"Scrubs" Rant of the Week

Once again, the illustrious Dr. Cox:

"I suppose I could riff a list of things that I care as little about as our last week. Let's see... low carb diets, Michael Moore, the Republican National Convention, Kabbalah & all Kabbalah-related products, Hi-Def TV, the Bush daughters, wireless hotspots, the OC, the UN, recycling, getting Punk'd, Danny Gans, the Latin Grammys, the real Grammys, Jeff that Wiggle that sleeps too darn much, the Yankees payroll, all the red states, all the blue states, every hybrid car, every talk show, everything on the planet, everything in the solar system, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything every-everyt-h-i-n-g that exists past present & future, in discovered and undiscovered dimensions!"

[turns away, then turns back]

"Oh, and Hugh Jackman."

LH

Meme of the Day: 4 Things

Four movies I have watched over and over again
1. Clue
2. The Princess Bride
3. Office Space
4. Monty Python's Life of Brian

Four Places I have lived:
1. Blytheville, Arkansas
2. K.I. Sawyer Air Force Base, Michigan
3. Bellevue, Nebraska
4. Kirksville, Missouri

Four TV shows I love to watch (In no order)
1. Scrubs
2. The Wonder Years
3. Mystery Science Theater 3000
4. Quantum Leap

Four places I have been on vacation
1. Massachusetts
2. Hawaii
3. Florida
4. Missouri

Four of my favorite foods
1. Steak
2. cheesecake
3. Sweetie's green bean casserole
4. cheesy potato casserole

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. behind a contestant stand on the Jeopardy! set in beautiful Burbank, California
2. in the front row at a Taylor Hicks concert
3. on the beach in Wailea, Maui
4. up, up and away in my beautiful, my beautiful ballooooooon

LH

"Built on a Rock, the Church Shall Stand..."

"...even when floors and ceilings are being torn up, and doors torn down, and a general mess is being made..."

Doesn't have quite the same ring to it as the original hymn, does it?

This past weekend, my church began the process of tearing up the Sunday School wing so that it could later begin the process of making it MUCH nicer. With the entire wing unusable, we had classes scattered all over the place. The Pre-K/Kindergarten class met where the high school kids usually are, the high schoolers were sent to the Parish Hall, the 1st-2nd graders met in my office, the 3rd graders were in the nursery, the 4th-5th graders took over the adult Sunday School room, the 6th-7th graders occupied a room that looks like a classroom but has been used mostly for storage, and the adults were banished to the pastor's office. I think we may end up switching the 4th-5th graders and the adults around (more adults showed up than anyone anticipated, and the 4th-5th grade class is kind of small), but other than that, things seemed to go relatively smoothly.

They're hoping to have things done in time for the big April 1st 75th Anniversary celebration (yes, that's right, April Fool's Day)...it's gonna be nice. New carpet replacing the very old tile floor, drywall instead of painted cinder block walls, a new heating/AC unit that will allow the kids to not have to wear their coats to class in the winter, and new doors and workstations in the classrooms with more storage space.

And the best part--unless it goes WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY over budget...it's already paid for.

Now, to get back to the whole April Fools Day thing. Apparently, 75 years ago, this congregation's very first worship service was held on Palm Sunday. Well, thanks to the wonders of the movable church calendar, this year Palm Sunday falls on April 1st. So there you are, a bunch of what St. Paul described as "fools for Christ" throwing a big party the Sunday before Easter.

Personally, I"m looking forward to 2018, when Easter falls on April 1st. Talk about the best freakin' April Fools joke on sin and death:

Jesus: I'm baaaaaaaaaaaack...

Sin: What the...

Death: #(*%&%!!!

Jesus: April fool!!!

Sin: What the...

Death: #(%&%!!!

LH

Baptized and Set Free

3 years ago today, Kiddo was baptized. Sweetie and I are trying our best to "raise him wet," teaching him about the God who created him, the Savior who redeemed him, and the Spirit who is active in his life.

That's a lot for a 32 year-old brain to process, nevermind a 3 year-old.

For now, we're content knowing these things:

• that he loves to sing Jesus Loves Me.


• That anything T-shaped he sees he'll point to and say "look, a cross! Just like in church!"


• That he'll reprimand me if my hands aren't folded when he says his bedtime prayers.


• That he thinks every picture of a bearded man in his Childrens Bible is Jesus.

All the other stuff will come in time.

But as for today, here's the lyrics to one of my new favorite songs about baptism (it's to the tune of When In Our Music God Is Glorified, if you happen to know that hymn)...and a picture of Kiddo from the big day 3 years ago:

We Know That Christ Is Raised

by John Geyer

We know that Christ is raised and dies no more.

Embraced by death, he broke its fearful hold,

and our despair he turned to blazing joy.

Hallelujah!

We share by water in his saving death.

Reborn, we share with him an Easter life,

As living members of our Savior Christ.

Hallelujah!

The Father's splendor clothes the Son with life.

The Spirit's fission shakes the church of God.

Baptized, we live with God the Three in One.

Hallelujah!

A new creation comes to life and grows

as Christ's new body takes on flesh and blood.

The universe restored and whole will sing:

Hallelujah!

LH

Campus Ministry

Before doing what I do now (Director of Christian Education and Music for a congregation), I was a full-time lay minister for an ELCA campus ministry. As part of the application process, I had to write a "ministry statement..." one of the hoops the larger church makes you jump through in the campus ministry application process. It's really a good idea--it allows both the applicant and the ministry to gain valuable insight that might not ordinarily be breached in an interview.

I ran across my ministry statement the other day. There were sections at the end where I had to answer some specific questions that aren't all that interesting, but I found the first part both interesting and applicable not only to campus ministry, but to any sort of congregational setting. I'd be interested in hearing thoughts and responses:

My interest in campus ministry goes back to when I was in college myself. I attended a public university in a small town about five hours away from where my parents lived. My parents had brought me up in the Lutheran church--I had been baptized as a baby, confirmed as a teenager and had regularly attended worship services and Sunday School. The church we belonged to, however, did not have much of a youth program outside of high school Sunday School classes, and I consequently had a hunger for God’s Word that had not been completely fed. College, I knew, was going to be a time of growth and learning, and I looked forward to growing in and learning more about my faith as well.

When I arrived on campus as a freshman, I was excited to find out that there was a Lutheran church just a few blocks away from the dorms. It was a Missouri Synod congregation, but they used the green Lutheran Book of Worship that I had grown up with, so I felt at home with the liturgy. The problem was that I did not feel totally at home with the congregation. There was only one service on Sundays which was at 9:30, so there were not many college students that were there Sunday mornings. The pastor was also a professor on campus, but was much more comfortable with New Testament Greek and Christian History 101 than with relational ministry. I’m sure there were many more Lutheran students on campus like me, who were hungering for a church home-away-from-home, but this congregation did not seem very interested in the ministry opportunity so close to them.

Gradually, I stopped going to church altogether during the school year, and began to take a more academic approach to my faith life. Whenever I could, I signed up for religion courses as electives--in fact, by the time I graduated, I was one course shy of having a minor in Philosophy and Religion. It wasn’t until my junior year, when a friend invited me to a worship service led by a group called Campus Christian Fellowship, that I began to get involved in church again. CCF was a nondenominational group that held services every Wednesday night and Sunday morning in a gym on campus. They averaged about 300 students for Wednesday nights, and about 450 for Sunday mornings--this was at a public university with only 6,000 total students! While the style of worship was one that I wasn’t used to--there was a band up front and an overhead projector displayed the words to the praise songs we sang--there was a sense of community and of the Spirit that I immediately latched on to. It wasn’t long before I was invited to join a small-group Bible Study that met once a week in the dorm next to mine, and before long I was leading a Bible Study of my own. At the end of the year, I was asked if I was interested in being an intern minister for the following year. CCF had two full-time paid pastors, but they also had between 10 and 15 students--usually seniors--who served as interns and helped run the ministry.

We had an ongoing joke my senior year that I was the “token mainline Protestant” on the internship staff. Sure enough, my beliefs were often in opposition to the other interns, as well as the students I was ministering to. Despite these huge differences in doctrine, that internship year made a huge difference in my life because I belonged, and I was making a difference with my peers. I played keyboard in the Wednesday night worship band, led three different Bible Study groups, and delivered the sermon both at the on-campus services and at a couple of local churches that supported the ministry. I also had some fascinating discussions with my fellow interns, who in challenging me and my beliefs, strengthened my faith.

Looking back, it pains me to think of the opportunities that the Lutheran church in my college town missed, and that CCF was able to take advantage of, all because of a difference in ministry philosophy. First and foremost, campus ministry should be relational. College, for many people, is a time when one questions, searches, and tries to define who they are and what their place is in the world. Students want to belong, to be a part of a community, to have opportunities to interact and grow with their peers. That’s why, in my own experience, even though I had much more doctrinally in common with the local Lutheran church, I ended up clinging to my experience with CCF. There were a number of ways in which they excelled at this type of ministry. First of all, I was invited. I was invited over and over--to services, to the Bible Study, and finally to be an intern. With the local church, I had to look them up in the phone book, and was never invited to anything outside of Sunday morning. Secondly, CCF came to me where I was. The services were on campus. Wednesday nights were at 9:00, Sunday mornings were at 11:00. They recognized I was a college student and didn’t try to fight my natural schedule. It was convenient--Bible studies were in the dorms, worship was on campus, and the CCF “house” (the center of the ministry) was exactly one block off campus. Third, CCF had a variety of groups that I could be involved in. I was interested in music and Bible Study, but also could have done drama, helped with prison ministry, or gone on mission trips. I could have been a leader of any of these or just part of the group. The ministry as a whole was large, but they always found ways to break things into small groups. That was key–no matter what I did, I was part of a small community. Each of those people in those many small communities got to know me well, and I was able to get to know them too.

There are many para-church groups on campuses today who understand the student psyche like CCF. Unless there is an alternative, students will flock to them, even if they disagree or aren’t sure about their doctrine, much like my experience. I am lucky enough to now live in a city where there is an ELCA campus ministry that invites students, comes to them where they are, challenges them and gives them varied opportunities to minister and grow in small communities. It’s exactly what I had been looking for when I was a student myself, and I am excited at the possibility of helping that ministry continue to develop and thrive.

Kiddo Unveiled

I've talked about Kiddo enough...and I know he'd think it was way cool that he showed up on Daddy's blog. So, without further ado, I give you the internet debut of Kiddo LutheranHusker!

Christmas Eve...all ready for church...and he's very happy to meet you!

Cookies and milk for Santa and Rudolph. Kiddo helped Sweetie make them and was very insistent that Santa got 4, and Rudolph got 2. Not sure what the reindeer union thought of that...

"This is where Santa is going to come down the chimney when I'm asleep...then he's going to go eat his cookies and drink his milk...then he's gonna bring me PRESENTS!"

As you may remember, he turned 3 back in December, and Sweetie and I just love the kid to pieces. Of course we do. That's what parents do, right? Every parent thinks their kid is the smartest, funniest, cutest, most wonderful and amazing child in the whole universe.

The difference is, Kiddo really is. =)

Okay, one more thing and then I'm done with the "proud-Daddy-showing-off" moment. Here's a video from November of him "reading" the Sandra Boynton classic Pajama Time to his stuffed animals before bed:

Good night. Sleep tight.

LH

Two things

Thing Number One: This morning, Kiddo turned to me while eating breakfast and said, "hey Daddy, it's really quiet in here. Maybe that's because Mommy's gone."

(slight pause)

"Hey Daddy, why are you laughing?"

Thing Number Two: I ran across a really great piece of writing that I had saved from right after the Red Sox beat the Yankees in the 2004 American League playoffs. I wish I could say I had written it...actually I suppose I could say I had written it, but I'd be lying. At any rate, it's an incredibly well-written "average die-hard Red Sox fan" viewpoint of that series, especially the final game. It's almost as if this guy had crawled into my brain and listened to my thoughts as I watched The Red Sox come back from the brink of being swept to complete the greatest series comeback in modern sports history. (OR...to watch the Yankees complete the greatest series choke-job in modern sports history...that sounds almost as nice.) Whether or not you're a Sox fan, if you've ever rooted for an underdog, you may be able to empathize with some of these emotions. Here you go:

The Nation's Independence Day by Bill Simmons

Honestly, I don't know what to do.

I just watched my beloved Red Sox win the American League pennant. That's only happened twice in my lifetime. I watched them rally back from three games down in a playoff series. That's never happened before, not in the history of baseball. I also just watched the Sox beat the Yankees in a deciding playoff game. Not only has that never happened before, it's a possible sign of the apocalypse.

Now get this ... all three things happened at the same time.

So what happens now? Where do I go from here? Should I throw myself into politics? Backpack across Europe? Take up gourmet cooking? Learn how to fly airplanes? Should I take the bus to Fort Hancock, cross the border and wander the beaches of Zihuatanejo looking for Andy and Red? You tell me. What should I do?

As recently as 75 hours ago, they were dead. Cooked. I can still remember standing in Fenway Park with my father, ready to hustle out of there as soon as the Yankees completed the sweep in the ninth. Then Millar drew a walk from Rivera. Signs of life. The crowd just wouldn't give up on this team -- everyone was standing and cheering like it was the seventh game of the World Series. Roberts ran onto the field as a pinch-runner, rattled Rivera into a few pickoff throws, swiped second and scooted home on a single from Mueller. Tie game. And the series was never the same.

I started thinking about a comeback that night, about 0.00000003 seconds after Ortiz's walkoff home run landed in the Yankees' bullpen a little before 1:30 a.m. So did everyone else. We had Pedro going in Game 5, then Schilling in Game 6. That's a puncher's chance. We also had a little momentum. Not much. But a little. Then Game 5 happened, moving us into the "Regardless of what happens, I love this team" stage of things. Then the Schilling Game happened and everyone believed.

To stage the greatest comeback in sports history against the most successful franchise in sports history, some Renee Zellweger-level crazy things need to happen. Like Rivera blowing consecutive saves. Like Wakefield getting out of a crucial inning despite three passed balls. Like Torre pitching to Ortiz instead of loading the bases for Mientktxdwdsdz at the end of Game 5. Like Schilling pitching with the sutures and the Roy Hobbs bloodstain on his sock. Like Foulke somehow recording 15 grueling outs over the course of 48 hours, including an impossible ninth inning in the Bronx in Game 6. The list goes on and on.

Miracles don't just happen. You need a bunch of mini-miracles along the way. Eventually they add up. So do the heroes.

And that's when it gets interesting.

By the time Game 7 rolled around, October 20th felt like a combination of New Year's Eve and the Fourth of July in Boston. This was bigger than all of us. Everyone was headed somewhere, or planning on heading somewhere. Nothing else mattered. Nothing. You couldn't walk five feet without seeing a Sox hat or hearing a conversation about the series. It was physically impossible.

I ended up watching the game in the Financial District, thanks to my buddy Sully's connections at a bar called The Office. We were able to invite about 20 guys -- closed-off room upstairs, projection TV, pizza and wings, the whole shebang -- operating under house rules (only Sox fans) and old-school country club rules (no chicks). Sometimes, guys just need to be around other guys. This was one of those times. We were 27 outs away from toppling the Yankees.

The beers started flowing. Fox kicked off the telecast by using the music from the Rocky-Drago training montage in "Rocky 4." You can imagine how I felt about that one. “When Nomar died, a part of me died, too. But now you're the one.” Everyone seemed optimistic ... right up until Damon was thrown out at home in the first inning, thanks to yet another bone-headed decision from the immortal Dale Sveum. If this guy was a school crossing guard, little kids would be getting pancaked by SUVs like Tony Mandarich in his prime.

We didn't even have 10 seconds to bitch about this before Ortiz crushed a two-run homer to right, and we were rolling. Derek Lowe pitched the biggest six innings of his life -- on two days' rest, no less -- and salvaged his dreadful regular season. The Struggling Johnny Damon (his extended name all week) smacked an astounding grand slam, my personal favorite moment of the night, only because it came from nowhere and sparked a two-minute long celebration of high-fiving, chest-bumping and general idiocy. Two innings later, Damon came up again and crushed another home run, a two-run job into the upper deck. So much for The Struggling Johnny Damon.

8-1, Red Sox. Fifteen outs to go.

We would have felt more confident with that cushion, but the announcers were determined to avoid any Yankees talk and concentrate solely on how the Sox could blow the game. They dragged out every disturbing statistic, every Babe Ruth sign, every negative Boston playoff memory they could find. I'm not positive on this, but I think McCarver and Buck started a "1918!" chant at one point. So yeah, we were a little uneasy.

But the Sox kept racking up those outs. The announcers didn't know what to do -- they had geared their entire broadcast around the inevitable Boston collapse. Forget about the fact that the Yankees had choked in the last two games in Boston, or that they lost at home to a 40-year-old guy whose ankle tendon was stapled to his ankle bone, or that they had a $180 million payroll, or that a Yankee collapse to Boston would be the most devastating moment in franchise history. Forget about showing more shots of the stunned fans, or Yankee players sitting listlessly in the dugout. None of this stuff mattered early. As the game dragged on, they started coming around.

"If they hold on to this lead, I'll tell you how big this would be," McCarver said at one point. "This could very well be the biggest win in Red Sox history."

Of course, that's like saying, "If John Kerry wins the election next month, that could very well be the biggest moment of his political career." But it was better than nothing. At least they weren't bringing up the Boston baggage as much. At least I wasn't thinking about it.

When Francona lifted Lowe in the seventh for Pedro Martinez, and Pedro allowed those two rockets to Matsui and Williams ... I mean, all those old demons came roaring back. It was the ultimate test. Like a recovering alcoholic opening that hotel mini-bar and seeing those tiny liquor bottles. Our room went silent, save for a few expletives and the echoes of the "Who's your Daddy?" chants. Poor Francona had unwittingly plugged Yankee Stadium back into its socket; I kept waiting for him to pull off the Paul Shaffer mask and reveal he was actually Grady Little.

I can't even describe the things I was thinking about. Terrible, horrible things. Dark things. I just kept remembering the words of my magazine editor, Neil, who called the series "Shakespearean" Wednesday afternoon. Well, if you were Shakespeare, how could you top last year's collapse if your ultimate goal was for an entire base of fans to kill themselves? Wouldn't you have their team roar back from a 3-0 series deficit, then blow an 8-1 lead in the deciding game? Wouldn't that do the trick?

I have never counted down the remaining outs in a game before. Never. Not until last night.

12 ... 11 ... 10 ...

(Pedro comes in.)

9.

(Good God.) (Come on.) (Don't do this to me.) (I will hang myself.)

8 ... 7.

(Exhale.)

6.

Just when the Yanks had some momentum, Bellhorn slammed an insurance home run off Gordon. Can you have insurance homers when the score is 8-3? Apparently so. Timlin made it through the eighth unscathed, with a major boost from Mientkiciwzwzz's outrageous scoop on an errant Mueller throw. (Defense, baby!)

5 ... 4 ... 3.

The top of the ninth yielded another insurance run off Gordon, who will be covered in blankets, duct-taped and thrown off one of Steinbrenner's yachts some time this winter. Now Fox was showing the obligatory reaction shots -- Yankee fans ready to start sobbing; Cashman frozen in his luxury box; A-Rod's eyes darting around the stadium, trying to figure out a way to cheat to get on base -- and that's when it felt real.

That used to be us. Not anymore.

"I almost started crying that inning," Sully said after it was over. "Is this what it feels like to be a girl?"

Seven-run lead. Three outs to go. Timlin got the first two and gave way to Embree, who retired Sierra on a routine grounder to end the game.

(Heeeeeeeeeee-yahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Let the record show that the Yanks went out with a whimper -- especially A-Rod (the anti-Babe), Sheffield (disappeared) and Matsui (never the same after Pedro dusted him in Game 4), not to mention Brown, Vazquez and Gordon, and even Torre (not his finest series). Only Jeter seemed to care that the Yankees were getting smoked -- there was one replay earlier in the game, after his RBI single, when he pumped his fist and shouted at his dugout, "Come on!" He seemed desperate. The Yankees never seem desperate. Now they were headed home for the winter, headed for the No. 1 slot on ESPN50's "Biggest Chokes" show in 2029.

Meanwhile, the Red Sox were celebrating at Yankee Stadium. Have I mentioned that yet? Meanwhile, we were doing our own celebrating at The Office—between exchanging high-fives and heterosexual man-hugs, I couldn't stop glancing at the TV. It's official, right? We definitely beat them, right?

"What's wrong with you?" Sully asked.

"Honestly? I keep waiting for them to announce that there's a Game 8."

Well, there wasn't. I said my goodbyes, headed out the door and walked around Faneuil Hall and Beacon Hill for the next 45 minutes, soaking in a scene I never thought I would see. Fans wearing Sox hats and T-shirts, everyone whooping and hollering. Car horns honking. A steady rumble of distant cheers coming from every direction -- Kenmore, Copley, B.C., B.U., Charlestown, you name it. If there's a better sound in life, I haven't heard one yet. Even greater than I imagined. Looking back, I probably had that same dumb smile walking around that Andy Dufresne gets in The Shawshank Redemption when they're working on the roof and everyone is drinking his beer.

To recap: Greatest comeback in sports history. First trip to the World Series in 18 years. First meaningful victory over the Yankees. All at the same time.

You have to be from here to understand. You just do. It wasn't just that the Yankees always win. It was everything else that came with it -- the petty barbs, the condescending remarks, the general sense of superiority from a fan base that derives a disproportionate amount of self-esteem from the success of their baseball team. I didn't care that they kept winning as much as they were jerks about it. Not all of them. Most of them. In 96 hours, everything was erased. Everything. It was like pressing the re-start button on a video game.

And yeah, I know. We need to win the World Series to complete the dream. But you can win the World Series every year. You only have one chance to destroy the Yanks. As my friend Mike (a Tigers fan) wrote me last night, "Everyone outside of Yankee brats are celebrating quietly with you guys. It's like you killed Michael Myers, Jason, Freddie Kreueger and Hannibal Lecter in one night."

It was the choke of chokes, an unprecedented gag job. For once, finally, the Yankees have some baggage. Just like every other baseball team.

One last story: I rolled into my dad's house at 1:30, only to find him in the living room, sound asleep, holding the TV remote in his hand like he'd been cryogenically frozen. On the television in front of him, Fox25 was showing live footage from Kenmore Square, as thousands and thousands of Boston fans were celebrating the impossible. After I muttered "Dad!" a few times, he finally jolted awake, glanced at me, then glanced at the TV.

"I can't believe it," he mumbled. "We beat the Yankees."

And it wasn't a dream.

LH

Owwie...

Okay, confession time here. About 4 or 5 times a year, I get my eyebrows waxed. Actually, I should qualify that. I get the middle of my eyebrow waxed to help provide the illusion that I actually have two eyebrows for at least some short span of time. It's a reality born out of necessity more than vanity. My unibrow is like Jerry Rice was in his prime. You can't stop it, you can only hope to contain it.


This past Friday, I had it done again. Usually, I just have them do that space in the middle...however, this time I had noticed my eyebrow(s) was (were) growing vertically, as well as horizontally. Downward, mostly, so that if nothing was done soon I'd be like that sheepdog in the old Looney Tunes cartoons who clocks in and out to guard the sheep each day from the coyote. "G'mornin', Sam." "G'mornin', Ralph."

So I had the bottoms of both eyebrows done too.

Holy. Crap.

When the girl was done she looked at me with a pained expression and said "wow, your skin turns really red!" Frankly, I was surprised there was actually any skin there...I just figured my eyebrows, with the Roots of Steel they apparently have, ripped off everything right down to...well, whatever is under the bit of skin betwen your eye socket and eyebrow.

It's Monday now, and it's finally gotten to the point where it only hurts if I touch it. Or if water makes contact with my face in the shower. Or if I do my patented Fire Marshall Bill Jim Carrey impersonation. Luckily, the redness went away, so I don't look like a circus clown.

And I don't look like a sheepdog, either.

LH

I always suspected...

Knowing my Red Sox fanaticism, someone pointed me to a website the other day where one can buy the following t-shirt:

Unlike much other Christian apparel, this shirt is actually theologically sound! As much as I appreciate the message though, I may not be adding it to my birthday wishlist anytime soon. The world may not yet be ready for the radical truth of this prophetic proclamation...

LH

Were these written by Jack Handey?

A friend of mine just forwarded this to me in an email. I haven't had a chance to check out the truthfulness of the source, but no matter where it came from, the bottom line is that these similies are freakin' hilarious, especially if you're a former English major. Enjoy:

Every year, English teachers from across the country can submit their collections of actual analogies and metaphors found in high school essays. These excerpts are published each year to the amusement of teachers across the country. Here are last year's winners.....

1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse, without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. Coli, and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.

5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

7. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.

8. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegratedbecause of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.

9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

10. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.

12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.

16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River.

18. Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

20. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either,but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

23. The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

25. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells,as if she were a garbage truck backing up.