Wednesday, September 05, 2007

...and there's nothing you can do about it

Co-counsel has represented to me that she will assume the responsibility of blogging the festivities that were held pursuant to Nathan's birthday. I have nothing substantial to add to such a recounting, other than to merely confirm that a humble Italian restaurant was in fact converted into an impromptu discotheque, and that atrocious dancing did in fact take place.

It leaves me wondering whether every Italian restaurant springs to life after 11 pm in a similar fashion, replete with blaring Motown music and an odd assortment of after-hours straggling patrons unabashedly cutting the proverbial rug. I would conjecture that this is not the case, and I will go on record as saying this present state of affairs is nothing short of a trajesty.

Prior to that, my Labor Day holiday was 93% delightful. On Saturday I was resigned to utter reclusiveness. I watched a couple of movies and made several well-intentioned yet ill-fated attempts to polish off Bioshock. I would like to put Bioshock to bed so that I can partake in the latest Metroid offering.

Probably one of the greatest perks of my recent return to the daunting field of youth ministry is that it justifies renewing my interest in video games, a hobby which has lain mostly dormant since Bar passage. That may sound silly, but I'm actually quite serious. But I suppose The Write-On is not the best forum for expounding on my youth ministry theories. I will also be endeavoring to teach the kids all of the lyrics to "The Road Goes on Forever". This has no ministerial purpose whatsoever, but it seemed the next logical step after teaching them "You Never Even Call Me By My Name".

Of course, playing more video games means that I don't leave the house as much. But for me, house-leaving is an activity that inevitably leads to disaster, and thusly should be limited as much as is feasible.

On Sunday, I fled to the arms of my One True Love... Rosa. You see, there is one Rosa's outside of the great country of Texas. And it is located two hours away in Temecula, California. As the moons pass, she begins to call to me. I hear her voice from deep within my very being. On Sunday after church, I loaded up the iPod with new Music Store purchases, and embarked on the 91 freeway, ravenous for a taste of "Authentic".

Every time I go to this Rosa's, I struggle to suppress a full ear-to-ear Cheshire Cat grin, so boundless is my joy. It is a dead ringer for the 50th Street Rosa's in Lubbock. I ordered a #10, two #12's, and a #45, and ate all of it without any regard for basic human decorum or whether anyone in the premises could administer the Heimlich. It was an experience that can only be properly qualified as spiritual in nature.

On Monday, it was decided that a diaspora was in order to escape Huntington Beach. On a national holiday like Labor Day, there is a law, seemingly written before time itself, that every sentient being in all creation must descend voraciously into Southern California beach towns. So we gather our young, and with no more than the clothes on our backs we flee to higher ground. Specifically, Bellflower - where Rhonda's grandparents have a swimming pool. So we temporarily conceded our majestic shoreline in favor of chlorine and inflatable whales, and there was much mirth to be had by all.

I hope that all y'all had a reasonably enjoyable holiday. And for those of you still holding it down in the 806, think of me fondly when you call upon Rosa. And after properly addressing the bear, pour out a little honey for your homey.