I am a 37 year old Caucasian American male.
I am a creative professional, co-owner of a branding and design firm.
I am a husband.
I am a father.

I am no longer cool.

“I have to pee-pee!”
That familiar phrase bounced around the interior of our Suburban as I took the nearest exit.
Hoping to find a nice establishment, I sighed as I pulled into the only service station in sight – an absolute petroleum dive.
My wife looked at me saying without using words, “I’m am not taking the girls in there – it’s all you.”
I turned the vehicle off, adjusted my sunglasses in the mirror, and then set about loosening my two girls from their car seats.
Careful to not harmfully adjust my hair as I exited, I cradled my girls under my tanned and toned arms and stepped out onto the oil-stained parking lot.
I took steady strides toward the station doors, holding London and Mosely aloft to entertain them and to accentuate any muscular definition I could.
After yanking open the door, I scanned the room and internally established how much better I was than anyone in the entire establishment.
Making our way to the restroom door, I kicked it open and surveyed the scene – the restroom was a disaster.
With my girls wiggling to the ground, I found myself in hyper-attention mode – making sure my sweet little girls didn’t come into contact with anything foul.
With each child taking their turn on the toilet, my parental eyes kept track of little hands and tiny feet.
With sweat staining my shirt and my clothes disheveled, I washed their tiny and clinging hands and determined that they were relatively unscathed and unsoiled from the absolutely horrific bathroom.
I looked in the mirror and decided I looked cool enough to exit.
Walking back to the Suburban across the gray lot, I smiled thinking how we survived the scenario without incident.
With sweaty head high and my girls pressed tightly against me, I was unaware of the long train of toilet paper on my shoe that was dragging behind me.

That stuff would never happen to me.
That stuff was reserved for my dad – he wasn’t cool.
He was the guy that always did embarrassing things that made my friends laugh.
He was the guy that would have messy hair and a sweat-stained shirt.
He wasn’t cool.
Why?
Because life wasn’t about him anymore.
It was about my mom and about me.
So as I walked back to our Suburban that day, sweaty, a bit disheveled and cradling my treasures in my arms whilst dragging toilet paper behind me – I decided a few things:
I am a husband.
I am a father.
I am no longer cool – and that’s perfectly alright with me.

Happy Father’s Day.
Hug your dad if you are able and thank him for not being cool anymore.
Dads – are you still cool?
If not, was there a moment for you?

No rules.
No gimmicks.
No magnetic bracelets.

It’s just John Stamos – 24/7.

Someone needs inspiration today.
Send them a link to this post.
John’ll do the rest.

When I was around 10 years of age, I believed that the epitome of cool, the heights of awesomeness, the pinnacle of power, the apex of wisdom — all rested upon the shoulders of Arnold Schwarzenegger.  It would be commonplace for me to say things like:

“There’s no way you can lift that truck off of that guy.  Only Arnold Schwarzenegger could do that.”
“Why are you wearing an RPG inside? And what’s with the uzi?  Who do you think you are, Arnold Schwarzenegger?”
“How did we end up in this drug cartel battle zone?  If only Arnold Schwarzenegger were here — he would know what to do.”

Now that I am older and wiser, I am more realistic.  I can be heard saying:

“Why do you keep asking me what is for dinner?  Who do you think I am, Arnold Schwarzenegger?”
“Man, I need to get some gas.  I wonder what Arnold Schwarzenegger would do?”
“Arnold Schwarzenegger doesn’t wash his own dishes, so neither will I.”

Q. You know how to tell when things are really locked down and secure online?
A. When you get some loony word combo that you are supposed to transcribe and prove that you are not some hacker.

This sweet word sandwich was sent to me by my friend from years past, Rhonda.
Thanks Rhonda — for the submission and your entire Stephen King collection.

I guess there could be such a thing, right?

People express their feelings in such amazing and diverse ways.
I remember how upperclassmen in my high school would show me how awesome they thought I was.  Sometimes it didn’t make sense, but I just went with it.  They would knock my books out of my hand in the hallway just to show every other student how smart I must be.  And I guess out of jealousy, all of the onlookers would walk all over my stuff and accidentally kick one of my books down the hall.  There were other times when some of the football players would rush up to me in the hallway and shove me in a locker.  They must have known that I didn’t have a hall pass and that the principal was just around the corner.  Then there were times after gym class that they would act like they were beating me up so that the nerdy kids would feel better about themselves.  We tried to make it look real, so there were some real potentially humiliating scenes.  Had they chose to partner with someone that was a lesser actor, those moments would have become humiliating memories indeed.
Looking back now, I would have just appreciated a gift card to the J. Riggins store at the mall.

Ladies and gentlemen, if you were previously unaware, let me inform you:  it is time for the long-awaited 2010 Winter Olympics where the official logo looks more like a man satisfied with donuts versus a fierce competitor.  It’s time for all the harsh and bloody competition of: ice skating, curling, speed skating and some other kind of skating.  What would make this year’s Winter Olympics better? If the games were held in Canada.

What a glorious time it is.

My friend Tyler poses a good question to his readers about the Winter Olympics.
My question is: what game would you make up and add to the Winter Games?  The more ridiculous, the better.

Know the Eleventy Million Dollar Blog haz in uhmazing noo feeture.  Itz veery own emale a dress.  Know u kin sind fotos ore othur malicious emale wurms rite to me!

11tymillion@gmail.com (yule haf to copy it)

Maik a note of this in yore palm pielits tooday.

One of the best things in the world:
having a super-sweet Israel Beard
One of the worst things in the world:
having to comb your face

This is my friend Stuart.
He is awesome.
He started growing an Israel beard.  He decided that he would grow an Israel beard when he was in Israel.
He wussed out and shaved it not long ago.
It’s okay though, because if you refer to the second sentence in this entry, you will find out that he is awesome.  I am sure that he had a perfectly legitimate reason for shaving his beard.
He also pastors a church called Radius.  Radius is pretty much made up of broken people.  These same broken people are on a mission to bring peace, love and order, or what I will henceforth call Shalom, to a broken world.  It is a beautiful thing.
Stuart and I experienced things together while in Israel that cannot be put into words.  We did come back with a clearer vision of what God has been doing since the beginning and what He will continue to do.  From the very moment He breathed life into Adam, He has been seeking to partner with His most beloved creation.  He extended His hand to mankind to push back chaos with Shalom.
That was the job.
That is the job.
Whether it is working and tending the Garden of Eden, or stepping into the blinding chaos of your neighbour — the job is to bring Shalom.
Yes, that includes getting saved…don’t worry.  But it doesn’t stop there.  We tend to think that “getting saved” is what it is all about.  It is not.*  If it was, that mandate would have been stated before Adam chose to sin, or what we call the Fall — and that just does not make sense.  Before the Fall, there would have been nothing from which to be saved.  There was however, before the Fall, a clear mandate to work.  To tend a garden.  To trim the trees.  To plow the unplowed ground.  To make paths.  To tenderly clear an expanse for lush green grass to flourish.  To bring order, to bring Shalom to a wild garden that was loaded with potential.
There is still work to be done.
Eden is over.
Things are messy.
Chaos is all around, even in our own lives.
God still extends His hand to us, longing to partner with His beloved creation to bring Shalom in a world that cries out for it.
It is a calling we all desire, but few really embrace.
It is encouraging to see someone else actually go for it.  To really go for it.  I mean, from the depths of their soul, they chase it.  Pursue it with reckless abandon.  To take chances that scare most people.  To honestly trust God by stepping first into the swirling and chaotic waters.
This is my friend Stuart.

*I will expound on this thought at a later time.  Let me say though, that before we can effectively bring God’s Shalom to a chaotic world, it does start with Jesus.  It starts with a dependence upon him and what he did on the cross — that his death was enough to satisfy God’s justice.  Jesus’ sacrifice of himself, a sinless offering, was enough.

Let it be known throughout all the land and beyond that I am a hero.  I rescued my family from the venomous jaws of death — the deadly jaws of a copperhead.  That’s right, I am a hero.  I stepped into chaos and brought order with the swift blow of my shovel.  I valiantly severed the head from the writhing serpent and victoriously buried it deep in the earth.  I gallantly volunteered to have my photo taken (see photo below).  Then I bravely recorded my exploits in this blog.  Afterwards, I smiled handsomely and then went about my day.

Did I mention that I am also humble?