The Least Gift is Often the Greatest

The Salvation Army bell rang into the night
where a Wal-Mart sign shines its light.
No mistaking this chipper chime,
especially now around Christmas time.

For two hours, shoppers come in droves
for toothpaste, TVs, and even mistletoe.
But before they ever make it inside,
they pass by me, ringing my jingling chime.

A few may give what little they may,
and some do not; they’d rather not pay.
And this is fine, some can’t afford
to put in a dollar and give to the poor.

But that’s not what surprises me,
no, not a flinch or a jawl.
It’s the one one’s who do give,
and who don’t give at all.

Preachers, and Leaders,
and Men of Great Plenty,
they walk right on past me,
giving not one dollar, giving not one penny.

Some pull out cell phones,
as if confessing their shame.
A few take the other exit,
too guilty to hear my Bell’s Proclaim.

Here they leave their Temple of Commerce,
their arms sagging with toys.
Yet they have not one penny to spare,
for needy girls and hungry boys.

But men, women, and children,
who have no riches to give,
it’s the Least of these People
who put money in my bin.

Their faces beamed with pride
as they put money in those Red Banks.
They’ll never know who they helped,
they’ll never receive a thanks.

There is a lesson in this, I think,
a lesson for the season:
Better to give than receive,
better to give without reason.

In this time of merriment,
when holly decks the hall,
please remember that the Least Gift
is often the Greatest Gift of all.

Retracing a Random College Night: Blowout in the ‘Boro

DISCLAIMER: This is a fictional story based on real events. Not everything in the story actually happened, but it does reflect the lunacy and hysteria that accompanied us through our Friday night. With that in mind, enjoy the story…

****

“Where are we going, F-Zero?

“We’re going back to your trailer, Josh,” I said casually. “Are you seriously that wasted?”

“Ahhhhhh.” It sounded more like a death gurgle than a moan of inebriation. “I can’t remember much past arriving at the party.”

“Don’t you remember the rhino in the living room? Or the cloud of marijuana smoke billowing from beneath the bathroom door?” The pause in my conversation was only met by a roll of the head. Josh’s eyes were shut and his tongue was starting to fall out of his mouth. “Christ, please don’t tell me you forgot walking around the party with your pants around your ankles.”

“You crazy bastard,” he finally replied. “That’s a down-n-out lie… I only had them down for a second.”

“That’s not what we saw,” I replied with gentle sigh. “Well, we’ve got a long drive. I guess I’ll start at the beginning…

—-

“We were the last to arrive at Asa’s house. This former Marine had collected a fine regiment of friends to crash a party on the north side of Statesboro, and we were the final volunteers to arrive for this suicide mission. After joining our assigned squad, Josh, Asa, Laura, and I all made our way to Food Lion. Target: 40 oz. No sense in buying more than one for Josh and myself… the party keg would quench any thirst we had left.

“We finally found the party on the corner of Bumfuck and Egypt after what seemed like an eternity. ‘Alright, guys,’ said Asa. ‘I barely know these people, so don’t go getting us kicked out of this party.’ Josh and I gave a firm salute as we closed the doors to the 4-Runner and ambled across the yard.

“But something was horribly wrong. Instead of finding people sitting on the front stoop with the door wide open, the house was eerily dark, and a line was slowly winding its way around the house where the people were facing a large wooden door to the backyard. That’s when our platoon leader saw sign… ‘$5 cover benefiting Habitat for Humanity.’

“The sight of the sign threw Josh into a rage. ‘FUCK THIS! There’s no way in hell I’m paying $5 to support Jimmy Carter’s wrinkled ass.’ Nevermind the fact that he didn’t have a dollar to his name, but that was besides the point. It was pure principle that would have kept him from outside the guarded gates, money in hand or not.

“‘No problem,’ said Asa, taking a sip of inspiration juice. ‘We’ll just sneak our way in, Marine style.’ We slowly crept around the wooden fence, peeking our way through the bushes to find a suitable place to hop the barrier… alas, there was none. The pigs had field lights in every corner, making a stealthy entrance impossible. With a tone of defeat in his voice, Asa called me back around to the front of the building.

“Fortune smiled upon us, though, as a band member recognized Asa and pulled us into the party for free. Take that, you swine! Curse the homeless and those who try to give them a home. This was our night and nothing was going to stop us, especially not a cover fee.

“After three hours of steady drinking, our platoon of perpetual partiers had made friends with nearly everyone in the place. I was discussing the finer points of photography with a guy reeking of pot-breath when I heard a distant scream…

“‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ The voice belonged to a young lady, obviously in distress. ‘Pull up your goddamn pants!’ I bolted outside, expecting to see a rape scene in the middle of the mosh pit, or even as little as some drunk frat boy showing his exposed nutsack to the crowd.

“But, no. Instead of finding Fratty McFrat twirling his penis like a helicopter, there was Josh, pants squarly around his ankles, pissing all over the wooden fence surrounding the back yard. The girl in charge of the party was standing four feet behind him, her finger aimed directly at the pants gathered around his newly purchased shoes. Josh’s only reply was to let out a grand sigh of relief.  The poor girl screamed and screamed, but Josh’s only reply was to roll his head back to look at the hysteric girl and let out the loudest cackle in the history of humanity.

“Not only had Josh pissed all over this gal’s newly-painted fence and laughed at her feeble attempts to retain some sense of domestic decency, but he also calmly tucked away his member and – without pulling up his pants – walked back to the keg step by loping step, telling people along the way that he was ‘comin’ round that ol’ mountain.’

“This incident told people it was about time to leave the soiled house, so we gathered our drunken friend and made our way to another party. Word had reached us that someone was having a pong tournament in the middle of the city, so our party posse loaded up and shipped out for the center of Statesboro.

“Pulling up into the gravel driveway, we noticed no one was gathered at the pong tables. Not a soul inhabited the house. It was like a scene from Left Behind, except this time the joke was on the pious paritioners… the foul-mouthed drunkards were the real winners in this savage storyline; a brutal twist of fate had legitimized their hedonistic rambings, sending them to a paradise where the beer flows like wine. With a bit of luck, some lucky co-ed had landed a perfect shot on the back cup before being spirited away by Dionysus, ending her mortal life with a grand exclamation point.

“Everyone stood around quietly, not quite sure what to do. Finally, Asa stepped forward with his hands on his hips. ‘Well, you know what this mean,’ Asa said looking over his shoulder. ‘Looks like we brought the party with us. Men, man your tables. It’s go time.’

“What happened next was like something out of Field of Dreams. We built the field of competition on those abandoned tables, stealing beer from a freshly-tapped keg sitting in the wash room. Pitcher after pitcher was poured down our throats as our laughter rang into the night. There was no denying it… our time had arrived.

It wasn’t too long before cars began to stop outside the house. Each time they stopped, someone would ask the same question as its predecesor: ‘Is there room for us at your party?” Hell yes, the more the merrier. We’re not throwing this party for our health, so come on in and grab a partner. Matter of fact, call everyone you know and tell them to bring a few more Solo cups.

“‘No use trying to hide the fact we’re here,’ I said to Josh. ‘It’s a foregone conclusion that we conquered this party.’

“After an hour or so of beer pong, Josh finally found the edge of a pong table. ‘Alright, goddamn it,” he said through slurred lips. “I’m tired of you fuckers hitting the edge of the cups. Time to show you how it’s really done.”

“Handing his cup to a cute bruenette, he raised the ping pong ball with deliberate aim. Closing one eye for accuracy and sticking out his tongue to check wind speed, he tossed the ball into the air with the grace of a basketball player. We all watched as the slow arc finally curved to the tip of the plastic cup, making that familiar swoosh sound as it circled around the lip. Around and around it went, teetering on the edge… until finally, gravity pulled it into the golden liquid, sending us into a furious cheer. Everyone turned to the table’s end to congratulate the baller on his spectacular feat.

“But where was Josh? We looked around the room to find him, but he was nowhere in sight. In fact, while we were all shamelessly focused on the ball’s path through the air, Josh’s eyes rolled back into his head and he blacked out, falling back-first to the ground just as he had let go of the ball. He had put all his energy into that single, concentrated shot, and now his night had come to a glorious end. It was time to get him home after one of the most memorable nights of his life…

“Well… almost memorable.”

—

“And that’s what happened,” I said as I yanked him out of the passenger seat of his Honda Accord. “You were the hero of the party, so to speak.”

“Don’t patronize me, you bastard,” he slurred as I drug him up the stairs and into his house. “I would have remembered that. I mean, Christ, I only had a few beers… well, maybe more like 12… or 14… or 20… or 28…” That was about the time I finally made it to his room and threw him on the bed. He passed out before even hitting the mattress.

“Oh, Josh,” I said before cutting out the lights. “You only had 8 beers. But that’s ok. I’ll keep that part a secret.”

Stumble It!

Strange Bedfellows: Politics and Music

The spirit of the anti-Vietnam War movement was in the music of the 1960s and 1970s. It was so powerful a medium that an entire generation camped out in Woodstock, NY, to hear the leading bands of the time, many of whom had a political message in their songs.  Cat Stephens, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and Boby Dyan, all legends who weaved political messages into their songs.

But after the Vietnam War ended, politically-charged songs virtually disappeared, at least in the mainstream. With disco waxing and waning in the ’70s and ’80s, people danced on the ceiling with  Michael Jackson’s Moon Walk, big hair rockers such as Bon Jovi, and felt the birthing pains of Grunge.

The music of the ’90s – a decade that saw the diversification of music, from commercial grunge and boy bands to ska and showtunes – seemed to reflect the meshing of American with world culture, introducing new instruments and styles to Americana (think of Sting’s “Desert Rose.”) While there was still a thriving underground music culture and mainstream bands with an anti-authority message (i.e. Rage Against the Machine), the vast majority of music that appealed to tweens, teens, and young adults was corporate cookie-cutter groups.

But ever since 9/11, music has slowly started to reflect the political, moral, and commercial quandaries of topics ranging from racism to war and violence.  Political statements came back in a big way when the Dixie Chicks and their controversial comments following the 2003 Invasion of Iraq.  Since then, more and more musicians have put political themes into their songs (both anti-war songs from artists such as U2, and even pro-war in the case of Toby Keith.)

Mourning for a Lost Friend

A childhood friend of mine died this week, but it didn’t really sink in until tonight. All week, we’ve received tons of phone calls, everyone asking if certain rumors were true. And despite hearing people constantly say, “I heard she’s dead,” the reality of her death never registered, it didn’t feel real.

It wasn’t until I had left the funeral home, watching as weepy-eyed women and red-faced men whispering in hushed tones, that it finally dawned on me… my friend, a girl I have known since I was 10 years old, is dead and she is not coming back.

As I drove away from the funeral home, the truth of it all rang home. A deep pit opened in my stomach and swallowed my heart, a sickening emptiness tearing through my chest. The mere thought of never seeing her again, never hearing her say, “You’re too smart to be so stupid, JR,” as she always said when I did something bone-headed. . . all the emotion that had built up during the week finally came out.

And I wept.

I wept so hard that I lost my breath, struggling to hold back the sobs. But they just kept coming on stronger and stronger until I had to pull off to the side of the road.

Images from that 4th grade day came rushing back, back when I was the “New Kid” in school and had no friends. . . when Wendy sat down beside me, told me to buck up, punched me in the arm, and reassured me that everything would be alright.

Another flash to 8th grade when we screamed at the top of our lungs on the Viper at Six Flags during a band trip. My eyes burned as memories of high school came back when we studied together for AP History. Deep sobs brought the memory of our last time seeing each other, the two of us starting into a bonfire… neither one of us saying a word, neither one of us needing to say anything.

And I wept harder and harder as the years came flooding back, each tear a reminder of the impact she made on my life. I wept because it was right then and there that I realized how much she meant to me.

Even though we didn’t hang out every day or call each other often, I knew that if I needed her, she would be there. She would be there to remind me that nothing can get you down, that all you need to know is that someone cares about you… the same line she told me when I was that sad little 10-year old boy who felt like he had no friends.

And when I finally realized she was gone, I was that little boy again, and I felt so alone.

I wept until my eyes were empty, all the years and all the memories finally poured out onto my hands. When the tears were gone, all I had was my own mortality to wrestle with, my own rathers and regrets staring me in the face asking, “What would you do tomorrow if you knew it was your last day on earth?”

Well I know what I would do. I would tell all my friends that I love them and tell them that they mean the world to me. And whether we’ve known each other since 4th grade of if we just met five minutes ago, I want you to know that I’m glad I met you. Like Wendy always said, I’m glad to live in small town where you can call everyone a friend.

That’s the lesson I learned from Wendy: a true friend is always there in your heart, whether you are sitting here together or missing them miles apart. And even though Wendy’s not here today, I know that she’s in our hearts forever.

Stumble It!