Wednesday, I surfaced from my subterranean office to take a leisurely walk around campus and enjoy the weather. I really is a wonderful place to walk. This is something I should do much more often.

With the birds and their song being a presence impossible not to notice, I was moved to ponder Christ's teachings about the sparrows. I first thought about the instinctual fear birds have towards humans. I've never seen the movie (and this statement will remain intact for the remainder of my years), but I have existed in Disney's America long enough to have seen the clips of Snow White gracefully singing and walking about the forest as small songbirds flitted about on her appendages. I wondered if Adam and Eve had the "privilege" of being swarmed by birds. I would be all for it if the birds could/would do my bidding.

Then I started thinking about the sidewalk. I thought about how this very sidewalk fits into God's design. Although, I will fail to even begin to understand the multitude of purposes it is assigned to in the larger scheme of things.

On the whole, my scriptural ponderings, as you can see, were not exploding with profundity.

Much later that evening, I found myself at the Cox Convention Center in downtown OKC. It was late and I was packing up a metric buttload of audio-video gear belonging to the production company for which I do very scant, part-time work. That nite, I had the privelege of running camera for a high school graduation. There is not a terrible lot to say about the event.

So, I was transporting packed gear from one side of the arena to the company van on the other side. This little trek led me through the orchestration that was the setting up hundreds of chairs, performed by a number of the convention center's employees. It was an interesting group--A heavy-set, middle-aged man in overalls, a man that was probably much younger than what his grey-bearded, haggard face made him appear to be, and a tall, skinny woman who, upon looking at her, you would have a fairly good idea as to how her skeleton looks.

I will confess. Upon seeing such people in such occupations, I oft feel a sense of pity mixed with notions of existentialism. I wonder what it is that gets them out of bed--what it is for which they are living. I think of the Leonard Cohen lyric,"You're living for nothing now; I hope you are keeping some kind of record." It just seems like an alien existence, and I want to know what that looks like. It needs to be logged, so I can marvel at how they exist amidst the nothingness.

Fortunately, I caught myself that nite. Well, the Word--not I--caught me. The memory of my pondering on Christ's teachings of the sparrow while enjoying a beautiful day struck me. I was forced to realize that these people are not alone, and they are certainly not existing in a void. How arrogant it would be for me to think that I am the only sparrow. To think that I am of the few that believe enough to perceive beauty and meaning and worth in the things around me.

I was forced to realize that God cares for these people to the extent that he continues to give them breath and expose them to meaning and beauty and work and responsibility and family and friends. It is I, in my humanity--my creaturehood, that deny the Creator's meaningful blessings that surround these people. I steal away this meaning in order to "build up" my faith in Christ as the only means to experience these forementioned good things. In my twisted way of thinking, this is an evangelical tool (on which I, in my cowardice, never act upon--which might be a good thing), as I can intellectually slam these peoples' lives as utterly empty existence. Plus, it is easier to write someone off as hopeless when you perceive they exist in another world in which there is no meaning.

But, my way of thinking is just not true. The truth of the matter is that I live in the same world they do. I exist on the same plane. Believers certainly have the gift of the Spirit, the Word, and the fear of God that grants them access to special revelation. This does not consequently mean that the unbeliever has nothingness. Even if they choose to think they have nothingess, why should I join in and help "suppress the truth" with and for them.

I manage to deny God's general revelation and mentally alienate people a lot. Furthermore, I assume unbelief a lot. I fail to understand the Gospel and all the blessings by which I am continually surrounded. Thus, I fail to understand the people by whom I am continually surrounded. I can relate to God, because he became a man. And, yet I refuse to believe I can relate to other men?

Having only thought about these things amidst the noise of working, I felt pretty crappy when I prayed before going to bed that nite. I finally really repented. I was thankful for the Word and the work of the Spirit. And, overall, I was assured by having severely felt my need for Christ that day.

My second person in the series is closely related to the first. Fred Rule is the older brother of my father, Jim Rule. Whereas my father was known as 'the miniature quarterback' in central Kansas, small-town, high school football, Fred was known as the hulking linebacker that split his own helmet apart from striking an opposing player.

He has a voice to match, deep and gruff. The man speaks in meters of good ol' fashioned curse words and strangely-affectionate racial slurs. It's a voice that can make small children stumble and fall and question if they have done anything against the will of Fred in the past year. In his presence, my brother and I have cleaned our plates unto misery for fear of a rebuke for being wasteful.

He lives with his wife, Marlene (an ex-barrel racer from Montana or Wyoming--I can't remember which--that has a son who is a tip-of-the-top rodeo clown), a couple miles north of Elk City. They have a number of horses on their land. Fred is a veterinarian. About two years ago, he extracted a wicked cow disease (not 'mad cow'), because he put a knife--the knife with which he was carving open a cow to operate--in his mouth. He almost died.

He is notorious for hurting and consequently operating on himself. If I am not mistaken, he actually stitched up the back of his head on one occasion. He is also known to 'prescribe' animal medicine to those near and dear. I have had the good pleasure of receiving such aid. He has frequented rodeos--oft times as an official rodeo veterinarian--for a very long time. Many years back, he was approached at such a venue by a representative of Marlboro. He was considered a possible candidate to be the next Marlboro man. Supposedly, he was disqualified, because they thought his nose was too large.

You get the picture. Now, on with the story.

About two years ago when my wife and I were merely dating, she asked me if I had an uncle named Fred. I told her I did and asked as to why she asked. To our pleasant surprise, Fred had recently scheduled an appointment with my wife's father--an endodontist (specialized dentist of sorts)--on account of some tooth issue that would require the surgical know-how of an endodontist. I thought that the situation would be another way for me to relate to and conversate with Nicole's father.

A number of months passed, and I found out that Fred had cancelled his appointment. But what of the searing oral pain? Apparently, Fred had solved the problem himself with his veterinarian knowledge and a Dremel tool. A lasting impression of my bloodline for the soon-to-be in-laws.

Blame it on the summer lull here in the library, but my web surfing delivered me to the far corners of the internet today. I don't at all remember how I got there, but I did--the official Hot Dog on a Stick website.

The site is what you would expect from the food vendor that has made its employees don the same, ridiculous, multi-colored, awkward, unappetizing, circusian outfits year after year. Cheap with a senseless color scheme.

HDOAS Employee looking for a reason not to stick her head in the deep fryer.

Hot Dog on a Stick is apparently celebrating 60 years of battered excellence this year. And, to celebrate, they are hosting a contest on their website. All one has to do is submit their favorite hot dog story.

The prize, my friends? ...Heaven. That's right--a year's supply of free food straight from the gaping, motherly maw of HDOAS.

So, I reached deep in my overflowing bag of hot dog history, memorabilia, and general fondness. Ladies and gents, my submission...

The subject of Oral Robert's five-hundred-foot hot dog is a
controversial issue. The constantly changing fashionable take on Oral Robert's
five-hundred-foot hot dog demonstrates the depth of the subject. Remarkably Oral
Robert's five-hundred-foot hot dog is heralded by shopkeepers and investment
bankers alike, leading many to state that it is yet to receive proper
recognition for laying the foundations of democracy. It still has the power to
shock so called 'babies', who just don't like that sort of thing. Keeping all of
this in mind, let's examine the major issues.

Of paramount importance to any reflection on Oral Robert's
five-hundred-foot hot dog within its context, is understanding the ideals of
society. Society says that every man must find their own truth. While one sees
Oral Robert's five-hundred-foot hot dog, another may see monkeys playing
tennis.

Politics, we all agree, is a fact of life. Comparing international
relations since the end of the century can be like observing the two, equally
popular approaches to Oral Robert's five-hundred-foot hot dog. If the reader is
unaware of these, they need only to turn on the television, or pick up a
newspaper or popular magazine.

Let us consider the words of that silver tongued orator, one of
the great political analysts Aaron Rock 'A man must have his cake and eat it in
order to justify his actions.' Primarily, he is referring to Oral Robert's
five-hundred-foot hot dog. It is a well known 'secret' that what prompted many
politicians to first strive for power was Oral Robert's five-hundred-foot hot
dog.

I wait anxiously. What will the next few years bring for Oral
Robert's five-hundred-foot hot dog?

In conclusion, Oral Robert's five-hundred-foot hot dog may not be
the best thing since sliced bread, but it's still important. It replenishes the
self, ensures financial stability, though Oral Robert's five-hundred-foot hot
dog brings with it obvious difficulties, it is truly Oral Robert's
five-hundred-foot hot dog.

I shall give the final word to star Elvis Beckham: 'My Daddy loved
Oral Robert's five-hundred-foot hot dog and his Daddy loved Oral Robert's
five-hundred-foot hot dog.'

James "Jim" Hunt Rule

He grew up in a small town in central kansas. He flew KC-135's for our country during Vietnam. He worked for American Airlines until recently retiring. With the help of a full-time housewife, he raised up three childrens that are yet to really shame his name. He now spends his days taking care of and improving his house, helping his children move, browsing Wall's Bargain Center, jogging only in the mid-day heat, and committing all kinds of time to helping out his church, the Elk City First United Methodist Church.

Truly, truly, I am realizing this to be a portrait of what I believe to be success. The following story does nothing for me but deepen my belief in this idea of success.

During my senior year in high school, I convinced my father that we should purchase a Volkswagen Westfalia (or 'westy') for my collegiate transportation. Both of us having a weakspot for older Volkswagens and bargain hunting, soon landed one on eBay. We, with discounted rates on account of my father's job, flew down to Houston, made the transaction, and began driving the van back to Oklahoma.

It was a nightmare. It broke down a couple of times. It took days. Not even two years later, we sold the westy. On the whole, it was a good riddance.

And so they say, "You can't keep a good dog down."

Lo and behold, I received a very interesting story in my inbox this past week.

[The following is extracted directly from an email written by my mother]

Dad has been searching the internet for a VW Thing since he sent
the bug to Norman. found one on Thursday, left yesterday morning at 3:00
a.m. and flew to Palm Springs, California and bought a yellow one.

It's well over a thousand miles, it was 101 degrees when he started home. drove
thru the dessert at 45 mph, to keep it from overheating. no AC, it
has a hard top but the windows are out of it so he wears earplugs because
traffic is roaring past him on the interstate. he would stop at places
with shade and put the hood up and take a break and call, because he can't hear
the phone while he's driving. one stop, for a cooler, ice and pop, ]was at
a combination gas station antique store.

At one point he called to say he thought he'd head up north to flagstaff for some elevation and cooler air, but later said he'd decided to stay on course for phoenix since he didn't even have a flashlight or any tools if he had car trouble on the less traveled route at night.

He called me at one point to tell me he was driving by giant seguaro cacti in the moonlight in a perfect temperature, the full moon illuminating everything. says the dessert is only worth anythinkg by night. daytime there is nothing to hide the trash. he was having quite the experience.

He's been needing an adventure but it's too bad it is by himself.

The Thing needs a little body work. I kept asking him why all the many picutres the guy sent never had a photo of the left side, only the one left fender that had a "minor' glitch from where a tire fell off.

He's says "they're bonding" on this trip. he also said he thought he could get the 'minor' bodywork done for cheap in elk city and list it on ebay and make a thousand dollars. i said 'let's do."

Maybe he has finally something that will make him ebay savvy and have a new hobby of selling, not buying.

"Most excellent," I say. "Most excellent"

Will you be the first Clint's Person?