jonathan friesen

Hair part 2

I began hacking away this afternoon and paused. I discovered a middle ground, somewhere between an O and a D. My son's profile is now somewhat of an O. I just couldn't do it, couldn't take all that hair.

He now looks neat and trim. (Two words you never tell your nine year old.) 

Thought I'd let y'all know the outcome here.

My Handsome D

My boy has hair. Okay, not a big deal to the masses, but to me a marvel. He goes through life and hair pops out the top of his scalp, lies down thick and shaggy--it's a miracle. 

Miracle too strong a word? No sir. I have hair. Chia pet hair. Thin and whispy. Hundreds of fourth inch spindles that stick straight up. My head is a desert, a barren landscape where there is no water. No growth. My boy's head is tropical--lush, thick, overgrown. Amazing.

So this boy, this child of mine today paid me the ultimate compliment:

"Dad, I want my head shaved, like you."

He would trade his luxury shag for a chance to cop his Dad's dome. Now there might be another reason. Zidane also is bald to the bone (for the soccer uninitiated, he's quite the dude), but that's not what my son said. He said "like you." 

So we considered this request, born of youth and folly, and may well give his hair the heave-ho. It'll be back soon enough. But we have hit a snag, born of our youth and folly. 

Seems that when kids are cribbed, you're supposed to turn'em, like rotisserie chickens. Keeps the head from flattening. Well, we missed that part of parenting 101. So beneath that thick mop is a head with a back flat as a pancake. Shave him, and from the side he'll resemble a capital D.

I told my son about our SNAFU. He doesn't care and wants to go ahead with the plan. Tomorrow is to be the day. My O will turn into a D.

 

The Church Bear

This is what she said: "Right at the bottom of your driveway, that's where I saw it. I tell you it was huge, a huge black bear!"

This is how she looked when she said it. Big ol' eyes. Her arms outstretched. She's been here in the Wilderness for a while, and even she was impressed. 

"Can I kill it with a B-B gun?" That's me, asking the stupid.

She just laughed, thinking I was making a joke, but I wasn't. It's all we had for firepower. The day before, a timberwolf glided across my land in broad daylight. Sharp teeth there, so I'd already been considering the potency of our weapon. 

Wolves. Big, sharp-toothed wolves. Bears. Big, hungry bears.

She told me right before church. Bad timing, I didn't get much out of the sermon.

"Blessed are the peacemakers."

Kill the bear, kill the bear.

"Blessed are the merciful."

Kill the bear, kill the bear.

But can I? What if I get a gun? Can I shoot a bear just for hanging out? 

Offering plate goes by here. I hand my check to my boy and he folds it, flutters it into the money dish. My other boy adds a few pennies. Much louder.

I mean, what if said bear strolls up to the house, stretches out, and takes a nap. Can I plug it? Stick a gun to it's giant, peaceful head and plug it? Maybe not the B-B gun. Some other gun. Doesn't seem fair, but the thought of a tremendous bear on my land with my kids . . .

"So, how are we to be merciful?" That's the pastor again, complicating my life with decisions.

Amazing Grace begins. They're all standing. I'm sitting, head in hands. Merciful. Plug the Bear. Mercifully plug the bear. But the kids, my kids. But I haven't even seen the bear. The phantom bear. 

. . .that saves a wretch like me . . .

Let the bear live, I whisper. Yes, I should let it live. I've had stuffed bears since childhood. My kids have stuffed bears. I will be a merciful man! I will be kind to the bear. Viva la bear! Viva la bear!

I jump to my feet and smile to the others in the pew. At my family. At the pastor. . .I once was lost but now I'm found . . . It's all so clear. 

We file out of sanctuary, pile into the mini-van . . .

Went out and got me a gun. 

Face-Paced Spell-Chick

The time has come. Every human I actually know (as opposed to those I might know like the ones on Facebook) is loaded in the program. (Actually, their e-mails are loaded. Not the humans.) It will be the simple, big announcement that arrives in everyone's e-mail. My announcement to the world. A new book has been born. Thank you for all you've done. You may now buy RUSH.

It is my one, last, large appeal to those I've actually met. It needs to be written with care. From the heart. With thankfulness. Not too long--a shout out to the friendly masses. Go! Amazon and Barnes & Noble (and Mrs. Nelson's and Thee Bookstore) await.

I spell check. What a tragedy to blow my message. Spell check gives the thumbs up. I hold my breath and click . . .

Face-paced. Did you know that spell check has no problem with this construction? Take this as a warning. If you ever write a fast-paced novel and describe it as face-paced, your computer will not say, "Author, beware! Face-paced makes no sense. There is something wrong here." Nope. It will let one thousand people discover that you have written a face-paced novel. And spell-check will laugh at you.

I will certainly not be able to undo my book launch blast snafu, BUT, I can at least exact a small bit of revenge on my spell-checker, I mean spell-chicker! That's right, baby. Spell-chicker. You want a piece of me, computer? Tell me, Mr. Spell CHICK, how does it feel? Oh, I see your little red lines. You don't like spell-chick? I bet not. I bet this might not sit so well with the wife and kids, a little knock on your pride . . .

Well. What I meant was that the novel was fast-paced.

Nine dollars

I see you there. You walk around, always with just a little less money than you wish you had. That twenty in your billfold? You aren't foolin' me. A four dollar stop at Starbucks, another seven dollar drive thru. You stare at your change. Nine dollars. What to do with nine dollars?

You need to fill the gas tank. At near $3 a gallon it adds up quick. Chunk! The pump stops. $29? Are you kidding? You walk, head wagging into the gas station. Nine dollars in change. You look at the hundreds of scratch off and lotto games. Today might be your lucky day--nah. You pocket your fortune and ding-ding your way out the door.

Hey, can you lend me--oh let's be real, nobody says that--can you borrow me some money, I'll pay you back. Your friend or your kid eyes your purse or billfold. You roll your eyes and reach in. Sure, you could give the twenty, but the five bill and four ones seem a better choice based on repayment history. You slip him the money. "Is that it?" Big, puppy eyes. You feel a wave of affection for the kid, friendship for the friend. You feel like Scrooge. "Oh, fine." You take back your nine and hand them the $20. They skip out happy and you stare at the $9 in your hand.

What do you do with $9? 

And then it hits! $9! $9. You start to jump, fist those dollars tight between your knuckles. You begin the dance, the song--"I've got nine dollas, babee!" You can't control yourself. 

What's happened? You've remembered. It's June 9th. Or June 10th. Or June 11th. It's TODAY and RUSH, that really yellow novel by Jonathan Friesen is now EVERYWHERE. Well, everywhere but in your hands. And what will it cost to remedy this? Nine dollars!

You're covered. Joy can be yours. What's stopping you? Buy the book, and BE HAPPY!

Stupidity

I am a vegan. This alone might be an act of stupidity. One day I will ask God if it made a lick of difference. I will ask him if the world would have spun differently if tonight I had, say snarfed down a Reuben, slathered with sauce on kraut. Oh my. 

But this is not the stupidity to which I refer. On the road, I am not a vegan. I slip down a notch to vegetarian. Do not think I judge you because of my adverb "down." No sir, I admire and even crave your ability to consume any animal you please without a thought . . .but again I digress.

Two days ago, while writing, I had a tremendous breakthrough. The skies opened, I could see clear. Writers will understand these mountaintop experiences. I decided I had earned a treat. Not just a vegetarian treat, but a CARNIVORE treat. My choice? A can of sardines. No, two cans.

Could I not have done better, you may be asking. No. The can of sardines is perhaps, was perhaps, the finest meal I could consume. I hopped in my car, purchased the buggers. (Notice the lady did not stop me. She did not say, you might want to reconsider. I took this as permission as she looked very wise.)

I whipped home and devoured both cans. One one thousand, two one thousand, three--

Right there! See that? See how I got stuck? Exactly three seconds after can two, my stomach yowled. It turned. What the sam tar was that? It screamed. Toilet city. 

The next morning, yesterday. I had a meeting. They wanted to eat at Perkins. There are no vegan choices at Perkins. I was still listing from the night previous, still confused. "I'll have an omelet."

I do not eat omelets. I dream about them. I do not eat them. But I did. Those eggs screamed down my throat, found those sardines, and started this hideous two-step. So I chased them down with buttermilk pancakes. I don't eat buttermilk.

What a sorry mess I was driving back home, arriving just in time for my lunch date. The Pizza Hut buffet. There was a salad bar. But I had done so much internal damage, it no longer mattered. I will not tell you what I ate. I will remind you, and me, that I am a vegan.

Today, this vegan is sick. So be it. I treated myself well today, but I am still paying for my sins.

Stupidity!

Easter

I love Easter. Love it. Love it.

It means everything's already changed. Ugly can't last. The good guys win. You can dent it, scratch it, smear it, even blow a hole in it, but you can't hurt it, at least not forever. The world's upside down. Terminal is a lie. There is no last page. The curtain can't fall.

It means nothing is as it seems. Little candles and little smiles and little glasses of water rule the world. You really can count on more than death and taxes. It means children rule. Intelligence is the big loser. And being called a fool is a compliment.

Easter means ditch the pills. You can relax. The big mess is all contained neatly in a sandbox and there are really big hands playing all day and all night. It means lonely happens but alone doesn't and tomorrow's one day closer to joy. 

I love Easter. I love the Easter Man. So today, I smile. Laugh with me or at me. Don't give a rip.

Twitch

The title of this blog was not twitch. Nope. It wasn't. It was something else entirely. The blog was well underway. It was witty. You would have liked it. Then . . .

twitch.

Something happened, down near the left corner of my keyboard. I twitched and smacked a few keys and flat out erased a couple blog entries. Impressive. 

Not a big deal. They weren't earth shattering thoughts. But they were quite a bit more interesting than a blog about a twitch. So I will attempt to redeem this blog. 

Today, I twitched. (Earlier, I'm talking about an earlier one.) I'm driving my Hyundai. (Fine cars, by the way.) My right thumb twitched and honked the horn. This is common. I often honk for no better reason than the thumb decides to do so.

Today there was a car in front of my honking thumb. I do not think it was a Hyundai. Maybe if the driver was driving a similar car, he would have felt a solidarity with me. As it turned out, he did not. 

He did, however, also have a finger.

I do not believe it was his thumb. At least it did not look thumby. It appeared taller and more centrally located on his hand, and he seemed in total control of its motion. 

I slowed down as he seemed genuinely upset. If I would have known his cell number, I would have called him. "Hey mister, it was only a twitchy thumb. You know how that goes." But he doesn't. He slowed as well and for a moment it seemed like we were headed for a CONFRONTATION. I chastised my thumb. IT looked genuinely apologetic, so I didn't come down too hard on my digit, and soon that big car (Chevy, I think) pulled away.

There, I don't know if that was interesting or not, but maybe it serves as a public service announcement. The jerk (literal) who honks at you may well have a twitchy thumb.

Snakes

So I'm at Walmart. You may boycott the place, but I love it. Cheap. Food. Junk. It's all there. I was too. 

My cell rings. It's my lovely wife. Her voice shakes. 

"He's in her room!"

This gave me precious little to go on so I kept browsing for chicken scratch, they even have hen food in Walmart. Amazing.

"But we caught him." Breathe. Breathe.

"Caught who?" I hoist the chick food (literal) into my cart. It crushes the burritos. No matter.

"The snake. There was a snake in our house."

Here I tongue my cheek. Two houses ago it was bats. The last house it was bats, mice, and snakes. I had attempted to leave the pests. But I'm in the country, and I'm a rugged man.

"Who caught him?" Notice we just assumed the snake was a male. Interesting.

She straightened up. I could hear it through the phone. "I did."

My precious wife is terrified of snakes. Something did not add up. Plus, my boy saw HER being rugged. That's my job. 

"Don't worry," Oh, but my voice is deep and confident. "I'll be right home. Stay where you are." In retrospect, a very stupid comment, but so be it. 

I rush home with the chicken feed, a very unmanly task, rush in to comfort the snake slayer.

"We named him Brownie!" That came from my oldest boy. 

"Where is this Brownie?"

"There, on the table."

Yep, Brownie was on the table. Brownie is three inches long, much more worm than snake. In fact, I thought Brownie was a worm until I caught sight of the head. Yeah, a little snakey.

My wife stood proudly over the catch. She faced a fear today. Who was I to make light of the size?

Brownie will likely be dead by morning; it's freezing in this house and a cold-blooded tiny like Brownie doesn't have a chance. Unless I get him an aquarium. They have them at Walmart.