Christmas at the Dahlins and Who stole baby Jesus?

I'm the baby in this picture... 

Erick and Mary 

Kurt  and Mom with Mary and Erick

Kurt and Karl 

Mary and (baby sister) Karin 

See! We really were adorable...at one time.  But all of that had changed.

Last time,  we left off with my brothers who had ambushed me and left me hanging by an ankle from the rope that was tied off to the top corbel of the highest most point of our roof. They plugged in the Christmas lights and quietly sneaked back to the hippy hut out back and left me dangling as night fell and people from all over Venice, Mar Vista, Culver City, and Santa Monica came to marvel at this years best Christmas light display!

Eventually, after swinging myself back and forth like a bazillion times, I gained enough momentum to thrust my body to grab the rope that was tied to my leg. Hand over hand, I used my Troop 32, Boy Scout, rope-climbing skills to make my way to the top of  the roof where I was able to catch my breath, untie the rope and also finish the job of pulling up the lights. When I got to the top, I had assumed the crowds that had gathered in the street watching my heroic performance would have applauded the intrepid accomplishment of a 13-year-old, instead they hissed and boo'd that the show was over and quickly dispersed.

Lazarus, the cat, was particularly grumpy that I had not fallen. She had waited the entire time to see if I would have landed on my feet - had the old, worn, rope broke. It was now just the two of us - me and the stupid cat. Standing on the peak of the roof, I stuck out my tongue taunting the scaly thing and shouted "there!" as if I had won and also to formally dismiss the disgusting creature that lingered - still hoping I would have fallen to my death.

By now, since I had survived all various episodes of being buried in "pits," the "arrows," the "monkeys," the "hamper of death," the "veloci-rooster," the "electrocutions," the "jalapenos," the "templates," the "alligator," the snake" and "Salton sea" I had proven to the proud cat that I indeed had more than nine lives (I WAS WINNING).  I grinned like the Cheshire Cat as Lazarus who raised it's head like a stuffy British Nobel - turned it's back on me and walked into the house.

Anyway, I had proven that I had a high threshold for pain and was pretty much unbreakable... and figured out the "Someone up there must be looking down on me."  

I went in by the manger scene we had on top of the piano in the entry and stole baby Jesus. The mynah-bird cussed as usual, and since no one was around and I was in no mood to tolerate the foul language - I slapped the cage and headed upstairs with Jesus. I had intended to have a conversation with the Baby.

We had eventually found poochie, our dog, that had been trapped in one of the cars in our fleet of non-operational piles of junk that we had pushed to the Thursday side of the street (for street cleaning) and had been trapped in there all week long.   Poochie, like me was strong. She a survivor. I think that's why we got along so well together.

Poochie.   Me.   And an antique, plaster-cast of baby Jesus.
                         The three of us were going to have a serious Christmas talk!

I barricaded myself in my room to prevent any kind of sneak attack by the notorious herbal-smoking "Wolf-Pack" and/or Ulrich and his angry little-man-crew, so I could have this serious Christmas chat without too much interruption.

I stared at the baby Jesus for a long time and then realized that if God did come down to earth - there were a whole lot better ways to do it.   But, He didn't consult me on it.  Chariots of fire.  Machine guns.  As Superman.  In a spaceship with laser beams or on fire with one foot setting down on one continent and one foot on another.

Take control. Show everyone who is the boss.

That's the way I would have written the story.  A Baby!  In a manger (an animal eating trough)? Pshaw...No way.

In a barn? Who wrote this story - God probably should have talked to me about it.

Stinky smelly animals.

Hay.
 
I don't think it was the plaster Jesus who had spoken to me, but this thought suddenly occurred to me... "vulnerability."

Like a mother and a new born child... I figured that it was only by this extreme act of ultimate vulnerability could humans be invited into this level of intimacy with the Creator of the universe.

If God came to this planet like a powerful super hero and exercised his authority all over the place as if to Lord over - who could draw close to him(or want to).  He came in vulnerable and he went out the same way. He took all of that power and surrendered it... humbling himself to die in such a disgraceful fashion on the the cross.

Hum...I looked at baby Jesus in new light and realized that he could totally identify with me... he chose to be vulnerable... he chose to be arrested... falsely accused... he chose to be the object of racism to the scorn of the proud Romans.. he chose to be mistreated... beat and crucified... This Baby came and lived in a way - not as the crazy king Herod... or Caesar Augustus... but as a human just like you and me.  

I figured this way he came and lived in a way to identity with me so that he could feel what I felt every time I was  mistreated so that I could identify with him... It was Brilliant actually...what better way to draw us into intimacy with the majestic power of the Universe.  The voice in my head said there was no better way. I smiled at baby Jesus and was glad that he didn't consult me in regards to his grand entrance into this world. Boy, would I have messed it up.

I tenderly tucked the painted, plaster-cast of baby Jesus on my pillow next to my head pondering the troubled condition of the world...floating off to sleep in deep thought...wondering if intimacy with God was something to be grasped... yet yearning for it...

...when I heard someone downstairs screaming,

"Hey, who stole baby Jesus!"  followed by the pounding of furious footsteps as an angry mob ascending the stairs - marching towards my room.

  God Jul ... Merry Christmas!  

The Last Supper only with Jalapenos

I apologize that it has been about a million years since I have had a minute to sit down and write another post. It is just after Mother's Day, but I strongly urge that none of you moms read this latest post!

This was one of those very horrible pranks that was much more than just a practical joke. Instead, it was  more like something Jack Bauer would do on the TV show 24 to interrogate a terrorist. (I was reminded of this story by someone who had told me his firsthand eyewitness account, when I was last down in Southern California).

The only thing I can't be sure of is the exact date. I can get close, however, by the diligent investigative historical analysis of source criticism (I will pick the year 1963: 1. Because our pool had to be up and operational i.e before the alligator, before Veloci-rooster 2. It was during a period that the back patio was clean 3. The pool also must have been clean and not a greenish-mosquito breeding swamp - 4. It had to be after the time this person began hanging around, if he was an eyewitness... I'm feeling like a New Testament scholar or something like that).

Anyway, my parents were were throwing a big bash in the backyard that had been decorated in a Hawaiian theme for the neighbors (that's why it had to be before the crazy Veloci-Raptor-attack rooster). I remember the decorations of fishing nets, cork buoys and palm trees. Sorry for borrowing from the Queen's English, but it was a "hoity-toity" affair and us young kids were not allowed. They had a record player and an open bar and I spied on the event from a clandestine spot from my mother's bedroom window, which had the perfect view.

I know what a lot of you are thinking already, "Don't tell me that a member of the notorious Wolf Pack threw you out of the window?" NO!  It was worst than that - at least to an seven-year-old kid, it was!

This was the end of a bad year...our Catholic President had been assassinated - the Vietnam war was escalating and  Frank Sinatra Jr had just been kidnapped up by Lake Tahoe somewhere. The whole world was mad - maybe that explains this whole incident - maybe this wasn't my brother's fault - maybe something was just wrong with the world. Or maybe a couple of the older boys were mad that they couldn't come downstairs to the party and somehow figured they'd get back at my parents or perhaps it was that they could still be the center of attention, though locked far away in the proverbial "tower."

I was minding my own business, as I spied on my parent's party below, when I was jumped on and attacked by a couple brothers. I fought back, but couldn't take all three of them. Marvel comics had just come out with this new super hero person called Iron Man, and boy, do I wish I was made of steel, so I had a chance of fighting back and so that that my human exterior could have withstood their devious plot. But I wasn't, and my outside was made of skin instead like any regular 'O person and I couldn't fight them off.

Let's just put it this way - what happened next - ended the party when everyone... not just everyone at the party, but everyone in the entire neighborhood heard the painful and blood curdling screeching as though they had heard the death cry of 7-year-old succumbing to advanced interrogation at Quantanamo!

Helppppp!


 I'll finish this one tomorrow - but mommas, be warned and do not let the tender ears of your children hear this story or you just might risk the fact that they might be scarred for life...      

"Judas, do what you must do quickly"