"Most Wanted"

Well, it's Christmas night and the dust has settled and all of the In-Lawing, overeating, and present giving has come to a close. I'm here on the couch watching Sarah act like a schoolgirl over her new pimpin' platinum pots and pans my sister and bro-in-law gave to us, um...her. I can't cook my way out of a paper sack but I'll sure enjoy what she's able to do with them.

Anyway, the best gift I really got today was to see my son behave in a way that almost brings tears to my eyes. My freakin' heart is literally swollen with pride. No kidding. Well, let me tell you the deal:

Dave, my son, has been actively campaigning for the new Holy Grail of PS2 video games: Need for Speed: "Most Wanted". Goodness knows this game has been worked by little Dave into countless coversations more times than any Amway soap salesman could ever dream of doing. He's a pro. If he's passionate about something, you'll catch the passion within 5 minutes or less.

So, we'll speed up to Christmas Day.

We had Christmas with Sarah's side of the family first. We also gave little Dave all of the presents Sarah and I got for him.

No Need for Speed "Most Wanted".

Did he pout when he realized mom and dad didn't get it for him after all of the campaigning he did? Nope. Did he even mention the game at all to us today wondering why we couldn't get it for him? Nope. He just simply hugged us and thanked us for the other stuff we got him.

Fast forward to my mom's house.

We got there and started to open the presents and it's a typical Martin free for all. No picture taking or turns waited for...just an old-fashioned paper storm and lots of "Thank Yous" yelled across the room whether it went to the right ears or not. So, little Dave opened a box that contained a wind suit. Next. Another box opened that had a cool car. Next. Another bag opened with a gift card for Wal-Mart. Enter Dylan, his cousin, who is the same age as little Dave. Dylan opened his next little wrapped package. If it wasn't Need for Speed "Most Wanted"! I swear. Little Dave looked at the game, and then to Dylan, then to me, then around the room, back to the game, and back to Dylan again, and after a moment, managed to muster up the most genuine heart-felt congratulations he could. "Good for you, Dylan! Maybe sometime I can come over to your house to play it." Even though you could tell his heart sank into his little shoes, he kept a stiff upper lip and shared in the joy for Dylan's new gift.

Then my sister realized what was going on and made a mad dash to the tree to find another gift for little Dave to ease the internal struggle. "David" was written on the tag outside of the gift but it was really intended for me, not little Dave. We've seen the cliche' in movies so many times: The Spirit of Christmas reveals its twisted sense of humor when just at the point it seems that the most anticipated of gifts appear to have been forgotten and the longing for "that gift" has been stretched to the limit, the magic of Christmas gives in and lets its predictable charm have its way. So far though Mr. Dylan, has gotten that Holy Grail of video games this season and little Dave is inadvertantly opening my gift containing the classic DVD of Frank Capra's "It's a Wonderful Life" given by, what would seem to little Dave, some out-of-touch relative. He managed to say "Thanks" for it anyway until he realized it was intended for me. He was more than happy to pass it over. Needless to say, it wasn't a gift topping little Dave's wish list this year. Certainly was on mine though.

Like out of the "Christmas Story",with Ralphie and the Red Rider B.B. Gun, there was one gift left for Dave under the tree. When his little hands opened it to everyone's relief and his surprise, Dave hit the game jackpot: Need for Speed "Most Wanted". "Most Wanted" is certainly a fitting name. He was so surprised and overcome with joy that he literally jolted and the game flew out of his hands landing on the other side of the couch. I'm not kidding about any of this. Within 2 minutes, that game was spinning in the PS2 getting worked over by his sweaty little hands.

Good guys may finish last sometimes, or in this case, open the best gifts last, but I couldn't have been more proud of my "good guy" for the gifts of gratitude and grace he gave to me and others today.

"He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep, to gain what he cannot lose." -Jim Elliott

2005: Down the Drain

I know it's a little late to reflect on my New Year's happenings but, if you're like me, it's only now that I feel like I can breathe again. I'm not sure if it's just a new self-imposed cultural cliche' or if it's really true but, the holiday season really does wind up kicking everyone's rear end. I mean, when you put together all of the well-meaning Christmas parties, gift shopping, In-Laws, work, traffic, money juggling, flu season, babysitting, and having to relearn all the words to "Have a Holly Jolly Christmas", any normal person, by the time Christmas day rolls around, is ready to hit the holiday "snooze" button and just stay in bed on the 25th.

The only person who is somehow immune to this seasonal paradigm is our family friend, Joey. Even his name is freaking cheerful. Joey, during the Christmas season, is that loveable pup side-kick to the Grinch, Peter Pan, Rudolph-the Red Nose Reindeer, Santa's little elf, and a ginger bread cookie house all rolled into one. He manages to live out his own "Miracle on 34th Street" every year.

Anyway, we made it through the holidays and had a very memorable Christmas.

After everyone does the collective "sigh", now that Santa has done his thing, we've all got one more hurdle: New Year's Eve. The cap on a year spent and the awakening of a new one. Once we make the most sincere pledges to our lofty new year resolutions, we then rush back the the familiarity of our normal schedules, school, and catching up on the bills that were put on hold in the spirit of keeping Santa's good name and reputation on par.

So, here we are on the 31st of Dec. I'm ready to rock! It became quickly evident that I was the only one in my circle of friends and family who was ready to rock the New Years Eve. I mean, even Dick Clark wasn't shooting a 100% this time around. Any tentative plans we had went into the toilet so, we made our own.

We stayed home, and I cleaned out our shower drain.

You see, for the past week we had been standing in 4 inches of water when we showered so, can you think of a better time than New Year's Eve to clean out my satanic shower drain? With an unwound coat hanger in my hand, I started pulling out the gelatinous funk from a hole that's supposed take my soapy flotsam and jetsam away, not make me pay some sort of penance for the abuse that I give to it daily.

The night quickly went up in value from there. Little Dave and I built a fire in our pit in the backyard and whipped up some killer 'smores with Sarah. We talked about what we were thankful for this past year and named some ways we feel we had grown closer to God. Punky and Sarah were in bed by 11:30 and I brought in the new year on my couch with Matt Drudge on my laptop and the sounds of some teens up the street hooting and celebrating with their low budget fire works. I'd have to say it's really not a bad way to bring in a new year. Having my sweet family safely tucked into their beds and me not having to worry about giving the toilet an extended hug with one arm while reaching for the aspirin bottle with the other on new year's day sounds pretty good to me. My new year's day morning was instead met with breakfast in bed and 2 sleepy faces looking a me as I awoke.

So, I rocked new year's eve, I just happened to do it very gently.

An encounter with a Munster!

Little Dave and I are car fanatics. We religiously pour over the pages of the latest editions of Car and Driver magazine upon its arrival in our mailbox and we ooooh and ahhhh over any car we see on the road that has an $80K plus sticker price or that has been customized. We tend to see the more "customized" ones the closer we get to downtown.

Anyway, attempting to play the "Good Dad" role, I decided to surprise Dave and take him down to the Alamo Dome to the Hot Rod Extravaganza.

As we descended onto the ground floor of the Dome, our view opened up to a sea of chrome, rubber and a maze of fine autos from yesteryear for Dave and I to explore.

He was very excited and I was excited that he was excited! I mean, how could someone not appreciate art combined with horsepower? So, as we made our way though the various displays of pure Americana, you couldn't help but share in the pride that the owners of these cars take with every ooh and ahhh they get from the young and old alike.

A new Benz or a pimped out Escalade with its Navigation and plasma screens are impressive but they could never match the charm and the beauty of a fully restored '57 Chevy Belaire.

Anyway, we were getting close to seeing everything that could be seen for the exception of this one particular isle hidden in this automotive maze that we somehow passed about 10 times without noticing. We soon found out we had overlooked the best part of the show!

Until now...

As we made our way down this isle, we came upon the ultimate Hot Rod in all its nostalgic glory, the Original Munster Koach! You see, I grew up watching the Munster reruns on channel 5 after school at 4pm. The Brady Bunch came on after that. This was the early 80's and I would come home from school and eat a bowl of Spaghetti O's or a bowl of Cornflakes and watch the Munsters. I had forgotten how much I loved this show until I stood before the Munster Koach, in person, some 25 years later. I used to think this was the coolest of Hot Rods. I used to have the toy version of it in my fleet of Matchboxes but here I am, I could actually reach out and touch the color version of what was before only a black and white memory.

So, I'm filling Dave in on why this car is not only cool but also gave him one of the old "When I was your age..." stories about how much I dug watching this TV show and how cool I thought this car was. Well, I glance to my left and see Butch Pat...in the flesh! It's Eddie Freakin' Munster himself! I had to meet him.

There were 3 other people at his table in front of me getting his autograph while 30 more just walked by like it's no big deal! Huh? This is Eddie Munster! I plopped down my $10 for the 8X10 pic you see above and waited in line to meet the more weathered version of Eddie. All I could do was stare at him. I felt dumb because I didn't know what to say. I thanked God I had little Dave there with me. So, I positioned Dave in front of me as we stepped up to meet Eddie Munster. Honestly, to little Dave, Eddie Munster could've been the guy behind the counter at Auto Zone. So, Dave just says "Hey" and shakes his hand. Eddie shook mine too but mine was sweaty.

45 seconds later, as we're walking away from an under appreciated American Icon, I'm allowing Dave to carry the autographed picture but I'm telling him to be careful with it and not fold it up. I have big plans for this pic and I am already thinking about which wall in my office to hang it up on.

Moments like those won't end world hunger or abolish ingrown toenail suffering but, I do think it serves as a little time machine that takes you back to when you felt more innocent and maybe not as sophisticated as we think we are as adults. I briefly went back to a time when I dreamt of cool cars, ate Cornflakes and allowed B-Grade actors to entertain me.

Little Dave is in the other room, as I write this, ironically watching reruns of the Dukes of Hazzard. Maybe one day he'll get his chance with his son 25 years from now to see the General Lee in person.

Now, if I could just meet Gary Coleman, my life would be complete.

Back in 60 Seconds

In a previous blog post I shared about little Dave's obsession with horsepower. This kid is very advanced in his knowledge of automobiles. In his freetime, he lives at the Concept Cars website.

Dave and I are on a first name basis at the Mercedes dealership in Boerne and at the Ferrari dealership in San Antonio. We have what we call "Daddy/Punky" days where we'll go and basically do whatever he wants to do. Inevitably, we'll hit one of these dealerships for a good ol' fashioned droolfest.

When the sticker says $270,000, it's hard not to be in awe one way or the other!

Anyway, Dave's dream, naturally, has been to ride in a Ferrari. Well, since his old man is a minister with a musician's credit, I won't be stepping up to the counter to buy one of these for myself anytime soon.

(The picture below was taken during one of the many trips to the beloved Ferrari dealership.)

So, we dream together and talk cars. Good dad and son stuff. Well, last week we're at the Starbucks on the north end of town. We're sitting outside and he's doing his homework while I'm sitting back and enjoying the evening. Then a Ferrari pulls in to the parking lot. Of course, what little interest Dave was forcing into his math paper quickly dissipated at the sight of this red wonder.

So Bob, the distinguished owner, winds up sitting at the table next to us and we start talking cars. Come to find out, he's one of the CEO's at Valero. We talked for about an hour and then "the offer" came. He offered little Dave a ride in his Ferrari.

Now, before you call child protective services on me for allowing my son to get into a stranger's car, it was only in the parking lot and the access road in front of the Starbucks. The other assurance is that a $300,000 red Ferrari with a wide-eyed 9 year old boy is kinda hard to miss.

So, Dave hops in and off he goes. Living the dream. There's really nothing like the sound of a Ferrari. At low RPM's, it has this whine like "Oh please, punch the freakin' gas!". So, Bob punched it a little bit on the access road and the tires spun a little. Less than a minute later, Dave was back and he literally floated out of that car. He visited Cloud 9-ville and hasn't come back since. I snapped a pic with my cell phone to commemorate the moment.

It's true that the little things we experience really wind up counting the most to us. A stranger took one minute to make a little boy smile and Dave will never forget it. A little unwarranted goodness really does go a long way. Thanks, Bob!














(Dave taking his first Ferrari ride...awwww yeah!)

Role Reversal

As a kid, I was raised in a pretty tradtional home in the sense that my dad did the "man" stuff and my mom did the "woman" stuff. You know, my old man would get under our broken sink and cuss at it for 45 minutes before he dialed a plumber, or my mom would bake a cake and cuss at it for 45 minutes before she would just go buy one at HEB.

I'm just kidding about the part about my mom.

She'd go to Albertson's.

With my dad, any household "fix-it" issue was generally met by him with an elevated blood pressure level and a vocabulary that held an array of zingers within its verbal quiver should such an occasion arise. Honestly, I've never seen more inanimate objects called more names by any other person than my dad.

I remember one time my old man hit his head on a cabinet door in the kitchen , as we're all destined to do at least once, and you could see the dawn of a storm brewing in the horizon of his eyes. It was as if my dad had a sixth sense to where he could literally look into the very soul of that cabinet door (or any other object over the years that he deemed "unfit") before he unleashed a tornado of words that could make that cabinet door weep, if that were possible. When one gets to the point where they believe a cabinet door is truly a tool of Satan, you've got "issues" and some time on a doctor's couch wouldn't hurt.

This isn't the point, forgive me.

This entry isn't as much about tempers as it is about masculinity, or the lack of it. Before anyone starts jumping to one side of the fence or the other here, I'm not trying to really say anything. Let me tell you about last night...

Sarah and I went to Target and got an armoire and a slip cover for our couch. Our couch started out as an off-white khaki color but, over the past 10 years, it has taken on more of an earth tone.

Anyway, we get home and Sarah is foaming at the mouth to get started on "her" project: Fighting with the slip cover?

Nope.

Putting the daggum armoire together. With my help? Are you kidding?

No, I was working with the slip cover and she's over on the other side of the living room with her cordless drill, open toolbox, and an acetylene torch teaching that armoire who's boss. Meanwhile, I'm over here positioning pillows and tying bows on the slip cover as I survey our living room to make sure the position of the couch doesn't interfere with the Feng Shui.

Huh? What the heck happened here?

This is the thing, the assembly of the armoire wasn't even open for debate and honestly, I really wouldn't have wanted it any other way. Sarah's just better at this stuff than I am.

When our toilet broke a while back, guess who fixed it? Yep, momma did. When we moved into our new house and had to have a new cord put on our dryer, guess who replaced it? Momma.

This is my point: I'm not really good at the girl stuff either! With one hand Sarah can be fixing our carburetor and with the other making up a batch of killer oatmeal cookies!

mmm...Oatmeal cookies.

I guess, when it's all boiled down, Sarah rocks and I'm glad to have her. Although, I just can't help humming Paula Cole's "Where have all the cowboys gone" in my head when I look at this couch with its new slip cover.

We're in the new millenium aren't we?

The bra burners from yesteryear would be overjoyed to think this soft-handed neanderthal took a back seat to a hot chick with a cordless drill.

I'm game!

What I Learned At Camp

As a youth minister, this is my 3rd summer attending camps with our church kids. Being on this side of the fence is interesting. You're expected to be "The Adult" but be a part of all the kid stuff as well. I'm going to be 35 in September. My mind stopped maturing at age 13. So, mentally any underarm noise making, fart jokes, loudest burps, wedgy-giving is right up my ally. My 9 year old son thinks I'm the coolest dad on the planet simply because of my unmannerly manner.

As each year passes, I love doing these summer camps more and more but, you have to take the good with the uncomfortable.

The camp I'm at this week is a sports camp for 4th-7th graders. The RPM level on these kids is pegged at redline. I love it. My body doesn't.

Tuesday, I'm doing the Track and Field stuff with a portion of my group. These kids are highly competitive and this is the perfect forum for them to push themselves faster and farther. Well, the coach got to a point where she was talking to the kids about long distance running. To demonstrate the concept the only way to really appreciate the idea is to...just do it! Up until now, I was hiding behind my camera, only there to memorialize the occasion with some action shots. Then came the challenge.

"Dave, you gonna run with us?"

Now, to these 12 year old boys asking, it was just an open invitation and a simple question. To me, it was a dare that hung on the last strings of my athletic pride. At first, I said "Aww, guys...thanks for asking but I have to take the pics." You see, what makes this situation tense for me is I'm standing there wearing brand new $80 Nike Running Shoes that I convinced Sarah I needed to buy last Saturday before camp. I bought them for the way they looked, not how fast or far I could run in them. I don't know how long it's been since my feet have moved faster than "stroll".

What choice did I have? The coach yelled "Follow me" and I did. And did. And did.

Dear Lord. I thought she was going to take it easy on these poor little 12 year old boys and the bald, panting freak bringing up the rear. Nope.

If you ever wanted to see a simulation of someone having a massive coronary, you could've seen it in all its violent glory by the time we returned from our very long distance run. Don't ask me how far I ran because I couldn't tell you. Between the sweat stinging my eyes and the heavy gasping, it all came down to "I will not be 'that guy' who walked the last half." And I didn't. I finished. As I stood there, bent over with my hands on my knees, all I could hear was me gasping for air and the sound of my pulse in my head as I took in the sight of my new $80 Running shoes, once again. I should've spent the $80 on a new pair of legs and lungs.

So, after my run, like any true athlete, I took a nap.

I can't forget about the girls in our group.

Now, I have about as much in common with an 11 year old girl as Nancy Reagan has with 50Cent.

Understanding that, I was approached by them last night and they said they had a "surprise" for me. Can I share a little advice? Anytime five 11 year old girls come to you giggling saying they have a "surprise", chances are you won't be getting a cake made in your honor. More than likely, your masculinity will be stripped down and diminished in some way or another.

So, when they approached me with this "surprise", I knew I was in for it and didn't even put up a fight. Like a lamb to the slaughter, they covered my eyes and led me to the girl's dorm lobby. That was when I was met with a tackle box of fingernail polish and all of the junk that goes along with it. One of them massaged my bald head as the others each took a hand (and foot) and proceeded to paint anything nail related. As I type this, I'm typing with painted nails.

This is how 11 year old girls show love for their youth minister and I wear this polish with pride. Although, when I hit the Starbucks here on campus this morning, I'm sure the lady at the register had more than one theory as to why I handed her a $5 bill with painted fingernails.

What I've learned at camp is that being a youth minister teaches me a lot more about myself than what I'll ever be able to impart to these kids. I wouldn't trade it for anything.