Hallobeans

Large navy t-shirt: $5.00

Bag of lima beans: $1.87

My wife being able to “come as you are”: $0

Finally getting some mileage out of that old “Beans & Franks” joke: priceless.

 

Get Lanny on Leno!

We interrupt our regularly scheduled Friday programming to bring you the social experiment of the decade.  And by “decade,” I mean today.  Or right at this very moment.  Whatever.

This is not the social experiment where I stand in the middle of Highway 70, pointing up at the sky, trying to get commuters to look and then wait for the ensuing 68 car pileup.  No, this is of much greater value than that, and believe it or not, even more entertaining.

My close, personal friend Lanny Donoho is trying to get on The Jay Leno Show.  Now, for those of you who have heard of Lanny, you are now convinced that I am blowing smoke that he’s a close, personal friend.  After, all, the “CPF” tag is what Unknown Christians always say about Professional Christians, such as Lanny.  But I’ve known this guy since I was a teenager and he was drawing his first Social Security check.  I have his cell number (not that he ever answers) and he has mine (which explains the late night crank calls).  We did a tour in ‘Nam together.  His oldest son’s name is Andrew and my name is Danny and the first three letters of each of our names are the same which means that he named his son after me.  And once I asked him, “Lanny, settle it once and for all: am I your close personal friend?”  And I can almost be positive that he said yes.  And now that he’s 122 years old, I want to help him gain a national audience.

Editor’s Note: Tell ‘em why you really want to help him.

Because I got a direct message from him on Twitter early Friday morning questioning my allegiance to our friendship because I haven’t stepped up to the plate on this social experiment thing and he also may or may not have said disparaging things about my mother.

If you don’t know Lanny, he’s a big deal in the world.  He’s the host of Catalyst, a big-deal gathering of thousands of leaders who get together annually to groom their goatees and compare fashion tips about shirts with embroidered dragons on them.  He’s founded a slew of organizations designed to bring relevance to the church, purpose to the lives of teenagers, and relief to other countries in the world.  And that last accomplishment is exactly the reason he wants to be on Leno.  Lanny is part of a couple of organizations called 143million.org and 410Bridge, which is changing the face of Africa and around the world.

Which brings us back to the social experiment.  At this very moment there are 13,000 people attending Catalyst in Atlanta, and Lanny has every last one of ‘em tweeting #lannyonleno.  The hope is that Leno’s people will take note of Thursday’s Twitter crash (coincidence?  I think not.) and bring Lanny on to the show, where he will display his collection of falcons and poisonous snakes.

Editor’s Note: I think you’re thinking of Jack Hanna.

Right you are.  Lanny will be telling a nationwide audience about how they can be involved in bringing hope to Africa, which I think is a pretty darn worthy goal.  So for the next 24 hours I’m going to participate in a hourly tweet-off, where I toss #lannyonleno into every last tweet.  If you’re a twit on Twitter, I need you to re-tweet those things, and make up your own, so that we can push #lannyonleno to a Twitter trend and get this guy on the show.  In return, I expect nothing except maybe for Lanny to tell people that I took a creative approach and they should follow me on Twitter and maybe invite me to fly to New York with him and perhaps take back some of the mean and nasty comments he may or may not have made.

So that’s it.  Check out Lanny’s site and subscribe to his feed, and enjoy the next 24 hours.  If you need me, I’ll be on Highway 70 pointing at the sky.

 

Makes (No) Sense to Me!

On the way to school this morning, my boys and I were talking about the news that General Motors will shut down it’s Saturn line later this year.  I was explaining the impact this would have on many friends and even some family members back home in Middle Tennessee (home to Saturn’s manufacturing plant).  Here’s how the rest of the conversation went down with my 12 year old:

Austin: So why are they shutting it down?

Me: Well buddy, my thoughts would be that they weren’t making the money they needed to off of that particular brand [insert three minute lesson on supply and demand here].  So, they are just going to stop making the car.

Austin: Man, WHAT is going on with this economy?  First it’s Saturn, and then the phone companies are buying each other, and Tony Stewart doesn’t drive for Home Depot anymore!

Ummm…yeah.  That’s the natural progression I made, as well.  But this kid is in the gifted program, so somewhere in that genius brain I’m sure it made sense.

Any of you care to connect the dots?

 

Be Still And Know…

Alarm clock snooze button I can’t believe it’s time to get up stumble through stubbed toe brew coffee spill coffee curse coffee bless coffee open Bible study Bible pray…

Be still and know that I am God.

…grab a shower shave nick face nothing is ironed broke a shoelace hurry up kids pack lunch where’s the dog sign permission form what do you mean you didn’t do your homework we’re so late get in the car tear out of the driveway how could you possibly forget your lunch…

Be still and know that I am God.

…carpool stop fighting move ahead quick prayer have a great day hugs okay no hugs fist bumps you’re not too old to say I love you here’s your algebra book peace and quiet nothing on the radio start the commute hey where’d you get your license are you kidding me what are they stopping for what red light gas light I just filled up gas prices are ridiculous spilled gas on pants car stinks…

Be still and know that I am God.

…in the office inbox overflows I just emptied it yesterday where are they all coming from look at schedule too much on schedule can’t reschedule can’t get it all done have to get it all done return phone call return e-mail more e-mail into meeting out of meeting assignment from meeting another meeting you’re kidding me please no more meetings let’s have a meeting about the meeting…

Be still and know that I am God.

…fire fighting put it out another one starts you’re upset about what I’m so sorry we’ll get it fixed lunchtime time to breathe time to eat turkey sandwich again bread is soggy not another cup of yogurt sick of yogurt want a milkshake is it time to go home yet oh great another meeting…

Be still and know that I am God.

…reverse commute outta my way gotta get home oh wait I forgot ballgame tonight reverse course head to ballpark kid up to bat kid strikes out coach won’t put kid in mad at coach sad for kid why’d we even sign up it’s cold I forgot to eat dinner ballpark hot dogs are gross what’s in the fridge at home…

Be still and know that I am God.

…finally home shoes are off dog is hyper dishes to wash laundry to do homework to forget don’t forget that homework test tomorrow are you kidding me it’s an hour past your bedtime so help me if I have to tell you again what do you mean you forgot to take a shower…

Be still and know that I am God.

…time on couch hang out with bride compare schedules not enough time we’re double booked want to watch TV nothing on TV let’s just go to sleep can’t sleep stare at ceiling too much going on how many more e-mails want to sleep late can’t sleep late forgot about early meeting…

Be still and know that I am God.

 

This Is NOT a Dog Blog

I don’t want to be “that guy” who tells more stories about his dog, but this one…well, this one must be told.

The scene: my two oldest kids’ room, 5:30 AM Monday

I walked into the room, confident that there was a disturbance in the force and my normally non-chewing dog had chewed something the night before. How right I was. In the floor, there were little bits of paper that had formerly been a small stack of index cards on the kids’ shelf. But interspersed among the paper were little pieces of unidentified plastic.

Odd.

I crept around the room silently so as not to wake the kids or the dog, picking up the aforementioned plastic bits, looking at them closely from the light in the hallway, even sniffing them to figure out what the heck Sipsy had chewed.

And then I saw it.

In the corner, a partially-eaten object that shall be identified as…shall we say…an athletic supporter.

And not the good kind of athletic supporter…you know, the kind that sits in the bleachers, pays dues to a booster club, and displays 67 team magnets on the backside of their SUV. Yeah, not that kind…the bad kind.

So what’s worse, dear readers? The fact that my dog chewed that sucker up?

Or the fact that I was picking up the pieces and sniffing ‘em?!?

Editor’s Note: The author is confident he will receive much negative publicity as a result of this post and his choice of the words “athletic supporter.” But really, how much more humiliation and torment could he suffer?

 

Shed the Love

Had you told me a year ago that our family would be moving back into the world of dog ownership, I would have laughed.  Had you told me that we would have an inside dog, I would have said you were crazy.  Had you told me that the inside dog would ever shed so much as a single strand of fur on my carpet, I would have chugged a bottle of Purell and found my happy place, because that goes against everything my inner germophobe believes in.

But back on Mother’s Day of this year, we became the proud owner of Sipsy the Wonder Idiot, a yellow lab that – dare I say it – has become part of the family.  The day we brought her home, I readied her space in the back yard, because she was not going to be an inside dog.

“This is an outside dog!” I would loudly proclaim to my neighbors, while my wife and kids were inside preparing her indoor doggy bed in the living room, her indoor doggy dishes in the kitchen, and her indoor doggy blender for whenever she got the notion to whip up a Milk Bone Frappucino in the middle of the night.

And sure enough, within three days the dog ventured inside.  “She just needs to know what goes on inside” my wife said.

A few days after that, she slept in a crate in the kitchen.  “Whenever there’s a storm she needs to sleep inside, so we need her to be used to being in the crate.”

And before I knew it, the dog was sacked out in the kids’ bedrooms, laying on her back with her feet in the air, laughing under her breath every time I walked by and saying a low, “Woof.”  Which is dog for “See there, sucker man?  The dog wins, every time.  Today it’s your kids’ bedroom, tomorrow I’ll be driving your car and listed as the primary beneficiary on your 401(k).  Now fire up the blender…puppy needs a fresh Frappucino.”

But I digress.  I’ve gotten used to the dog being an inside dog.  What I cannot get used to is the second round of shedding.

The first round of shedding came shortly after Sipsy came to live with us.  At that time, she was an outside dog, so no big deal.  But apparently, there’s a Labor Day shedding season, and she’s smack in the middle of it.  We vacuum up enough dog hair every day that we could create an entirely new dog. I’m convinced that all of this hair is not coming from her…there’s no way she could regenerate that much fur every day.  I’m pretty sure that she’s getting the hair from other sources…E-Bay, maybe?  Or perhaps she’s inviting other neighborhood dogs over while we’re asleep:

“Okay, Shadow, I’m going to need you to brush me right down the back, where I can’t reach.  There’s a good clump of hair there that’s waiting to fall.  Hooch, give ‘er a good shake right there on the carpet.  You’ve got a good shed thing going on there.  Thaaaat’s it.  Not so fast, Rocco, you silly black lab, keep your fur on…they’ll never fall for it.  Angel, baby!  Plug up that electric razor…”

However the fur gets here, it continues to fall.  And we continue to sweep, vacuum, take-her-outside-and-brush-like-crazy, and generally wonder if we’ll ever have a hair-free day again.  We’ve tried solution after solution, and I’ve only found one that works so far:

Make her an outside dog. It’s simple, it’s sure, it would settle everything once and for all. It seems so obvious to me, and you’d think it would be obvious to the rest of the family.

The trouble, it seems, is Sipsy.  Because they talked it over with her, and she told them that if they ever wanted to see any of that 401(k) money if God forbid something should ever happen to me…she stays inside.

Any other day I would probably take that as a direct threat.  But for now, pass the Purell.

 

Man vs. Durham

Shannon just tipped me off to a blog-I’ve-never-seen-but-will-now-be-reading-voraciously, which tipped me off to the fact that Adam Richman was in the Dirty D and I didn’t even know it.

Adam is the host of the very cool Man vs. Food show on Travel Channel.  He was in Durham not too long ago and tackled some food challenges at a plethora of restaurants.  The show airs tonight at 10 PM.  (Sorry about all the links…I got carried away.)

I’m a big fan of MvF, because I figure if I no longer eat the stuff (hello, lifestyle change!) there’s no reason I can’t watch somebody else get sick off of it.  Although I’ll admit that the recent San Antonio episode with the four pound cinnamon rolls made me open up a can of Pillsbury.

Join me, will you?  (Not literally, because I’ll already be in my sweats, and nobody needs to see that.)

 

Love God, Love People

Last Thursday my best friend Greg lost his dad to a massive stroke.  Jim English was not only the dad of my friend, he was my friend.  I’ve gotten to know him over the last nine years and looked forward to visiting him as much as anyone.  He was the type of guy that always had a story to tell and a dry sense of humor that would keep you laughing.  He was the only person I knew who made ribs that I’d actually look forward to eating.  He had the biggest collection of Jeff Gordon memorabilia that I’ve ever seen (hey, nobody’s perfect).

At yesterday’s memorial service I witnessed the legacy of Jim being lived out before all of us.  At least 600 people packed the church as a testimony to the man that had impacted so many lives and so many generations.  As Greg said during the eulogy, “The best words to describe my father are these: he loved God, and he loved people.”  I heard story after story of Jim’s service in the church, of his care for his pastor, of his ministry to senior adults, of his humble, unassuming desire to help.  Jim was the volunteer that all pastors would love to have: he drove the church van and carried umbrellas on rainy Sundays and organized big events because he got to, not because he had to.

Jim was a family man whose character and charisma was passed down to Jimmy & Greg and his four grandkids.  He and Lue had been in love since they were twelve years old, and fifty years later he’d still get a gleam in his eye when he talked about her.

I’ll miss Jim, but I don’t grieve for Jim, because I know that right now Jim is doing what he loves to do, and that’s worshipping his God.

 

So Logical, It’s Scary

From the mouth of my 12 year old:

“Dad, when I grow up I’m going to be an NBA player.”

[Thirty seconds later...]

“I’ll have to be an NBA player because I’m going to need to make a lot of money.”

[Twenty more seconds...]

“Because I’m going to buy a monkey and he’ll need lots of bananas.”

 

You Can’t Go Home Again

Last week the fam and I spent some time back in our hometowns in Tennessee and Alabama. Both Merriem and I grew up in towns of less than 8,000 people, so going home is a little bit of culture shock for our kids, especially at McDonald’s (No shirt? No shoes? No problem!). Nowhere but home can you…

• …have total strangers ask you how your recent mission trip to Greece was.
• …hear an answering machine message from a senior adult at your home church asking if “Brother Danny made it in alright.”
• …find out that you were the beneficiary of a prayer request in Wednesday night prayer meeting (I’m pretty sure it included the phrase, “traveling mercies”).
• …watch your kids revert to their inner cowboy as they spend every waking hour with their “Paw” at the barn.

Obviously there are sobering moments at home, as well…

• …such as hearing my 12 year old refer to Tennessee pulled pork BBQ as “that meat stuff.” (Darn you, North Carolina! You have rendered it impossible for my kid to recognize REAL barbecue!)
• …having people tell you, “You’ve lost weight!” followed by “…and your hair!”

I really dig my hometown and my home church. Merriem and I have decided we’re going to host our first Redneck Camp next summer, complete with bunk beds at the farm, BBQ tours, and cow tipping. That’s right. I said cow tipping.

Sign ups begin now for the low low price of $89 per person, per night. Shirt and shoes optional.