There Were Days...

Oh, the days when I had 20+ hits on my blog...and then I don't post and I get 4 or so...

It's a sign. It's a sign, friends that I need to do a little more writing. I've been sittin' back on my haunches, doin' a little too much home-improvement (but, gee, ask me about my beautiful new periwinkle bathroom and my spic-and-span garage), watchin' a little too much of HBO's new show Big Love, readin' a few too many British writers during my spring break. Back to the grindstone I say, back to regular posts and deep thinkin'.

Yesterday I went on a little Menards run. I have big love for Menards, now that they built a store on the southeast side of my city, where few businesses dare to dwell, as ultimately, I believe that they are a tad bit racist and afraid of having stores in ethnically diverse neighborhoods. However, after Menards made their big move, I got all excited and made the decision that EVERYTHING (that I can't buy at my tried and true K-mart which proudly displays a banner saying "We [and then the big red heart] the South Side!!!! [notice the multitude of exclamation points, for they really, really love us]) would come from them.

On my way to aforementioned destination I saw one of my favorite southside characters--the man who stands on the corner of a major intersection with a bullhorn and yells unintelligable words to his audience (who are all in cars). I often pause, and try to listen to his words, as I figure if he has the, how shall I say...um...guts to stand in the cold and yell into a bullhorn, he at least deserves to be heard. But, alas, once again as I turned NPR down, all I heard was "Mhmpghs...lahifihglimmmsht...thriglshtils..." again. Nothing which made any sense of me. I sat at the intersection watching him. Wondering about his message...I mean, friends, he is out there a lot...like at least weekly.

So, today, I decide to make a difference in the life of my megaphone dude. I thought I'd just try a little experiment on my way to Menards, the store which actually seem to like us south-siders, and I waved at MM (that would be my cute term for Megaphone Man). Without skipping a syllable he waved back happily.

It wasn't until later that I wondered, "Does he think he just converted another soul for his mission?" And what would said mission be? Getting me to heaven? Getting me to accept Jesus as my personal savior? Getting me off crack? Getting me to subscribe to National Geographic? Getting me to shop at Menards?

Hmmm...

Regardless, it made me happy to make him wave back. And, I think God likes that kind of cross-cultural, cross-religious dialogue.