Israeli Photos

Finally got around to uploading some Israel stuff into Flickr. Have a look, why don't you? I gotta go do some exegesis now. Good bye!

Overlooking the Galilee

Not a huge fan of how Flickr handles color when it uploads. Oh well.

We hit Galilee about mid-trip. Almost got knocked over by the wind on top of this mountain while taking this shot. Gorgeous place, though. A lot more pristine and less... uh... shrine-y... than Jerusalem.

Getting up the mountain was easy. Buses tend to do that. Getting down, on the other hand...

Cinders -- A Piggy After My Own Heart

BBC News -- mud-phobia pig gets its own boots

Yeah, I said I'd blog about Israel. But I'm a laggy lagger who's lagging in summer school. But I will leave you with this:

Israel Lesson of the Day: Jews don't eat pigs.

Back from Israel

Yeah, it's been a while. My bad. But I just got back from a trip to the Promised Land, so I figured an update would be in order, what with the fact that it's kind of an extraordinary life event. Plus I have photos. Everyone loves photos.

But in short, our trip to Israel this past month was absolutely amazing. Traveling and learning with the IBEX group from Master's opened our eyes to aspects of the biblical narratives that we had never experienced before. It dropped us in the middle of history's staging ground, stripping away yet another veil that stood between our minds and the text of Scripture. And it gave me a deeper appreciation for the Lord's masterful hand in shaping and forming a land that all but requires radical faith to survive.

Sorry for the lack of specific insights at the moment, but I'm smack in the middle of summer school, trying to get over a cold, with over 2,500 Israel photos to sort through. The only thing I've managed to do so far is go through and tag all the pictures I took of drinks. And McDonald's Apple Pies. Which they deep fry in Israel. To make them kill you faster.

I'll leave y'all with this photo of the effects of hiking in Israel. These shoes used to be black.


Gross.

Farewell, Dear Friends

Oh, the long line of Macintosh computers that have graced my desktop these many years. What would life have been without you? A bitter, spiteful, and angry computing experience it would have been, no doubt. To think of the multitude of Windows PC's I would have suffered through had it not been for you few, proud Macintoshes -- it makes me disheartened to even think of it.



Who could forget you, dear Macintosh IIsi? You were the first Mac in the house -- a secondhand computer handed down to me from my brother. And what a computer you were. 20 MHz of feisty pep, 40 MB of (admittedly cramped) hard drive space, and the clickety-clack goodness that was your floppy disk drive. You were running System 7 at the time, if I recall correctly. You were a classic, even at that time. Oh, the many 2-D shareware games we used to run. Remember that old LaserWriter we used for our elementary school papers? That thing was a beast. And that 32x CD-ROM drive we hooked up to you? Truly, you were ahead of your time (for an outdated classic, that is).

We had a good run, IIsi -- that is, until the brain surgery. Yes, that daughterboard accelerator did give you a processing boost; and yes, the 40 MHz of speed did give you a chance to shine for a little bit longer. But let's face it, the upgrade made you a bit, how shall we say, off-kilter. You became unstable, unreliable. Saving my documents early and often helped a bit, but eventually I had to come to the sad realization that I needed to move on. So it was with a heavy heart that I boxed you up, ever so gently, to send you off into a quiet, peaceful retirement.



And then bounding onto the scene you came, PowerMac G3. Fresh from the factory, you came with 266 MHz of raw PowerPC computing power, 32 MB of RAM, and 6 GB (with a G!) of glorious hard drive space. You were a classy machine, G3. You were a proud and stately Mac, in a time when it was rather unpopular to be one. You were tall and beige (some would say "platinum") during a time when other Macs were taking on multi-color, translucent, gum-drop-candy cases. And you brought with you a slew of new facets to my computing experience, not least of which was your brand new operating system, Mac OS 8 (I recall being a bit irked by the fact that they broke tradition by not calling it "System 8." Oh well).

You played a key role in getting me through those high school years, what with all the hours of instant messaging, the eye-numbing games of Starcraft, and the vast libraries of CD-ROM-based encyclopedias (did Wikipedia even exist back then?). Games like Unreal were a bit of a struggle for you, even with your upgraded video card. But fortunately I was never really good at shooter games, anyway. Your built-in Zip drive was next to useless (I didn't want to buy Zip disks), but your floppy and CD-ROM drives were golden. You inherited your older sibling's monstrous LaserWriter, which served you well until it up and died on us.

All in all, you were a terrific machine. I didn't want to get rid of you. I really didn't. But the college years were coming upon us, and I needed something more portable, what with all the constant commuting to and from school. You still had your place at home, faithfully standing watch at my desk at home. But regrettably, once your younger sibling came along, you began to see less and less use.

That's where you come in, Titanium Powerbook. Ah, Titanium Powerbook. You're already a classic (but not in the old, obsolete, Macintosh-IIsi sort of way). How Cupertino managed to cram so much goodness into that titanium shell I don't want to know. That 400 MHz G4 processor of yours is like magic, and running OS X, it certainly makes my brother's old Powerbook G3 look like a hunk of junk. Nearly six years on, you still run like a champ. Sure, you don't have the latest specs and bells and whistles, but we hot-rodded you plenty to keep you in the game.

First came the OS -- from the original OS X to Panther (incidentally, the very first time I've ever shelled out money for an OS without a computer attached to it). Then came the hard drives. Your first transplant was that used drive my brother got from who-knows-where. 60 GB was certainly luxurious compared to your original 10, but the subsequent disk failure, data loss, and finals-week computing drama probably wasn't worth it. So we buckled down, bit the bullet, and got you a whopping 100 GB of factory-fresh storage space. You seemed to enjoy that, what with all your crazy music. A couple sticks of RAM brought your memory up to 512 MB, up from the meager 128 Apple sent you out with. And best of all, we were able to scavenge out an AirPort wireless card for you, since it wasn't included out of the factory. It took a bit of hacking -- that is, physically hacking apart an AirPort wireless base station to get at the oh-so-delicious wireless card within. That was fun.

The point is, we tried to get as many miles out of you as we could. And you certainly met the challenge, and then some. I was even contemplated getting you a new keyboard, once your ctrl-key popped off. But a little Superglue solved that problem, post-haste.

But then came the iPod. Without Firewire. Why did Apple decide to ship out iPods without Firewire capability? USB is fine and dandy, unless you're stuck with USB 1.0, like we were. The word "molasses" comes to mind. And then came the digital camera. And RAW files. And no Firewire SD card readers on the market. Your spirit was willing, TiBook, but your USB port was weak. And I mean weak. That USB 2.0 PC card helped, whenever it wasn't crashing the system and freezing up everything. Same goes for that other USB 2.0 card. If only we lived in a Firewire world, I'd probably keep you as my primary computer until the day you up and died. But alas, we don't live in such a utopia.

Of all the computers I've had to say goodbye to, this will be the hardest, dearest TiBook. But this isn't really goodbye. No, not at all.

You see, your little brother is already here. And he's going to take care of you. We already have a little CD burned that'll take you where no Mac of mine has gone before. That is, if we don't break you during the installation.

So you see, it's not the end of the road, dear friend. Not nearly. Who knows, if we get this right, we might even be able to breathe new life into your older siblings as well. Here's to hoping. See you when you wake up.

Restroom Reading

You know, I'm usually not a fan of reading in the restroom. I can't even fathom reading in my own bathroom (which is different from a restroom. It peeves me when people get the terms mixed up, even though I get them mixed up all the time). Books and toilets just aren't a mix I want to be involved in. But I understand if people enjoy reading whilst doing their restroom-ly duties. It's convenient. It's multitasking. Whatever. I don't want to borrow their books, though.

So the other day, I walked into the restroom at our office, which we share with another company on the same property. Into the stall I go, and what's this? Twas a magazine, tucked in just above the toilet-paper dispenser. And in the back of my mind, I wondered what sort of publications people around here are into. Being a typical men's restroom, I expected the usual: Cars, sports. I don't know -- fishing? So I turned my head a bit at the sight of that magazine, trying to get a better look at the title. What do people read in the leisurely moments in the restroom stall? What counts as light reading these days around the workplace? What calms them, intrigues them, tickles their fancy? Well apparently, it is this:

Industrial Heating Magazine

Industrial. Heating. Huh. To each his own, I suppose. Not my cup of tea, though. Which is a good thing, since I wouldn't have picked it up anyway. Because that's just gross.

"The Day the Marching Band Came"

Originally written February 2005, Children's Literature Workshop, UC San Diego. Used with permission. From myself.

---

      It was a bright, clear summer's day when the marching band came. The crowd roared and cheered, as crowds often do. Sammy cheered too, as the sounds of music floated up the street. He heard the crisp rat-ta-ta-tum-tum of the drums, the high brash toot of the trumpets, the jangling crash of the cymbals, the deep rumbling boom of the tubas. Sammy could hear it all. But the people in the crowd were tall as towers, blocking Sammy’s view.

      The black and silver tops of the marching band's hats were bobbing past the tall peoples' heads. Sammy was going to miss seeing the band! Squeezing his way past the tree-like legs of the adults before him, he pushed through just in time to see the last of the marchers go by, their brass instruments gleaming, their tall black hats bouncing with each step. The splendid red and white uniforms they wore reminded Sammy of toy soldiers.

      "That's it," thought Sammy as the band passed and disappeared down the block, "I'm going to be in a marching band!"

      Sammy ran back home and started planning right away. "This blue bucket will do for my hat!" he said to himself. "And I can use this tin can as a drum!" Sammy borrowed the red tablecloth from the kitchen and wrapped it around his neck.

      "Let's go!" exclaimed Sammy. Rascal bounded in, tail wagging in expectation. "You have to be able to play something if you want to be in the marching band, Rascal!" Rascal barked in reply. "Well, I guess if you want to sing, that's okay, too. Time for our parade!"

      And so Sammy and Rascal set out on their march. Sammy took the biggest steps his little legs could reach, and banged on the bottom of the tin can with his hand. Ping, pang, pong it went, and Rascal yelped every now and then. It was turning out to be a very good marching band indeed, Sammy thought.

      They marched down the neighborhood street, past the bright houses and apartments. Old ladies tending their lawns shook their heads. Old men on their porches didn’t even look up. Sammy gave them a smile and waved anyway, and Rascal barked a greeting.

      A gray tabby cat was crossing the street ahead of Sammy and Rascal. Rascal barked, and the little cat jumped back a little. “Rascal! Don’t be so mean!” commanded Sammy. Rascal stopped barking at the cat. Sammy knelt down beside the gray kitten. “Are you lost? That’s okay. Do you want to be in our marching band, Kitty?” The cat had a little brass bell on its collar, which tinkled as the kitten yawned. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes!’” And so the three of them marched further down the street.

      Past the playground they went, past the school, past the parks and fields. Rascal barked as Sammy slapped the drum can, and Kitty jumped every time Rascal barked, sending the bell jingling. Older boys sneered, and older girls pointed and giggled, but Sammy kept his head high and marched on forward. Rascal and Kitty looked glad to be marching, too.

      A seagull floated by overhead, and squawked its sharp, seagull's squawk. "You can be in our marching band too!" called Sammy from the ground. The seagull didn't seem to want to walk, but that was okay. They could be a marching-flying band.

      They went past the warehouses, big brick buildings with empty-looking windows. Old warehouse workers grumbled. Cars zoomed by, leaving behind clouds of stinky exhaust. But Sammy marched on with a smile, smacking the can to the beat of his steps. Rascal trotted along, tail wagging. Kitty kept pace right behind. And the seagull – Sammy decided to name him Gulliver – soared on overhead. The band was going far today.

      Sammy noticed a lonely, lost ant wandering on the sidewalk. "Well," said Sammy, "you don't have an instrument, Mr. Ant, but you can follow us along until you find one." The ant inched closer to the piece of gum stuck on Sammy's shoe.

      And so they continued their afternoon parade. Past the docks, the ocean breeze wafted in, rustling the tall grass and dry weeds along the cracking sidewalk. The sound of the rustling whispered like the soft sound of applause, each blade of grass or tuft of weed cheering the band along. And the tin can clanged, the bark sounded, the brass bell rang out, the squawk hung in the air. The ant hadn’t found an instrument yet, but that was okay. They still put on a very good parade.

---

Now all I need is an illustrator. And publisher. And readers.