to look more beautiful than when she had left that morning. The exchange went like this:
Mrs. Pec: "Hi, sweetheart. How was your—why does it smell like lime?"
Pec: "Ummm. . ."
During this brief greeting, she walked directly into the kitchen and approached the dish washer. Did she know? Could she tell what had happened just from the lime smell? I broke out into a cold sweet.
Mrs. Pec: "You did the dishes?!? Oh baby, thank you so much! I was gonna ask. . ."
The shine off the kitchen tile had caught her eye and she was now in a full trance.
Mrs. Pec: "Oh my word! Baby, you cleaned the kitchen floor! You're amazing, how did you get it so clean and shiny? I could never get it that clean."
Pec: "It actually wasn't that hard. I kinda learned a new way. Call it an ancient Chinese secret."
Mrs. Pec: "Well I think you're amazing. Man, I am so thirsty, it was so hot today. Are there any glasses in the wash?"
Pec: "Uhhhh. . ."
How I could have forgotten to empty the soap from the interior of the dishwasher, I'll never know. I hadn't even touched the dishwasher since stopping its cycle and halting the growth of the soap blob some twenty minutes prior. Logically, if the machine had been so full of the soapy monstrosity that it was literally seeping the froth through its watertight seal, there would still be an unnatural amount of soap in the dishwasher. If opened, the machine's door would surely release multiple gallons of soapy suds back onto the floor in a steady river of foam. There was no stopping Mrs. Pecadillo; her hand was already on the handle of the dishwasher door. As she lowered the door towards the ground, a large cloud of steam shot out of the opening like a mushroom cloud and dissipated into the ceiling. When the air cleared, Mrs. Pecadillo found herself standing directly in front of a monsoon of foaming soap, reeking of lime, and pouring out onto the floor. Mrs. Pec quickly slammed the door shut to stop the massive flooding while simultaneously shouting an unintelligible noise I doubt could ever be fully explained or interpreted.
The jig was up; I was caught. I knew the time had come to face the music and explain what I had done. That's when I said it; the only thing I could say:
Pec: "What'd you do?"
21 July 2008
Congratulations
posted by Phil Johnson
This is where I was over the weekend:
Photo by Linda McIntyre
More pictures here, courtesy of Leila Bowers.
Mr. and Mrs. Pecadillo
18 July 2008
Photo by Bonnie Freeland
Time does fly, huh?
(First posted 10 November 2005)
I spent all day yesterday (Wednesday [9 November 2005]) in an orientation seminar with the illustrious Pecadillo, who enters the Police Academy this month. The hiring process for LAPD is long and arduous. For every 1,000 applicants who are considered, fewer than 50 are selected. So I'm very proud of Pecadillo for all he has gone through to get this far. He won't want me to blog much about it, because one of the cardinal rules for a recruit is not to stand out or call attention to yourself in any way. (And this rule of thumb was stressed repeatedly. They are not kidding.)
Even the normally upbeat and jovial Pecadillo sees no humor in any of this, and I don't blame him for taking it so seriously. Every one of his training supervisors intimidated me, and I'm not easily intimidated. That includes a couple of petite young women who I'm absolutely positive could beat me into a coma in a matter of seconds without raising much of a sweat, take great delight in doing so, and yet never even crack a smile in the process.
Since some of my readers are also fans of Pecadillo, I thought I'd mention that he might be putting his blog on hiatus or posting very sporadically for a while. Life for him is not going to be all that funny for the next 8 or 9 months. Nor will he have a surplus of spare time. His mornings for the next few months will be starting at 3:30 AM. That's not a lifestyle that is very compatible with writing a humor blog. I think he'll blog at least once more before officially launching his new career. After that, I predict his posts will be pretty spotty and perhaps even nonexistent—at least until he gets back into a less stressful routine.
Incidentally, when he was a little kid, Pecadillo was the least literate of all our sons. He hated every minute of school. He struggled with learning how to read. His two elder brothers loved Sesame Street and learned the alphabet and basic reading skills before entering kindergarten. Pecadillo's tastes ran to the Three Stooges, and he didn't read anything voluntarily until late Junior High, when someone gave him a biography of Curly. He was the least likely person in our family to blog. He started his blog quietly, without even mentioning it to me, while Darlene and I were out of town a few months ago. I have been amazed by his latent literary abilities. It took me completely by surprise. I honestly don't know when and where he developed his writing skills, but—wow.
I just wanted to put on the record how proud I am of him.
This is where I was over the weekend:
Photo by Linda McIntyre
More pictures here, courtesy of Leila Bowers.
Mr. and Mrs. Pecadillo
18 July 2008
Photo by Bonnie Freeland
Time does fly, huh?What I wrote when Pecadillo entered the LAPD Academy
(First posted 10 November 2005)
I spent all day yesterday (Wednesday [9 November 2005]) in an orientation seminar with the illustrious Pecadillo, who enters the Police Academy this month. The hiring process for LAPD is long and arduous. For every 1,000 applicants who are considered, fewer than 50 are selected. So I'm very proud of Pecadillo for all he has gone through to get this far. He won't want me to blog much about it, because one of the cardinal rules for a recruit is not to stand out or call attention to yourself in any way. (And this rule of thumb was stressed repeatedly. They are not kidding.)Even the normally upbeat and jovial Pecadillo sees no humor in any of this, and I don't blame him for taking it so seriously. Every one of his training supervisors intimidated me, and I'm not easily intimidated. That includes a couple of petite young women who I'm absolutely positive could beat me into a coma in a matter of seconds without raising much of a sweat, take great delight in doing so, and yet never even crack a smile in the process.
Since some of my readers are also fans of Pecadillo, I thought I'd mention that he might be putting his blog on hiatus or posting very sporadically for a while. Life for him is not going to be all that funny for the next 8 or 9 months. Nor will he have a surplus of spare time. His mornings for the next few months will be starting at 3:30 AM. That's not a lifestyle that is very compatible with writing a humor blog. I think he'll blog at least once more before officially launching his new career. After that, I predict his posts will be pretty spotty and perhaps even nonexistent—at least until he gets back into a less stressful routine.
Incidentally, when he was a little kid, Pecadillo was the least literate of all our sons. He hated every minute of school. He struggled with learning how to read. His two elder brothers loved Sesame Street and learned the alphabet and basic reading skills before entering kindergarten. Pecadillo's tastes ran to the Three Stooges, and he didn't read anything voluntarily until late Junior High, when someone gave him a biography of Curly. He was the least likely person in our family to blog. He started his blog quietly, without even mentioning it to me, while Darlene and I were out of town a few months ago. I have been amazed by his latent literary abilities. It took me completely by surprise. I honestly don't know when and where he developed his writing skills, but—wow. I just wanted to put on the record how proud I am of him.
24 January 2008
Another One Bites the Dust. . .
by Phil Johnson
hree mostly personal things, quickly:
hree mostly personal things, quickly: - Pecadillo is officially engaged. For those wondering why he has been not-blogging for the past umpteen months, now you know. Since it's not really smart to post a lot of identity-related details on the Internet, let me just say that Pecadillo's bride-to-be is a real treasure: sweet-tempered, musically gifted, fun to be around, and she genuinely loves the Lord. Her father is a pastor and gifted Bible expositor. Though she grew up most of her life a thousand miles away, about 15 years ago she and her family lived pretty near to us, and she and Pecadillo were even students in the same grade school in 1992. (See above yearbook pics.) But they didn't actually meet until last summer. Darlene and I love her. We couldn't be more excited.
- January 25 is my Mother's birthday. I won't say exactly how old she is, but both she and my Dad have now managed to get well past 75 without becoming dour, senile, or sedentary. It gives me great hope. I apparently come from good genetic stock. Happy birthday, Mum. I love you.
- January 25 is also the official two-year bloggiversary of PyroManiacs, Team-Blog version. To celebrate, just like last year, I'm closing the blog for a week or so. I'll be on the road during the hiatus, back at Sean Higgins's snow retreat, then to a conference in New Jersey, then to a conference in the Dallas area. So I really need a break from the blog. You can still visit Dan's blog or Frank's blog for your daily Pyrofix. They get to say whatever they like on their own blogs, so it's like Dan and Frank unplugged. Have fun. Behave. See you in February.
09 August 2007
"50,000 Volts and a Body Slam"
by Phil Johnson
ecadillo's takedown was on "Most Shocking: Stopped by the Law" (CourtTV) last night. It was the closing feature. I didn't know beforehand or I would've posted a heads-up. All I can do now is gloat.
ecadillo's takedown was on "Most Shocking: Stopped by the Law" (CourtTV) last night. It was the closing feature. I didn't know beforehand or I would've posted a heads-up. All I can do now is gloat.18 July 2007
The Prayer of Jpeg
by Pecadillo
I don't often weigh in on the various debates and discussions that frequently arise at this blog. Let's face it, I'm really just an honorary Pyromaniac, kind of like when cousin Oliver joined the cast of the Brady Bunch. No one turns to me for my thoughts on the emerging church or the various elements of Premillennialism. That would be like going to a Star Wars convention and attempting to engage the hotel janitor in a debate about continuity errors with Darth Vader's chest plate.
What we have here are three bloggers that are experts in serious, important theological issues and one blogger that knows where to go to buy the best deep fried Twinkies. However, we are currently involved in an issue about which, I feel like I have something to say:
Cats are evil, plain and simple.
If you can't see that—well, then I'm very sorry, but you're just wrong. The only thing worse than a cat is a cat owner who can't understand why no one else likes the cat.
My job requires me to go into many different houses and apartments and see firsthand how people live. I've come across a lot of cat people, and they always leave a bad taste in my mouth. A few weeks ago, I was called to respond to the home of a man who thought he had been burglarized. He had stepped out of his apartment for a quick trip to the market and when he came back, he found that his screen door was ajar. Upon our arrival, he requested that my partner and I go through his apartment and make sure any possible burglars were gone. As I stepped through the door, I was hit by a wall of cat stink that almost sent me to my knees. Keep in mind - I used to work in a pet store, I can handle a little pet odor.
This was different; this was evil.
As I made my way through this man's apartment, I found no less than ten different litter boxes, hundreds of framed cat pictures, and far too many cats to count. What else did I find? You guessed it; no sign of any other human's having ever stepped foot inside. After searching the remainder of the house and verifying that there was no evidence of a break-in, I quickly made my way out of the apartment and back toward its only human resident. After speaking with him for a few short minutes I found out a few things that didn't exactly come as a surprise:
1) he was single and lived alone. 2) he was self-employed and rarely made it outside his home. And 3) his work involved photographing cats in various costumes. I assured the man that it was safe (I suppose) to go back into his home.
As my partner and I tried slowly to back away from this guy, he reached out and handed us each his business card. "Did you like my photographs? I don't just shoot cats, I do all pets. Go ahead and keep this card; ya never know."
I knew. I knew right then and there that this guy was never going anywhere near my dog.
Ever.
I assume that if there had indeed been an attempted burglary, the thief only made it a few steps into the apartment before getting freaked out and running home to take a shower.
Or maybe one of the cats opened the door.
In short, the fleeing-in-terror scenario is what I want to avoid over here at Pyromaniacs. I'd hate to have somebody stumble upon the blog, but quickly leave without reading anything after seeing multiple cat pictures. Maybe I'm just used to writing for the type of people who require frequent visual aides, but I do think the cat photos need to stop.
I don't often weigh in on the various debates and discussions that frequently arise at this blog. Let's face it, I'm really just an honorary Pyromaniac, kind of like when cousin Oliver joined the cast of the Brady Bunch. No one turns to me for my thoughts on the emerging church or the various elements of Premillennialism. That would be like going to a Star Wars convention and attempting to engage the hotel janitor in a debate about continuity errors with Darth Vader's chest plate.What we have here are three bloggers that are experts in serious, important theological issues and one blogger that knows where to go to buy the best deep fried Twinkies. However, we are currently involved in an issue about which, I feel like I have something to say:
Cats are evil, plain and simple.If you can't see that—well, then I'm very sorry, but you're just wrong. The only thing worse than a cat is a cat owner who can't understand why no one else likes the cat.
My job requires me to go into many different houses and apartments and see firsthand how people live. I've come across a lot of cat people, and they always leave a bad taste in my mouth. A few weeks ago, I was called to respond to the home of a man who thought he had been burglarized. He had stepped out of his apartment for a quick trip to the market and when he came back, he found that his screen door was ajar. Upon our arrival, he requested that my partner and I go through his apartment and make sure any possible burglars were gone. As I stepped through the door, I was hit by a wall of cat stink that almost sent me to my knees. Keep in mind - I used to work in a pet store, I can handle a little pet odor.
This was different; this was evil.
As I made my way through this man's apartment, I found no less than ten different litter boxes, hundreds of framed cat pictures, and far too many cats to count. What else did I find? You guessed it; no sign of any other human's having ever stepped foot inside. After searching the remainder of the house and verifying that there was no evidence of a break-in, I quickly made my way out of the apartment and back toward its only human resident. After speaking with him for a few short minutes I found out a few things that didn't exactly come as a surprise:
1) he was single and lived alone. 2) he was self-employed and rarely made it outside his home. And 3) his work involved photographing cats in various costumes. I assured the man that it was safe (I suppose) to go back into his home.As my partner and I tried slowly to back away from this guy, he reached out and handed us each his business card. "Did you like my photographs? I don't just shoot cats, I do all pets. Go ahead and keep this card; ya never know."
I knew. I knew right then and there that this guy was never going anywhere near my dog.
Ever.
I assume that if there had indeed been an attempted burglary, the thief only made it a few steps into the apartment before getting freaked out and running home to take a shower.
Or maybe one of the cats opened the door.
In short, the fleeing-in-terror scenario is what I want to avoid over here at Pyromaniacs. I'd hate to have somebody stumble upon the blog, but quickly leave without reading anything after seeing multiple cat pictures. Maybe I'm just used to writing for the type of people who require frequent visual aides, but I do think the cat photos need to stop.
The Sufficiency of God's Grace
by Phil Johnson
lijah's experience illustrates how God can give abundant grace without necessarily bestowing abundant wealth. Sometimes He chooses to show grace through the most extreme kind of poverty. And that is why when Elijah's brook dried up, God moved Elijah to a widow's home in Zarephath, where by most standards, things were even worse for him. He was living in a hostile, pagan land; he was utterly dependent on the hospitality of one poverty-stricken widow; and there were never enough provisions on hand for more than one meal. At Cherith he at least had regular delivery of food by the ravens—here it was just the paltry remnants of a poor widow's dwindling supply of oil and flour.
The very name of the town, Zarephath, gives a hint about what kind of experience this was for Elijah. "Zarephath" means "smelting furnace" or "cauldron"—the place where precious metal is heated to a white-hot temperature in order to remove impurities. This was part of the painful sanctifying process that would make Elijah fit for his future days of ministry.
To the human eye, it seemed things were getting worse for him, not better. But God gives sufficient grace, just enough to keep us dependent on Him. And the grace that keeps us trusting on a daily basis is a greater grace than an outpouring of material things that might make us forget how dependent we are on God's provision. As we noted in one of those previous posts about Elijah, that's why our Lord teaches us to trust Him for daily bread—not for a surplus of comforts and commodities.
Proverbs 30:8-9 says, "Give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me: Lest I be full, and deny thee, and say, Who is the LORD? or lest I be poor, and steal, and take the name of my God in vain."
Don't ever get the idea that wealth and material prosperity are signs of the Lord's blessing. The truth is sometimes just the opposite.
lijah's experience illustrates how God can give abundant grace without necessarily bestowing abundant wealth. Sometimes He chooses to show grace through the most extreme kind of poverty. And that is why when Elijah's brook dried up, God moved Elijah to a widow's home in Zarephath, where by most standards, things were even worse for him. He was living in a hostile, pagan land; he was utterly dependent on the hospitality of one poverty-stricken widow; and there were never enough provisions on hand for more than one meal. At Cherith he at least had regular delivery of food by the ravens—here it was just the paltry remnants of a poor widow's dwindling supply of oil and flour.The very name of the town, Zarephath, gives a hint about what kind of experience this was for Elijah. "Zarephath" means "smelting furnace" or "cauldron"—the place where precious metal is heated to a white-hot temperature in order to remove impurities. This was part of the painful sanctifying process that would make Elijah fit for his future days of ministry.To the human eye, it seemed things were getting worse for him, not better. But God gives sufficient grace, just enough to keep us dependent on Him. And the grace that keeps us trusting on a daily basis is a greater grace than an outpouring of material things that might make us forget how dependent we are on God's provision. As we noted in one of those previous posts about Elijah, that's why our Lord teaches us to trust Him for daily bread—not for a surplus of comforts and commodities.
Proverbs 30:8-9 says, "Give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me: Lest I be full, and deny thee, and say, Who is the LORD? or lest I be poor, and steal, and take the name of my God in vain."
Don't ever get the idea that wealth and material prosperity are signs of the Lord's blessing. The truth is sometimes just the opposite.
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Pecadillo tells me he thinks the cat theme isn't working. He wants all cats banned permanently from the blog. (He's been telling me this for days. It's a mantra I've heard so often, I've given it a name: "The Prayer of Jpeg.") Pecadillo's already got Wrigley on his side. I'm ambivalent. We've got a LOT more cat images already in the pipeline. But I'll get rid of them all without compunction if a majority of Pyro Regulars share Pecadillo's strong distaste for the feline imagery.
03 March 2007
Angelz? Pheh! We've got Pecadillo
by Phil Johnson
we admit Angelz'z caricature of the Pros Apologian gang is seriously cool. (But we also want it noted that this is in stark contrast to the extreme uncoolness of the actual blogdesign at Aomin.org.) Last week, we were almost ready to concede that the caricature was cooler than anything we could possibly come up with over here.
Then Pecadillo totally bailed us out with this:
That's real. Except for the label with Pecadillo's name and the arrow pointing him out, there are no PhotoShop tricks in any of these pictures. Fox News nationwide interrupted their nonstop coverage of the Anna Nicole Smith funeral Friday morning for a live broadcast of the end of a dramatic LAPD pursuit. No less than our very own Pecadillo emerged from the police cruiser to taser and tackle the bad guy.
You can watch a local news report of the chase here. There's also a half-hour video covering the chase from the time news helicopters picked up on it. In the chase video, Pecadillo's car is the one with "157" painted on the top. It was the lead car in the chase until the first PIT maneuver was performed. Story here.
At the end of the half-hour video, some mention is made of the fact that the suspect received first aid from paramedics at the site. The collision of the suspect's skull with the sidewalk raised a pop-knot on his head about the shape and consistency of the end of a Costco frozen beef chub. The media have reported that none of the gentleman's injuries were deemed serious.
Pecadillo sustained a bruised and slightly-scraped kneecap. This, too, appears to be only a minor injury.
For anyone who may be concerned about the use of force portrayed in these videos: elsewhere, I've given biblical justification for the use of force in precisely these kinds of situations. (See here, here, here, and here.)
Note, moreover, that when the miscreant in this episode emerged from his vehicle, he appeared to have something in his hand. Also, during the brief foot chase, the perp can be seen removing the subcutaneous taser darts, which then became potential weapons. Since he had repeatedly and irrationally refused to comply with police and was tackled in a way that left his arms and hands underneath him and hidden from view, Pecadillo thought it prudent to apply some physical incentive to gain access to whatever the dude had in his hands as quickly as possible. As soon as the swarm of officers subdued the man and gained control of his arms, however, no further force was employed.
(Anyway, if someone wants to argue about the propriety of using this much force in the arrest of a non-compliant malefactor, that's not why I posted this info. Please take that discussion over to one of the radical pacifist blogs.)
Pecadillo's mom and I appreciate your regular prayers for his safety.
PS:Pecadillo is personally offended by the fact that one of the local TV stations kept running the above video on Friday with a background script claiming that "it took seven police officers to bring the man down." He wants it noted that there is no truth whatsoever to that report. See for yourself.
we admit Angelz'z caricature of the Pros Apologian gang is seriously cool. (But we also want it noted that this is in stark contrast to the extreme uncoolness of the actual blogdesign at Aomin.org.) Last week, we were almost ready to concede that the caricature was cooler than anything we could possibly come up with over here.Then Pecadillo totally bailed us out with this:
That's real. Except for the label with Pecadillo's name and the arrow pointing him out, there are no PhotoShop tricks in any of these pictures. Fox News nationwide interrupted their nonstop coverage of the Anna Nicole Smith funeral Friday morning for a live broadcast of the end of a dramatic LAPD pursuit. No less than our very own Pecadillo emerged from the police cruiser to taser and tackle the bad guy.You can watch a local news report of the chase here. There's also a half-hour video covering the chase from the time news helicopters picked up on it. In the chase video, Pecadillo's car is the one with "157" painted on the top. It was the lead car in the chase until the first PIT maneuver was performed. Story here.
At the end of the half-hour video, some mention is made of the fact that the suspect received first aid from paramedics at the site. The collision of the suspect's skull with the sidewalk raised a pop-knot on his head about the shape and consistency of the end of a Costco frozen beef chub. The media have reported that none of the gentleman's injuries were deemed serious.
Pecadillo sustained a bruised and slightly-scraped kneecap. This, too, appears to be only a minor injury.
For anyone who may be concerned about the use of force portrayed in these videos: elsewhere, I've given biblical justification for the use of force in precisely these kinds of situations. (See here, here, here, and here.)
Note, moreover, that when the miscreant in this episode emerged from his vehicle, he appeared to have something in his hand. Also, during the brief foot chase, the perp can be seen removing the subcutaneous taser darts, which then became potential weapons. Since he had repeatedly and irrationally refused to comply with police and was tackled in a way that left his arms and hands underneath him and hidden from view, Pecadillo thought it prudent to apply some physical incentive to gain access to whatever the dude had in his hands as quickly as possible. As soon as the swarm of officers subdued the man and gained control of his arms, however, no further force was employed.(Anyway, if someone wants to argue about the propriety of using this much force in the arrest of a non-compliant malefactor, that's not why I posted this info. Please take that discussion over to one of the radical pacifist blogs.)
Pecadillo's mom and I appreciate your regular prayers for his safety.
PS:Pecadillo is personally offended by the fact that one of the local TV stations kept running the above video on Friday with a background script claiming that "it took seven police officers to bring the man down." He wants it noted that there is no truth whatsoever to that report. See for yourself.
27 January 2007
What we have here is failure to communicate
by Phil Johnson
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25 January 2007
The Downside of Blogging, Part Deux
by Phil Johnson
log-maintenance is a high-stress, labor-intensive duty. The PyroManiacs gangblog concept is exactly one year old today, and group-blogging hasn't really made blogging a breeze like I hoped it would.
It does indeed save some time, because when your teammates write you don't have to, and that part has been great. It also helps tremendously to have blogpartners who are better writers than you are or more witty than you can be, and I'm very appreciative to the team for that.
But ultimately, the stress and frustration of blogging at a high-traffic blog aren't really diminished all that much with team-blogging. The rude and crazy commenters are still rude and crazy. They proliferate as time passes. Blog-activity—especially the kind that is driven by controversy—always seems to heat up when you can least afford the time. It's a major and constant distraction in real life. People often ask how I find time to blog along with all my other responsibilities. My standard answer: "I don't watch much TV." The full truth: I don't get enough sleep, either.
So I'm going on vacation. Darlene and I are leaving this morning for the Pacific Northwest, where I'll be speaking to to a great group of young people at their snow retreat. I won't be back in Los Angeles until the end of next week. That's Super-Bowl Sunday, but I'm TiVoing the game, because I'm actually slated to preach in the evening service that day. At the moment, I have nothing at all on my agenda for the week following. But I really need to use that week to get caught up on some real-life chores and household responsibilities, and I also need to get started preparing my material for the Shepherds' Conference seminars I'm doing in March. I really would rather not have to deal with the blog for a while.
So here's the deal:
Thursday and Friday we'll celebrate our Bloggiversary. I'll miss most of the party, of course, because I'll be on the road. But between now and Saturday, Dan and Frank can post as many times as they like. I predict it will be interesting seeing them try to step on each other's last post. (Note: That's more of a mischievous hope than a "word of knowledge.") Of course, Pecadillo can post, too, and I suppose he might do that if the Muse drops a piano on his head or something, but he seems to be about halfway through an 18-month-long battle with writer's block.
But then Saturday (day after tomorrow), the blog will be closed for at least two weeks. I, the BlogBoss, have decreed it. No BlogSpotting. No weekly dose of Spurgeon. (Get your Spurgeon fix at The Spurgeon Archive.) No new posts from anyone.
We'll reopen for regular business on Monday, February 12. If that plan changes in any way, I'll post a notice about it. But other than that, starting one split-second after midnight Saturday morning, the blog—and I—will be on vacation. There will be no change in content here—aside from possible occasional updates in the "Where I Am Right Now" sidebar, maybe a simple, captionless graphic modification here and there, and whatever comments you people leave in the meta.
I expect some of our regulars will find a way to make even that—uh, entertaining.
Raja: Thanks for the "conversation." I'm not bailing out on you. We'll pick it up sometime after I get back. For my regular critics who may start suffering withdrawal symptoms: you can send anonymous diatribes about me to the iMonk. He's currently highlighting those at his "Underground" blog. (Of course comments over there are closed.) But if someone has a hankering for a real argument (as opposed to just hacky-sacking someone anonymously), you can take it up with Frank Turk or Dan Phillips for the next two weeks.
See you February 12. I'm gonna get some rest.
Oh, and today is also my Mum's birthday. Happy Birthday!
log-maintenance is a high-stress, labor-intensive duty. The PyroManiacs gangblog concept is exactly one year old today, and group-blogging hasn't really made blogging a breeze like I hoped it would.It does indeed save some time, because when your teammates write you don't have to, and that part has been great. It also helps tremendously to have blogpartners who are better writers than you are or more witty than you can be, and I'm very appreciative to the team for that.But ultimately, the stress and frustration of blogging at a high-traffic blog aren't really diminished all that much with team-blogging. The rude and crazy commenters are still rude and crazy. They proliferate as time passes. Blog-activity—especially the kind that is driven by controversy—always seems to heat up when you can least afford the time. It's a major and constant distraction in real life. People often ask how I find time to blog along with all my other responsibilities. My standard answer: "I don't watch much TV." The full truth: I don't get enough sleep, either.
So I'm going on vacation. Darlene and I are leaving this morning for the Pacific Northwest, where I'll be speaking to to a great group of young people at their snow retreat. I won't be back in Los Angeles until the end of next week. That's Super-Bowl Sunday, but I'm TiVoing the game, because I'm actually slated to preach in the evening service that day. At the moment, I have nothing at all on my agenda for the week following. But I really need to use that week to get caught up on some real-life chores and household responsibilities, and I also need to get started preparing my material for the Shepherds' Conference seminars I'm doing in March. I really would rather not have to deal with the blog for a while.
So here's the deal:
Thursday and Friday we'll celebrate our Bloggiversary. I'll miss most of the party, of course, because I'll be on the road. But between now and Saturday, Dan and Frank can post as many times as they like. I predict it will be interesting seeing them try to step on each other's last post. (Note: That's more of a mischievous hope than a "word of knowledge.") Of course, Pecadillo can post, too, and I suppose he might do that if the Muse drops a piano on his head or something, but he seems to be about halfway through an 18-month-long battle with writer's block.
But then Saturday (day after tomorrow), the blog will be closed for at least two weeks. I, the BlogBoss, have decreed it. No BlogSpotting. No weekly dose of Spurgeon. (Get your Spurgeon fix at The Spurgeon Archive.) No new posts from anyone.
We'll reopen for regular business on Monday, February 12. If that plan changes in any way, I'll post a notice about it. But other than that, starting one split-second after midnight Saturday morning, the blog—and I—will be on vacation. There will be no change in content here—aside from possible occasional updates in the "Where I Am Right Now" sidebar, maybe a simple, captionless graphic modification here and there, and whatever comments you people leave in the meta.
I expect some of our regulars will find a way to make even that—uh, entertaining.
Raja: Thanks for the "conversation." I'm not bailing out on you. We'll pick it up sometime after I get back. For my regular critics who may start suffering withdrawal symptoms: you can send anonymous diatribes about me to the iMonk. He's currently highlighting those at his "Underground" blog. (Of course comments over there are closed.) But if someone has a hankering for a real argument (as opposed to just hacky-sacking someone anonymously), you can take it up with Frank Turk or Dan Phillips for the next two weeks.
See you February 12. I'm gonna get some rest.
Oh, and today is also my Mum's birthday. Happy Birthday!
06 January 2007
Something I've been thinking about all day . . .
by Phil Johnson
ecadillo usually works several 10-to-12-hour days in a row and then gets 2-4 days off. Right now, he is off for four days, so he and his two elder brothers (with our daughter-in-law, Anne) seized the moment and flew to Oklahoma together to visit their grandparents. They're in Tulsa tonight and will be home by this time tomorrow night, Lord willing.
But last night, the veteran cop whom Pecadillo has been partnering with in recent weeks was shot while on duty. Thankfully, his injuries aren't life-threatening and he is expected to make a full recovery. (See the breaking-news video here.)
Had it not been Pecadillo's day off, he would no doubt have been there when this perp—with no warning whatsoever—opened fire on officers serving him a warrant.
It's unsettling, of course, to watch the lead story on the evening news and have it hit so close to home. It's a somber reminder of the truth of James 4:13-16—a passage which itself is both sobering and comforting. God is sovereign in the outworking of His providence. Our times are in His hand (Psalm 31:15). But life itself is a vapor (James 4:14), and we cannot take the future for granted. We therefore need to be redeeming the time.
Selah.
ecadillo usually works several 10-to-12-hour days in a row and then gets 2-4 days off. Right now, he is off for four days, so he and his two elder brothers (with our daughter-in-law, Anne) seized the moment and flew to Oklahoma together to visit their grandparents. They're in Tulsa tonight and will be home by this time tomorrow night, Lord willing.But last night, the veteran cop whom Pecadillo has been partnering with in recent weeks was shot while on duty. Thankfully, his injuries aren't life-threatening and he is expected to make a full recovery. (See the breaking-news video here.)Had it not been Pecadillo's day off, he would no doubt have been there when this perp—with no warning whatsoever—opened fire on officers serving him a warrant.
It's unsettling, of course, to watch the lead story on the evening news and have it hit so close to home. It's a somber reminder of the truth of James 4:13-16—a passage which itself is both sobering and comforting. God is sovereign in the outworking of His providence. Our times are in His hand (Psalm 31:15). But life itself is a vapor (James 4:14), and we cannot take the future for granted. We therefore need to be redeeming the time.
Selah.
20 December 2006
The Practical Application
by Frank Turk
Let me tell you that you readers have greatly disappointed me this week – stats or not, I have to say that after last week's post and then Santa's stop by yesterday, I think we obviously still have some work to do on you via this blog.
The actual object of my disappointment is the trajectory we can plot between the points of two comments posted here – last week, in the demand for practical examples of loving your neighbor because that's what the Gospel yields, and this week the view rendered that somehow Dan and Santa wishing the members of TeamPyro a swell noel is somehow not substantive.
Forget it. There's no way I'm going to make this that boring and not-about-you-and-me on the Wednesday before Christmas. Instead, I'm going to ask you to jump back with me for a second to Leviticus and read with me what it says about the person with leprosy. I'm going to switch over to the KJV because that's the language the Levitical law was written in, right?
But Jesus touched this guy anyway – he touched him, and then he healed him. That is, he didn't just meet the ritual need. This Jesus – the one born in the stable, who slept in a feeding trough, but for whom the angels were singing, and whom the Angel said is the son of the most high God – touched a man who was ashamed to be touched. God came across the shame and the guilt to make this man whole.
Listen: if you want a lesson on how to love somebody, learn from this that the first boundary we have to cross to love other people is the boundary of how vile we think others are.
This may shock many of you, but I live down the street from a trailer park. It doesn't have any vacancies as far as I can tell, so there's a problem over there: it's full of people. Now, regardless of where you live, that's not really a problem for them -- for many of them, owning a trailer is a step up from living in a rented quad-plex. Or an actual garbage dump. The trailer park is a problem for me.
Because people live there.
People who, btw, are not on any of the church rolls of the 60 churches in my backwater corner of the Earth. I know this because it's common knowledge in the local churches that “we” don't do evangelism there because “it doesn't make any difference”. And by we, folks, I mean “me”.
Somehow, I can write this giant pile of exhortation to you 5000 TeamPyro readers and my much more humble 500 Flame of Fire readers about the joy of the answer to God's wrath in Christmas, but I can't ride a bike over to the trailer park and find out if anyone there has ever heard of the man Christ Jesus.
Why? Because I am afraid to touch the lepers. That is, in my town, the people who live in the trailer park are the same socially as lepers, and to touch them is to touch something vile. It might get on me. I wish they'd say “UNCLEAN” as they shamble through WAL*MART because I'd cut them some space to avoid being mistaken as making eye contact with them. It would make me vile, and Leviticus notwithstanding, being socially vile will never do.
If you want an example of how to love, that's the example, folks: not filling a shoe box anonymously with some stuff for a kid who has a dad in prison (although, I admit, that's pretty good – it's a lot better than doing nothing), but finding that kid, or any of the people in your analogically-local trailer park, and doing something personally costly for them. Like being seen in public with them, and giving them a hug as if you mean it. You know: because you do it more than once to assuage your conscience at Christmas after charging up a bunch of junk that is bound for the next neighborhood garage sale, or after reading a crumby blog post – you love them into the Gospel and out of the leprosy of being a trailer park kid. To the Gospel, not warm fuzzies or some stupid therapudic transitional state, and out of leprosy, and not casually or inconsequentially, but at great cost.
If you want a practical example of how to love, find a person and do the thing for them which is Godly and right, which will shatter their view of how outcast and separated from others they are, and which you are most afraid to do. You do that, and keep doing it, and you are then a messenger for His name's sake.
Don't get snippy about substance if you can't do that. That's the meat and the bread and the glass of red wine of what the Gospel calls us to, and if you can't stomach it, be glad that Santa stops by to wish Dan and Phil and Pecadillo a happy Christmas. That's all you're ready for.
Happy Christmas and may God richly bless you so you can spend those blessing on others. Amen. You are dismissed.
Let me tell you that you readers have greatly disappointed me this week – stats or not, I have to say that after last week's post and then Santa's stop by yesterday, I think we obviously still have some work to do on you via this blog.
The actual object of my disappointment is the trajectory we can plot between the points of two comments posted here – last week, in the demand for practical examples of loving your neighbor because that's what the Gospel yields, and this week the view rendered that somehow Dan and Santa wishing the members of TeamPyro a swell noel is somehow not substantive.
Listen: the latter is an example of the former. Yes: Dan and Santa do not usually have an open mutual admiration society here at the blog, but these are men with a Christian objective in mind – a Gospel objective. And in that, for them to offer encouragement to each other is an act of Godly and right-minded love. To overlook that is to demonstrate that it doesn't matter how often cent comes out and beats on the drum of “Christ died to make us new men right now”, and it doesn't matter if you read it: you have to “get it”, people.
You. Have to Get. It. You do. You.
If I was really in the right mood, we'd now tear into the parable of the good Samaritan. But I'm not in that mood. I'm in a Christmas mood even if Santa is not going to find that sweet, black Apple Intel for my stocking because he's got no sense of humor and this thing for Presbyterian baptism. So we're going to go instead to the book of Mark, and we're going to watch Jesus love somebody. Please forgive my vulgar use of the NIV here as I am composing off-line and the only Bible I have handy is my Zondervan Reformation Study Bible:
A man with leprosy came to [Jesus] and begged him on his knees, “If you are willing, you can make me clean.”Now, the more-blog-asphyxiated among you will expect that I will at this point expound on the healing of one man who asked for the help, and how God was expending His omnipotence in such a mundane way, and blah blah blah reformed wonkery blah blah blah.
Filled with compassion, Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. “I am willing,” he said, “Be clean!” Immediately the leprosy left him and he was cured.
Forget it. There's no way I'm going to make this that boring and not-about-you-and-me on the Wednesday before Christmas. Instead, I'm going to ask you to jump back with me for a second to Leviticus and read with me what it says about the person with leprosy. I'm going to switch over to the KJV because that's the language the Levitical law was written in, right?
Lev 13:44He is a leprous man, he is unclean: the priest shall pronounce him utterly unclean ...Now, you see there? This person is not just in trouble ritually, but he's untouchable by other people – that is, for him to allow other people to touch him is a sin. There's no other thing a person can be where he or she is condemned to “dwell alone” and literally drive others away by crying out “UNCLEAN!” Literally, a leper was filthy by the practice of the Levitical law – unable to be clean. So the application of the Law for this person was, of course, that he was vile.
45And the leper in whom the plague is, his clothes shall be rent, and his head bare, and he shall put a covering upon his upper lip, and shall cry, Unclean, unclean.46All the days wherein the plague shall be in him he shall be defiled; he is unclean: he shall dwell alone; without the camp shall his habitation be.
But Jesus touched this guy anyway – he touched him, and then he healed him. That is, he didn't just meet the ritual need. This Jesus – the one born in the stable, who slept in a feeding trough, but for whom the angels were singing, and whom the Angel said is the son of the most high God – touched a man who was ashamed to be touched. God came across the shame and the guilt to make this man whole.
Listen: if you want a lesson on how to love somebody, learn from this that the first boundary we have to cross to love other people is the boundary of how vile we think others are.
This may shock many of you, but I live down the street from a trailer park. It doesn't have any vacancies as far as I can tell, so there's a problem over there: it's full of people. Now, regardless of where you live, that's not really a problem for them -- for many of them, owning a trailer is a step up from living in a rented quad-plex. Or an actual garbage dump. The trailer park is a problem for me.Because people live there.
People who, btw, are not on any of the church rolls of the 60 churches in my backwater corner of the Earth. I know this because it's common knowledge in the local churches that “we” don't do evangelism there because “it doesn't make any difference”. And by we, folks, I mean “me”.
Somehow, I can write this giant pile of exhortation to you 5000 TeamPyro readers and my much more humble 500 Flame of Fire readers about the joy of the answer to God's wrath in Christmas, but I can't ride a bike over to the trailer park and find out if anyone there has ever heard of the man Christ Jesus.
Why? Because I am afraid to touch the lepers. That is, in my town, the people who live in the trailer park are the same socially as lepers, and to touch them is to touch something vile. It might get on me. I wish they'd say “UNCLEAN” as they shamble through WAL*MART because I'd cut them some space to avoid being mistaken as making eye contact with them. It would make me vile, and Leviticus notwithstanding, being socially vile will never do.
If you want an example of how to love, that's the example, folks: not filling a shoe box anonymously with some stuff for a kid who has a dad in prison (although, I admit, that's pretty good – it's a lot better than doing nothing), but finding that kid, or any of the people in your analogically-local trailer park, and doing something personally costly for them. Like being seen in public with them, and giving them a hug as if you mean it. You know: because you do it more than once to assuage your conscience at Christmas after charging up a bunch of junk that is bound for the next neighborhood garage sale, or after reading a crumby blog post – you love them into the Gospel and out of the leprosy of being a trailer park kid. To the Gospel, not warm fuzzies or some stupid therapudic transitional state, and out of leprosy, and not casually or inconsequentially, but at great cost.
If you want a practical example of how to love, find a person and do the thing for them which is Godly and right, which will shatter their view of how outcast and separated from others they are, and which you are most afraid to do. You do that, and keep doing it, and you are then a messenger for His name's sake.
Don't get snippy about substance if you can't do that. That's the meat and the bread and the glass of red wine of what the Gospel calls us to, and if you can't stomach it, be glad that Santa stops by to wish Dan and Phil and Pecadillo a happy Christmas. That's all you're ready for.
Happy Christmas and may God richly bless you so you can spend those blessing on others. Amen. You are dismissed.
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