tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37238562031741470672024-03-19T12:18:51.538+09:00musings of the red-headed zombiesGlenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-28994690042203450202010-10-09T22:35:00.000+09:002010-10-13T22:43:14.976+09:00Happy Birthday JohnThis is my favorite interview with John Lennon (condecuted by Kenny Everett in 1968 during the White Album sessions). John Lennon was more than a musician and an artist and a visionary. He was a prophet.<br /><OBJECT id=BLOG_video-9d5f22d07218f122 class=BLOG_video_class width=320 height=266 contentId="9d5f22d07218f122"></OBJECT>Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-28869374295680168362010-07-27T02:07:00.002+09:002010-07-27T02:11:32.607+09:00King Follett Discourse<object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/9xzn3Ab75pg&hl=en_US&fs=1?color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/9xzn3Ab75pg&hl=en_US&fs=1?color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object>Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-40560022333589112602010-05-13T01:12:00.002+09:002010-05-13T01:19:32.001+09:00Happy Belated Mother's Day?<p>Am I an evil person???</p><p><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz91ppGAjgKu2n5eCuXT2sBkiAOM1BM1SUTiloI8DMocFisnMjqCJU-3iT9c1N-hI0wM1toJCzp3kOG61Nekg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></p><p> </p>Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-46421832188102001462010-04-26T21:24:00.004+09:002010-04-26T21:29:16.661+09:00Mormon Expression InterviewI recently sat down and interviewed the one person I baptized as a Mormon Missionary, nearly 19 years ago. A lot has changed since then, but we had a nice candid conversation about how that decision has influenced his life. The interview was published on Mormon Expression. You can find it here:<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://mormonexpression.com/?p=635">http://mormonexpression.com/?p=635</a><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNrM1S_h-NPKCzSnVBBRBbkmsJS2rW5CqO_luBNhywF5-vVjKZJGx8Rtp0UXIyI831op478Pi0RO5mKcRzm6lF_pWPB3rXhkzrRt62daKN3Rh3IhDbYMHOW-ZfxQ2CRPliBfx3ml_-/s320/25466_1417889129324_1295496921_31189945_4826110_n-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464421384460615586" /><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_YdOd0JypqiRVQd93I93eKZbgbg-ZP_uj255fZTJUOfi_H3YF_u7JBx40rdUN-gAdM0-PPkJg6YU3U5Q-6vOjDoD7i93r1gScOMbv8mkgQ8G0jtQhnk01f5OphF0khhcaBEDfxRjh/s1600/25466_1417873088923_1295496921_31189870_282337_n-1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_YdOd0JypqiRVQd93I93eKZbgbg-ZP_uj255fZTJUOfi_H3YF_u7JBx40rdUN-gAdM0-PPkJg6YU3U5Q-6vOjDoD7i93r1gScOMbv8mkgQ8G0jtQhnk01f5OphF0khhcaBEDfxRjh/s320/25466_1417873088923_1295496921_31189870_282337_n-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464421508028840050" /></a><br /><br /></div></div>Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-64785983006488417012010-04-24T16:16:00.003+09:002010-04-24T16:23:05.270+09:00Japan Happy Visit Time for Friendly<OBJECT id=BLOG_video-190c75b9714939b7 class=BLOG_video_class width=320 height=266 contentId="190c75b9714939b7"></OBJECT>Dad and Ann Marie spent a week with us in Japan.Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-70930799413559546412010-04-12T08:58:00.003+09:002010-04-12T09:04:56.265+09:00Elder Stephen Erastus Knudsen III<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGzL8d1LMHVZ3ezxOjnGRS_DlURPXvcJuxJUPba2Q9Y2QrvRyRxfEMLPtrVxkKf9EUUoWfmzdocDUCamodc5X5SU3BRXVwmSw2BRmrO1_ybhU2A_yWlGOGF5Y7MaUVjdIKg3GiKUI1/s1600/SEKIII.bmp"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 223px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGzL8d1LMHVZ3ezxOjnGRS_DlURPXvcJuxJUPba2Q9Y2QrvRyRxfEMLPtrVxkKf9EUUoWfmzdocDUCamodc5X5SU3BRXVwmSw2BRmrO1_ybhU2A_yWlGOGF5Y7MaUVjdIKg3GiKUI1/s320/SEKIII.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459034566308415250" /></a><br />The Life and Times of <br />Stephen Erastus Knudsen III<br /><br /><strong>Brother Stephen Erastus Knudsen III was born April 6, 1966, in Sunnyvale, Utah. The oldest of three children, Stephen lived a life of near perfection, gaining exaltation through translation in the twinkling of an eye on his 33rd birthday, April 6, 1999, at precisely 6:32am. Brother Knudsen now resides in the bosom of Abraham with his boyhood heroes Moses and Elijah, and will remain there patiently until the final trump has blown. <br /><br />The following excerpt comes straight from the Archives of LDS Church Headquarters in Salt Lake City, Utah, where Brother Knudsen’s exemplary life has been recorded and preserved for us all. <br /><br />The following selection was written three years after returning from his mission and was submitted to the editors of Brigham Young University’s The Daily Herald by Brother Knudsen while a student. Brother Knudsen wishes all to know that during his life, he desired nothing more than to be the voice of the Lord unto his own generation. </strong><br /> <br />Dear Editor,<br /><br />In light of the many terrible events about us in the world today, I have hearkened to the call for a more uplifting voice in the media, and am therefore submitting a page from my personal Journal, a Journal I keep daily as the Prophet commands, to serve as a guide and a light whereby students and faculty of this, the Lord’s University of Brigham Young, may more fully understand the course they are to take to hold fast to the iron rod and stay safely within the confines of the straight and narrow path. In so doing, I am in no way placing myself above others. My intentions spring deep from the waters of humility. I am motivated only by a love for you, my fellow man, and a sincere desire to magnify my own righteousness so that it may become in at least some small way a great benefit to those of you who perpetually struggle against the Word. For if a light is placed beneath a bushel, wherewith shall the world be lighted? It is my fervent prayer that you will approach this with an open heart and diligently strive to be as the Lord would have you be.<br /><br />Journal Entry, March 18, 1991<br /><br />Good evening journal. I certainly had many wonderful experiences this glorious day. I arose at 5:30 am sharp and did my morning exercises. There’s nothing like a brisk stretch to invigorate the mind! Exercise strengthens and beautifies this holy temple in which our eternal spirits temporarily reside. It is our solemn duty to keep these temples in their best repair, which is why I open each day with a thorough strengthening of my physical body’s soul.<br /><br />At 5:35 I showered. Yes, it was cold, but I am well accustomed to that by now. I remember on my mission, just before I became AP, the showers were so cold! But my heart took comfort each day in the joy I gained through the knowledge of the blessings I would receive in sacrificing the luxuries of this world for the stark conditions that as a necessity follow those who devote their life in service to the Lord. Like the scriptures say, there is a law in heaven, irrevocably decreed before the foundations of the world, upon which each blessing is predicated. This is so true. And I have found that the blessing most closely associated with taking cold showers has been that I don’t have to waste precious moments waiting for the mirror to unfog. Thus, I am immediately able to attend to my morning grooming and thus expedite my preparations for the day. It is truly amazing, brethren. With God, nothing is impossible!<br /><br />Having combed and shaved, I dutifully attended to my other sanitary needs, which, for the sake of propriety shall remain nameless. Suffice it to say, I look forward to the day in which the food we eat and the bodies we possess are perfected to the highest degree, where we will use every bit of the glorified Earth for our Celestial nourishment, and are no longer required to rid ourselves of ineffectual, bodily waste. <br /><br />After washing my hands thoroughly with soap, I unclamped my tube of toothpaste and set about to scrub my teeth clean of the previous night’s decay. Oh how I enjoy the brisk sensation of a fresh mouth in the morning! I can almost feel those nasty tooth bugs being vanquished away, like sin. I like to imagine that with each brush I am casting the devil from my teeth saying, “Get thee hence. Get thee hence.” If cleanliness is next to Godliness, I shall be next to him in no time! I have never had a cavity in my life, and I bear testimony to you that if you will but follow the simple guidelines we have been given, you too can be minty-fresh and cavity-free.<br /><br />Next, I dressed in modest clothes, exactly as I had laid them out the night before, and after an hour of scripture reading and prayer, I broke my nightly fast with a hard boiled egg and half an English muffin, the perfect compliment to what was starting out to be the perfect day.<br /><br />Pardon me for intruding upon the flow of my journal’s narrative, but I feel that I must interject at this point and elaborate upon by morning scripture studies for those of you who are at this point merely novice scriptorians. My morning study consists of twenty-five minutes in the Book of Mormon, twenty minutes in the New Testament, ten with the Doctrine and Covenants or the Pearl of Great Price (whichever way the Spirit guides me), and the last five I spend in my white missionary instruction booklet, as it gives me strength and a renewed desire to serve each day to my highest potential. <br /><br />The highlight of my Book of Mormon study is currently 2nd Nephi. It is plain and precious, and is my favorite book in all the scriptures. I must note that I deeply resent the many jokes I hear about it from others less in tune with eternal things and I caution you to keep in remembrance what happened to the Lamanites when they mocked and scorned and rejected the purity of God’s word. <br /><br />In the New Testament I am highlighting all of the words uttered by our Savior, and spend my time committing them to memory. I am also blackening out all of the words not confirmed in the Joseph Smith translation. Next week I will be starting on Paul. <br /><br />The Book of Abraham in the Pearl of Great Price is particularly interesting to me. As of late as I have been fasting in an effort to translate facsimile #2. I would that I could share with you what has been revealed to me thus far, but I feel it is sacred, and (please take this in the spirit in which it is given) I fear casting my pearls before swine (nothing personal, it’s just that if you were ready to know these truths, God would have revealed them to you already). Do not despair. The process of personal discovery is a necessary step along the path we should trod towards eternal perfection, and I would hate to rob you of those blessings and become a stumbling block or a cuss and a by-word to you. That should suffice. Back to my Journal.<br /><br />By 7:00 am, a time in which most of the world still indulges in the vain slothfulness of slumber, I was already well into my day. It is a shame that the Lord’s University of Brigham Young does not offer classes any earlier than 7:00. I suppose I will just have to wait until that great millennial day to truly begin my eternal studies at a pace that best fits with my desire to learn the words of God. Having attended my Old Testament and Book of Mormon classes, I took a break between 9:00 and 9:50 to brush my teeth again. It was a vigorous scrub which nearly made up for the garbage I was about to receive in my 10:00 science class.<br /><br />Today Professor Brundel continued his discussion on evolution, despite my many warnings against it. I still plan to report him to the Church board of education, and have already drafted my second letter to the General authorities on this matter. Professor Brundel simply refuses to accept the scriptures as fact. I hope I never have such little faith. I wish I didn’t have to take his class, but it is required. I suppose the Lord requires us to take such courses at His University because there must needs be opposition in all things (2 Nephi 2:11). After all, where would our free agency be if the University only offered courses based on principals of truth?<br /><br />After class I had an unfortunate and very disappointing encounter. As I was on my way to work, I bumped into Elder Snell, my 3rd companion just before I became DL. I said, “Hi, Elder Snell,” And he said, “Gee wiz Steve, we’re not on our missions anymore. Call me John now. Or better yet, don’t.” First of all, I don’t approve of that kind of language. Everyone knows that “Gee wiz” is a longer form of g**z, which is an abbreviation of Jesus, our Savior’s name in mortality, and the Lord clearly told Moses that using the Lord’s name in vain is one of the worst sins there is. Second, my name is Stephen, after the martyr in the Book of Act, not “Steve,” and everyone knows I prefer to go by “Elder Knudsen,” or at least “Brother Stephen.” Third, he was violating the dress code in more ways than one. He was wearing shorts that were well above his knee, he wasn’t wearing any socks (which isn’t actually in the honor code, but should be), and you could clearly see his ni**les through his shirt. I know that the “no ni**le points” admonition is directed towards the sisters, but it is just as offensive when that law is violated by the men. It’s like their poking out to the world saying, “Here I am! Here I am!” Disgusting. And finally, he was still upset with me for what happened the other night. This experience has already been recorded in a previous journal entry, but I feel it appropriate to recount it again here. <br /> <br />The other night, as I was leaving the library, I saw Elder John Snell making-out with a girl on campus. I don’t want to get graphic, but he had his hand placed squarely on the sm*ll of her back and I believe he was kissing with his t*ngue. Some people call this PDA, Public Display of Affection, but I think the A stands for something more descriptive of what it really is, and I could not allow this unsightly display of Atrocity to continue without severe reprimand. I approached Elder Snell, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Elder Snell. Please remember who you are and what you stand for.” They stepped away. Quite appropriately, the sweet sister was a little embarrassed and appeared more than just a little penitent. For that I am grateful. But Elder Snell turned around quite belligerent and had the audacity to smile at me and say, “G**z, I’m sorry Steve, but how else do you expect me to fulfill my priesthood obligation of finding a wife?” He knows I hate being called Steve! And what nerve mingling the philosophies of men with scripture! Yes, I admit, every worthy Priesthood holder is dutifully bound to seek out an eternal companion. But it is equally well known (or at least it should be) that every worthy Priesthood holder should wait and not kiss his wife until after they are sealed over the alter in the temple. Elder Snell was clearly out of line, and knowingly so. He left me no choice, so, like Amulek to Zeezrom, I stood firm and quoted words of righteous admonition, in this case the words of President Kimball, which I have committed to memory, as follows: <br /><br />“How like the mistletoe is immorality. The killer plant starts with a sticky, sweet berry. Once rooted, it sticks and grows a leaf, a branch, a plant. It never starts mature and full grown. It is always transplanted an infant. Nor does immorality begin in adultery or perversion. Those are full grown plants. Little indiscretions are the berries indiscretions like sex thoughts, sex discussions, passionate kissing. The leaves and little twigs are masturbation and petting and such, growing with every exercise.” <br /><br />I reminded Elder Snell of his CTR ring and the problems he had had with little twigs in the mission field. He asked who was I to lecture him on this, to which I made it perfectly clear that I can still say with all honesty of heart that twigs and leaves have never been a problem for me. The righteous and the pure are sanctioned to throw stones. I further reminded Elder Snell that he should be preparing for eternal marriage, and his responsibility as a protector of this sweet sister’s virtue, and that no one wants to eat a sandwich when someone before them has licked off all the butter. I encouraged them both to go home and repent before they lost any more of their butter. The wicked take the truth to heart, and he was naturally upset, but I cannot apologize for representing the word of God and I refuse to be ashamed that everything I do is right.<br /><br />After leaving Elder Snell, I hurried off to work, where I changed into my suit and tie as usual and began going about my many important duties. I love the MTC so much! Each day I worked there was such an uplifting experience, and I will never forget what a wonderful time that was in my life. I had to quit, of coarse, because I felt that I had as much to offer to the rest of the world as I did to the outgoing missionaries. The brethren there didn’t see eye-to-eye with my inspired revisions of the missionary discussions. I am constantly reminded, however, that I must be patient with those around me. My suffering is not yet as Job. So after leaving the MTC I decided it was important to share my testimony with as many people as possible, and the McDonalds drive-thru window seemed the perfect place, for each day I see the many of the meek and humble — the very salt of the earth. “Wherewith shall they be salted” you may ask? I give them extra salt with their fries so they won’t lose their savor. That’s my little joke.<br /><br />After work I went to the library on campus to study. It disappoints me that the library stays open until the witching hour of midnight. “Early to bed, and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” I choose not to support the library in its less-than-appropriate selection of hours, so I study only until 7:00 p.m. I study hard. I can’t wait to be a seminary teacher. What a great profession to choose! It will make the transition much easier for me when I am called to a high position of Leadership in the Church. <br /><br />On my way home from the library I had a truly wonderful experience. I was approached an angelic messenger from the Lord. He was clean cut, shaven, and had a very appropriate disposition. It was not difficult for me to judge that this was a messenger from God, but just in case I recalled the following church teachings, which I have committed to memory and prepare to put in practice each day:<br /><br /><em>THERE are two kinds of beings in heaven, namely: Angels, who are resurrected personages, having bodies of flesh and bones For instance, Jesus said: Handle me and see, for a spirit hath not flesh and bones, as ye see me have. Secondly: the spirits of just men made perfect, they who are not yet resurrected, but will inherit the same glory. When a messenger comes, saying he has a message from God, offer him your hand and ask him to shake hands with you. If he be a resurrected angel he will do so, and you will feel his hand. If he be the spirit of a just man made perfect he will come in his glory; for that is the only way he can appear Ask him to shake hands with you, but he will not move, because it is contrary to the order of heaven for a just man to deceive; but he will still deliver his message. If it be the devil as an angel of light, when you ask him to shake hands he will offer you his hand, and you will not feel anything; you may therefore detect him. These are three grand keys whereby you may know whether any administration is from God. </em> <br /><br />I think it is good that the Prophet gave this instruction for members of the church who don’t have a keen sense of discernment unto themselves, like on my mission when, I had a run-in with the evil spirit that was possessing the body of Elder Woolstenhulm. It was giving him such convulsions that I held him down until he stopped frothing at the mouth, and I cast that spirit into outer darkness by the means whereby we have been instructed. I still don’t believe the doctors who diagnosed Elder Woolstenhulm with epilepsy. Elder Woolstenhulm was not a faithful missionary – he slept-in everyday until 6:15! How could doctors, in their limited understanding, know all those fits were brought on by evil spirits as a result of his unrighteousness? I have experienced it many times before. I know what evil feels like!<br /><br />So there I was, face to face with this angel, who I already could tell was a good one. Still, I determined to ask him to shake my hand, but felt I ought to do it in a clever way, just to be safe. So, I asked him who he had been in his mortal life, thinking that he must have been someone great, like Moroni, or Lincoln, and then I would say, “Hello Mr. Lincoln, very nice to meet you,” and reach out to shake his hand in a more natural way. Unfortunately, when I asked who he had been, he stammered and said, “Bob.” It threw me for a moment, so I decided to ask him what good things he had done in mortality to warrant his position as a ministering angel. Then I could congratulate him with a hand-shake. But when I asked, he told me, “nothing, I died before being baptized at age of eight.” Undaunted, I asked question after question, until he finally stopped me and said, “you’re trying to shake hands with you, aren’t you.” He reached out and shook my hand. I was so embarrassed I don’t even remember what it felt like, but I’m sure it sure felt pretty neat.<br /><br />Next thing I knew we were flying through the night sky. It was an exhilarating feeling. It kind of tickled, but in a good, non-twig-like kind of way. Finally we stopped in a large heavenly classroom with an over-sized crystal chalk board. He still used regular chalk, but it didn’t squeak when you pressed down too hard, and it never broke. There I received several hours worth of training that I unfortunately cannot reveal, such as the fact that dinosaurs were real, the forbidden fruit wasn’t an apple – it was an Avocado, Noah actually had a fleet, woman really are kind of equal to men, and the Lost Tribes of Israel are the Scandinavians, who were never really were lost; they’ve only been pretending. <br />Bob then brought me back to the library and wished me a peaceful night’s sleep. I thanked him and he started to leave, then stopped and paused a moment. He told me that he really liked my cologne, and said, “By the way, Bigfoot is really Cain. He’s still alive you know.” And then he was gone. What a vision! They’re getting better and more informative all the time.<br /><br />When I got home, my roommates were watching T.V. They must have found out where I hid it. Oh well, all I can do is be an example for them. As the saying goes, you can take the man out of the church, but you can’t take bologna away from a really hungry toad. I shut the door to my room, put in my earplugs, said my prayers, and am writing in my journal at this very second! The clock says 8:07 pm, a few minutes later than I usually go to sleep, but I just have so much to be thankful for and I would rather sacrifice a few minutes of precious slumber than break a commandment and skimp on my Journal. I am going to bed now. What a glorious day this has been. I’ll write again tomorrow. Good night.<br /><br />It is my sincere hope and prayer that this Journal entry may become to you what it has to me, and what I hope it will someday be to my children: my personal set of scriptures. If you would like to contact me, I would be more than happy to share more of my experiences with you. Maybe we could even become friends. I think that would be highly appropriate. You can contact me at 376-8521 or just stop by Villa University Terrace at Ridgemont #7. Ask for Stephen. And as a side note, please don’t call me Steve. I was named after Stephen, who, in the New Testament saw Christ on the right hand of the Father as he gazed into the sky, so I prefer my full name to be used rather than the more common, vulgar short cut. I’m sure you understand. Thank you.<br /><br />Your servant in Christ, <br /><br />Stephen Erastus Knudsen IIIGlenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-71475268250543073722010-04-11T17:58:00.001+09:002010-04-11T18:00:51.735+09:00The Bird and The Bee<div>LOVE these guys. Inara George is my new hero. You'll have to go to YouTube to watch them, but it's worth it.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6wxuQ9szJ3A&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en_US&feature=player_detailpage&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6wxuQ9szJ3A&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en_US&feature=player_detailpage&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/J6rxbgAm-Do&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en_US&feature=player_detailpage&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/J6rxbgAm-Do&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en_US&feature=player_detailpage&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="640" height="385"></embed></object></div>Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-40658146973992829582010-02-20T14:59:00.004+09:002010-03-11T23:39:23.468+09:00Make Believe<p><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyTDbHqB1rPZU-EGOtiFG4hOtLcZOKD371vdL9wZhbtLUfQ_Y4hbQwH0vfnMl5d9lJGM6xa3jpm3e1_Mq1caw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></p><p>I wrote this song in November 2008. It's about faith for me -- the recogniztion that my beliefs are choices, and the choice to create and maintain a belief is the act of make beleive. Specifically, in regards to God, I just don't know. I won't know till I see, till I touch and really feel. Until then, I'll just make beleive -- faithfully -- the best that I can. With eyes wide open.</p><p>I recorded this version with some friends from work and added these pictures to illustrate, as best I could, my experiences living a life of this kind of faith.</p>Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-65668567132992726852008-07-26T18:37:00.003+09:002008-07-27T16:47:44.539+09:00The Giving Tree<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/1TZCP6OqRlE&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/1TZCP6OqRlE&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Okay, so the anonymous commentor asked my interpretation of the giving tree. I watched it and will tell you what I think. <br /><br />I hate it. I have always hated it. I feel sorry for the tree and I don't like the thoughtless taking of the boy. But that is not a comment on the work itself. I think this is what Shel Silverstien intended -- what the story is supposed to do. I think it is supposed to create revultion and subversively critique the idea of "selfless sacrifice." <br /><br />I have heard many people talk about how beautiful the tree is, because it just gives and gives with no thought for itself -- just a desire to make the boy happy. Whatever. That's one way of looking at it I suppose. But I think the irony is built in, when it says "the boy loved the tree." Really? What is love? The boy takes and takes and never gives. Does calling exploitation "love" really make it love? <br /><br />And the tree is pathetic enough to allow all thist to happen. Why? What's so special about this boy? Couldn't other kids have come to pick the apples and play in the tree and climb up the trunk? Not after the boy who (supposedly) loved it was finished destroying it. <br /><br />So that's my interpretation of it, jaded and cynical as it is. What do you think?Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-25999807385075487742008-07-26T00:02:00.002+09:002008-07-26T00:07:53.508+09:00Bart channels MickThis is Bart Davenport with the group Honeycut singing "Shadows." I dig it. Can you dig it? I know, someone is going to say he looks ugly. Tsk tsk. Shallow. You think he is intentionally channelling Mick Jagger? <br /><br />I dedicated an entire radio hour to Bart. It`s <a href="http://web.mac.com/dgostlund/Redheaded_Zombie_Radio_Hour/Podcast/Entries/2008/7/23_RHZ_Radio_Hour_Ep._08.html">here </a>if you want to check it out.<br /><br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_s7VdtnDlwk&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_s7VdtnDlwk&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-74201207282696254712008-06-23T02:28:00.004+09:002008-12-11T03:09:39.631+09:00Rubbing Elbows with Movie Stars<div>Early in season 4 of <em>Lost</em>, Miles Strom went into a black woman's house to chat up a ghost. On the stairway wall was a picture of a young black boy -- many speculared it was the young Mr. Eko. But it wasn't. I asked him. </div><div><br />Yesterday my wife and I were at a grocery store in Mira Loma, California, and I saw this kid who looked so familiar. I knew I knew him from somewhere. Maybe a former student or something? But then -- WHAM! -- it hit me. This was the young Mr. Eko! Or at least he looked exactly like him.<br /></div><div>Now I am overly sensitive when it comes to any kind of racist claim, so the last thing I wanted to do was approach him and ask "hey, you're young Eko, huh?" cuz of the whole you-must-think-all-black-people-look-alike thing. But my wife was smarter and generally less concerned about that sort of thing than I am, so she walked up to him and asked him, "excuse me, have you been on TV?<br /></div><div>He smiled shyly and said yes.<br /></div><div>"Were you on <em>Lost</em>?"<br /></div><div>"Yes."<br /></div><div>And we spoke to him for a few minutes. Nice kid. His name is Kola (officially <a title="Kolawolfe Obileye, Jr." href="http://www.lostpedia.com/wiki/Kolawolfe_Obileye%2C_Jr.">Kolawole Obileye, Jr.</a> ). He just bought a new house near the area and came to the store to get a can opener. He is very busy with school -- only did Lost as a fun little thing to do -- doesn't really even follow the show much. When I told him that we hoped to see him again on the show, he smiled and said "I'm dead now." But with Lost, you never know.</div><div> </div><div>Checkmate, young Mr. Eko.</div><div> </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214759114070315186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi51C4D9fC_Z7kOtkI0oZdOYzDtVQxKFciSs6qcvoxWwyZ90D4I2fEU2bIfo2M3M4I9-QM14OGng_Qhnwudi-RH8c2jmIFX9F0j2I7T0r22K_dYLCpmIhUZNOJBLgMa_LC6amOIA4IK/s400/young+eko.jpg" border="0" /><br /><p> </p><p>Of course Tracey wanted to tell everyone "we met a movie star, guess who it was?" But me, being the wet blanket stick-in-the-mud "details and accuracy matter" kind of guy that I am argued, "well, he hasn't been in any movies, and he's really not a star -- just two episodes of our favorite TV show, that's it."</p><p>But no. That's not how things work around here. He's a movie star. And now, apparently, we are best friends with him, too. </p><p>Nice to meet you Kola. Good luck with the rest of your career! (I'm sure we'll be in touch).</p>Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-86575040896280072008-06-18T09:01:00.009+09:002008-12-11T03:09:40.523+09:00Normal FormWhen I taught my F101: Intro to Folklore classes, early in the semester I would introduce a concept known as “normal form.” It’s a pretty simple concept to understand. It states that within all the different variations of any given tradition, the version that will seem most “normal” to you is the version you were first introduced to. That version then becomes the standard by which you measure every other variant you might enounter. But here is the important, non-judgmental thing that I wanted my students to remember: Your normal form is not intrinsically any better or worse than anyone else’s normal form. It’s just different. And different does not mean wrong.<br /><br />For example, I grew up hearing the children’s song “little old house in the middle of the woods, little old man by the window stood.” My wife grew up hearing it “little old house in the middle of the woods, <em>nice</em> old man by the window stood.” A small variation, but big enough to make me cringe and want to “correct” her every time I heard it the “wrong” way. But according to normal form, it isn’t really wrong, it’s just different than the way I learned it. It’s just not my normal form.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQw9Y5HnJvqs6PjzWI8fRo_aIMHeu65DwKoxiKD27aC2tBthKgTS6tEMtZsPoXmqqmwMzouBounSzvSHJqweIdiXXAqq3lXl5dqqq6dIPjdt_Soa3rrGQu6Yj2XAFqx0e5T-EtDAPE/s1600-h/toilet+sink2.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213005335372271346" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 202px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 236px" height="277" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQw9Y5HnJvqs6PjzWI8fRo_aIMHeu65DwKoxiKD27aC2tBthKgTS6tEMtZsPoXmqqmwMzouBounSzvSHJqweIdiXXAqq3lXl5dqqq6dIPjdt_Soa3rrGQu6Yj2XAFqx0e5T-EtDAPE/s320/toilet+sink2.bmp" width="202" border="0" /></a>I admit that when I first came to Japan in 1991, I was a little grossed out by the toilet-sink unit in my apartment. To conserve space, the Japanese had built a water spout right on top of the toilet’s water tank. When you flushed the toilet, water came out of the spout, reminding you to wash your hands… in toilet water. It was not normal to me, and it took me a while to feel comfortable touching that water, even though I realized I was getting it on the front end, before it came into contact with anything I had, um… placed in the toilet myself. But the Japanese are generally a meticulously hygenic people who take great care to wash and be clean, so as long as the water was on the front end and it was clearly separate from the other toilet business, I figured I could get used to it, and I have.<br /><br />Yesterday, however… well, you just have to see this for yourself.<br /><br />I was at the DMV to take a driving test. I saw this sign in the public bathroom stall and just couldn’t believe it. The picture is a little fuzzy, but here is an example of some brainiac Japanese engineering wizard who decided to conserve space even more. Why build a spout on top of the water tank when you can put it right there in the toilet bowl?<br /><br />Instructions for use:<br /><br />1. Locate the flushing button.<br />2. Turn the flushing button on.<br />3. Wash your hands as the water spouts into the toilet bowl.<br />4. Turn the flushing button off.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213005579962385330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 444px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 314px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="300" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3wmf1YJJl6bCdkXk0wJMETlJPAzQiSDQVri9AEJ7G-Pq-ohboRmktfGAcYPLKAeCRYQkoSXC7atUxhWSu3fXko_QCfLoN5XiuwDPc-wVTCYTykAj7rVzgEMFybE323mhr64lzgN4R/s400/toilet+sink.jpg" width="430" border="0" /><br />Yep. That’s right! Wash your hands right down there above the pretty, colorful whirlpool – just be careful of swirling debris.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213010333610890786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJVY72DmvDu5pvNopSOFJR9MhflDMAgAtWfisuFV5-fqriIczldF1LpKJgj9TiKQQ6ABtWLdTXlH4xF9WcJ94tvedLvFyJtMmNd9rUREJONcKTsYN7AEElBg7tHUNguYBTpz8fEAE-/s400/toilet+sink3.jpg" border="0" /><br />So much for the relativist fairness of normal form. Sorry students. This is simply wrong.Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-24935682775949872932008-06-06T11:58:00.006+09:002010-04-12T12:18:00.111+09:00The Highway to Hell<em>I must have been a junior in high school when this happened. My bedroom was in the basement. It was a big room with two twin beds, although I had the room completely to myself. At the far end was a window that looked out into a small dirt-filled window-well with a barred fire-escape grate above. It was a good, comfortable room.<br /><br />As usual, I said my prayers before going to sleep. I frequently enjoyed listening to my radio as I fell asleep. It was soothing. But this night was different. My radio was on a different station than normal, and they were playing more hard/classic rock than my Billy Joel-accustomed ears were used to. But I was sleepy and too lazy to reach over and change the station. So I just laid there, until AC/DC’s <em>Highway to Hell</em> came on. It was night, it was dark, and I started getting a little scared.<br /><br />So, I leaned over and hit my snooze bar. Only, it didn’t work. So I hit it again, harder. Still nothing. I leaned over further and twisted the knob to the “OFF” position. But that didn’t work either. I could still hear the music, and now I was getting really creeped out. So I reached out and yanked the plug out of the wall. But to my fear and amazement, that had no affect, either. The lights from the clock were completely dark, and the music was not quite as loud as it had been at first, but I could still hear it, and it was still creepy. So I started to pray.<br /><br />I felt little comfort praying over the sound of the music. When the song ended, I finally heard silence. But I kept on praying. Something just didn’t feel right. Somehow -- I don't know exactly how -- I was eventually able to fall asleep.<br /><br />A few hours later (I can’t be sure of the time, because I had unplugged the clock radio) I awoke with a start to the sound of my name. Someone was calling out to me, from inside of my room. I can’t describe the cold chill that ran through me as I heard my name again and again. Shakily, I reached up and flicked on the light. There on the far side of my room, just inside the window, was a man. He was wearing normal looking clothes and just looked like an average guy. He smiled.<br /><br />“Who are you?” I asked.<br /><br />He said that he was a messenger from God. He explained that God had heard my many prayers over the years and that he had been sent to provide further light and knowledge. It is true, I had been praying for such an experience for many years, but I still felt very uneasy. I wanted some reassurance.<br /><br />As I looked at this guy standing there so casually – so friendly – I remembered a lesson I had heard in church, that if a spirit comes to you claiming he is from God, ask him to shake his hand. If he is really from God, and is a resurrected being, you will feel the handshake. If he is not yet resurrected, he will honestly explain that to you and refuse to shake. But if he is an evil spirit, he will try to deceive you. He will reach for your hand but you will feel nothing.<br /><br />My voice was trembling so much that I could barely form the words. “Can I shake your hand?” I asked.<br /><br />“Sure,” he said, with a reassuring smile, and he moved – it was like he glided – over to the side of my bed. “Here you go,” he said, and he reached out his hand.<br /><br />I tried to steady my trembling so he wouldn't see that I was scared. I reach out and felt nothing. Still, he continued to smile as if nothing were wrong. Terrified, I raised my arm to the square and said, “In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to leave.”<br /><br />No sooner did I start the motion than he recognized what I was about to do, and in that single moment his entire countenance changed. His face became lined and pointed and ugly. He scowled and gnashed his teeth. Spit came from his mouth as he swore at me again and again and told me I would never be rid of him – that he would always be with me -- and that there were more of them. They would get me in the end. I had no hope.<br /><br />As he said these things, he moved backwards towards the window, as if struggling against a force that was sucking him out of the room. He finally disappeared into what I can only describe as a folding cloud of dark light, and then he was gone.<br /><br />I was sweating from head to toe, and my heart was racing a mile a minute. I opened my door and turned on all the lights in the house on my way upstairs to my parents’ bedroom. I didn’t say a word – I just crawled on to the foot of their bed and tried to get some sleep. I have never been so terrified in my life.</em><br /><br />Pretty good story, huh? Of course none of it is true (aside from the description of my bedroom, and my prayers for angelic ministration, and the hand-shake lesson I had heard at church, and -- of course -- the Billy Joel-tuned ears). But I used to tell it like it was THE MOST traumatic experience I had ever had. And I was good at it, too – very convincing. One of my spiritual gifts, perhaps -- I've always been a good liar.<br /><br />It started simply enough with the devil music that wouldn’t shut off (the first version was Led Zeppelin’s <em>Stairway to Heaven</em>) and at some point evolved into a much larger tale. I originally intended it as a joke to my friends Kevin and Clark who wanted to listen to that kind of music in their car when I wanted to put on the Beatles. But somehow it grew.<br /><br />The last time I told it as a “real experience” was my freshman year at college. A group of us were up in the Canyon one night around a campfire. People naturally started telling scary stories. They were all FOAF stories (Friend Of A Friend) about someone’s aunt who’s brother-in-law had seen a chair move, etc etc. I knew I had them all beat. So I waited for the right moment and gave my little performance. When I was finished you could hear a pin drop – it was awesome. But later that night, something really disturbing happened.<br /><br />A guy came up to me with tears in his eyes. He shook my hand and thanked me profusely for my bravery and strength and personal righteousness. He told me that I had changed his life that night. See, his two older brothers had rebelled against the family and the church, and he was starting to follow in their path. He had brought his girlfriend up to the canyon that night with a couple of sleeping bags in the back of his truck. They had been virtuous and pure up to this point, but were planning to... you know… do unspeakably devilish things to each other under the pale light of the silvery moon. But then he heard my story, and he felt the promptings of the Holy Ghost stronger than he had ever felt in his life before. And he knew that what I was saying was true and he knew that what he was about to do was wrong and he knew that he needed to turn his life around. So he did, and he had me and my righteous example to thank for it.<br /><br />I felt empty – shocked – guilty. And a little confused. I knew my performance was good – that the details of the story met traditional expectations and that my delivery and tone and dramatic pauses and facial expressions were all right on – but Holy-Ghost-strength-of-the-Spirit-your-story-changed-my-life-forever good? Troubling.<br /><br />That was probably the first time I actually considered that these powerful spiritual promptings people feel may possibly be something else. But I decided that day that I didn’t want any part in that powerful deception and manipulation of emotions -- at least not where this story was concerned. That even if the outcome could be considered "good," I was playing with fire, and maybe – just maybe – that experience scared me a little straight. It's all still up to debate.Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-76584683859065405112008-05-27T09:29:00.006+09:002008-12-11T03:09:40.834+09:00Walking to work, pt.2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJODi9WyVW8RCsXGQvxLz2Kpb5J1VeSpYTk-I3FIWnXl-_lZ-xp7K8eFmzoml8o6jJy_3P-2aKRHxqbFRpCv7w1VD2iUNpMK0qtjDRFbh5VaHT8eHhMK-UcI3hNjRn0i4_k76wT_gR/s1600-h/tattoo+man.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204850043420664482" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJODi9WyVW8RCsXGQvxLz2Kpb5J1VeSpYTk-I3FIWnXl-_lZ-xp7K8eFmzoml8o6jJy_3P-2aKRHxqbFRpCv7w1VD2iUNpMK0qtjDRFbh5VaHT8eHhMK-UcI3hNjRn0i4_k76wT_gR/s320/tattoo+man.jpg" border="0" /></a> The walk to work is a time for deep thinking. So here is today's amazing message for the world (aka myself):<br /><div></div><br /><div>As I was walking in to work, I passed a guy who looked rough -- earrings, tatoos, an angry scowl on his face. It made me think he was angry at the world, or something, and it launched me into this sophomoric "philosophical" mode where I split the world into two camps, those who believe in God and have hope in a better tomorrow, and those who think that first group is stupid. </div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>It made me upset at the people who I unfairly stereotype at church -- those people who have this supposed christ-like faith but aren't more kind and accepting of people like my new hardened tattoo buddy. I even thought that these so-called church-goers are actually the ones who push people to the extremes like this. </div><div></div><br /><div>Stupid, huh. </div><br /><div></div><div>But my conclusion was that instead of being angry and unfair to my churchy brothers and sisters, I could try to be one of the few "enlightened" ones who is not petty and intolerant (or a bad speller -- or, eh hem, a hypocritical elitist) -- one who is actually kind and generous and friendly to all people (and animals, too). What are my angry spiritual tattoos? Where are my angry spiritual piercings? Why must I be so judgmental? I should stop thinking I'm all that and just be a better, kinder person.</div><div></div><br /><div>Pretty good piece of thinking, huh? All this in about 35 steps. And if that isn't proof of my eminant brilliance, I don't know what is. </div><div></div><div></div><div>All signs point to...</div>Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-10613258144609256852008-05-21T20:04:00.002+09:002008-12-11T03:09:41.020+09:00Purpose Envy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ExLHvMkwD_K8P_BkjCqSvyMsFb7ojicZXxQk4vPxizwu1x8G9Dd2COlMCu7wF87WPbA2wGiEnsv-jvy3y0BL8WSctVQhlDuMjqqWjt7tYZsytddJXHuE1uVL_jE2TprUbIGSDI-J/s1600-h/IMAGE_020.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202785505609445282" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ExLHvMkwD_K8P_BkjCqSvyMsFb7ojicZXxQk4vPxizwu1x8G9Dd2COlMCu7wF87WPbA2wGiEnsv-jvy3y0BL8WSctVQhlDuMjqqWjt7tYZsytddJXHuE1uVL_jE2TprUbIGSDI-J/s400/IMAGE_020.jpg" border="0" /></a>Can someone please explain to me what this huge billboard sign is doing on the side of a building in downtown Osaka?<br /><br />Text:<br /><em>No you can't play with mine because you've broken yours off!</em><br /><br /><br />Huh?????Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-8919035412216708322008-05-09T08:36:00.013+09:002008-12-11T03:09:41.495+09:00Walking to work, pt.1<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnNHOZ58irFbqV3QjmoF0uXA2ltw1bmnhvWiy1BhU6JOSbKe4d_tUiKvRy7QQ0WP_z8JzvySMmr0jRlLldtIo98ld1dgqX30RiasZQYJTCCAEeoN-TiIluVgmMirU1NqpqCxTv-iqM/s1600-h/sigen06_big.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198158027812061474" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnNHOZ58irFbqV3QjmoF0uXA2ltw1bmnhvWiy1BhU6JOSbKe4d_tUiKvRy7QQ0WP_z8JzvySMmr0jRlLldtIo98ld1dgqX30RiasZQYJTCCAEeoN-TiIluVgmMirU1NqpqCxTv-iqM/s200/sigen06_big.jpg" border="0" /></a>So I was thinking about writing a new post on my walk in to work today. Tokyo is an interesting place. It is busy, people everywhere. But there is also a remarkable sense of solitude. Maybe it's because I am so obviously a foriegner here. Or maybe it's my breath.<br /><div><div><div></div><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU6_UbXCavw-kBK45jM7XtEuq0d81pi6N4GzKsyQS1G6kSB1IP3DeYQ0xGY3N2eS1vKE3EBESZO8zxB3KTd2mEfexgK_gRoO6aPafPUh-9mMgBTm823k_gvxW48ePt7ie5RhpVXhgk/s1600-h/RoppongiHillsSpider2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198158272625197378" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU6_UbXCavw-kBK45jM7XtEuq0d81pi6N4GzKsyQS1G6kSB1IP3DeYQ0xGY3N2eS1vKE3EBESZO8zxB3KTd2mEfexgK_gRoO6aPafPUh-9mMgBTm823k_gvxW48ePt7ie5RhpVXhgk/s200/RoppongiHillsSpider2.jpg" border="0" /></a>My apartment is pretty much under the "e" where you see the "Roppongi Hills Residence" in this picture of Tokyo, and I walk through Roppongi Hills and past the Mori tower every day on my commute to and from work.<br /></div><div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUUSleVbIw-2YdsZgZ8tpMhqLCWGWN3hhOTHCsMolqp29HEvFkOv-BYKUK6D0bnzoqyE49_Zd1tCJ743fvji1PmSnmD_7GpQAKyXwanPxSiz8NaxmcvHrEtsCICRM9X0lgItBMcQ8I/s1600-h/RoppongiHillsSpider2.jpg"></a></div>There is a big spider statue in a courtyard at the mori tower. Thousands of people walk by it every day. I'm one of them. One of the fattest.</div><br /><div></div><div></div><div>So I was walking today and thinking "what can I blog?" I was thinking about how Roppongi has a reputation as a "red light" district, and I was going to play off that -- play stupid, like I didn't know what it meant, and say something about how there are also yellow lights, green lights, white lights, and blue lights, although I've never seen a K-Mart. But then I decided that was stupid, and I wouldn't say it.</div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW9Se_a3xvyOuTbytLCIpHKQHMP0r_boKivpoQlKbgqr17dhaYhAYydgh7FJMVGZay0u08bmNLi8LmiwriiuN-0HhcQXC-GvAUYJx51XkTGLTuoLzaxzFXUlZrt0IDbAnLPxbKdUbv/s1600-h/tops.jpg"></a></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZAltzXe7znbiEF32bHbTFy5rbQZbUhI3SFmXJPhIiN-9qv3PLDt1uzYhwVbYbdh8_PEAvImYyULghSatDy8UNiXoAeT4CwGOgbE-guRcmebUT4zw0Z49huMoCIjAGlNszm__uk7D/s1600-h/tops.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198167073013186914" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZAltzXe7znbiEF32bHbTFy5rbQZbUhI3SFmXJPhIiN-9qv3PLDt1uzYhwVbYbdh8_PEAvImYyULghSatDy8UNiXoAeT4CwGOgbE-guRcmebUT4zw0Z49huMoCIjAGlNszm__uk7D/s200/tops.jpg" border="0" /></a>Then I thought about talking about some of the traditional children's folk-toys still popular in Japan -- like the wooden multi-colored tops that kids play with. I was going to build it up by talking about how fun they are to spin and you can pretty much play with them anywhere. I was going to say that people pretty much carry them around with them wherever they go, except for some places in Roppongi where they are not allowed -- some bars that open up at night that are strictly top-less bars. But then I realized that was stupid, too.</div><div></div><div></div></div><div></div><br /><div>So basically the only thing I have left to blog about from my walk into work this morning is a scene I saw while I was crossing a street just before the subway entrance. This is a typically narrow Japanese backstreet -- I can cross it in three or four long strides, and yet it doubles as a two-way street. And there is a streetlight. And a crosswalk. And the crosswalk light was red, which even in Japan means "don't walk." And yet the Japanese commuters were all crossing anyway. Why not? There was no traffic whatsoever, and it is such a narrow road in the first place.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Except for one guy, with his briefcase and his dark suit. He stood at the corner, waiting for the light to turn green, watching all of the people around him crossing the street anyway. And I thought to myself, "what is going through that guy's head?" Here is a guy who obviously believes in following the rules, no matter what. What does he think about the people who aren't stopping like they are supposed to? Is he silently judging them? Is he silently patting himself on the back for being such a law-abiding guy? He stood there for 3 minutes. Why? </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Oh well. Another day in the life in Tokyo. </div></div></div>Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-89223275239126036622008-05-01T16:37:00.002+09:002008-05-01T17:16:09.363+09:00Butt-prints In The SandOne night I had a wondrous dream.<br />One set of footprints there was seen.<br />The footprints of my precious Lord,<br />But mine were not along the shore.<br /><br />And then the strangest print appeared.<br />I asked the Lord, "What have we here?"<br />This print is large and round and neat.<br />“But Lord, it’s much too big for feet.”<br /><br />“My child,” He said in somber tones,<br />“For miles I carried you alone.<br />I challenged you to walk in faith,<br />But you refused and gained no strength.”<br /><br />“You laid quite still. You would not grow,<br />This walk is not for me, you know.<br />So I got tired. I got fed up.<br />And there I dropped you on your butt.”<br /><br />“Because in life, there comes a time,<br />When one must strive, and one must climb,<br />and one must rise and take a stand;<br />Or leave his butt-prints in the sand.”<br /><br />-Anonymous<br />(and can you blame them?)Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-9996254417262820612008-04-23T12:40:00.007+09:002008-04-23T14:08:43.473+09:00Cruel and InsignificantThat's how I felt on my walk in to work this morning.<br /><br />On my way to the subway, I passed two homeless guys in their sleeping bags. They were just lying there asleep in this tunnel on the side of the road. Hundreds of people were walking right by them not giving them a second thought. I looked into the face of one of them as I passed -- haggard, worn -- greasy black hair. I imagined what he must smell like, and I was immediately repulsed.<br /><br />But that repulsion quickly turned on to me, to myself -- to all the judgmental thoughts I have ever had about what it means to be homeless – the possible mental illness, or drug addictions, or simple laziness. How cruel I am to walk by and judge them like that?<br /><br />When I was a teenager – a very sheltered, privileged teenager – I took a trip with a church group down to ride ATVs in the Yuma sand dunes. We were at a McDonalds and some of the guys were hopping around and jumping over the top of a big pile of rags, blankets, garbage, and clothes – just ‘cuz it was there. Suddenly the pile moved, and the guy inside it sat up. It startled us, but we just laughed – especially when the guy proceeded to stumble step-by-step into the middle of the busy road and start directing traffic. He didn’t have a name, or a family, or a story. He wasn’t even a real person, as far as we were concerned. He was just a joke -- an untidy ornament placed in our path for the sake of our own entertainment on the way to the dunes. Funny stuff, huh.<br /><br />A year or so later I was driving with my friends in their car. I must have been 15 years old. For reasons I no longer understand, we thought it was funny to throw raw eggs out of the window at cars and buildings and people while driving by at about 45 miles-per-hour (<em>a drive-by egging</em> – thank you Mrs. Doubtfire). When we hit some random guy in the face as we drove by and then turned around to see him staggering aimlessly in the middle of the road behind us, we just laughed. It’s an image that is burned into my mind over 20 years later. But it's not nearly as vivid as the homeless guy sitting on the side of the road with his cardboard sign and his sleeping bag – a bright red one – a nice easy target. As the egg left my hand, his eyes met mine, and then WHAP! Too late for me to take it back. It was Christmas time.<br /><br /><em>Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these…</em><br /><br /><em>Merry Christmas brother,</em> I thought to myself. I felt awful. Ashamed. And although I have had far more than my share of thoughtless cruel moments in my life since that day, I never did anything even remotely close to that again.<br /><br />But that thought gave me little comfort on my walk to work this morning. Maybe I’m not hopping around and jumping over their piles of clothes. Maybe I’m not throwing eggs at them from a moving car. But I didn’t stop. I didn’t help them. I don’t really even believe that I could if I tried. Cruel. That’s what I am. Cruel and insignificant.Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-18784785591784316922008-04-02T09:33:00.002+09:002008-04-02T09:40:48.262+09:00Good vs. SmartSo I am having a conversation with my mom, and she is telling me about a guy she knows at church, and she says, "he's a really good guy, but he's also really smart..." I just started laughing. She wasn't even able to finish her thought. It was just too hilarious to me.<br /><br />Okay, so what does this mean?<br /><br />Are smart people not good?<br /><br />Are good people not smart?<br /><br />I don't think this is something just isolated to my mom (don't ask about the mariachi music), cuz I see it all around. Is it that people are intimidated by intelligence? Or is it that intelligence leads to inquiry which leads to criticism which isn't nice or good? Or is it harsh agressive criticism masquarading as intelligence? What is going on here? I would hope I could be both good and smart. Is that even possible?Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-56805859074706579112008-03-29T10:17:00.003+09:002008-03-29T10:20:24.086+09:00I am clairvoyant... or however you spell it.Okay, so explain this to me (if you can).<br /><br />Last night I had a dream about a basketball game. And Greg Oden was running the floor, moving really well, jumping up and blocking a couple of shots. I have no idea why I dreamed this. I don't really know anything about Greg Oden. I haven't seen anything lately about Greg Oden. He has been injured and out of the spotlight all year. There is absolutely no good reason why I should be dreaming about Greg Oden.<br /><br />So I wake up this morning and log on to espn.com. There is an article that Greg Oden played a pick-up game yesterday and his team is upset with him for it.<br /><br />If that isn't proof of my magnificent clairvoyanescency, I don't know what is.Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-23967913678799916152008-03-19T18:54:00.000+09:002008-03-20T00:18:22.820+09:00Happy Life DayThis is one of the funniest things I have ever seen -- I guess it's how they celebrate Christmas on Tatooine. Of course, as I kid, I would have gone nuts over it. The look on Harrison Ford's face says it all. How much do you think they paid Carrie Fisher to do this? May the force stay in that galaxy far far away.<br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/vYQVyVyeWho&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/vYQVyVyeWho&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object>Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-26169922438367043802008-03-12T13:26:00.009+09:002008-07-26T18:50:41.559+09:00Paul is DeadWell, not really... not yet. But this is a bit of folklore that has interested me for many years -- all the supposed "clues" and the suggestion of conspiracy. I put this little documentary together a few years ago for my <em>F101: Intro to Folklore</em> classes when I taught at Indiana University. The narrator is a guy named Dave Foxx who was a DJ in Washington DC around 1980. I got a hold of his audio and put the pictures to it. About four years ago I was able to track hm down and show this to him. We actually had some discussions about doing something more with this, but nothing ever came of it. It's a little cheesy, but I like it.<br /><br />On a side not, one of Tracey's friends here in Tokyo works for the London-based lawfirm that is representing McCartney in his divorce case. Maybe I'll see if I can work that connection and get him to watch this and comment -- but only if I can be sure I won't get sued for anything.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5F-t8BuGmZ0&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5F-t8BuGmZ0&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Go to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5F-t8BuGmZ0">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5F-t8BuGmZ0</a>Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-34968777128512244082008-03-11T18:06:00.003+09:002008-03-11T18:13:06.037+09:00A Handsome Name...Years and years ago when I was first married, my wife looked at me and very thoughtfully said, "You know, I think that Glenn is a really handsome name."<br /><br />She thought about it for a minute and looked at me again,<br /><br />"You don't really look like a Glenn. You look more like a Dennis."<br /><br />And we're still married.Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3723856203174147067.post-50123518291788983732008-03-11T14:41:00.001+09:002008-03-12T11:44:26.623+09:00Crushing on Kira<em>A place, where nobody dared to go...</em><br /><em></em><br />I'm not ashamed to admit that the movie Xanadu made me cry. Olivia Newton-John with that high ponytale and her roller skates -- I was deeply in love, man. And when she vanished into thin air saying "I will love you forevah" and her lame love dude had to skate head-on into that massive muralled wall to bring her back from that neon yellow Tron place... oh, my poor young heart. What did she see in that Sonny Malone guy anyway? He had all the charisma of a bowl of oatmeal (<em>Tuesday's Wednesday</em> -- you tell him Sonny!), and yet they made him out to be this massive lady-killer. But he had Kira -- the muse -- and he got to dance (or at least violently shake his shoulders out of rhythm) to all that awesome ELO music. It's one of the greatest awful movies of all time. So to my elusive roller-skating muse, Kira -- I dedicate this most recent of my many narcissistic efforts to you.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/i6uChtN8YcU"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/i6uChtN8YcU" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="350"></embed></object>Glenn Ostlundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06503899547460015163noreply@blogger.com2