Of Cracker Barrels And Wineskins (Tell His Story)

 Honestly, if the corporate reimagining of Cracker Barrel was the worst thing in the world, we'd be blessed beyond measure.

But it's still a thing, and calls to us to at least think about it.

Cracker Barrel had been a piece of Americana, a throwback to a less busy, gentler time. We didn't go there for the food (still ok, though not what it was). We went for the ambience, a cluttered awkward place where the past had presence. Where we could get an after-church breakfast of cholesterol and diabetes from a waitress named Mabel, who smoked three packs a day and called you Honey.

Now it's gonna be like McDonald's, with sanitized folk art on the wall over your booth (no need to coordinate with the neighbouring table, yeah?).

All good, except for what's been lost, and the condescending attitude of the CEO (who came from Mattel and Taco Bell) and the Chief Marketing Officer (who came from the Vegas casino world):

"The objections come from a vocal minority."

The real problem is that these people are trying to pour new, fermenting wine, in the form of a new demographic that they're chasing, into an old wineskin. The hipsters they want to lure in may like the decor on the Internet, but they're not likely to come. They have their places.

And the established, loyal customers feel rejected, and will stay away.

It's just a restaurant.

But...has this been the story of your church, your denomination?

Or, worse, have you done something I did, put your life into a new paradigm, and tried to pour your new wine into the old wineskins of long-term friendships, to see them sadly split?

They trashed Americana 

and took the old man down,

just words, now, like banana

on a field of muddy brown.

Inside it's now sleek and bright 

with craft-store wall displays 

in which all of the suits delight,

but they forgot who pays

them for their educated brains,

and for the Florida retreat.

They do not see the coming rain,

nor hoofbeats of defeat

as we who loved what's cast aside

find other places to abide.

We found a Mom and Pop here, that serves pancakes the way Sylvia likes them.

Not, by any means, a short stack.

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Making Fun Of Old Poets (Tell Hi Story Even When He Rolls His Eyes)

I've written I guess about 7000 Shakespearean sonnets; at around 100 words per, the total word count blew past War And Peace and is nibbling at the Bible's heels.

So I guess that makes me a poet, but I really cringe at the label, mainly because of what other posts did, and worse, looked like.

For example, to pick on someone who's long dead, consider Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and his opium-fueled "just what is this dude trying to say" poem Kublai Khan.

And the guy looked like a total dork, but I guess so did everyone in the early 19th century. 

And that, no doubt, is what they would say about me. But I do not use opium.

I drink beer.

In Xanadu did Kublai Khan

a stately pleasure dome decree,

but I style myself Marlboro Man;

a pleasure dome just ain't for me.

He built the thing right by a river;

Alph, of all things, was its name;

the Alien Life Form did deliver

beyond its too-long 80s fame,

but really, this poem's stupid stuff,

and Coleridge had a messed-up head.

He was a druggie, sure enough

and the narcotics killed him dead,

but I write fine, shove comes to push,

with an ice-cold can of Busch.

So there!

Sylvia, don't roll your eyes like that. They'll get stuck.

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Crimson Tide - Ukulele Picture!

I'm down to one bowl of rice a day (made with a mixture of orange and cherry juice, canola oil, and some bacon bits).

Nonetheless, cancer is not winning. In this hopeless place, the spread of my arms expands, to embrace my purpose, and my dreams.

And here's the ukulele, waiting to be strung!

It's hard to know just what to do,

just how to tell the tale.

My lips are getting kinda blue,

and nailbeds getting pale.

The dunny holds a crimson tide,

but this is not no 'Bama song.

There's really nowhere I can hide

from all that's going wrong,

but every hour's still my own

to do with as I will.

I can whine and moan and groan,

or try yet to fulfill 

the dreams that God placed in my soul

to make me human, make me whole.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is OPPOSITE.

Life is full of yan and ying,

the circle with swirly design.

There's good and bad, but here's the thing:

in my heart, I am just fine

because I never was beholden 

to senses of entitlement.

I guess I am just part of olden

days when you went where you're sent

to do what was assigned to you

without question, without thought 

that maybe when the work is though

the pow'rs that be really ought 

to give you secret special token...

not hardly, mate, you must be jokin'!

And so, today the ukulele got it's soundboard attached, and the framing of the Spitfire rudder spar is done.

And Sylvia got her ice cream.

The Psalmist (Tell His Story)

 Have you read the Psalmist's words,

laments that are too deep to speak,

love and pride and fear and swords,

the feeble hero, strength of the weak?

Do you understand the songs 

and can you sound out every line,

seeing where each note belongs

in the ears of The Divine?

How did we deserve this blessing,

handed down through all the years

that leads us to our glad confessing

of our joys and of our fears

as we kneel in grateful praise

of the One who loves our days?

Sylvia says Right On, and she'd share some ice cream with the dude.

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Psalm 5 - Your Thoughts (Tell His Story)

 5 Give ear to my words, O Lord, consider my meditation.

2 Hearken unto the voice of my cry, my King, and my God: for unto thee will I pray.

3 My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O Lord; in the morning will I direct my prayer unto thee, and will look up.

4 For thou art not a God that hath pleasure in wickedness: neither shall evil dwell with thee.

5 The foolish shall not stand in thy sight: thou hatest all workers of iniquity.

 6 Thou shalt destroy them that speak leasing: the Lord will abhor the bloody and deceitful man.

7 But as for me, I will come into thy house in the multitude of thy mercy: and in thy fear will I worship toward thy holy temple.

8 Lead me, O Lord, in thy righteousness because of mine enemies; make thy way straight before my face.

9 For there is no faithfulness in their mouth; their inward part is very wickedness; their throat is an open sepulchre; they flatter with their tongue.

10 Destroy thou them, O God; let them fall by their own counsels; cast them out in the multitude of their transgressions; for they have rebelled against thee.

11 But let all those that put their trust in thee rejoice: let them ever shout for joy, because thou defendest them: let them also that love thy name be joyful in thee.

12 For thou, Lord, wilt bless the righteous; with favour wilt thou compass him as with a shield.

I'm way too ill to offer anything this week. Cancer has me on the ropes, but I'll be delighted to hear your thoughts on Psalm 5. I may not be well enough to reply, but I do read your comments.

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