Under the ice

We need truth to live. Many, if not all in some way or another, hide underneath the ice of incorrect belief. There must remain at least an air-hole of truth by which they retain contact with the open world. Once this hole closes up, it's only a matter of time before they lose touch with reality and decompose in some insanity.

My Christian faith is not something that closes me off from new realities that might contradict some held belief. My faith is something that requires me to drop beneath the surface from time to time, but reacquire the surface and maintain the avenues by which I gain truth.

Sometimes this means being a bit of a Narwhal.

Bee and Boy

Does the bee blame the boy for the sting

Boy is but boy
Bee is but bee
Wings need not be pulled
Stings need not be stung
And the true souled boy would not
Tormentor be
But for knowledge of the sting

Why again...

Nukes, I don't get why we still have 'em. Hasn't anyone seen Wargames? I mean really, does anyone think they can accomplish any good at all whatsoever.
Is it possible that N. Korea or Iran would be so stupid as to launch one at someone and not expect major retaliation from the rest of the world. They realize that all economies are tied to such an action.
I say we must hold ourselves to the same standard. I'm all for proper defense, but we should hold ourselves to the same search and disarmament requirements that we hold them to. Let them inspect our programs and tell us what they think we should do.
I'm probably not thinking up anything new though.

Dear President Obama

For someone who ran on the platform of hope, I, as someone who believed you, am failing to see how 2000 pages of health care tripe smacking of a revitalized Marxism and an indispensable bailout so mired in indecipherable destinations that it has no anticipated release date, can possibly equate to hope. But you, with your high education and the help of your highly educated staff must know some heavenly language I am not aware of that can translate all this BS into hope.
If you were Santa Claus, this Christmas I would ask you to give the American people hope- something each of us has deep within in us. It's what keeps us waking up in the morning. Hope is in the American people. Give that to us please Mr. President.

Sincerely,
Chris Broesamle

High Paid Babysitters

So, since I'm looking for work right now, I get to analyze what I want to do and what I've done. In this process I came across a funny thought.
I'm convinced contractors are the highest paid of babysitters.
Here is how the metaphor plays out-
- The kids play with their lincoln logs to build things.
- They cry when the other kid steals their lincoln logs. You have to regulate.
- You have to show them how to put the lincoln logs together sometimes.
- They get prescribed lunch breaks and sometimes nap times.
- You have to yell at them sometimes to tell them to clean up. Unless they're good.
- They are always better than you at something in the building process, so it's cool to sit back and watch.

So, if you like babysitting, but want to earn more $, look into being a general contractor.

My newest exciting post

Today I looked for work. I didn't get a job yet. Pray for me. Thanks.

International Escape Artistry

Do I owe anyone an apology? I must. At least myself. I told myself a post a week- a post a week.
Well I've got plenty of excuses, that's for sure.
C'mon Chris get it together.
Sorry.
I forgive you.

So for my first post since I've been back, a little story of international escape artistry. My last day in Bali was pretty rad. I went surfing at a place called Airport Lefts. It's a break you have to take a boat out to. As you're surfing overhead waves, big airliners are sailing in and out of harbor right overhead. Not much like getting shacked with both the rumble of waves and of twin-turbo jets echoing in your ears.

After my buddy and I scored some good waves here for a couple of hours, and incidentally with a couple other guys who were from San Francisco and Santa Cruz (pretty much the only Californians I surfed with my whole summer), we had to hustle. I had to strap myself to one of those twin-turbo jets. So we caught the next boat back to shore, and threw our boards and selves on the seat of his little motorbike.

Now I forget what the rule is in America, but in Indonesia, the law is that both people riding a motorbike must wear a helmet. Especially if they're Western. Especially if they have money in their pockets. Espeeeecialllly if they're in a hurry to get to the hotel and need to pack all their things up so they can fly. Even if his name is Chris and he manages to get away with many things he probably shouldn't get away with in life. Or especially if his name is Chris and has life hand him some ridiculous punishments for his risks taken.

So I hop on the back of the bike, consciously unhelmetted. Florian at the helm, properly helmed. We're jamming down the Indonesian roads back to my hotel about a half-hour away, when halfway home we suddenly get veered over to the side of the road by a rudely ridden motorbike. This turned out to be an Indonesian Polisi. "No Helmet" he says. Of course.

While I'm wondering how much it's gonna cost to pay this guy off, he motions us over to his little police shack. He pulls his bike in next to the shack and motions us to do likewise, not seeming to understand either Flo or me as we ask "How much?" or "I have to go to the airport." It's almost as if the law is more important than what we're saying. I don't get it.

Now I start noticing this Polisi didn't really do much to cut off our exit. Nor did he make a chase an easy next motion for himself, having parked his bike pretty much behind his shack. We teeter between pulling in behind the officer, as he is currently motioning us to do, or hitting the open road. About ten seconds of indecision that seemed like an eternity. I lean forward and quietly say "Flo, gun it!"

So off we go, weaving around traffic, surf boards shaking from the wind, me constantly looking behind us, expecting to see a whole battalion of officers with guns drawn pulling out from behind every car or side street we pass. The scooter's throttle is wide open. A scooter laden with two dudes and their surfboards probably doesn't go as fast as one man's. The only two things in our favor is our considerable head start and the fact that the road has lots of cars and motorbikes on it. We're managing to put quite a few of these between us and him.

I pay my respects to the afore-blogged Nicaraguan freedom fighter as we fly by him. He had a wistfully proud gleam in his fiberglass eye. I knew we would be alright. We turned a fifteen minute ride into about 8 minutes. We both knew that if we managed to even get close to the hotel without him visibly behind us, we would have taken enough side streets for there to be no way for him to find us. Pulling into the hotel, we begin nervously laughing for about a minute. Safe and sound.

Now I just hope I don't get an email from a friend of Flo asking for $5000 to help bail him out of prison cuz the cop traced the license plate back to him. I'm a big dummy.