A Night with TomKat in Denison, Iowa…

On the plane to Omaha, there was another Luka. He worked for a different non-profit in The Lou. Quickly, we found out that not only would we be sharing the flight to Omaha with one another, but would both be spending Wednesday night in Denison, IA. (Which given the size of the state and the size of the town was somewhat of irony in and of itself.) We agreed to meet for dinner after our visits.

A late dinner at a great, Mexican food restaurant with a special on margaritas was followed by wandering the town square looking for bars. For a small town, Denison has a surprising large number of beer-joints in the town square. We selected one based on absolutely no reason at all.

Dimly lit, with a pool table in back and slot machines, J.R.’s probably resembled every other bar we could have gone in that evening. We ordered some beer and instantly fell in love with the place. $1.25 a draft is a steal in The Lou, but the normal price in Denison, not happy hour, but the price every day from seven in the morning until midnight-two on the weekends.

The barkeep was twenty-seven and bragging about her daughter who just turned four. The picture she offered from her in her wallet showed a smiling girl with jet-black hair-a pride and joy. The grandmother was in the bar as well, drinking with a friend. The three of them joked with one another only in the way family can.

Another twenty some lady named A came in and played the slot machines in silence and sucking down coke after coke. Only through the barkeep did we learn A was a bartender at another place, and after blowing ten dollars, A was out the door. The American dream was dead for her another night.

But the person who made the evening was TomKat. (Named this long before Mr. Cruise jumped on any couches.) He wore a denim shirt unbuttoned halfway with a bandana wrapped around his head Karate Kid style. He proudly slurred that he was a garbologist (a garbage man for the laymen) and displayed a broken gold pocket watch he had found just that day in the trash.

He took and instant liking to us and us to him. We bought him drinks and heard his stories from his Navy days. Taiwan, Hong Kong, the Philippians, he had been around the world three times. Girls were one of his favorite subjects. The Philippians was were he had the best time and if we requested he would show us, where the best girls danced in town. He winked that they brought them in from Des Moines. While Lenny Kravitz played over the jukebox, he air guitered his way around A who could have cared less. He even shouted that the barkeep should perhaps show us something. She dismissed him as a horse did a fly and nodded as we asked is she was used to him.

TomKat’s face lit up twice. Once when he proudly showed us his laminated picture of his two sons, he spoke about how proud he was of them both and what great kids they were. The second was when he talked about his lady friend and how she smiled all the time, even when she slept. They were his reasons for being.

We finally left a little after 11:00. The bartender had gone, and the owners replaced her. They didn’t even care that we took one of the signs down as souvenir of the evening. TomKat waved as we left, said how everybody was his friend and would love to have us back anytime.

Saturday Night Turning into Sunday Morning via Old English…

I didn’t drink much on Saturday night. I was responsible. I was the good guy. I was the friend who didn’t let friends drive drunk. I was the designated driver. In fact, two beers over five hours and glass after glass of water (something needed in the hand, ya know) kept me sound as a bell. So by the time, I dropped of F at 3:00 a.m. I was exhausted and lacking the general energy that comes from a night out. That and the fact I drove all over for this party.

F and I arrived at the genius’ place around 9:30. The genius is working on his math PhD at Wash U and was holding a little gathering of other graduate students and the employed who wish they were still in graduate school. C called me after twenty minutes. He was sick, could I come and pick up A who was visiting from Austin and take her to the party.

Why Not?

Into Clayton, back to the Central West End, fight traffic, be the good guy showing C’s gal around while he fights a stomach virus.

The genius knows how to through a party. It was probably more my speed than any other recent gathering I have been at. We are young, educated and still have our futures ahead of us. I spent time talking to high school math teachers, English students, and lawyers. Though there were some disagreements about aspects of certain situations, respect of one another’s opinion prevailed. It’s how cable news shows should be. Instead of yelling and points of who won and who lost all graded via spin, a simple presentation of why you think the way you do would suffice. But I really have more to say about the party and will in other post. I just wanted to get the first out and say, how much I enjoyed myself and what pleasant conversation was had. Nice change.

An Evolving Statement of Career Code…

Last night, for many reasons not needed here, I started working on a statement on the relationship between development (fundraising) and the ministry (program) side of the organization. In every organization, it can have tightrope walk intensity. In great organizations, that pressure serves as a catalyst for action.

Though I had been thinking about this relationship all week, it was a line off the West Wing that started me boiling it down to one sentence. The line was uttered by Josh to someone he was trying to convince to work at the White House. It went something like, “Campaigns are about promises; administrations are about achievement.”

My thoughts started out as.

Development is about promises; ministry is about achievement. Which became:

Development is about promises; ministry programs are about achievement.

Then I spoke with a wise old sage of fundraising who reminded me I was forgetting the most important part the donor. It was not the organization, the staff of programs or anybody but the donor who did the action. The whole organization only functions as the arm for the donors. We do not do anything; they do. Therefore, my creed had to be redesigned.

Development is about finding the donors’ dream; a ministry program is about enabling the donor’s wishes.

Development is about vocalizing the donors’ dreams; ministry programs are about enacting the donors’ love.

Development is about vocalizing donors’ vision; ministry programs are about working towards donors’ wishes.

I am not saying it is done, but it is as far as I have gotten today. As I work, I’ll keep updating. If anyone (I don’t expect anyone to read this), but if ya’ll do and have an idea please e-mail me at npluka@gmail.com.

One Sunny Sunday in Central Austin…

I was enjoying the drink of Red River Café’. Orange juice mixed with Sprite was an assured hangover cure. The body-aches caused by liquor from the previous nights party drifted away. A Swiss grilled cheese stuffed with avocado on wheat bread calmed the queasy stomach.

J and his girl were sipping sodas and taking drags from their cigarettes. We sat, talking a little, mostly admiring the place. Red River Café was the establishment you could take your parents to or recover from a night of partying. It was college-class. The waiters and waitresses still had multiple piercings and the menu was vegan heavy. But the vibe of the place was calm and easy. It subdued everyone and instead of hearing noisy conversation or the constant clatter that is a college town, all that was heard was your friend’s point on Freud, the Longhorns or Bush.

A parent from the middle of conservative U.S.A. would enjoy the place. Instead of reacting against offending sights, the mom or pop would shrug and think, “This is college? It isn’t as bad as I thought. Kinds nice in a way.”

So, J, she and I picked at our food. I read the sports page and sucked the ice from my drink. Nowhere to be anytime soon. Graduation was months away, papers were mostly done and the Yankees looked good on paper. J had a year left, but it would be an easy year. R was lost, but J had moved on to at least lunch with someone else.

No pressure could reach us. No stress tightened us.

These were the days in our teen years desire, youth we appreciate, long for in middle age and remember fondly upon retirement.

Being the Sole Witness the Good People Do on a Daily Basis…

I made a promise to myself a while ago that I would never blog about an individual donor or a visit or a gift. Because the blog is for my own personal edification and I had gained no one’s permission to share his or her stories, I committed myself to keeping what I learn private. But that does not mean I can’t share what I see on a daily basis.

The greatest outpouring of money, goods, homes and prayers, I had ever witnessed was after Hurricane Katrina. After the attacks of 9/11, an equal amount of charity was given. But in New York, the attacks happened so quickly that the majority of the nation could not help in the immediate rescue efforts. At the end of the attacks, the U.S. was once again plunged into a military effort making retaliation a needed part of the response effort.

Katrina did not just hit the Gulf region of the nation and go away. It destroyed homes, businesses and left millions with nothing and hundreds of thousands trapped in the city of New Orleans. Unlike 9/11, days after the storm people still needed first responders. Even now, victims are living with people in cities far from their homes. It was the first time that the entire United States acted as first responders. Goods, supplies and volunteers poured in from every region of the country assisting in ways that normally only the Red Cross and other agencies do.

Nor was there any military target to attack in response. Both sides of the aisle tried to use Katrina as a political pawn. But those who saw only a power gain where quickly groaned off the stage by the American public. Without, the fear of another attack, Americans united for a purely humanitarian mission.

Now, that generosity, selfless giving and sacrifice, I see daily in my job. I visit with people who would be self-described ‘common’. Teachers, farmers, bankers, insurance salesmen and the like all who want to help in whatever way they can. They have the capacity to make the world a better place, and they have the desire to do so.

So, the school supplies in Uganda, ministry radio shows in the US or prison ministry in Ethiopia may never make the news. These donors’ actions may never be lauded the way all of America was for its response to the Hurricane or 9/11. But they are making a difference.

I am never happy to see a crisis or people suffering. But what does bring a smile to my face is the fact that even though the need may never make the news, there are people lending a helping hand. They are quietly and many times without thanks loving their neighbor.

His Life Suddenly Looked Better; Glad, I Could Help….

It is that funky time of year in The Lou. The weather can’t decide if to be the perfect day or too hot with perspiration forming on the way to the car. Even the humidity is fluctuating from unnoticeable to unbearable. People are caught between summer and spring, between sunbathing and a light jacket, between opening the windows and turning on the AC.

It is the first time in three weeks, I will be at home all week, and I am kinda excited. I’ll have my own bed for a while. Plus, I will know all the TV channels and where the good restaurants are.

Yesterday, I went to lunch at the St. Louis Bread Company. Standing in line for my soup and apple, I happened to glance over to the man sitting nearest to the line. He was an older gentleman, as young as seventies maybe even as old as ninety. Confined to a wheelchair, he was eating lunch with his nurse-a man dressed in a track suit with Bluetooth technology in his ear. While the nurse put the trays away, the man took the time to look around. As I was loosing my tie, our eyes meet. He smiled, not at me, but at my action. Here I was a twenty-some guy grabbing a quick lunch, heading back into the office afterwards and expressing my hour-long freedom by loosing the tie. He smiled.

Sure, he might have been old. Sure, he might have a wheelchair. Sure, he might need a nurse more interested in the phone than his wellbeing. But he didn’t have to wear a tie anymore. He didn’t have to go into the office day after day. He was past that. He had the freedom to sit in bakery and watch the young come in hurried and frantic thinking of work more than they should. He could sit, watch and enjoy all the time he had in the day. He had earned it.

Sometimes You Have No Clue How to Help or When…

It was 1:30 a.m. in Portland; 3:30 a.m. in Austin when the phone rang. And I was up, across the room, and to the desk by the second ring. Of course, I wouldn’t have done this if I had known it was 1:30. I thought it must be like six or seven and my secretary was calling me hopefully for business reasons and not just to be cruel. Instead, the caller id displayed “J’.

J is an old college roommate. Like the majority of former college roommates whenever we talk there is a lot of laughs and stories. He and I got along the best of all my college roommates, despite the fact that he and I squabbled with all of our other roommates. With J, I had a great last semester of college filled with booze, women and late night intellectual stimulation. For me, it was a great time in life. Already in graduate school and winding down some easy classes, I had no place to be and time to enjoy it.

J and I were similar that year. Both of us had most of our serious parting behind us. We felt more mature and laughed as the underclassmen made the same mistakes we did at their age. Our lives were on the way up.

So, I graduated and moved away from Austin for more schooling. J had one more year to finish up, and then was to begin his studies to be a pastor. And it all fell a part.

I have no clue what happened in J’s last year. I know he fought with his roommate and after one quick trip to the Seminary decided that it was not for him. But none of those events explain what happen next.

J went to grad school to become a licensed therapist and came out of the closet. Two events that still should not have moved him into what he has become.

Then last time I visited, J was in love and doing minor drugs again. (Neither of which sounded too good. The guy he was dating didn’t sound right to me, and knowing J and his past minor things became huge deals quickly.) Now, J is fucking everything that moves (and has a penis) and is doing enough coke to ski a blue. Our calls have gone from remembering old times to talking about the orgy J was involved in the night before.

I’m watching an old friend waste away. Each time I talk to him, the parting becomes more pronounced and other things become less important.

He called at 3:30 a.m. in Austin and left a voicemail message saying he missed intellectual stimulation and was probably stoned out of his mind rambling odd shit to my voicemail, because he had dialed my name on accident. I miss the old J. I hope to see him again.

You Can Go Home Again, But You May Not Know the Street Names…

Back in the small town that I grew up in, just north of Austin, is always an exciting trip. When I was in high school and driving one-lane country roads were far different from the city highways. College days had Christmases where old friends and family mixed in one relaxing vacation away from studies and parties. Now some of the old friends have dispersed around the nation and the family is beginning to gather for funerals more than celebrations, but it can still be an enjoyable time.

I went home for the weekend for a Godson’s confirmation and visits with old friends and their new wives. The problem with visiting with the friends is that they all have moved out of their parent’s home. (Which in retrospect is a great thing because being married, living with parents and mid-twenties is an embarrassment.) However, I have no clue where they live in the town six miles away from where we grew up. They all had the experience of high school cruising those streets for hours on end as an escape. I just flew into town then, could tell you how to get to the grocery store or Sonic, but nothing else. (The big town next to my small one, is still so small it doesn’t have a movie theater or a mall.) So, as my friends and lovely wives ask me over for drinks and dinner and give me the address, I am completely lost. Their well-intended lank-marks are of little help. (I really don’t know where the new baseball fields are, and my once-a-year trip will probably not offer any illumination.) Being separated from the Internet, I am forced to drive around quasi-lost in an effort to find a relaxing meal and cold beer.

I spent a lot of time driving circles around the old square where the Chinese restaurant remains, but the clothing store is gone and the public park where kids still use the sludge invested waters of the San Gabriel as their winter swimming pool. At first, I was upset that things had changed so much, and that I was lost. But the longer I drove, the more I began to enjoy the town. Though it still held some of the pleasure of being where I grew up, I saw the town in the way locals saw it: with a Starbuck’s, modern little league baseball fields, new highways and renovations of the old courthouse. For my friends who stayed, I started to understand why. Though the place was no longer the one we played tag in, it was still a pretty good place.

Trying My Best to Find My Home Again…

Spent last night getting ready to fly out of St. Louis and into Austin, spend one night with college buddies and then make my way to the small town I grew up in for my Godson’s Confirmation. (No way, am I that old.)

Tonight, will be one of those great evenings with college friends. There will be drinks, laughs, stories and the sad undertone that part of our youth is gone. We are no longer college kids with hopes and dreams, but wage earners with bills and pressure from bosses. This is not to say that we have given up or thrown in the towel, but we now know exactly how hard it will be to implement our ideas and how much work will be required to change the world. (Because, we haven’t given up on making this a better place to live just yet.)

This weekend will be spent in the town I left a small middle-school student. Obligations to family will keep me busy most of the time, but I am planning to sneak out for a few dinners and drinks with friends so old I can’t remember ever meeting them.

While I look forward to seeing the guyz and galz I studied history, puked in bushes and stole golf carts with, I get more sentimental about the small town. In the days leading up to this trip, I found myself many times daydreaming about reading on my back porch, fishing, bar-b-que and cold Corona, long talks with life-long friends, growing old, etc. I wanted to go home again. But I have changed since I left. Unlike, the majority of my friends, I don’t own a truck, enjoy deer hunting and have never voted Republican. Not saying those are bad things (well, the GOP vote maybe) but just things I don’t desire them. As much as I dream about what it would be like to live there again, I know The Lou is really my home.

To Everyone At Their Own Personal Joe Sippers….

Earlier this week, I was working in Effingham, IL. A small eastern Illinois town that looked similar to many of the small towns I grew up around in central Texas. A town square with a hardware store, grocer’s and auto mechanic who all somehow survived the Wal-Mart invasion. There was even a cannon as a monument to Civil War outside the courthouse. (Only, this one was used by the winning side.)

All in all, Effingham was not the type of place that many people would stop at unless it was for the gas and McDonald’s near the highway exit. (Don’t think it’s a complete slam, I grew up in a place like that. I love it, and think its one of the best places to be from. But it ain’t winning any popularity contest.) But there I found one of the coolest coffee shops outside Seattle.

Joe Sipper’s sits down the street from the old courthouse. Just over a year old, the furniture had yet to get the character that comes from knicks, scrapes, stains and paint chips from years of good use. But it was comfortable: solid wooden chairs, heave tables and open space. It was not the over-plushed sofas and hundred dollar folding chairs you get at a place that is trying to be from the set of Friend’s.

Joe Sipper’s has the expected games of Life, Trivial Pursuit and Balderdash; it even had the book shelve with all the right books no one ever read-Crime and Punishment, Ulysses, etc. However, I could tell it was not another cheap wanna-be by the bulletin board. It displayed local events: bands, art shows, high school sports and even church services. Joe Sipper’s was happy to be in Effingham, it’s cool was derived not hiding where it was. Instead of haveing the newest New York anti-folk singer’s CD playing, the radio turned out local classic rock. Instead of having reprints of art from the Met, local artists work on quail and barns hung on the walls.

I told the high school aged Barista and owner behind the bar what a cool place it was and how with all the art shows and bands it seemed like Effingham was a nice place to live.

The Barista disagreed. She wanted to move out and was probably counting the days until she could load up her car and be gone chasing her dreams.

I probably would have been that way if my parent’s hadn’t moved me to The Lou before High School. But as I get older, the more I realize the owner of Joe Sipper’s was onto something. We all have to be from somewhere and Effingham is as good as anywhere else, better than many. So, instead of running away from the small town to the big city, we need to enjoy what we have like the local bands, artists, church services and high school sports.

It’s That Time of Year Again: Hot Dogs and Peanuts...

Yes, today Tom DeLay has decided to leave the US Congress. Yes, Florida-UCLA will decide who is the college basketball champion. But tonight, I am in Effingham, IL and caring more for how the Yankees are killing the A’s.

True, yesterday was the first day of baseball season. But today was the first Yankee game. Though I love The Lou as much as anyone, I am more of a Yankee fan then a Cards. Maybe I’m a Yankee fan, because my Uncle in Manhattan sent me Yankee gear before I could walk, or the fact, their games are on TV a lot. But for me, the Yankees are the class of major league baseball. They are the cup of coffee after a wonderful meal. They are Charlie Rose late at night. They are the shirt staying perfectly pressed all day or the suit that hangs just right. They are simple the best.