OF COURSE THE EYES HAVE IT

I know two people that won't even read this blog today. They can't stand to look at eyes. Even their own. One friend of mine, Coach Mike, can't even put eyedrops in his own eyes.

I looked long and hard at this picture. First I thought it was an old woman with wispy Kasan or Nash kind of hair. Ok, I probably watched the Suns' game with too much interest last night.

Then I thought it a dog, a retriever type. Finally, I figured that it must be a horse with its mane parted and drooping over an eye. After I rode my first horse, no pony rides as a kid count, I've had respect for horsemen. I simply don't know how I would have survived in an earlier age.

They are so uncomfortable. Getting on them is tough enough, yet most cowboys can mount from jumping on the back of a saddle-less horse and take off. It takes me five minutes to spread my legs out and reach and adjust the stirrups to my short legs. It's kinda like shopping for a new couch. I have to try them all. They have a tendancy to be long in the cushion and throw me back in an awkward position when I touch the back with my shoulders.

The jostling you get from a horse just trotting is enough for me. And I've never been on one long enough for him to gallop. I'm probably better suited to a donkey. Plodding along. That kinda describes me anyhow.

Did you know that a donkey can see all 4 feet at the same time? Now that is cool. No wonder they are so sure footed. You know, come to think of it, I've never been quite as good a dancer when they told me not to look at my feet.

Oh, well. I could tell childhood stories about Scott, now, because he won't read this. He was the other one who can't stand to look at eyes. Ask him about the time he knocked down the biggest kid in class right there in the classroom and then refused to write a written apology. Headstrong. He's more like the donkey, too.

GET OVER IT---NEVER

Monday will mark my two month anniversary. From when I left for Israel. Maybe after two months, it's time to get over the trip. Nope. I never will. Nor do I want to.

Pictured is the Sea of Galilee and an all wooden boat we encountered on the sea. Ours was similar. One thing that made ours different was the waving of the flags of Israel and the USA. It was very awesome when they raised those flags next to each other and played our national anthem.

I'm sure I wasn't the only one to pray, "May they both long wave." They looked so good together, so natural.

The Sea of Galilee is 13 miles long, 7 miles wide, and 150 feet deep at the center. Mental images of Jesus walking on water and of Jesus calming the storm came to mind. On this sun swept day, there wasn't a ripple not made by the Jesus Boat, as it was called.

Speaking of calling, Simon, Andrew, John and James, sons of Zebedee were disciples called on these shores. In fact all except Judas lived near the Sea of Galilee.

From the book of Matthew, we are reminded that we are called, too. Called to give up all that the world has to offer for all that eternity has to offer. The work of drawing men and women to the Savior began here on the Sea of Galilee.

If you're a new blog reader or a regular and you need to know more how to become a Christian and how to claim Jesus as your savior, please contact me in the comments. I'd love to bring you into the family of God.

SO WHAT ARE YOU REMINDED OF WHEN YOU LOOK AT THIS PHOTOGRAPH?

It's universal, you know. The beach, that is. The end of a perfect day. The beginning of a perfect day. In an exotic locale. At a local spot. Walking or watching. Sitting or playing. Reflecting. Enjoying the activity. Enjoying the serenity. Feeling especially close to God.

Being with someone you love. Being with a friend. Being alone. Being with the masses who gravitate there. Napping. Observing. Reading. Is there anything that doesn't go well here?

Walking with naked toes in gritty sand. Running in deep, thick layers upon layers of sand. Sea shell hunting. Making a chain of white stars overhead. Or squinting from a cloudless sun stoked sky.

But mainly listening. Lapping of gentle waves, oh oh, here comes a mad one: it slaps the beach hard. "Marco... Polo." Of course answered by Marco... Polo." That could go on all day, but I rarely tire of hearing kids having fun with it.

But the beach works best in silence. Just walking. Hand holding is almost a thing of the past. But on the beach, just walking, it serves a great purpose. And nobody has to talk.

CASELL'S THE KEY, NOT BRAND

As the Phoenix Suns continue to do battle against LA's teams, the emphasis shifts to the clippers in game two. In many ways Game Two is always the key to a series.

If the Suns can overcome height, strength inside, and Sam Casell (pictured at left) then they should go two games up tonight. The poor clips should then fold the tents and become the "Wait till next year," or "We had a great season," boys of Winter.

Sam Casell may be the nicest guy in the world. I know he's been around awhile because he was a former member of The Camel Jockeys, my now defunct rotisserie team in the MVRL. But he's always reminded me of a pit bull. Not in his actions, necessarily, but in his countenance. Ok, in his face.

He's a great shooter who can light it up or disappear. If he starts shooting well, as he usually does against the Suns, then we could have quite a series. If he tanks it, then no brand or magette or livingstun or billy cristal can save the other lala franchise in this series.

I'm of the mind that he will start fast, miss a few, get hammered by Raja and give it up. I hope this pit bull has no bite to him. Go Suns!!

IT'S THE ECONOMY, STUPID

Remember that clinton expression when he ran against George Bush I? So why doesn't George W. reinstate it? Nothing else seems to work for the poor guy the second time around.

He can't even catch a break on his CIA appointment. In the old days of political jockeying, the other party would allow a nominee, then grill them once in office. No more. And to top it off, Iraq, Afghanistan, North Korea, Iran, and Sudan are all causing all kinds of various problems. Not to mention Mexico. At least France has cooled for awhile.

His Veep has been no help with shooting a hunting partner and ticking off Russia. It doesn't help that the dems have pounded his Big Oil interests along with W's as high gasoline prices soar.

No help from Laura Bush either. Or even the beloved Barbara. And Cheney's wife (does he even have one?) She's completely disappeared (if she ever existed.)

George I? Well, he's buddying around with bill clinton. Why? Well, he is getting old. Gosh, I don't know.

What's left? The economy. It's fantastic! Even with high oil prices, all the leading economic indicators point to a robust economy. The DOW is nearing 11,000 again. Unemployment--there is none. People are spending and buying stuff on credit. Housing is up nearly everywhere. Especially for first time buyers. Greenspan's out, but the new guy looks good and safe.

Memo to George W. Bush. Learn to deflect as President Reagan did. You're Bush II: become Teflon II. It's all about the economy. Drum that hard. Ride that horse. Either that or become as invisible as Lynne Cheney.

THE PHILLIES HAVE BEEN GIVING WAGNER THE BUSINESS

In this morning's Arizona Republic, New York Met relief pitcher Billy Wagner claims that he was called a rat by former teammate Pat Burrell last year in Philadelphia. Now that's some serious trash talk.

So I found a movie still from King Rat in honor of Pat Burrell. He has become one of my favorite players now. I mean with so much profanity laced insults that are out there, that we hear everyday, that have turned into cliches, it's really refreshing to hear an adult male in a roomful of adult males call another a rat.

Billy Wagner is a 5'10'' fireballing lefty closer that has hit 100 on the speed gun. When he comes into a game to save it, he generally does. Usually without anyone reaching base. (I wonder if Jason Isringhausen reads my blog?) While with the Astros, The Rat would come into a game, the Cardinals would hit one ground ball and then two would strike out. If it was a one run game in the eighth, I remember leaving early because you knew the game was over with Wagner.

But who knew he was sensitive? To be called a rat, and get your feelings hurt? Whitey Herzog relished his nickname as The White Rat. I even had a tee shirt with that moniker on it. But Wagner's hurt. And it happened a half season ago.

The last time I remember hearing someone call another a rat was on Leave It To Beaver when the Beav directed that epiteth to Whitey. So to Mr. Burrell and others who might be inclined, ease up. Don't give Wagner the business. He lives in New York now. He's soft.

AND NOW HE'S A LONG DRIVER

A friend of mine is in the excavation business in Chandler, Arizona. He was sharing a great story with me last night about his son who currently competes in The Long Drive competition. He recently won the Phoenix title with a drive of 380 yards.

But more interestingly was a feat he accomplished as a 14-year old. In Arizona. In August.

Just off Baseline Road in Tempe, lies Pepperwood Golf Course. A nine hole course where the feat took place.

My friend, Jim Wright dropped his son off at Pepperwood on his way to work at 5:00 AM. His son was going to play and practice and hang out at the course till his dad retrieved him after work.

Jim had a busy day working for real estate developers who wanted to see how high up a development could be built on a mountain. Sometimes he could only excavate 6 inches of dry desert soil; other times quite a bit more. He was working long and hard in stifling heat and with Summer, more light, thus more working hours in his day.

He pulled up at the golf course near 8:00 PM. His son came running, "Dad, Dad." Of course, I'm thinking the young man recorded his first hole in one.

"I gotta play one more hole." He continued in his explanation," I've played 99 holes today (walking--parenthesis mine) and they've never had anyone play 100 holes in one day."

How could Jim refuse? With the aid of a few car headlights positioned properly, he finished his day's work--100 holes of golf. He kept the scorecards for years after. And now he's hitting the white ball farther than almost anybody.