The Forge

Not chipmunks; girl scouts. That's right, I've got an issue with girl scouts.

Every new year means a few things. It means you will once more promise yourself that you will lose weight, and once more you won't lose weight. It means that you will become even older than you were last year. It means that concerts, parties, weddings, funerals, seemingly pointless encounters and truly meaningful fellowship are on their way better than ever before. And it means that some little girl with a pretty little smile is going to get you to spend a month's income on, of all things, cookies.

Girl Scouts, Inc. has got its minions of evil everywhere, it seems. Outside grocery stores, in malls, running from door to door with friends (this is not safety in numbers, it's strength in numbers). Even family gatherings and church foyers are fair ground for solicitation. What kills me, though, is how successful the campaign is. The fools that we are allow ourselves to be subjected to this extortion every year with nothing to gain except, maybe, a few pounds. Perhaps this is because we don't know how to fight them. Well, the best way to beat your enemy is to get inside their head, even if it is an 8 year-old blond ponytailed head. So here we go.

Rule 1: Look cute.
Although other abilities will make for bigger and better sales, looking cute is the number one tool used by girl scouts. Many veterans of this war will tell you stories of how a single solider has leveled the playing field against dozens of adults simply by donning a sparkling smile. The assertive voice is a must; there can be no hesitation. In a Barbie-esque fashion, the practiced girl scout manages to scare you into buying five boxes of Samoas with the least menacing smile she is capable of making.

Rule 2: If rule 1 fails, look pathetic.
You've seen it before. The moment you utter the first syllable of the word "no," the disposition changes. Sunny smile fades away and you can almost see the raincloud materialize over the umbrellaless child. Evidently, if she doesn't sell at least 5,000 boxes they will send her back to the orphanage where Miss Hannigan will lock her in a dark room forever, feeding her nothing but stale bread. And you wouldn't want that on your conscience.

Rule 3: If possible, travel in packs.
It's nigh impossible to resist the single girl scout, but when a three-voice chorus responds "an arm and a leg" in unison when you ask how much a box of thin mints is, you're bound to volunteer for immediate amputation. And when little orphan Annie has accomplices to corroborate her sob story, she's sure to steal your sympathy. And your wallet.


There are other rules, I'm sure, but they are kept under lock and key by a secret inner ring. Every cult has its gatekeepers, and I'm personally terrified of encountering anyone higher up than the basest minions. So I offer up these few morsels of wisdom to you. For every grandparent that has been caught off guard at the grocery store; for every soccer mom solicited to on the sidelines and unable to run away from the little devils; for every teenager with a low-paying job and a craving for snickerdoodles-- this one goes out to you. Godspeed.

If you haven't already read it, I encourage you to scroll down and enlighten yourself with Chapter One of The Supermarket Survival Guide. Once you have mastered the basic aspects of supermarket survival, you'll definitely want to extend your knowledge base so you are ready in any situation; hence this second installment.

What the phrase Assorted Varieties means, and what it doesn't mean.
Many times a grocery store chain (or a manufacturer) carries a large variety of similar products. These include yogurt, potato chips, peppers, organic soup mixes and cake batters. With such a myriad of options at your disposal, you may be overwhelmed with the available choices and, in a lapse of judgment, purchase them all. In an effort to prevent needless income, the grocers and manufacturers work together to skew the prices from week to week, so that you'll only buy the cheaper ones. This is also known as putting items "on sale."

Since putting an entire line of products (such as all the organic soup mixes) on sale would defeat the purpose (because everything would still be the same price and thus you'd still end up buying them all), only a selection of the products is available at the lower price. So as to inform you of that minor detail, grocery store fliers include the phrase "assorted varieties" so you know to look out for which items are cheaper and which ones are not. Items designated as "on sale" are the ones that are cheaper. The other varieties (those not designated as having a lower price) are the same price. They are not included in the assorted varieties that are on sale.

So, let's review.

Sometimes, items go on sale.
Sometimes, items on sale are modified by the phrase "assorted varieties."
This means that not all varieties are on sale.
Only items marked as "on sale" are on sale.
For example, even if the flier said "organic soup mixes 50% off," not all the organic soup mixes are available for 50% off because only assorted varieties are 50% off.
If you do not understand these rules, you must pay full price.


Stupid vs. Ugly: The Cashier
I will admit that the majority of grocery store cashiers (indeed, most cashiers) are pimply high school and college students. The remainder are, quite often, pimply adults. *NOTE: many, not all.*

It is very easy to mistake an ugly teenager for a stupid teenager. However I have found (and this is after entirely unbiased observation) that many of the student cashiers are honors or college kids working the job so that they can afford to stay in college. Consequently, the people that you are assuming to be morons are in actuality smarter (and becoming more knowledgeable) than you. We do not mistake your sarcasm, snide remarks, or other obscene utterances for compliments. Your baseless assumptions and nonchalance in castigating our behavior do nothing but infuriate us. Many of the things that I have unflinchingly been told would be deemed "fighting words" by the Supreme Court of this country. So, for future reference, do not assume the cashier to be deficient in intellect unless you want you and your groceries to experience a very "clear and present danger."

Naturally, there are some exceptions. If it turns out that you do have a stupid cashier, evaluate the person's appearance. People who are stupid and attractive, and make it clear that they know they are attractive, deserve to be insulted. People who are stupid and attractive but are too stupid to know they are attractive deserve patience. People who are stupid and unattractive may be slapped.

Again, let's review.

Most cashiers are not stupid, as you assume them to be.
Most cashiers are, in fact, smarter than you.
1. If cashier is incompetent,
a. and attractive
i. and knows it, insult him/her. he/she deserves it
ii. and is unaware, have patience. at least he/she is attractive
b. and unattractive
i. slap him/her. you can't be ugly and stupid


Where you should and should not leave items you decide against purchasing.
There are many circumstances under which you may decide, while waiting on line (or even while checking out), that you aren't going to buy. Such acceptable exceptions include realizing you don't have enough money; realizing that you already have the item at home; you never intended on purchasing it but you went along with it to appease your otherwise screaming child; you didn't meet the minimum total requirement to qualify for a price reduction on the item.

However, whether your reason for leaving the item behind is a good one or not, the only acceptable course of action when you decide not to buy something is to give it to the cashier. This will ensure that perishable items are returned to the proper cool (or hot) environment before they reach room temperature, making them unsellable. As for non-perishables, giving them to a cashier will eventually lead to them being sorted out and returned to the proper location for future customers.

Sadly, people are oblivious to this simple principle, and have in a panic discarded unwanted items in very inappropriate places. These include, but are not limited to:
-In the aisle. When an employee discovers a 3-day old tomato hidden behind a cereal box, the result is a very upset employee and a very bad-smelling cereal section.
-In the magazine racks. Magazine racks, candy racks, baskets, small booths and refrigerators are all located at each register in most grocery stores. These are for your convenience. Although we discourage flipping through the magazines without intent to purchase them, we do not forbid it. We also encourage you to grab a soda for the hot car ride home or a candy bar if you are on the run and can't stop for a nutritious meal (such as organic soup). Needless to say (or I would've thought it'd be needless; nevertheless I must say) these areas are NOT appropriate places to discard unwanted mangoes, soup cans, toys or gallons of ice cream.

In review:

Unwanted items should be given to the cashier, and only the cashier.
Unwanted items should never be left anywhere but with a cashier.


Thank You for everything. But it's getting old, fast.
No one likes a thankless person. When you are breaking your back and ankles standing at a cashier for hours on end just so that people can (of all things) eat and survive, the last thing you need is an ungrateful customer. Even though you may not be complaining to the cashier, a failure to ever once thank them for their services will not go unnoticed.

Unfortunately, some shoppers have become attuned to that fact and, to ensure that they do not come across as ungrateful, say thank you before and after (and sometimes during) every micro-segment of the check-out procedure. For example:

Cashier: How are you today, ma'am?
Customer: I'm well, thank you.
Cashier: Did you find everything you were looking for today?
Customer: Yes I did, thank you.
(Cashier takes bonus card from outstretched hand) Customer: Thank you.
(Cashier begins to scan items. Several items in, customer turns) Customer: Thank you.
(Cashier scans bonus card at end, returns to customer) Customer: Thank you. What was the total?
Cashier: Sixty-six dollars and sixty-six cents, ma'am.
Customer: Thank you.
(Customer counts out cash, opens pocket book) Customer: Sixty-six cents?
Cashier: Yes.
Customer: Thank You.
(Cashier takes money from customer, $80 and 66 cents) Customer: Thank You.
(Cashier puts money in register, extracts change, begins to fold receipt/coupons) Customer: Thank You.
(Cashier hands change to customer) Customer: Thank You.
Cashier: Have a nice day, ma'am.
Customer: Thank You.

Unfortunately, that one isn't even an exaggeration. The truth is, when you thank someone for checking half of your groceries out while he is in the process of checking out the other half, you have thanked him too often for him to really care if you are grateful for his services or not.

To summarize:
Say "thank you" once or twice, but not ten or twenty times.


This concludes chapter two of the supermarket survival guide. Please keep in mind that I do not actually endorse discrimination based on intelligence, physical appearance, sex, creed, nationality, etc. But seriously... slow and stupid?

Thank you.

It has come to my attention that an alarmingly large portion of the population is facing a serious epidemic: BSS, which stands for Bad Shopping Syndrome. Or some other syndrome starting with BS. But whatever.

The fact is, I've noticed a disturbing trend. It involves a huge number of 20-120 year-olds who find themselves by surprise with a need to purchase food and clothing. Panicking, they grab a set of keys, hop in their car, and speed off to the nearest supermarket. They dash through the aisles, frantically tossing various items in their cart, and then begin to unload said items on the first conveyor belt that looks remotely available. What follows can only be classified as pandemonium. So, in an effort to avoid future chaos at the register, I've compiled a checklist for you to go through as you prepare for, partake in, and complete your shopping experience.

Firstly, try to figure out what car you are taking and what grocery store you are going to. That may sound rather trivial, but this foresight will help you to avoid saying rather stupid things such as (but not limited to):
"What store am I in again?"
"Here's my Shop Rite card." (This one works well at the A&P and Hannafords).
"My card is on my other set of keys. Can I use yours?"

Next, I have yet to encounter a store that distributes free savings cards that apply a preset discount to your order. Even non-grocers, such as Borders bookstores, issue these cards as an incentive to purchase goods that are designated as on sale. As an employee of the Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company, Inc. (also known as the A&P), I can assure you that your bonus card does not work like a slot machine. It only saves you money on items that are marked "sale price w/bonus card." You do not have to wait on the edge of your seat to see if your card will save you money when the only thing you bought was an organic soup mix. If it wasn't clearly marked as a sale item in the aisle or in the weekly flier, it is not going to magically decide to be cheaper when the cashier scans the item into the system.

Speaking of the system, cashiers are not responsible for programming advanced computer systems such as those found in register scanning systems or bottle return machines. They are also not in charge of item pricing, placement, small print that says you must spend a minimum amount before the sale price is valid, or your incompetence when it comes to reading price labels. So, if you have any issue--the temperature of the store, the price of mangoes and Scott toilet paper 12-packs, the inability of the system to calculate your age when you go to buy alcohol and forget to bring ID--please remember that cashiers are paid to scan your items into the system and, maybe, bag them for you. That's all. We don't want to hear your soliloquy. We don't care if you feel inconvenienced. We don't care if you're in a hurry and can't afford to wait on line like everyone else. We just. don't. care.

There are other things we don't care about. Please play along when we are forced to carry on in mindless conversation with you:

When asked, Hi, how are you today? please remember that we don't care how you are today or three Thursdays from now anymore than you want to know about our boss' hair stylist story. Nevertheless, ignoring the cashier is never a recommended course of action. If we need to ask, you need to reply. If possible, reply with I'm well. And how are you? This allows us to lie, say we too are doing well, and then stop talking altogether. However, even if you choose not to memorize that difficult response, please avoid the following reply: "Yes." I wouldn't mention it if I hadn't heard it before, but when I ask you an "a" or "b" question, do not respond with "yes" or "no."

Perhaps the best part of being a cashier is when a customer opts to pay in a medium other than cash. The traditional inquisition is Debit or Credit? Save the few people who have a legitimate excuse for not choosing one of those--people on government welfare who ought to respond EBT or foodstamps--it boggles my mind some of the responses that I have received in response to the Debit or Credit question. Perhaps other cashiers can relate:
"Yes." Once more, an affirmative answer in reply to an "a" or "b" question.
"Do I have to scan it again?" Even before the cashier has had a chance to enter the information, the customer has re-opened his or her wallet and dejectedly slid the card through a machine which is currently waiting a response from the bewildered employee. Sometimes the customer is angry about being forced to re-run the card, despite the fact that all the cashier needed was a simple "debit" or "credit" reply.
Silence. Some people just don't answer. Then when you ask again, they respond in an irritated manner "I hit credit, did it not go through?" Followed by "Do I have to scan it again?"

Up until now, however, the problems I've listed are somewhat minor offenses. Pay close attention to the following section, because it is here that many people fail miserably.

Once upon a time, the incandescent light bulb was invented. It involves electricity surging through a piece of metal to create light. It becomes wildly popular and people put incandescent bulbs pretty much everywhere. Then, one day, someone working at a grocery store has the brilliant idea that, instead of little signs that say "open" or "closed," you could equip registers with incandescent lights to alert customers to exactly which registers were ready for business and which ones were not.

Lesson 1: Lights at registers indicate that the register is open for business.

As anyone who works a day job (and probably quite a few others) knows, you cannot just work for eight hours straight without a break. To a lesser extent, part-time employees working a 4-hour shift are entitled (at least at the A&P) to a short break in between several hours of standing (which hurts the feet, legs and back). This break is, for many, a necessity. It provides for some a chance to eat, for others a chance to just rest legs. Still others use it to break out a cell phone and communicate with a friend or loved one. Today I used it to buy a peanut butter shake at Baskin Robbins and to purchase some Dr. Scholls gel pads. But that's not really what's important. The point is, in order for someone to take their break, they must stop working. When it is time to go on break, the person is instructed to turn his or her light off. This should be a signal to all future customers that, whether or not there is a person behind the register or a customer on the line, the cashier is not accepting any new customers.

Lesson 2: If a register light is off, it probably means the person is going on break.

When 5 o'clock PM rolls around here in America, cars begin to pile out of businesses and parking lots. That's because people are done with their work for the day. They have spent the past hour or more staring intently at the minute hand, anxiously awaiting that freedom. If you try to stop someone from leaving his desk at 5:01, you should expect to have a paperweight thrown at your head. Similarly, a cashier (who hates his job. No grocery store cashier actually likes the job) who is ready to leave for the day is very aware of the time. He has no interest in staying any longer than he has been scheduled to do, and will not take kindly to those that seek to impede his departure. Like the person going on break, a cashier who is leaving for the day (without a replacement) will turn the light off at his register. Don't even think about unloading your items at that register.

Lesson 3: If a register light is off, it could mean the person is leaving for the day.

Lesson 4: A light that is out always means the register is closed. If you must, feel free to ask the cashier to verify whether or not he forgot to turn on his light, but you should never assume that the lane is open.

Lesson 5: The light system is in place for good reason. Don't ignore the lights. Don't forget to look at the light before you go to use the lane.

Also, and I don't think this is a majority by any means, but the demographic definitely exists:
If you are the kind of person that tries to sneak in when the cashier isn't looking, unloads a bunch of stuff, and then pretends to be surprised when you are informed that the cashier is closed (so that he has no choice to send you elsewhere).... If you are one of those people, I hate you and you deserve to burst into flames and fall into a bottomless pit until the flames consume you.

Or something nice like that.


Other basic etiquette:
Don't be talking on your cellphone for the majority or entirety of your checkout process. It is extremely rude and will result in me grabbing a few packs of gum for myself and scanning them into your order because you aren't paying attention to me anyway.

Don't forget things back in the store (or your wallet out in the car). Although the cashier may be gracious enough to let you go and get the missing item, it requires all the other waiting patrons to stand idly by because of your inadequacies.

Now that the secret of the bonus card has been revealed, you don't need to stand there and stare blankly at the screen while items pile up to the side of the cashier. You should use that time to bag your own groceries, and then if you have questions about prices you can ask them after the bonus card has been scanned through.

Anyhow, I'm sure I could go on, but that's enough survival for one day.
Now go listen to Making April.

I’m done. I’m done with this.
Oh Son, expose my weakness
With the daylight You bring
That’s bright enough to kill
This grey.

Wo-oah
We’re dancing on the fence.
Wo-oah
We’re losing innocence.
We can’t expect to live like this forever.

What do I say? How do I explain
This grey?
It weighs heavy on the brains
Of those who I love;
Those who keep the faith,
When I know there’s just one way.

Wo-oah
We’re dancing on the fence.
Wo-oah
We’re losing innocence.
We can’t expect to live like this forever.
Wo-oah
We’re dancing on the fence.
Wo-oah
We’re losing innocence.
But we weren’t made to live like this, no never.

We try
To come as close as we can
To what we can’t
And not get caught.
But, instead,
Let’s turn
And run
Towards the light...

Wo-oah
We’re dancing on the fence.
Wo-oah
We’re losing innocence.
We can't expect to live like this forever.
Wo-oah
We’re dancing on the fence.
Wo-oah
We’re losing innocence,
But we weren't made to live like this, no never.

It is irrepressibly, irrevocably here. A week ago I shivered at the prospect of snowflakes as frigid wind cut through my track jacket with laughable ease. Today all the windows are open and the dusty old oscillating fan found its way out of my closet and into the "High" setting beside my dresser. Today my thermometer tells me that the temperature on the inside the house is actually cooler than the that of the outside. Also, that number begins with a 7, sometimes an 8.

The birds have been about for sometime, probably as perplexed as the rest of us when, not long after the vernal equinox, the northeast was hammered by a blizzard and relentless cold weather before and after. So I can't really say that seeing and hearing the bluebirds hopping around in the treetops signifies the (finally!) emergence of the season. But the bees are another story. They seem to have all woken up simultaneously this morning, after months of slumber, and I imagine a well-placed camera would've captured an explosion from every nest and honeycomb in the state as today, April 23rd, these winged bombers set off to terrorize the world until the cool winds of autumn send them home and bring peace to our land once more.

In the meantime, we have some things to look forward to. I for one have always loved spring, and if not for the recent effects of global warming which have, I believe, almost eradicated spring and fall from the seasonal calendars, I would maintain the utmost of joy at the reintroduction of warm weather to the environment. My reservations are not entirely unjustified: last year Spring didn't seem to have happened at all and this year, after 2 or 3 days of quite tolerable and enjoyable weather, we may have already leaped into summer. Regardless, the warm weather brings with it the prospect of refreshingly chlorinated pools, book-reading in a shady nook on a hammock, shaking out the wrinkles and dust in our homes and revitalizing our lives both physically and mentally, and the list goes on and on.

I have a few goals set in mind, most of which will probably not happen but all of which are at least good ideas. Between now and college (because really I can't guess when Spring will officially be gone and summer officially here to take over), I would like to do some things. Ideally, I will graduate high school. That's more of a joke than an actual goal (I am, after all, in the top 3 of my class) but with senioritis plaguing 17 and 18-year olds everywhere, it's quite easy to be wiped out by the epidemic of lethargy and apathy. Having just (I think) escaped from those two afflictions, it'd be a real shame to fall captive to them again. Another thing I would like to do before stepping onto Grove City College's campus in August is to read the Lord of the Rings trilogy, which I have never done (along with the Chronicles of Narnia, Harry Potter, Series of Unfortunate Events and any other epic fantasy series you may care to name).

Now that you've recovered from that bit of shock (for I daresay many people assume that I've read these things), I'll continue my list. I always am afraid to make any declarations of weight loss intention because that just means more people to whom I need to admit, whenever my goal time has passed, that I failed and in fact never gave it much of an effort at all. Within the next few days the Bowflex should be arriving at our door, and soon after I will have legitimate 'work-out' equipment at my disposal. At GCC I'll have a full gym to work with. And with Spring in the air, I'm once more feeling a desire to hit the tennis courts and get involved in an actual sport. So, with a justifiable level of confidence nonexistent in the past, I do once more declare that I shall lose weight. I currently exceed the 240 pound benchmark and would like to see myself at 200 by the end of the year. This will require me to remain consistent with some sort of work out schedule as well as averting the infamous "freshman fifteen."

Anyhow, I realized with a certain degree of morbid terror that my AP exams begin two weeks from now, to the day. So on May 7th, I will be sitting down for the AP Government and Politics test at 8:00 AM. By 12:00 PM I will be sitting down for the AP French Language test. For those of you that are unsure, yes, that sucks. A lot. Thursday, the 10th, I'll be taking my AP English Literature test (also at 8 AM). In the meantime, and afterwards, my teacher will be frantically failing to teach me enough economics to 'pass' the Macroeconomics exam, which I take (once more, at 8 AM) on Thursday, May 17th. The following day there may or may not be a book burning.

This is all in addition to a 20-hour work week, which is preposterous, and so if I die or anything feel free to send your condolences to my family, as well as some beautiful roses and carnations to throw in my casket before burial. I figure I'll start to smell after enough days without a shower.

Hey taxi
Take me straight to the heart of it
The nucleus of politics where somebody started it
Cause they taxed me
With a scalpel piece by piece
They cut me deep and bled me dry until there was nothing left to bleed

And this is how I choose to live
As if I’m jumping off a cliff
Knowing that you’ll save me
Knowing that you’ll save me
And after all the stupid things I did
There’s nothing left there to forgive
Because you already forgave me
Yeah you already forgave me

Just keep driving
Leave this defeat miles behind me
So far back I’d have to rack my mind just to remind me
I keep trying
To pick myself back up and then move on
And think about the life I’ll have when this fragile one is gone

And this is how I choose to live
As if I’m jumping off a cliff
Knowing that you’ll save me
Knowing that you’ll save me
And after all the stupid things I did
There’s nothing left there to forgive
Because you already forgave me
Yeah you already forgave me

Never forget
There’s life after death and taxes
And forgiveness comes
Then all of the rest is what passes away
Death and decay can’t touch us now

Every breath that I inhale is followed by exhaling
Sure as the one who never fails, I know will never fail me

Never forget
There’s life after death and taxes
And forgiveness comes
Then all of the rest is what passes away
Death and decay can’t touch us now

This is one of those stories I probably would be better off not posting for the world to see and yet, here I go.

For those of you that don't know, my family has a history of taking a few days (even a week) every year to go camping with three other families from our church (the Sauders, Langfords and D'Ambrosios). We've been to different states and campgrounds, through coal mines and rivers, and on one particular trip we visited a waterfall. If you are in the New England area you may have heard of Bash-Bish Falls (sorry, it's not the other way around no matter how much you wish it were), and if so perhaps you can appreciate what happened there. After hours of (barely) scaling slimy walls and having stopped to eat a picnic lunch among the rocks at the base of the falls, I began to feel nature calling me. Not in the Ace Ventura way, but in the "You have IBS, moron" sort of way. I'm not exactly sure how it happened but, without telling anyone where I was going, I slipped up the slope around the waterfall and eventually happened upon one of God's greatest creations: the Porta-Potty. I hurried in, sat down, and became one with the forest around me.

At some point (and it was probably quite a while after I entered the stall) I came to the conclusion that I had finished and turned to grab some toilet paper. Here was the flaw in my plan, because as it turns out there was no toilet paper in that stall. In fact, there wasn't ANY sort of paper there. Just me, a toilet, a grimy sink, and the four walls about me. Now, if you are me in this situation, it isn't long before panic begins to set in as you realize that you are (and if you can imagine the camera zooming out it's better) on a toilet, in an outhouse, in the woods, in a different state, and no one knows you are there. In fact, there's a good chance they haven't even discovered your disappearance yet.

So there I was, sitting there unsure of what to do, and I began to call out for help. Not literally, but I made it known to anyone unfortunate enough to walk by precisely what my predicament was and that I would much appreciate anything-- leaves, twigs, large cockroaches-- that could be gotten into me for the purposes of, well, as Caboose would put it- dismoistening. I also must have yelled out the names of my friends and their parents because Jonathan recounted the events at some point as: "I was walking along looking for you and someone said 'Are you Jonathan,' and when I said yes they brought me to where you were." After a fairly long period of laughter and going to retrieve an adult (I think it was Mr. D'Ambrosio) I was finally given some tissues and, after probably an hour total, emerged from that stall quite impressed with myself. Well, not really.

I guess you're supposed to learn something from these things.
But I've never been one for doing as I'm supposed to.

Yesterday, Trevor, Andrew and I (we hang out with yesterday all the time) were at the Carmel Diner and had just consumed somewhat large quantities of fatty foods. It was at this point that the recess in my body formerly known as the gallbladder informed me that, since I no longer had that organ, I could not control bile ejection and, well, there was bile and other matter that needed ejecting. I excused myself from the table and strolled absentmindedly into the men's room, and a little while later came to the conclusion that I had reached my conclusion. I reached for the toilet paper but alas, déjà vu. I was less worried now- someone was bound to come in looking for me if I failed to return. It WAS a diner.

And yet, after ten minutes (this brings our total to 20, at least) of nothingness I began to worry. I honestly did consider walking out of the stall and grabbing some paper towels, but I also knew that Murphy is always at work in the universe and the moment I decided to swing open the door someone would walk in and see far more of me than anyone ever ought to. Then I realized I had a cellphone, and that Trevor had a cellphone, and dialed his number. Sadly, and unbeknown to me until afterward, Trevor had moved to my side of the table and left his cellphone-on vibrate-back in his seat. So the eight times I attempted to get his attention from several hundred yards away, I failed miserably. Thankfully, I'd had another bright idea. I called my house, and my father answered (somewhat groggily, I imagine he was napping before the drive down to New Jersey for the week).

"Hey, I need the number for the Carmel Diner."
"And what makes you think I have it?"
"I'd look in the phone book, if I were you."
"Why can't you do that?"
...
"Because I'm sitting in the bathroom at the Carmel Diner, with no toilet paper, and no one to call for help. And don't think I haven't called Trevor like 8 times already because I have, and he's not answering."
"Oh."
...
"1-845-225-5000."
"Thanks."

Closed the phone, reopened it.

"Carmel Diner. How may I help you?"
"Hey, um. This is probably the strangest call you will ever get but, uh. I'm in your men's room right now, and there's no toilet paper."
"Oh my. I'll send the busboy in right away."
"Thanks."

First of all, "right away" evidently means "in a few minutes" because no one entered that room for a solid 180 seconds. Secondly, the busboy evidently does not have a good handle on the English language, because the first time he came in he fiddled around with the paper towel dispensers by the sink and replaced the rolls in them. A few minutes later, he returned, and I could see through the slit between the door and the stall walls that he was quite confused as to what he'd been sent in for, for real. It was not until a third time, when he approached the stall and asked me "Euh, choo need paper?" that I saw a real sign in progress. I told him yes, I needed toilet paper (making sure to enunciate clearly) and soon after I received a roll of toilet paper under the door.

I emerged, at least a half-hour after having gone in, with the same sense of satisfaction as I had carried with me at Bash-Bish, except maybe this was funnier.

And that's the news of the week.

I don't know if there's even a point in me writing this, because so few people in our school thoroughly read through the newspaper and a great deal fewer, I imagine, would be privy to wander over to this website just because I included a link in the article; nevertheless, to all of you that read my blog "Arachnophobia and the Art of Bowling" in the Apocalypse and then decided to visit me here on the beautiful interweb: welcome.

You will find, if you read my articles from beginning to end, that I have matured a great deal (both as a writer and an individual) since the inception of this blog. Consequently, not all of the opinions I once held hold true today, and not everything I thought was funny then do I find funny now. Likewise, you may find that much of my older and middle posting carries a great deal more humor than the most recent posts, and I blame that on recent experiences I've had as a believer in Jesus Christ. I'm sorry if I put you off terribly for being a Christian, but it's what I am and this is my forum for whatever I choose to be. That said, I wouldn't say that religion is everywhere in my writing, and for those of you that are atheists, or jews, or muslims, or any other set of beliefs, I mean you no hostility and welcome you to read and ponder on whatever I have written here.

Future incarnations of the Forge may very well include a more apt opening page, one bearing three masks: the traditional comedy and tragedy of Greek theater, and a blank expression between them. This, I feel, best conveys who I am and thus my writing style. Sometimes I feel burdened to recount events or thoughts which, I'm afraid, are neither pleasing nor uplifting. These, naturally enough, would be found within the tragedy mask. When my thoughts turn towards heaven, and I am still and quiet to see what it is that God is trying to reveal to me, then I would wear the blank expression. And (and you shall see that this is the most common of my 'masks') when I write something, either reflective or spontaneously, you will find it most often to fall under the comedy category, for humor is what I've always considered myself best at. Shakespeare would have cast me as a fool, for I have much wit about me but seek to convey it with a humorous phrase. Similarly, I don't always know when to hold my tongue.

Anyhow, the rest is much ado about nothing. If you seek to know why I have donned the name "the empyreal wordsmith" then feel free to visit my first post. And since I am the smith and this my forge, prepare to be tempered.

Yeah I mean, we've got to get to the point in our lives where we actually believe that God and His desires for us are truly the things that are gonna make us happiest, give us the most peace and satisfy our souls deeply. We talk about this and we know in our minds that it's true, but somehow these beliefs, they don't make their way into our everyday lives. I mean, if they did, wouldn't we be different, wouldn't we act different, wouldn't we talk different? I don't think it's cuz we don't want to be happy or that we try to sabotage our own lives. Maybe we just don't really trust God. We've got to decide, no matter what the cost, we want to be satisfied in God alone, in Him alone. I mean, aren't you tired of reading your Bible because you feel you have to? I want to want to love Jesus. I want to long to spend time with Him. I want to get up in the morning and can't wait to be with Him. And anything in my life that is more exciting or more valuable to me than God, well that thing's an idol, and I don't want it to be like that. I want to be like John Piper said in The Pleasures of God: God is most glorified in us, when we are most satisfied in Him. I want God to be glorified, so I want to see what I can do to be most satisfied in Him.

-Jeff Deyo, from the album Saturate.
Amen.

All the Amens and Hallelujahs in the world would be inadequate. I find it difficult to put into words what I experienced while in Syracuse over the past few days. All I know for sure is that I met God in that rugged war memorial and I left myself behind forever.

The lights dimmed and over four thousand voices screamed in expectation as hundreds poured in like ants from every entrance to the altar area surrounding the center stage. Wailing guitars and pounding drums called us to our feet as Jeff Deyo (that's dee-yo, by the way) unleashed his voice on the world. From that first moment I knew that I would never quite be the same. Literally an hour later, as my voice begged for reprieve from the exercise it had so recently endured, Doug Dement humbly requested we return to our seats in preparation for the message. Herbert Cooper took the stage soon after and he talked about freedom. As I said before, I was believing in God for the breaking of strongholds, and before God did anything else in Syracuse He was going to do just that- break the devices of the enemy that had for so long ensnared me. Me and about 2 thousand others, apparently, for the altar call at the end became an almost militant declaration of freedom against the forces of evil. A man I will most likely never see again came up to me in the throng, placed his hand on my shoulder, and began to pray fervently for God to release me from bondage. Tears of joy streamed down my face as I, for the first time in almost a year, stepped into the full presence of God. Peace overtook me and I honestly felt a wind pass through that otherwise suffocating room. With a fist raised high I took on the battle myself, and began to feel the weight fall from my shoulders. It was a night I will never forget.

The following afternoon I sat in a room with a couple thousand others who shared with me an interest in walking closer with God. The speaker raised points that I had pondered previously but had never attributed much importance to. One thing that sticks out quite sharply in my mind is the point he made on the importance of Bible reading. Not only is it a weapon against evil, but it is through the Bible that our other spiritual armor derives its strength. That sounds uncannily like something I said on Wednesday, doesn't it?

That night I remained in my seat as a huge number of people once again swarmed around Deyo and his band. But that didn't mean I was too tired or lazy; I just didn't feel the need to. Instead I sang at the top of my lungs, the memory of the previous night still fresh in my mind. Cooper took stage again, and he delivered a great message once more (I'd reference my notes for specifics but at the moment Pastor Paul has them). The turning point of the service, however, was when Jeff once more took the stage. As an altar call specifically targeted towards those who still needed to align themselves with God passed over me (for I had done so the previous night), I began to feel a tug at my heart. Almost mechanically I walked around and through our entire section and was drawn to pray for two younger members of our ministry, David Hedberg and John Landers. At some point I moved away from them and just began to pray for my heart, mind and soul to be renewed. I was ready to fight, because even though my personal life seemed to have been cleansed, there were many external factors that needed to be addressed. I prayed for my family (and soon after felt my dad's hand on my shoulder--he was a chaperon on this trip). Someone on stage asked us to pray for our communities, and my outstretched arm swung in the direction of our youth ministry.

One of the problems I've had in the past is that my prayers always seem to require the right words. I pre-plan what I'm going to say, and try to get just the right wording in to communicate my thoughts. There was no warning here, I just pointed my arm like a sword and the words flowed. And although it wasn't in tongues I could tell that the words came from a part of me that wasn't my mind. Indeed the Holy Spirit got to work where my own abilities didn't quite measure up. Prayer for unity, and a better feeling of brotherhood in the ministry, left my lips with conviction and power. And that's how it ought to be- a church should be a family, with its members so comfortable with one another that the teenagers in it ought to feel like brothers and sisters rather than breaking into select cliques and never interacting. Little did I know it, but before the weekend was out I would have the opportunity to speak life into David once more, albeit in a slightly more bittersweet way.

As the prayers turned heavenward directly (for they didn't exactly end, they just became worship rather than request), I found my feet leaving the ground. I've never jumped harder or prouder in my life than I did as songs, both old and new, swam through the air and out of my lungs. And as much as I love his other songs, Jeff's "Lose Myself" is still perhaps the most powerful. The lyrics are as follows:


Here I am longing,
I can't stop this longing
For more of You in me.
Lost in this moment,
This beautiful moment
This prayer I sing to You.
I'm crying out to You
To change the way I think,
To steal away my pride
And make me new.

Saturate my life,
Fill every part of me with You
Drown me in Your love,
Let me lose myself in You.

Here I am longing,
I can't stop this longing
For more of You in me.
Lost in this moment,
This beautiful moment
This prayer I sing to You.
I gladly come to You,
I want no place to hide
I'm pouring out my heart
To give You room.

Saturate my life,
Fill every part of me with You
Drown me in Your love,
Let me lose myself
Saturate my life,
Fill every part of me with You
Drown me in Your love,
Let me lose myself in You.
{lose yourself}

Saturate...
Saturate...
Saturate...
Saturate...
Saturate my life,
Fill every part of me with You
Drown me in Your love,
Let me lose myself
Saturate my life,
Fill every part of me with You
Drown me in Your love,
Let me lose myself
I'm crying out to You
To change the way I think
To steal away my pride
And make me new, inside
I gladly come to You
I want no place to hide
I'm pouring out my heart
To give You room

Saturate my life,
Fill every part of me with You
Drown me in Your love,
Let me lose myself
Saturate my life,
Fill every part of me with You
Drown me in Your love,
Let me lose myself in You.
Let me lose myself in You.
Let me lose myself,
Lose myself in You
Lose myself
Lose myself
Lose myself
In You
Yeah...in You


And so, therein is the cry of my heart. I already am different than I've ever been after a convention. I feel changed, and people have started to notice it. But I cannot be complacent with where I am, for then I shall be stagnant. Hence, that is the daily cry of my heart. Lord, saturate my life, fill every part of me with You. Drown me in Your love, let me lose myself in You.

Tomorrow (which is a Thursday) through Saturday, I will be attending the New York State Assemblies of God Youth Convention, otherwise known as 'Convention 07.' Having gone to the three previous conventions, I can say that there are few feelings on earth quite like the feeling you get when you step into a converted hockey arena, look around you, and come to the realization that you are surrounded by roughly six or seven thousand teenagers, all of whom are either Christian or have come to find out what Christianity is all about.

One of the coolest aspects of this year's convention is that worship leading will be done by none other than--go ahead, envy me--Jeff Deyo, who is (in my opinion) perhaps the best in his field. His songs are full of convicting phrases, words you would most likely find difficulty with if all you ever do during worship services is read the words off the screen without emotion. If ever there were a time and a place to be led to the threshold of heaven by a musician, this will be it.

I should, by the way, point out that this year I'm taking a new perspective on the trip than I did last year. Without digging up too much of the soil around a certain hatchet, last year I was enamored with a peer and I admit I spent far more of my time being concerned about her than myself. The result, I think, was that I fought very hard against certain rules that had been put in place to separate the males from the females, as well as other rules which (I will admit, I still feel) belittle high school juniors and seniors. This year, I pray my focus is a bit more heavenward, because circumstances in my life have led me to believe I've fallen a bit far from the mark I aimed for last year when I made a creed of warfare against Satan. If this is the first you've heard of that then, well, my point is proven.

The Bible tells us that, where two or more are gathered, God will move on our behalf. I daresay I'll have that quota met when I, ravaged by these past twelve months, step back into that stadium to renew the pledge that my AIM away message still carries, as of April 15th, 2006: Lord, no matter what tomorrow brings, help me to keep swinging. This battle theme I cannot help to reignite. I thought about it the other day, the idea of warfare. The Bible portrays, rather vividly, the use of swords, shields, and other armor in battle. Ephesians lists the various components of the full armor of God: belt of truth, shield of faith, etc. But I wish to draw attention to a little thing called the Sword of the Spirit, because it is the sword that I promised to continue to swing just short of a year ago.

The sword of the spirit, the Word of God. The Bible. According to the scripture, the scripture itself is perhaps the most crucial object to be taken into battle. Because, even if the enemy were to circle you without firing a single flaming arrow, you would be in a fairly sad position without a weapon. And there, I think, has been one of my biggest problems. I keep proclaiming war on the enemy, keep making bold claims that I will destroy his devices, and yet layer after layer after layer of dust has built up on the once shimmering blade I so desperately need for victory. In short, my Bible reading has been--nonexistent.

Sure, I've prayed daily, even in public. But notice, prayer--exemplification of faith--is only the shield. It can only do so much; it can't block the attacks from all sides, and it can't attack for me. And, without the sword, the capability of my shield has seriously downsized. Thus, not only is the Word important for attacks on the enemy, but it is the life force of all the other armor. Without it, my defenses are useless and I, as the past has shown, will fall every time. It was not long ago that I depicted myself as a smoking corpse, dropped to my knees after having been consumed by the flaming arrows of the enemy, face contorted in a scream heavenwards as if I had somehow been abandoned. This was followed by the lyrics to a Relient K song: "Explore the cave that is my chest/A torch reveals there's nothing left." Perhaps this time, I'll get it right.

As I said, I will be walking into convention this year with scars that can never be erased. I've been through some things that, well, I'm not proud of having subjected myself to. But with a force roughly half the size of a Roman legion fighting by my side, I plan to redeem myself, to pull that dusty, rusted blade from the stone, dip it in holy water and charge out into the world with a gleaming blade. I walk into that building a dark being, and I will be immersed in the light. I will emerge a being of light, ready to cut through the darkness. And by my side shall stand Jesus, not the pathetic, blond-haired, blue-eyed happy youth depicted in so many paintings and drawings, but as the lion He is. My Jesus has deep scars over His entire body. He has holes in His hands and feet from where my sin nailed Him to a cross. The scars crisscross His frame like immensely intricate tattoos, and the blood of enemies slain drips from His thirsty blade. Fire burns in his eyes, the same fire that God has ignited in my heart. As Demon Hunter proclaimed,

I heard You calling, setting fire to my soul.
Is this the voice we die for?
We
Die
For
Life.

I suddenly felt compelled to move to Arizona and become an auto mechanic.

I can honestly say that's a first.