WHO IS THE ARTIST?

Sunday morning, early. Small café not far from my hotel.

I spent the day with my son yesterday, wrapping up our time over a fine dinner near a park along the south bank of the Spokane River in downtown Spokane. This morning I woke up around 6, pulled on a pair of khakis, a wine-colored long-sleeve Eddie Bauer T, wrapped a scarf around my neck and slipped quietly out of the hotel to come here to read for a bit. I avoided the hotel restaurant so I could get out and experience Brandon’s college town a little bit. The breeze blowing the colorful autumn leaves across the sidewalks and streets of the city this morning is quite cool, but more bracing than unwelcome. It was a short walk to the café but I took a little detour that sent me down a walkway along the river where I lingered awhile to take it all in. Fall is definitely in the air.

Yesterday Brandon walked me around the campus to show me where he spends most of his time; where his classes are, where he grabs coffee, where he works out. I had forgotten what a beautiful campus it is. As we drove down the tree-lined street toward the center of the campus a group of girls walking alongside the road waved and called out an enthusiastic greeting. I’m pretty sure they were waving at him, not me. Now a senior, he knows a lot of the students and faculty. This is his world. He’s done well putting together a life here. It is a blessing to be the father of such a fine young man.

When I travel I often bring a book along for the flight. I had picked up a book yesterday that has been getting a lot of publicity. The God Delusion. It was written by the influential scientist, Richard Dawkins. He draws on evolution to attempt to disprove the concept of intelligent design and promote atheism. His prose is full of scorn for people of faith. He says it is the scientist in him that makes him hostile to Christianity. I heard Dawkins interviewed the other day. He said he can’t prove absolutely there is no God, but in his mind, he just can’t imagine it. A lifetime of research has left him believing that a God that could create such an astoundingly beautiful, infinite universe would have to be extremely complex, raising questions over how the creator himself came into existence. How could such a God exist? How would such an entity communicate?

**



















Taking in the grassy, forested expanse of the campus yesterday, I found myself again seeing art in the everyday. (Ever see the Banana Republic ad campaign “Find the Art in the Everyday?” Great campaign. Great suggestion.)

On the campus there was this tree, brilliant in its autumn colors, standing in the midst of a forest of evergreens, dropping its leaves. The leaves were falling steadily without pause onto the green lawn. It was like snowfall. At the rate they were falling I could not imagine the tree would make it to day’s end with a single leaf left on a branch. But they just kept falling, raining down, raining down, raining down.

This morning as I walked the sun crested the horizon and the river surface caught the rays as they spread across the scene. The moving water played with the color of the sunrise, carrying it down into an area of rapids where it disappeared into silver as it spilled over and around some boulders. I watched the display, thinking that every moment, every hour, every day, every year, year after year after year, the river is new, ever changing.

The office building where my friend Rick the Scribe does his work is just off a parking lot situated at the base of the foothills of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. He was telling me that usually when he arrives, loaded up with his briefcase and a crate he carries back and forth from his home office, he trudges across the parking lot with his eyes fixed on the pavement, consumed with the task list in his head. But sometimes, every once in awhile, he hears a voice telling him to stop. Stop. Slow down a sec. Turn around and look toward the west at those mountains rising up toward the heavens. Would you just look at that? Is that spectacular or what?

Look for the art in the everyday. Yes. And more than that, look for the artist.


(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

WATER BOTTLES, SHOTGUNS AND AIPORT SECURITY

I’m flying up to Washington to visit my son for a couple days. They stopped me at security because of a bottle of water. I forgot it was in my carryon bag. The early Saturday flight time found DIA a little less crowded than usual so there wasn’t much of a line at security. The security guy pulled the bottle of water out of my bag and looked at me like my name was Osama bin Laden. I told him I was thirsty so he let me drink some of it before he called in the bomb squad. Glad I don’t need my passport for this flight. I could imagine him opening it up and seeing the stamp from Afghanistan.

Good thing I didn’t bring the shotgun.

Remember the shotgun? The Italian semi-auto in the storage room? The one my son asked me to send to him? I haven’t shot it in years and don’t plan on taking up hunting so I had decided to bring it to him this trip because he has a friend who is into sporting clays. The thought of carrying a firearm into the airport in the current climate of fear of terrorism was not one I was particularly looking forward to today. If they unlock their holsters over a bottle of water imagine what they would’ve done if I'd walked in with a shotgun. I’m thinking someone would’ve needed a change of underwear. Probably me.

As it turned out, Brandon had called the airline for me last night to see what the rules for checking a shotgun were and was told one needs a locking, hard-sided gun case. Ours doesn’t lock. So I called a few friends who are hunters and was surprised none of them have locking gun cases. It’s possible the locking case requirement is a new one since Homeland Security has us in “threat condition orange.” (Wonder if I could’ve brought an orange?) Anyway, the lack of a locking case meant I left the gun at home and am sitting here in the concourse waiting to board the flight without any means of protection. If the real Osama suddenly came running toward gate 52A I wouldn’t even have a bottle of water to pour on him.


(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

DEADLINES AND BLIND CURVES

All of us learn to write in the second grade. Most of us go on to greater things.
– Bobby Knight


My friend, Rick the Scribe, has been overwhelmed lately. He has been doing his regular job (magazine editor) and writing a book under completely unreasonable deadline pressure. In the spare moments he can squeeze out he bangs his head against the wall for agreeing to do it. The fact is, there are reasonable deadlines and there are unreasonable deadlines. He was given (I swear this is true) one week to write an entire book. And listen to this… The amazing thing is, he did it. He turned the first draft in on time.

What person in his right mind agrees to write an entire book in that amount of time? My friend, Rick the Scribe.

When he came up for his first breath after the marathon, he called me, cell-to-cell, to let me know he made the deadline and would like me to read the first draft. He felt like it was some of the best writing he’d ever done. Said he’d send over a copy. After a couple of days of not receiving it I called him back and he told me this… “Well, my editor had a look at it and made a few suggestions and now I don’t want you to see it until I have fixed it.” He might not have used the word “fix,” but that was the meaning conveyed.

Editors!

After insisting someone write a book in a week the only thing you should do when said someone finishes that task on time is take him to dinner at the nicest restaurant in town and ply him with food and drink until he no longer wants to kill you. Or, if you are an unpleasant, hard-to-like sort of editor, send him to that restaurant with people he really likes, and then go home and eat leftovers.

Cold leftovers.

I remember hearing a writer say that it is always a mistake to enclose with your manuscript a stamped, self-addressed envelope, big enough for the manuscript to come back in. It’s too much of a temptation to an editor.

Rick was then given (are you sitting down?) one week to do the re-write. The amazing thing is, he did that, too. Sent it off to the editor. I haven’t had the nerve to call him to see how it went. He doesn’t have time to answer the phone anyway.

What’s that old saying? There is never enough time, unless you’re serving it.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, in his book “Letters and Papers From Prison” wrote about seeing scrawled upon the wall of his prison cell (no doubt by the former occupant) the words, “In 100 years this will all be over.”

Or in one week if you’re on deadline.

Now that I’m thinking about it… When it comes to life, we’re all on deadline. And we don’t get to know the date. Not the hour, not the day, not even the year. Oh, it’s out there, down that road somewhere. Will it be around this blind curve, or the long straightaway, or just over that next hill? (As it is written, no one but the Father knows about "that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven.") Sometimes we feel we’ll never get there. Other times we’re aware we're rushing toward it like a speeder toward a cop with a radar gun. Gotcha!



Might cause you to wonder if you’re focused on the right thing.

And what’s the editor going to say?





(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

A GLIMPSE INTO THE HEART OF A FATHER

I’m sitting in a café with Lucy this morning. This is our Saturday morning routine. She brings her book bag. (On any given day she’s reading several books so she needs the bag to haul around her choices. I just asked her what else she keeps in there. She says there are note cards, some articles she has printed off the internet, recipes and a few other odds and ends.) I bring my briefcase containing my Mac, a couple of small notebooks and a sheaf of papers filled with notes from my August travels. I’m still going through those notes. I have trouble reading my own handwriting so I sometimes have to ask Lucy to help me decipher what I’ve written. My penmanship was especially awful during the trek through Afghanistan and Albania. I blame the lack of sleep, bumpy roads, and turbulence at 28,000 ft.

I’m reading through notes I took from conversations I had with people I met along the way. This morning I’m trying to decipher some cryptic entries made during various meetings with missionaries, political officials, the Albanian Defense Minister and an old man I met along a rural highway near Pogradec.


There are notes about a blood fued in Shkoder, an attack on a radio station transmitter site near the Bosnian border, a rat infested slum where I was served Turkish-style coffee by a kind gypsy woman...


...and a taxi ride through Dubai at 135 KPH. There is an entry reminding myself to research and write about something called the AEP, the Albanian Encouragement Project, and another note to write about trying to press the wrinkles out of a very dirty shirt I had to wear during a meeting at the Albanian Defense Ministry.


This after my week in Afghanistan. Everything in my bag was filthy by the time I got to Tirana. (By the way, I did a pretty good job getting the wrinkles out of the shirt but was a sad fashion statement as I shook the hand of the Defense Minister a short time later.)

Small world story. The Defense Minister actually knows a few people with whom I’m acquainted in the United States. He was invited last year to attend the Washington Prayer Breakfast, the annual event in DC where the president speaks. Various international dignitaries were invited and he was one of them. He calls friends several people that I know in Denver. He also has a son who has been quite ill and he has traveled as far as Dallas looking for treatment options for the boy.

Listening to him talk about searching for help for his son in hospitals in Europe and the U.S. I thought, we are not that different he and I. How far would I go to help my son? How obsessed would I be with getting good treatment? He may command a nation’s military forces while I make my living talking on the radio 5 mornings a week but a father is a father. A father loves his children. To have a nation’s armed forces at your command and yet still be desperate; to have all sorts of worldly power yet be helpless to cure your own child...

When I was 13 my older sister was injured in a terrible accident. She spent the next few months in a hospital, doctors fighting to save her life. I remember her crying out in unbearable pain day after day. My parents would ask us to wait down the hall when things were particularly bad. One of the most poignant memories from that time, though, is not of my sister in the intensive care unit, it is of my father pacing the halls outside her room. Occasionally, lost in the reality of his helplessness, he would wander into the waiting room where my brother and I would be sitting, reading or staring out the window as the hours and days and eventually the entire summer slowly passed. He would walk over to the far side of the room trying to find a place where he was alone and unobserved, and he would, for just a moment, be unable to hold it in. He was a strong man. Sometimes scary strong. The sight of tears streaming down the face of the strongest man I knew was something I was not prepared to see. I remember one such time walking over to him and taking hold of his hand. He gripped my hand so hard I thought it would break. It was the desperateness of the grasp that I have never forgotten.

It has been said it is not flesh and blood but the heart that makes us fathers. I was glimpsing the heart of the father in a man of flesh and blood.

(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

CRUNCHY STREETS AND RADIO OMISSIONS

It is just before six o’clock Wednesday morning, the coffee shop is bustling. It snowed here in Colorado most of the day yesterday but the weather must have cleared sometime in the night. Though dark, I can see bright stars in a very cold sky this morning. The streets are crunchy icy and very slick. I wanted to make sure Lucy’s car (that would be the Jeep this morning) had a full tank of gas so she wouldn’t have to stop in the cold to fill it herself today so I rolled out of bed to an earlier alarm than usual and popped over to the Shell station and then decided to grab a few minutes in the coffee shop community before going back home to my studio and the radio show.

It is rare I get up early enough to do anything before the radio show but the gas tank was on my mind so I set the alarm early. Plus, I love driving in fresh-fallen snow. I’m weird that way. In other ways, too, as it turns out.

The Starbucks community at 6 a.m. is a special group. Weekday mornings they are scrubbed and clean and dressed for the workday, but still in need of a java jolt. Contrast that with Sunday morning early. My Sunday routine has me stopping early at a coffee shop near my church to read the Sunday Times (it has a great book review section) and relax a bit on my own, especially on mornings when I’ll be speaking to the congregation. I love the alone time to collect my thoughts. I also love to people watch. On Sundays people drag themselves into the shop disheveled, hair sticking up, old sweat pants on and t-shirts wrinkled as if they slept in them. They have no idea how goofy they look and they don’t care. There will be the occasional person heading early to church, like me, and they’ll be cleaned up. The rest of the crowd, though, arrives unconsciously unkempt, comfortable, with nowhere in particular to be and no thought of appearance distracting their minds.

**

It is a bit odd, driving through a fresh snowfall in Colorado to a coffee shop to have a pre-dawn cup before going into my studio to do the radio show which broadcasts in southern Arizona, where there is no snow, no crunchy icy streets. Stranger still is, I won’t even mention my early morning experience here. I talk about just about everything on the show except being in Colorado. The geography of my life is not particularly important to the lives of the listeners. So every morning when I sit down in front of the microphone, I do a subconscious mental shift that puts me in, not my own studio, but the studio in Tucson with the rest of the morning show crew. This is rarely a difficult exercise. I know Tucson as well as I know any other place. On the show, I’m there no matter where I am.

The only time that odd arrangement seems odd is on a morning like this.


(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

THE ART OF COMMUNICATION

I left my home office midday today to get out and enjoy the fall weather for a couple of hours, then landed here at one of my favorite coffee shops; a favorite because it is attached to a bookstore where I can surround myself with bookshelves and allow myself a little “lost in thought” time in an environment that truly agrees with me. So much for being outside enjoying the weather. Then I realized I left the house without a pair of reading glasses. Rule number 1, never take the travel pair out of the computer bag. This is why I paid for multiple pairs of glasses, so I could leave them all at home and find myself half blind in a bookstore. After about twenty minutes of wandering among the books, squinting like a man looking into the sun as I tried to make out titles, I decided reading could wait till later and I would instead sit down and write today’s musings, though don’t hold me responsible for any typos.

Got an email from a friend the other evening about possibly helping start a small fellowship group. The thought is to gather together three or four couples every week to eat a meal, have fun, encourage one another in our marriages and our lives, and consider ways to improve communication skills with one another. I don’t know if we have time to be in the group, but I like the idea. We have been talking with some other friends about another small group that would meet just twice a month. Easier to think about working that into the schedule. One fellow wrote out a thoughtful description of the goals of the group and emailed it to me. I read through it and, in the spirit of being communicative, forwarded it on to my wife’s email address. I was in my home office/studio, where I generally work. She was upstairs in the den where she has her computer.

The next day I shared this with my friend, Dave, and he expressed amusement that I emailed Lucy rather than walk to the other part of the house where she was sitting and talk to her about the idea. I email her at least once almost every day. Sometimes, since I work on a portable Mac, I will go into her den while she is working on her computer and I’ll sit in the old leather chair in the corner next to the window seat (the chair that was my father’s 30 years ago and that I probably should think about having reupholstered one of these days but can’t bear to think of it looking any different than it looked when dad sat in it) with my Mac on my lap and I will catch up on my email as she catches up on her email. We do this often. She will send mail to me and I will send mail to her. We’re sitting only 7 feet from one another. Clicking “send” is so convenient. If I actually speak I might break her concentration. So instead, I send her email that travels from my computer, over the wireless system in the house, out into cyberspace across the Internet and perhaps around the world before, just seconds later, it finds its way back through the ether to her computer in our home at the end of the long driveway at the bottom of the cul de sac where, 7 feet from one another, we peck the keys on our keyboards, in close physical proximity but quiet as a couple of church mice. There are advantages to this. If anyone ever asks if we are working to keep the lines of communication open, we not only can say yes, but we have a written record of it.

And lately, there is this blog as well. My wife reads it a couple times per week and finds out all sorts of things about what I’ve been doing.

Isn’t that right, Lucy?


(To email Brad click on his picture above right and click Email)

-

CALLS FROM MY SON AND AN UNDERWEAR SCARE

I am not one of those people who, when the phone rings, will knock over furniture to get to it before it switches over to voicemail. I will admit to occasionally checking the Caller ID to see who is calling before deciding whether to pick up. If the display says something like, Market Research Inc., they get the voicemail. If its an 800 number…voicemail. If it says, IRS… Actually, if it says IRS I answer it in a disguised voice and tell them I’ve never heard of Brad Behan but that I am sure he must have moved away to Kyrgyzstan and changed his name to Mikhail or Boris or Vladimir so they should just give up trying to reach him.

On the other hand, I do my best to never miss a call from my son. Brandon is into his senior year in college and I feel blessed every time he calls me to talk. And for some reason he’s been calling me quite often lately. I love that. He doesn’t even need any money. I love that even more. And he wants me to come visit him. I love that the most.

You have to understand, he’s been away three years now and is pretty well adjusted to being on his own. I suppose as a parent one should feel good when a child successfully makes the transition to being out in the world on his own. Our job, after all, is to bring them up in a way they can handle the adjustment and succeed without us. But my son has always been exceptionally adept at managing himself “out there.” Even though he is 21 years old now being a dad allows me to remember as if it were just yesterday the time I walked him to his first day at elementary school. While most of the other parents were taking their kids all the way into the classroom to drop them off – the kids crying at the thought of separation, hanging onto mom or dad like a lobbyist clutching a congressman – my 6-year-old son stopped halfway across the schoolyard. It had only been a short walk from our home to the school and he was already quite familiar with the playground since we had made a habit of going there often to slide down the slide and climb on the jungle gym. The outside of the school was familiar territory. But inside? I felt like we were crossing an ocean and I was about to leave him on some distant shore. Anyway, as we approached the school he stopped suddenly, looked up at me, pulled his hand free from mine and said, “Okay daddy, I know how to get there from here. You don’t need to come inside.”

At that moment, part of me died. It was a place previously unknown to me, hidden deep down inside. Even in that instant I knew the feeling was part of parenthood, that there would be more moments like it in the years to come.

By the time he graduated high school he had been to many far away lands, several without me along with him, and had already shown he was one of those kids who could get on a plane to anywhere and adjust within a couple days. He’d worked at a leadership camp in the mountains one summer. He’d taken mission trips to Mexico. He’d been to Trinidad and Tobago. Each time on departure day he’d given me a hug, said he’d call when he got there, and took off on his own with no evident fear or sense of doubt.

I remember taking him to college his freshman year, and watching him squirm with some degree of embarrassment as I insisted on helping carrying his stuff into the dorm. Other dads were doing the same thing with their kids. There was nothing weird about it but he was ready to be on his own. After a few arguments during the move-in, I pretty much stayed outside in the parking lot with his mom and waited to be needed. The odds were better that he would have come out and asked for his childhood teddy bear than ask for any help. From me anyway. He did come get Lucy once or twice to ask her opinion on things like bedding and the such. A little while later, after an awkward hug between the two of us (when had a hug become awkward?) I left him there and we started the long drive home, Lucy crying openly most of the way and me more broken than I’d ever felt in my life. I moped around our home for weeks after that nearly unable to function. He connected on campus in record time. It was amazing. It took me months to brave even going into his room for fear I’d lose it completely and they’d send the men with the straight-jacket to take me away.

Two years later he spent a semester overseas. He had a couple days where he was homesick and called a bunch, then he adjusted to the new surroundings and never looked back.

Now he’s a senior and calls me almost every day. I think he even misses me. It only took three years.

Here at home his cousin my nephew has moved in and the place isn’t so quiet anymore. And there is something comfortingly reminiscent of the years with Brandon at home when I find a slice of pizza on the couch or an apple core on the carpet near the bench press in the exercise room.

The other day I found something in my underwear drawer that didn’t belong in there. I don't want to go into it here, but if you want the gory details, may I suggest you…

…click here for the unsettling details.

A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE ON $3.07

My problem lies in reconciling my gross habits
with my net income. – Errol Flynn


We were invited to a fund-raising dinner for a charitable organization last night. As I was getting ready for the evening late yesterday, slathering shaving cream onto my face (thought about shaving the beard I grew during the mission trip – decided against it and rinsed the shaving cream off), I was thinking that after three years of my son being in private college, I could not really afford to be much help to the fund-raising effort. Hey, one of Brandon’s textbooks this year cost $100. Cost of all his books this semester: over $400. And then there’s food and housing and clothing and, oh yes, tuition. I’d write the total figure down here but I can’t bear to see it in print.

So I finished at the sink, pulled on a dress shirt and suit pants, started picking through the dozens of ties I own, trying to decide which would look best, and continued my self-obsession. I have, at times, joked that when it comes to financial matters, I have all the money I need to last the rest of my life… unless I buy something.

If you can count your money, you don’t have a billion dollars. – J. Paul Getty

John D. Rockefeller was once asked, how much money is enough? His answer? A dollar more than you have. So the rich are different. They’re funnier. Only thing is, I don’t think he was joking. I have heard it said, make money your god and it will plague you like the devil.

This morning on the radio show I was talking about the couple from Iowa who won a $200 million Powerball jackpot. Lottery officials said the odds of winning were 140 million-to-one. They beat the odds. She works at Wal-Mart. He is a car detailer. I write that in the present tense but feel those may already be past tense details. I have got to believe if you wake up with $200 million suddenly in your checking account you’re probably not thinking about spending your day wearing a plastic name tag and greeting people at Wal-Mart. "Hi, my name is Carla. I just came into work today so I could tell you I'm rich and don't have to shop here anymore, let alone work here. I have to go now. I hear the Neiman-Marcus Christmas catalogue is out and I want to order early." Her husband, on the other hand, may continue to detail his own car. Some guys love doing that. Or, he could just buy a new one every time it gets dirty.

Haven’t heard what they plan to do with the money. I always wonder, when I read about someone winning a ton of money. That’s always the first question reporters ask. So, how you gonna spend it? It would be easy to judge them for how they decide to spend their cash. After all, they’ve got so much. Not like the average Joe. Not like you or me.

Hmm. Right.

Back to the dozens of ties in my closet and the choice of suits. Not to mention what I spend at Starbucks every week. Come on Brad, lighten up. Your average latte only costs $3.07 plus tip.

Yes, that’s true. And half of the world, nearly 3 billion people, live on less than two dollars per day. 1.3 billion have no access to clean water. I learned last night that the majority of childhood illness around the world is a direct result of unsanitary water.

In the time it will take me to write the words in this blog post hundreds of people will die of starvation. Imagine that. Hundreds more will die by the time I go into my kitchen, make a sandwich and eat it.

Bono, the front man for the Irish band U2, said in a speech recently, “where you live should not determine whether you live or die.

But in this world, it does. This fallen, broken, troubled world.

Why am I so blessed? That is not a rhetorical question. I ask sincerely.

The dinner for World Vision last night was great and the speaker even better. He is a successful businessman who has in recent years had his life changed by a trip to Africa. He witnessed unbelievable poverty, saw people die before his very eyes.
He saw more orphans and widows than he could count. He saw that, despite what the numbers may portray from thousands of miles away, people don’t die en mass. The death toll is not just a statistic. Each one that dies is an individual, just like you and me. Each death leaves devastated loved ones asking why.

His friends have asked him why one needs to go to Africa to help people? Isn’t there work to be done here? He said, yes, clearly there is plenty of work to do here in our own country. You don’t need to go anywhere. But, personally, he said he will be forever indebted to Africa, that Africa awakened him when he didn’t even know he was asleep. It allowed God to give him his own personal passageway to meaning and purpose. And he prayed that everyone who seeks one will find a similar path, that each will find his or her own Africa.

Back in the 1950s, having had his eyes opened to Third World struggle, another man prayed that his heart would be broken by the things that break God’s heart. That man went on to start World Vision, an organization dedicated to helping children and their communities reach their full potential by tackling the causes of poverty.

I remember praying before leaving on a mission trip this past August that my eyes would be open to see, and my heart willing to embrace, the things God had in mind to show me. While in Afghanistan, seeing things first hand I had never seen before and considering the varied forces working against peace and stability for the people there, it was hard not to feel a sense of hopelessness.

But I am only human, and while my vision is limited I know that hopelessness is not a characteristic of the heart of God.


(Click here for information on World Vision)

FLIPPING THE CALENDAR PAGE

A New Month

Calendars are for careful people, not passionate ones. - Anonymous

On my way to church this morning I stopped at Starbucks and it happened again.

I paid for my double-short, extra hot, double-cup, breve latte with a twenty dollar bill and got, as part of my change, a crumpled, faded, ripped, plague-infested ten dollar bill. The thing was just gross. It was not only crumpled, faded ripped and plague-infested, it was kinda wet. Definitely damp.

Who is passing these bills?

**

I found out I am a Blogger. I didn’t know. I was reading an article in Forbes magazine last night. It quoted a person it referred to as an “entrepreneur and blogger.” So this blog writing thing actually comes with a title. I didn’t realize we were that far along. If Forbes ever decides to write a story quoting me, I would probably be referred to as “broadcaster and blogger, Brad Behan.”

Next week when we start the Podcast I suppose I will also be a “Podcaster.” And while we’re labeling, I should mention that I am also a jogger. So if you’re going to be accurate, I am a “Jogger, Blogger, Broadcaster, Podcaster. I’ll need a longer business card.