Clouds:Sweat if Sky:Shirt
There forming around on my torso was Jabba the Hut. He was on the move as two X-wing fighters were barreling toward him.

Best of, in the year of the Dave
The year of the Dave got off to a slow start, but finished with flair. Here's some best of from the year (and a secret hope that the year of the Dave can be extended).
Best book Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
Best wedding My sister's.
Best date/near date I'm mormon. I don't drink
Best impression Reuben as Napoleon Dynamite
Best life-altering experience running a marathon
Best album Eveningland
Best concert Hem
Best trip Grand Canyon
Best restaurant Mandalay Bay --Burmese
Best advice Ignore unsolicited advice
Best new pants Dockers Khaki
Best TV to DVD obsession In a close battle, I'm going with Sports Night
Best holiday I didn't celebrate NO PANTS DAY! (May 6, 2005)
Best holiday I did celebrate Turkey & Red Hot Jell-o Christmas
Best drink Not the "4th of July"
Best moving moment "Box Springs in the Sky"
Best show O
Best letter A
Best multi-purpose phrase teeny-tiny puppies
Best ability to end a list before it annoys me Someone else

Those mm's should have the doppler effect when you read 'em
I thought about jumping into some stranger's arms after I had deplaned. I mean, golly, it's been almost twelve hours since I wasn't excited to see someone. I decided against it, choosing instead to rub up against some strangers in the Metro. I'm kidding. I had too much luggage to be able to rub up against anyone with any hope of satisfaction. Ah Public Transportation, I missed you, pookie, yes I did; YES I DID... mm.mmm.mm..mmm...

Fortunately I don't have to go cold turkey on the human contact, er at least the contact, because I have returned to a mountain of holiday greetings; I just received a wonderful email from an old roommate. And now! And now, I'm going to head to the living room, carefully stepping over the gigantic post-Christmas mess I have created and say hello to my dear friend Jennifer. I've got two Alias episodes waiting to welcome me home. mm.mmm.mm.mmm.mm.mmmmmmmmm...

Giggles for Christmas
She loved cats.
While she loved bees.
She loved make-up.
Or so it seems.
As the paper fell from the gifts
peals of laughter, followed shouts
of glee.
The love of friendship
swirled through the room
lighting cheeks in ways
semi-mimosas never could.
Teeth shone brightly
smiles and knowing looks
danced amongst four friends.
Strange men watched silently.
He didn't smile. His focus on the big screen.
I couldn't help it. I was a fly on the couch
petting the dog
While the joy of the season
filled me in ways
cocktail weiners never could.

of on-screen crushes
I'd be happy to watch her read a book or speak to a bank teller, so I was certain to enjoy Princess of Thieves starring Keira Knightley. It was an awful Disney movie. I think the swords were made of tin-foil-covered cardboard. She smiled. She spoke. I think the swords were made of the finest metal and formed by the finest smiths. It was bad. She is not.

of college chums
I realize it is not all a blog-related phenomena, but I have to give some credit to the ease with which I fell back in with the friends I've already seen. It's like I went out to DUD to use up some points one night and when I got back everyone had nice looking apartments and real jobs. They'd grown up, but by some miracle not away.

of rollers
I wonder if trapeeze artists train on rollers. It's been a long time since riding a bike and being six inches off the ground have scared me so much. It's like an exercise bike only it requires so much more focus. It's like riding a bike, only without all of that pesky travel. I only fell off three times. 'Look ma, no hands' was not happening.

Here I come
Kansas City, strip steak-
Midwest cattle fed with Midwest grain
Welcome to the Heartland
Yum.
Everything is so far apart.
So suburban,
not less than,
well except in size and number.
Ann Taylor Loft
more prevalent than God
if you believe that sort of thing.
The shrine to me
is in boxes.
I'm out. Blue's in.
And I don't mind.

Patience is my TiVo
Why fight commercials now, when the DVD-makers will do it all for you later? Anything worth watching is going to show up in a pretty little box if you just wait. Then again, if you (the royal you, the American TV viewing public you) weren't watching now, I suppose I couldn't watch 2 years later. So thanks.

The Thesis statement
Thinking and a Meghan Daum book have transported me to the conclusion that I'm lacking thesises? thesi? thesis statements. Thesis statements were all the rage in grades 5-12. I remember writing down a thesis statement on a notecard and turning that into the teacher. After she had revised it and it no longer contained any words that my thesis had included except for the articles, I could begin research. The theory behind the thesis statment is not unlike the theory behind nuclear power. Oh, it'll go all right, but without direction, who knows where it'll go and who knows what three-eyed beast we'll end up with.

Thesis statements are writing's Zoloft. Words will be off in a corner, all anti-social and lost in their own thoughts, struggling with meaning and then thesis statements will swoop in and suddenly the words get it together. They start communicating again. They're socializing. They're getting on with other words. They form sentences and then complete thoughts and suddenly they're the life of the party. At least until the agitation, constipation, and/or decreased libido kicks in. In that case, it's time to turn to writing's Viagra, the outline, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

The thesis statement has been missing from my writing for too long. (Sounds like a thesis statement, yes?) With no teachers around for revision, this will have to be satisfactory. Satisfactory is an interesting word. It's one part Satis and one part factory. What is a satis? And why does it need a factory? Could I use the factory at night to produce thesis statements? It's possible, but not necessarily supportive of my thesis statement. And if I remember college english which I took in high school, support of the thesis statement is the next step.

What am I trying to say here? I think that's the point and also pointed, like a knife. Only not one of those with a serrated edge, one of the pointy ones.

Which leads me to the conclusion that I may need thesis statements in my writing. Where was that factory?

SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY- It's blog-riffic!
or One and one half hours?!
I hit up party #3 just now. That's the third party in as many days. This was a neighborhood party and I was invited to crash by my estimated 80-something delightful neighbor, Yelpa. I had done the RSVP bit saying, "I wasn't invited, but Yelpa told me to RSVP. If this is entirely inappropriate, please let me know." The hosts didn't call back, and so tonight I planned to walk next door to pick up my neighbor and stroll to the party.

After an exciting finish to The Cutting Edge, I hopped in the shower to get cleaned up. (It was a day's worth of dirt rather than the drama of the classic '92 film.) As I hopped out, I heard Yelpa's distinctive voice in my living room. Thankfully, I had packed pants and a shirt on this trip to the shower. I waved hello as I headed to my room. After a quick change into clean clothes I emerged ready to head to the neighborhood party. Yelpa introduced herself to me and I shook her hand and said, "I'm David. You know me." I'm still not sure what that was about.

We walked a block and entered a house full of the neighborhood. There were a number of faces I've seen behind rakes or at the store, and a number of faces I'd never seen before. Yelpa bounced around the room greeting everyone by name and then saying, "This is my date."
I got some funny looks, but everyone was very polite. I made small talk, which as I'm inept at small talk often involves me trying desperately to not come off like an awkward psycho. This is usually accomplished with a slight lean in, an awkward smile and the occassional head nod. Maybe accomplished isn't the right word...

After the 900th time explaining where the carriage house was, and what a carriage house was or that we had met at the block party some time ago, I was starting to wear out. I'd mingled quite a bit by my standards. I probably met 15 people and held semi-awkward conversations with 6 or so. Quite successful. Except for when I almost made an old man cry. Yep, I'm a smooth talker all right. He didn't cry. He didn't look to be the type to cry, but I'm pretty sure I saw tears in his eyes. Maybe asking him how he spent his time these days wasn't the best ice breaker. I apologized profusely and he waved it off. I think he was happy to have the attention, but I felt bad. As parents started to pack up children to shuttle them off to bed, I started to look at the wristwatch in my mind.

Yelpa offered that we could leave anytime. I told her that the kids were leaving, so we should leave. She agreed. I walked her home, that is to say one driveway past my home, and then headed in to my cute little carriage house all full of holiday cheer. (The feeling, not the drink). As I entered Reuben looked at me shocked. It was as if I'd caught him eating cookies past his bedtime. Then I saw the clock. It read 7:32. I'd been gone less than 2 hours. I swear it had felt like 3 hours or at least 2 and a half. It was only one and half hours. "ONE AND A HALF HOURS!" I howled. No wonder Reuben looked shocked.

Now I'm feeling self-conscious
And when I feel self-conscious I like to get what I like to call, ironical, and possibly, if you're lucky stand-offish. If you're not lucky, I understand a shift in your thinking might take care of that.

Am I really going to turn this into a vehicle to comment on my own blogging personality? Isn't that a bit too self-aware? Isn't that a bit too annoying? That's right, I'm doing it again. What are you going to do about it?
I think I'll try and distract you before you can slug me.

Here I wrote this poem for you in sixty seconds based on the word "quick". Oneword.com, still cool after all this time.

Jack you so nimble
why don't you jump it
Come on jack
everybody doing it man
the fire burning
and I'm churning
come on jackie boy
be fast dawg
be smoove
be all kung fu, hi-ya
in your face
be jack man
be jack
be quick
Jack b quick!

I chickened out
I thought last night's post was going to be a more open, honest, in the moment post. I thought alcohol, sleep deprivation, and a sappy movie were the grease, but I can see now that I chickened out. Inhibitions are strong in this one. I realize this is vague, but I'm told that readers of this thing are no stranger to that. I'm glad I chickened out. It's a different story by the light of day. Not that what I felt wasn't real, just that what I felt passed as quickly as it came. I've watched too many movies and TV shows where a look or a fleeting feeling are enough to justify the insanity of taking a head long dive into something foolish- be it love, jealousy, rage. I've made those mistakes before, and I'm willing to bet I'll make them again, but sometimes things are what they are. It's not all about getting carried away to a land where emotions rule and I am but a humble servant. Sometimes it's about reigning that in, settling down, and letting the alcohol, sleep deprivation and sappy movies take you to a logical conclusion, which when I'm lucky rolls by in a scripted, The End.

I've got your love to keep me warm
Let me preface this post by saying that I just saw White Christmas, it's 3 AM and there is a 100% chance that Irish liquer was in my hot chocolate.

I always get nervous when my friends meet, even if they know each other. If they aren't used to hanging out, my palms get a little sweaty. It probably dates back to the days when there were fisticuffs over the Apple IIe joystick. So when things are nice and smooth and fun, I am relieved. Tonight, last night? what night is it? was fun.

In a not entirely unrelated note, I want to get dressed up and go out. Maybe I'll wear some ties to work this week.

Cleaning Naugahyde
This month continues to be legendary for its lack of excitement quotient. I've had to turn to human soap operas and rumor mills to squeeze anything even resembling entertainment out of December. I've taken three naps in fewer days. I've been to the dentist twice and subsequently eaten meals that only half my mouth could taste. At least it was different halves. I went to the doctor, a sleepy old man in a white coat, who only managed to confirm my suspicions that my leg would not need to be amputated. I tried to get an oil change, but I'm pretty sure I ended up paying twenty dollars to not have my car stolen. I suppose that's a good investment, but it does nothing for the engine; nothing except keep the engine off the block. I don't know what has been worse the rain or the lack of cold. Decembers should be cold. It's in the constitution. It should be. It'd make more sense than that other amendment "they" are proposing. It's not though, not cold, and not in the constitution, yet. If I'm going to be unentertained, I would at least like to be frickin' freezing while I do it. Nothing says I can accept boredom like trying to get the circulation back in my extremities. Instead it rains. It's like a giant slobbering dog is standing over the city. Go on boy, GIT! And take the first part of December with you.

95 years is a lot of living
My grandma turns 95 tomorrow. Her vocabulary is pretty limited now, since she had a stroke a few years ago. It's hard to tell how much she knows and how much she cares anymore. I don't think of her as often as I should; it's hard to do from far away when communication can really only go one way. That's an excuse, I know. I've only been around for about a quarter of her life, but here are some things I remember.

When I was little, she used to give me a back rub before I went to sleep. I remember being in the dark, grandma's chilly wrinkled hands dancing on my skin. I remember the pocket flashlight that was by the phone, the phone with its own archway. I remember the night lights and the way grandma's house could never be scary. I remember when she used to holler "shut the door" when my sister and I barged in or out or both.

At Christmas time, Grandma and Grandpa would always show up in an Oldsmobile brimming with already-wrapped gifts. There was nothing like unpacking that car. One year when they gave me stilts, I was completely convinced that it was lumber for my dad and only said "David" on the tag to throw him off the track.

My grandma was usually older than my friends' grandmas, but that didn't stop her from much. She was untouchable at those amusement park guess-your-age games. Within 3 years? Those guessers were lucky to be within 30.

We used to have the best doughnuts for breakfast and Braunschweiger for lunch. For dessert, nobody, probably not even the grocery store, had more cookie choices.

Grandma loved a good game of Uno with the grandkids, but her game was really Bridge. I never played Bridge with her. I wish I had.

Right after she moved closer to my parents when she could no longer handle a house, I remember spending the night in the empty house. Everything grandma was still in place, but she was so obviously gone. There weren't even cookies.

I did find some love letters. I sat on the carpeted stairs and I read how much my grandpa missed grandma. They were hundreds of miles apart for several more months. He didn't know that they'd soon be together for more than 60 years.

I can't go on
I'm frustrated at how fuzzy the memories are.
I'm disappointed in myself that I don't think about her more.
I hope her birthday is happy.
I'm looking forward to seeing her during Christmas.

Tom Robbins Interlude
Here's my favorite passage from the recently completed Even Cowgirls Get the Blues:

"Happily, your author is not under contract to any of the muses who supply reputable writers, and thus he has access to a considerable variety of sentences to spread and stretch from margin to margin as he relates the stories of our Thumbelina, of the ranch a douche bag built and--O my children, cock your ears to this! --of the clockworks and its Chink. For example:

This sentence is made of lead (and a sentence of lead gives a reader an entirely different sensation from one made of magnesium.) This sentence is made of yak wool. This sentence is made from the blood of the poet. This sentence was made in Japan. This sentence glows in the dark. This sentence was born with a caul. This sentence has a crush on Norman Mailer. This sentence is a wino and doesn't care who knows it. Like many italic sentences, this one has Mafia connections. This sentence is a double Cancer with Pisces rising. This sentence lost its mind searching for the perfect paragraph. This sentence refuses to be diagramed. This sentence ran off with an adverb clause. This sentence is 100 percent organic: it will not retain a facisimile of freshness like those sentences of Homer, Shakespeare, Goethe et al., which are loaded with preservatives. This sentence leaks. This sentence doesn't look Jewish... This sentence has accepted Jesus Christ as its personal savior. This sentence once spit in a book reviewer's eye. This sentence can do the funky chicken. This sentence has seen too much and forgotten too little. This sentence is called "Speedoo" but its real name is Mr. Earl. This sentence may be pregnant, it missed its period This sentence suffered a split infinitive-- and survived. If this sentence had been a snake you'd have bitten it. This sentence went to jail with Clifford Irving. This sentence went to Woodstock. And this little sentence went wee wee wee all the way home. This sentence is proud to be a part of the team here at Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. This sentence is rather confounded by the whole damn thing."

If you haven't read this book, beware it is nothing like this passage and exactly like this passage. If you have, then you know what I mean.

Someone has a sense of humor
I saw a bus that had been in a wreck. The display was flashing "000 Buzzard Point."

It's the thought that counts
Real Simple readers will recognize this bracelet. I'm tempted to buy it, but I don't think I'm really at the bracelet-giving stage with anyone right now.

Don't try to convince me that we're at the bracelet-giving stage, please.
I think I'd know something like that. (If we are at the bracelet-giving stage and it's obvious that I don't know, please send me a bracelet and a self-addressed stamped envelope.)

Who's running this show?
When I went to high school, I ran cross country to get ready for basketball. I quit basketball after a day because it wasn't running.

When I went to college I had to live in some po-dunk residence hall clear on the other side of campus. I left three years later a bonafide FARCer from a hall that defined my college experience.

I was never going to wear khaki pants. I wear them almost every day. They're better than sweat pants.

I never liked walking because it was too slow. My daily stroll to and from the Metro relaxes and relieves me.

Some two years ago I started a temporary job in a city I didn't mean to live in. For a moment, it feels a lot like home.

Friends are good.
If you don't have any, you should make some.

Don't use clay.

The Apple Pie is probably enhanced too
Baseball is a disappointment. I don't even like it anymore but the news of steriod use still saddens me. I gave up sometime during the last strike. Baseball had its priorities in the wrong place and I guess now that the players and owners have agreed on money, they moved onto drugs. This is big, like a steriod-induced homerun. I'd like to think maybe it's just the big names doing this, the ones we've heard about in the news, but if the stars are enhanced, how are the other guys to keep up? I'm afraid to ask.

What am I supposed to think? The feats of inhuman strength we've witnessed in the last 5 years, turn out to be more than sportswriters prose; they actually might be amazing feats of drugs. I don't want to go to a ballpark to cheer on drugs. I want to watch human struggle played out on the field. I want to watch men and women who have worked and struggled to be at the top of their game competing against others at the top of theirs. I want to leave thinking that if I just worked hard enough, went to the gym, trained all the time, I too could hit monstrous homeruns or run like the wind. Notice there is no step in that dream that involves taking drugs. The top of the game, maybe the best ever are not titles that drug users should have. Don't these people remember the egg frying in the pan? They don't get to be the best, because somehow somewhere they thought that cheating was ok. It isn't. If it is, then that old adage is wrong, which I've suspected but am NOT ok with it. (Cheaters never prosper). And just to prove it, we're probably going to see Bonds get a slap on the wrist and another gajillion dollars to play next year.

America's pasttime is on drugs. Arrest it. Throw it in jail. Protect our children. Save America. Restore my faith in old adages.

Thanks giving, again? This is worse than the Oscars

In October and November, I’ve come to realize that even the huge, deeply personal tasks go a heck of a lot better when someone is by your side. You all remember October, it was 26.2 miles. And you’ll remember I couldn’t have done it without Matt and my cheering section. Well November, as you may have heard, was 50,000 words. The cheering section returned for NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month. There are a lot of people who I should thank who have inspired me all along the way well before this November. For your sake, I'm going to stick to the people who were my security blankets and my sustenance over the last four weeks. To these people I’d like to give a special thank you.

Laura T. gave me a start by challenging me to write a “rebellious short story.”

Kella, who always makes me believe in me, had the guts to announce her entry into NaNoWriMo. She made me realize that starting was possible.

My parents struggled with the idea of quantity, asking, “Why not just write quality instead?”, but cheered me on the whole way.

My Aunt, Uncle, and Cousin Abby gave me space to work and put up with constant word count updates.

Reuben. The guy once pulled up a chair and listened to me read the first 6,000 words. That’s incredible.

Clare. Clare. Clare. After 600 words I wanted to start over and she told me I didn’t have time. Later when I wanted to quit, she said all the right things. She was the reason I could write 1,000 words before going to bed. She was the reason I could wake up before my alarm and write some more. She was the reason I pushed through the tough spots, the bad spots and the blocked spots. I survived the month of November, that storied love cycle month of mine, only by falling in love with Clare’s characters and carving out a special spot in my heart for her. So read her fine work The Partisan. Then if your eyes haven’t fallen out from staring at the screen, you can read Possibly Strongly Opposed.

My public restroom wall
Thinking about bathroom graffiti from the days of yore led me to the conclusion that poopers just don't pontificate like they used to. As a kid, I remember being fascinated by the words scrawled in truck stops and school stalls. These days I see stall-colored blobs of paint in a few places, but mostly it seems people just aren't trying. At first I thought it might be a result of an increased vigilance in anti-graffiti measures. Further reflection has led me to believe that there are now too many competing outlets for the brain dumps of old. We now have the Internet. THIS is the bathroom stall of our generation. If you miss the brevity and vulgarity, the Internet does have record, but it's just not the same without the fear that Big Dave might show up for some sweet lovin' at 11:50 TONITE!

Transportation questions
1.Is it just me or does it seem like trains create a different seat partner dynamic than airplanes? In airplanes it's like, "well, I'm stuck with you and we might plummet from the sky and die together so maybe we should talk." In trains it seems to be more, "I could up and leave at any time and/or we could be robbed by men on horseback, so let's not talk."

2.On both of my trips traveling south on Amtrak I have found myself next to women crying. Do
a)they know something I don't?
b)I make women traveling south cry?
c)I generally make women cry, but only notice it when traveling south?
d)I need to stop wearing my Eau de Onions cologne?

Why Doc, why?

Back in 1996, Doc Martens were all the rage. All the cool kids were wearing them. Not surprisingly, I was not.

Somewhere around 1998, I got a pair. I needed brown shoes and I liked the way they looked. I don't know if the cool kids were still wearing them then.

In 2004, I don't know what the cool kids are wearing, but it's not easy to find the Doc at the stores I've been visiting. I've been searching for a while as my shoes continue to disintegrate after five or six years of use. Today, I gave up. I know they're online, but I'm an old fashioned kind of guy who likes to try his shoes on before he buys them. Today I abandonded my search in favor of some new-fangled laceless shoe with gel in the heels. If we're lucky, the shoes will dance. If not, call the Doctor.

Promotional Material to follow
NPR fans and/or Mizzou grad Renny Mackay fans should tune into NPR tomorrow for his story on a marine from Wyoming who died in Iraq. That's all I know, but I'll bet a dollar that if Renny is reporting it'll be solid.

The "put that in your cornucopia and smoke it" post
I'm feeling extra thankful at the moment.

I'm thankful for my family. They came out here and put up with my pre-marathon madness and I couldn't have done it without them. And I'm thankful for the rest of my family because they're the kind of people you want in your corner when things get tough. I'm thankful for the DC area Mizzou kids and all the cool people (and bands) they keep introducing me to. I'm thankful for my Thursday night crowd because in the Thanksgiving of life they are the sweet potatoes. I'm thankful for my lunch buddy because she makes a mean sandwich and good conversation. I'm thankful for likeable coworkers and new work friends who share the day-to-day existence and still manage to be fun. I'm thankful for a roommate that puts up with all the gibberish that spills out of my brain and then makes me laugh. I'm thankful for 30 year-olds trapped in 20-something bodies because even if they move too often, they've got great hats, great quotes and great hearts. I'm thankful for my faraway friends that inspire me through their blogs, through their encouraging phone calls, and through their travels. I'm thankful for their moms who offer me wisdom for free. I'm thankful for old friends who hang in and hang on despite the distance and the growing gap of life between us. I'm thankful for November buddies who are too kind and too fabulous for anything less than fifty thousand words. I'm thankful for marathon runners and marathon spectators, because without them I wouldn't be the man I am today. I'm thankful for you because you're crazy enough to read what I spew into this space. Thanks.

There are certain smiles more powerful than Congress.

You've got to be kidding me

1. The "ERS" is burnt out at the local BORDERS. That means my neighborhood is BORD with books, music, and movies.

2. If it's good enough for Maryland's prisoners, it's good enough for me. My new dentist also works in the prison system.

3. What the BLEEP do we know?! is one of those movies that had I gone alone I would've been thinking, "Man, I wish I had someone to talk to." Since I went with someone, I couldn't think of much to say.

4. I watched Ultimate for 5 hours today and I resisted the urge to pop pills and play.

5. Thursday was a dotopian anniversary, so I threw a party in my head, but nobody came.

Sometimes people know just what to say
I was feeling pretty glum today. I haven't exercised in a while because of my knee. Work is piling up on my desk. I was thinking that I might just crawl into bed and try to sleep it all away. Then in my email inbox I found the very words I needed to hear.

It could have been my life, or at least my week, writing. The message was empty and the subject line said:

Are you just going to let me kick your ass like this?

Well, no. As a matter fact, I'm not.

(italics added)

Of teeny-tiny puppies* and video game violence
There is a violent video game that has everybody talking, even NPR. Nearly every day since its release, I have gone to bed to the sound of gunfire. The game is Halo 2. The gunfire is my warm woolen blanket.

Last night, I watched a few rounds of Reuben, Aaron, Brian, and Sheng play online together in real time. They communicated via headsets. After watching them lose a few rounds to the likes of, well everybody, I called it a night. As I was going to my room a chorus of good nights came from the TV speakers. In the wild interactive world of Halo 2, there are certain screens where everyone is in the "room" together. It was oddly comforting to have people across the city and from across the country wishing me good night. I hope from that point they went on to kill, kill, kill.

***In an aside, I think a great team name or individual name in Halo 2 would be teeny tiny puppies. That way the screen would say,"Aaron killed by teeny tiny puppies," or "teeny tiny puppies sniped by Brian," or "teeny tiny puppies beats down Reuben". I think you see where I'm going with this. "Your mom" would also work well, but I bet some one already thought of that. I would also like to suggest Vegetables, glass dolls, underwear and Satin.

v. v. bad
I saw Bridget Jone's Diary 2 tonight. I'm sure it has a full name, but I don't care. It was bad. At one point, nearing the end thankfully, I actually said out loud, "Is this going to end?" It finally did.

This movie is crap. I'm actually considering life-long celibacy because of it. Now, I'm not a Renee Zellweger fan anyway, but the filmmakers did their very best to show her looking horrible. They went out of their way to show every bit where she gained weight. It wasn't the weight that bothered me, it was the crap story, the crap acting and the crap musical selections. Mark Darcy could not possibly love this woman. Sleazy Hugh Grant's character could not possibly desire this woman, not because she was physically unattractive, but because she was so unbelievably pathetic, clumsy, and downright foolish. UGH! Rumor has it that Hugh Grant and Renee won't be acting for a while after this film because they need to take a break, possibly retire. I think they should rethink that decision. They need to get out there and get another job right away, before this film has too much time to settle on their resumes.

It's CRAP!

The voice of an angel and a band from the heavens
I think by now we have established that Hem is my favorite band.
Tonight I got to see them in concert. I cannot explain why that was important. It may have been a $12 pledge of my support. It may have been curiosity about the people that make music that move me. It may have been a reason to get out on a Friday night, or a chance to surround myself with other Hem fans. It may have been something entirely different.

At first it was odd, and not just because women I'd never met were talking to me,(for the second week in a row, what's the deal?). It was odd to see the faces and the imperfections of a group I imagined as perfect. I didn't know an angel could have tiny lips that jutted to the side when she sang. I didn't know the guitar player would wear orthopedic shoes on his giant-sized feet. I didn't know the bass player would be so sleepy, or that the pianist would be so hairy, or even what a pedal steel was. It took me a little time to adjust. It took me time to adjust to the mood as well. The energy of the concert, of the crowd, of the band was mellow. Even the "upbeat song" made me feel regret and loss in its hopefulness. I had to adjust to loving every song Hem played. I had to adjust to the incredible aspect of a band, not a band, but a BAND. Hem creates this sound where the piano, the glockenspiel, the bass, the guitar, the mandolin, the pedal steel and their voices become this one sound. The sound of sun rising. The sound of clouds passing by a mountain peak. The sound of life and all the hopes, dreams, and disappointments that make it all worthwhile. People didn't sing the words at this venue, even though they knew them all by heart. They didn't sing, because people came to hear Sally Ellyson. People came to hear the angel and her heavenly band.

I muse. You muse. We all muse for museums
Not as catchy as the original, is it?

The joy of rejection
I think you reach a certain age where rejection doesn't faze you. That age is 437, give or take.

My competitive spirit is not dead
It just hibernates more often.

Irony? What irony?
My background is in advertising. My television doesn't get reception and I'm proud that I miss all those commercials, not to mention those commercials masquerading as shows. Then something like a PBS special on advertising comes along and all of a sudden I want TV.
Can you hear my mind blowing?

WWVGOWH?
My personal barometer on whether or not a young star has staying power:
Would Wilmer Valderrama go out with her?


I've got to stop reading junk when I'm on the exercise bikes at work.

Advertising to myself
With no TV reception and no cable, I am not bombarded by visual messages encouraging me to change the way I act, look, think, feel, smell, or clean my shower. Sure, I get pop-ups and I see ads in the paper, but without music, without movement, and most of all without repetition, I can ignore those ads much more easily.

In the absence of such bombardment, I have taken to advertising to myself. It isn't as flashy, it isn't as loud, but I think it may be more effective and it certainly costs less. I take one sheet of paper, one marker (sometimes two), one piece of tape, and one bedroom door. I write my goal on the piece of paper with the marker, attach the goal to the door with the tape. Everyday I pass by the door multiple times. The goal starts to seep in. I barely notice it on my way to work or the bathroom, but it's always there. Seeping.

After a while, I think, "hmm. I'll buy what I'm selling."

Into the Dave Mingling Hall of Fame
The Dave Mingling Hall of Fame is relatively empty, which is why last night can make an immediate entry without deliberation by the Minglers Association. I was at a party, on the way to get a Fresca (the key ingredient in a Louisiana Sangria, so key in fact that after one LA Sangria I switched exclusively to the distinctive sparkling refresher with a light citrus taste) when I was stopped by pink skirt and number 58. At least that's what we had called them when we were sitting across the room. Pink skirt, Pam it turned out, started discussing marathons with me (she'd been tipped off). Number 58, whose name escapes me, chimed in with the finer points of spectating. At some point Anna joined the conversation and Jadwin, Missouri and the Current River made a conversational appearance. Through two Frescas and perhaps as much as twenty minutes we chatted; well they chatted and I got a word in edgewise now and again.

That never happens.

Unrelated Question of the day
Can passive agressive be violent?

Today I like:
-Autumn in the Mid-Atlantic
-Irish Breakfast tea
-sharing "pain"
-best friends
-bicycles
-goals
-photos of me
-travel plans
-showers
-stocking caps
-the t-shirt to sweater switch
-plot twists
-Jeff on "Coupling"

Who wants to go skiing/snowboarding in Utah this winter?

I meant with me.

I have scabs in places I didn’t know could bleed
or There’s more to this story than I’ll ever be able to tell
We’re past the half-marathon. We’re past the free GOO sticking to my shoes. We’re past the point where I believe Matt is going to reel me in. We’re past the point where this is just a Sunday stroll. We’re into the second half of the longest run of my life. The 26 miles for 26 years run. That one. The family and cheering section is going to be around mile 16 and it can’t come soon enough. I want a Powergel refill. I want a familiar face. I want. I want. It’s all about me and has been for more than two hours...

The leisurely stroll is gone. My pace has quickened to something in the 8:30 to 8:45 per mile range as I start to make up bigger chunks of that slow start. I’m settling for smaller holes when I dart between people. I’m bumping elbows first and apologizing after. My manners and my good sense have left me, but the throng of people urges me on. I hear “Go Dave.” I hear “Go Pumpkin Dave!” I hear “Go Pumpkin Man.” Gone are the thoughts of I’ll be your pumpkin man, (wink, wink). Now we’re running. Somewhere near 16, after I pass a flaming liberal (no, I’m serious, he was in costume- there were flames), I locate Matt’s parents and they point at my family. I turn and look and hold up my hand with my one remaining gel. My sister holds a Harvest Bar in one hand and the food that isn’t, the PowerGel, the most amazing stuff, in the other. I dart toward her and snatch away the gel. “Thanks, I love you,” I shout. (Those three little words will make several more appearances, usually directed at strangers or whole groups of strangers, further supporting a theory I have that long distance running and drunkenness are similar).

I plod on and soon reach Hain’s Point. Hain’s point is not very spectator friendly. A few kayakers with whistles cheer us on, but for only the second time that day the atmosphere is more run and less parade. The atmosphere is also more wind. I had anticipated both of these developments on Hain’s point. I had trained on the point so I’d be ready. Hain’s point was to be my bitch. In fact I believe the conversation in my head went a lot like this-
“This is my territory. Bring it Hain’s Point, you’re my bitch.” (Hey, EXCUSE me, I’m drunk on running here.)

I’m through 17 and making my way toward mile 18 taking full advantage of the point, when my knee seizes up. I break stride in agony. My face contorts and I slump to the side of the course. I walk for far longer than I’d like, my eyes surely telling the saddest story I’ve ever known. This could be it, I think. Hain’s point got me again. I’m walking along, assessing the pain and the 8 or so miles to go. Maybe Matt will catch me after all. I reach down and tighten the IT band compression wrap I’ve been wearing above my knee. I cinch it tight and take a deep breath before I try to break into a run. The first few steps go ok and the next thing I know I’m cruising again. I pass the medical tent and look at the downed runner being tended. I find a couple and tuck in behind them, desperately trying to feed off their pain. I stay relatively close until I have to move over to let an ambulance through. Even without the couple I’m still moving at an ok pace and the knee seems to be performing up to par. I pass the 20 mile mark. I’m down to a 10k. I can do a 10k I think both conciously and unconciously. I climb a hill and hit the highway bridge rearing to go. I’m on what feels like the longest bridge of my life. The sun feels brutal, but I’m passing people with ease. Later, I’ll find out that I was in the midst of an 8:05 mile, my fastest of the day. The crowd and the other runners were eating it up too; they seemed to be cheering extra hard. I was starting to sense the end, but a hill slowed my pace back into the 9 minutes per mile range.

As we dipped into Crystal City and passed the Pentagon, I unknowingly found the wall. Feeling desperate I told a woman in a green Cystic Fibrosis T-shirt that she was my best friend. My best friend left me 45 seconds later when my knee seized again. I walked for what seemed like ages. Several specators almost begged, “Come on Dave. You’re almost there.”

At that moment I hated my shirt. Whose stupid idea was it to put my name on it? I knew I was almost there, they could get out here and run if it was so easy. “Thanks,” I gasped. I couldn’t take it for long though and started to run again. I wound down and around until I could see the Pentagon again. I left the Pentagon behind, but found another spot for my knee to violently seize up. I walked along a bridge as people passed me by. I didn’t care anymore. Even if I walked this would all be over soon anyway. I had less than 2 miles to go. At least they’d let me finish before closing the course. I walked along for what felt like quite a while, before finding the energy to run again. I don’t know what spurred me, maybe it was the 25 mile marker, maybe it was my watch glaring around the 3 hour and 50 minute mark, but something got me going again and this time there would be no stopping. Once I got to the 25 mile marker, I’d spent 22 minutes covering the last 2 miles and I had about 10 minutes to get to the finish to meet my goal. Only none of that was clear to me then. I just knew that the end was close and it was time to go. So I went. I was a blur or it was a blur. Blurs were definitely present.
I don’t know how long I went before my knee started crying out again. I grimaced. I groaned. I begged my knee. “I promise if you get me through this, I’ll give you massages. I’ll take you to the doctor. Whatever you want!” The knee seemed to consider the proposition, or at least it didn’t seize up on me again. Perhaps it was distracted by the cramp starting to creep into the opposite quadricep. I recognized cheering. When I looked up, there was my mom, but I had no energy to see anyone else or the giant sign they held that said RUN DMA. I just pounded on. My knee screamed in a painful duet with my now attention-starved quad.
The chant in my head, the prayer to my knee and my quad, the desperate plea to my body soon became the harsh words on my lips, “COME ON!”

“COME ON!”
“COME ON!”
Every breath and every step,
“COME ON!”
“COME ON!”

My head was down. My face tight with exhaustion.
“COME ON!”
“COME ON!”
I passed runner after runner and had the vague feeling that they either thought I was talking to them or they thought I was mad. I really didn’t care.
“COME ON!”
“COME ON!”

I charged up the final hill, I’m told in a sprint. I passed a few more,but watched as one young shirtless fellow exploded forward the last 25 meters.

“COME on...”

I crossed the finish line. intact. ecstatic. exhausted.

See

And they're off
I was running. This basically solitary sport was suddenly a show for thousands of cheering fans and I was surrounded on all sides by runners. The Hulk was to my left and I could see a pirate not too far in front. Halloween had not gone unnoticed by the marathon runners. Many still sported jerseys or shirts with their names. I went for a dave-o-lantern look in my orange shirt with eyes, nose, and mouth drawn in, the teeth in the shape of my name. Next to me, Matt was a ghost in his white shirt. Not 400 meters after the start we found our fans cheering. We waved, pumped our fists and cheered back, the task before us still entirely unreal. As Matt said, "It's hard to be nervous when you know you won't hurt for 10 miles."
We puttered along, content to follow the crowd and not work too hard finding gaps to shoot through. There was a lot of run left and it was far too early in the day to be in a hurry. We cruised along, up and down hills on this traditionally flat course. Some loudly noted the elevation changes were new this year. This early in the race and at our pace, it hardly seemed to matter. We passed cheering section after cheering section and unconciously fed off their energy. Tracking our time on my watch, I noted that we were off to a slow start. Still, after 3 miles there was a lot of day left. Ever so slightly we started to move. We started to squeeze between people and seek out space for ourselves. We didn't lose contact very often, pointing out incredible views of Georgetown, or the absolutely ridiculous shimmer of a thousand runners in front of us bounding along up a hill. The sheer volume of people was astounding and at no time could I see more than a tenth. I've never bumped elbows with so many runners. I've never thanked so many spectators. For 7 more miles, we cruised on, pushing our pace slightly, but fully aware that pushing too hard now could spell disaster later. We passed the Lincoln Memorial and a bunch of other stuff that I didn't notice. We nearly slipped on banana peels. We let Powergel ooze into our mouths, but even the caffeinated magic of an energy gel seemed dull compared to the buzz that the monstrous crowd created. The stretches where they weren't were almost eerily quiet, even with the shuffle of hundreds of feet.

At mile 10, we again crossed paths with our wonderful and loyal fans. They cheered and we smiled. It was so nice to see them on this very lovely Sunday morning. Even at 10 miles this was still just a Sunday run with 17,000 of our closest friends. Things were going remarkably well.

Within minutes of that fan sighting, I felt the first twinges in my knee. I turned to Matt and re-iterated our pact. "My knee is starting to go. If I have to stop, you keep going." He echoed me with a remark about his side stitch. I don't have the best sense of time regarding that day, but it couldn't have been more than a minute before our run together was finished. I don't remember the moment of separation, only that he was gone. At that time I still held hopes that he would catch me later. Now, I was on my own in the midst of thousands. The screams from my knee seemed to disappear at the next water stop. I reeled off several more miles under the 4 hour marathon pace, cutting into that initial deficit I'd created.

Heading up the hill around the U.S. Capitol, the back of my shirt was recognized for the first time. Running past two men, "Shock" and "Awe" emblazoned on the backs of their shirts, I charged up the hill (I suppose only marathoners can call such a gait a charge). As I passed, Shock and Awe called out, "You'll get there faster if you run SCREAMING!" The very quote from the back of my shirt caused the three of us in unison to break into screams. For effect, I also threw up my hands and surged up the hill, until someone kindly mentioned, "You'll need that energy later." I crossed the halfway point after 2 hours and 1 minute. My morning had just begun.

There's more? yep... It's only fair you suffer almost as much as I did.

4 hours 47 seconds
I don't know where to begin. I'll give you my chip finish time, in case you somehow think like I thought that marathons can be measured with stopwatches (or a little chip tied to your shoelace as the case may be).

I could start back in April when I signed up for the Marine Corps Marathon. Or I could start back in high school when the shirt "Running is my life-the rest is just details" meant what it said. I won't.

This very space has already told of months of training runs and injuries, of 20 miles and no miles and daily struggles in between. I won't cover that again. I'll start last Monday, the day negativity was all but outlawed in my head.

Negativity may have been banished, but a swirl of bacteria or viruses or black magic entered me and re-ignited a cough and possibly a rash. It was a slight cough at first, but grew quickly as I sat in my cubicle of germs. By Thursday, the pained knee that had lingered two and a half weeks was a distant memory when compared with the assault my immune system was undertaking. I hacked and coughed and blew phlegm to places I'd rather not mention. I went home from work sick. I stayed home Friday too. I don't stay home from work because I'm sick but maybe twice a year, and oh what a time for this twice to land. Saturday, I was hardly better. The afternoon rolled around, my family was off entertaining themselves because I was the host with the least. I camped out on the floor willing sickness to leave while drinking a gallon of water. These were not ideal conditions for running a marathon in 13 hours. I said my old mantra, "I feel good. I feel great. I feel wonderful." I repeated it over and over again until I felt something in my sinuses. It was as if a damn was breaking and water could flow freely again. My eyes lit up. This was it. The corner was turned. Positive thinking triumphed. I was going to be ok to race.

Move ahead 13 or hours or so. Move past the sputtering sleep and the morning vomit. Move past the jam-packed Metro ride and the near bowel catastrophe and go straight to the starting line. The mass started to move as the crowd cheered. The running had begun some 4,000 people in front of me. It would be five minutes before I ran myself, before I even crossed the starting line, but I was moving. I had begun my very own parade of pain in front of an enormous crowd.

More to come...

Whoa. That's a long way.
I made it. Details later.

Today shopping for Swedish furniture fatigued me. Tomorrow, nothing will.

Hello Madness, let's hug
The itching, I can't stop it.
Is it the sheets? the towels?
I'll bathe, but not dry off. I'll sleep on the floor, the couch, the bed, only not in the sheets, in a sleeping bag.

I'm sick. The coughing, the sneezing, the dry scratchy throat. Scratchy? Scratching. My nose, my chest, my fingertips- the itching.

I'm fine. My knee hurts less than it did three weeks ago. I ice it. I heat it. I lather it with icy hot and rub it. I stretch it. I rest it. The itching. The scratching. I tear off the sheets. They are the poison. There must be little bugs everywhere, I just can't see them. The Internet. Bed Bugs search. No. Madness.
Drink orange juice with a chamiolle chaser. Gargle salt water. Bathe. Must bathe. Will the water stop the itching or will it intensify? The new soap. Why "icy blast" this week of all weeks? I'm allergic to the soap. Stop the soap. Stop the itching. It's not stopping. Laundry. I wash the sheets.

Cough. Cough. Cough. Scratch. knee pain. I'm fine.

It's funny. I try to laugh and no sound comes out. I smile. I scratch some more. The timing.
I run to the mirror. Only I don't run because I haven't run in a week. I look. Who is that guy with the tiny head and the maniacal smile?

Spies. Not bed bugs. It's drugs. I need more ointments. The smells. Icy Hot. Anti-itching cream. Vick's Vapor Rub. They mix. They mix with the tea and the o.j. I can't smell them. My nose is clogged. Overwhelmed. I'm undone. I'm itching. I'm scratching. I'm rubbing.


I'M FINE!

The Election is coming! AIEEEE!
This blog endorses MorningStar Farms Spicy Black Bean Burgers.
I am
democracy
crumbling.

Relativity
Hearts are broken and rise from the ash again. Careers are undertaken, paths are lost, pacts are formed. New friends are made and postponed. Great hopes are dashed, and small hopes glimmer weakly through the fog. Pressure rains down from nowhere and sleep comes in spurts. What do you mean it's only Tuesday?

Listen up, me
We're done with your negative thinking. We're done with your whining and your sliding down the slippery slope of depression. We've had it. We're not going to take it anymore. It's over. Life's not fair. Things don't always work out the way you want them to. Hang on Sloopy. Sloopy, hang on. For the rest of this week, we're going to nurse the knee, we're going to nurse the throat. We're going to eat well. We're going to rest well. We are going to be all that we can be. Come Sunday, we're going to toe that starting line (or that line 13,000 people back from the starting line), smile because it's been a great ride and give it a go. If we have to walk, we'll walk. If we have to quit, we'll quit. There are people who have much bigger problems than not fulfilling a goal the way they wanted to. Consider yourself lucky. Remember the 20-miler? Wasn't that worth it? Of course it was. And how lucky are you that you've shared so many runs with your good friend Matt? Very lucky, man. Very lucky. So children are starving in somewhere, and old people are desperate for fanny packs somewhere, but you've got food on the table and a fanny pack stylishly situated on your hip. You're set. So, let's see that big smile. Give it the old college try. And quit your whining. Que sera sera. And other Latin that means get over it, punk. Enjoy. Rock on.

What's wrong with this blog?
I realized that one of the unfortunate side effects of this little blog-thingy is that everything I write is pretty much spewed into this box and then forgotten. Nothing I do is a labor of many weeks or days; instead it's a reaction, it's a moment, and then it's gone. This little space does many things, but if I want more than a moment, I need to find another outlet.

New Policy
Spontaneity will require at least two days advance notice.

Spectators RULE
If all goes well, at this time next week I'll be past halfway in a marathon (adjusting for daylight savings time). There will be thousands of runners, but few of us would survive without the thousands of spectators who have supported us all along the way. This morning, I spent some time as a spectator for a 10-miler. I learned a thing or two. As a runner, I learned that the crowd will respond if I ask. Any time a runner hollered, "Let's hear the crowd" or threw up their arms, the crowd cheered. Race spectators are there because they love runners, usually a specific one or two, but they'll certainly take any excitement they can get. As a spectator, I learned that prolonged clapping can be difficult, even painful. If I had a cowbell, or a bugle, or some other noisemaker that wouldn't frighten people, I think I might pack that with me. I also recommend that spectators prepare a few choice phrases to cheer on runners as they wait for their runner. Personally, I turned to the high-pitched "WOOOOO" quite often. I also liked "Good job!" and "Keep it up!" Spectators should probably avoid, "Move your ass!" and "Dear God you're slow!" Runners like cheering, but most of them don't miss that style of motivation.
As a spectator, I couldn't help but notice how much I wanted to cheer for people, but I didn't know what to say. The runners with college names, cities, states, etc. received loud cheers of "Go New Jersey!" or "Come on Colgate!" Some runners took it a step further and provided a script. "Go Steve!" emblazoned across one man's chest, elicited numerous screams of-- "Go Steve!". My scream included. I'm not going to go that route, but my name does appear on my shirt. Unfortunately, it should be larger. I think I'll take what I can get though.

As a spectator, if you don't have somewhere to be, stick around one spot until the crowd thins, but the runners are still carrying on. I promise you, you'll see some big big smiles in between some gritted teeth and pained looks. It felt good to be a spectator cheering everyone fighting through it. I'm counting on a few next week to get me through.

Aloha
I only bawl during REM sleep
because my days are luaus.
I'm juggling kiwis
and dancing the hula.
My sheet is my skirt.
My plastic cups coconut.
Wiki Wiki Waiki-kiki
Come-on-I-wanna-lei
awake under the stars
and listen to the waves.
Hold my hand and never
say Aloha.

Nurse Dave- Malpracticing all over the place
Symptoms:IT band, or knee, or something in that general area hurts.
Remedy: Will it away. Also, Icy Hot.

Symptoms: Cold, stuffy head
Remedy: More showers. Also, more orange juice.

Symptoms: Lameness on a Friday night.
Remedy: MILKSHAKE!

"O" MY GAWSH
Recklessly, I threw down my hard-earned cash on the "O" Cirque de Soleil show. I had heard good things from at least two people that I didn't trust. People I do trust also said they had heard good things. I was a little concerned that two people were responsible for the entire "good-things frenzy" and I was getting suckered. But O, how wrong I was.
Cirque de Soleil is a Canadian Circus. I, with my seven worthless years of French, want to translate it as "Circus from the Sun". Those wacky Canadians. There appeared to be a story of some sort. I have no idea what it was. I just know that there was a red curtain at the beginning and it appeared at the end. I was satisfied with that closure. In the middle, was the most amazing display of a cross-pollination of circus, synchronized swimming, diving, gymnastics, contortions, physical comedy and music. Every "scene" was my new favorite scene. Every time I got overwhelmed, they brought out the clowns. Even the set was phenomenal. It would probably be neat to just watch the set change. There were people walking on water. There were people on fire. There were people flying through the air, launched by giant swings, or carried off on large swaths of cloth. People dove, plopped on stage like dolphins and then promptly flipped back into the water. They danced, they balanced on trapezes, they balanced on flying ships, and they floated on houses. It was wild. It was beautiful. In that way it reminded me so much of myself. I digress.

I had my doubts, but they were blown out of the water. This circus had no lions, no tigers, no bears, but "O" MY!

I lost a filling and I feel empty
This is the first installment on the week I spent in Las Vegas. The Las Vegas Strip has to be one of the worst places in the world. It's zany and crazy at night. Excitement is trumpeted for as far as the ear can hear and lights blaze as far as the eye can see. If I had to hear Queen was ready to "rock me" one more time or if I had to see that giant g-string advertising some great nudie show, I think I was going to snap. It's sensory overload. It's beyond the ultimate tribute to materialism. Here's a place that peddles hope in the worst possible way. Winners are the people who turn their hard earned cash into more cash, I assume so they can buy more stuff. And this is entertainment? The worst part of it all, is that it is. I have been known to get excited about the sound of change falling into that metal pan. And now...
And now, half the time it's fake change! Slot machines now play the noise of change hitting the pan, because you get a ticket instead of change.

At least I had to spend a large portion of my time working. I work for an organization that is trying to help seniors age with dignity. It's a noble goal. Only, after working for 3 days in a booth giving away fanny packs stuffed with program literature, I question how much dignity these people really want. I may be narrow-minded, but dignity in my mind does not correlate with an overwhelming desire for a free fanny pack. Please, people, if you need a fanny pack so much that you're willing to stand in line for one, argue about one, I submit that you have absolutely no interest in dignity. You are as bad as the rest of Las Vegas in your relentless pursuit trying to turn what amounts to virtually nothing into something worthwhile. The phrase "Is this all there is?" haunts me and chases me through the maze of slot machines, tables and hotels. I hope for the sake of humanity that at least a small part of the free goodie grabbers were haunted by the same question. If not, we all need to forget aging with dignity and focus our energies on finding dignity in the first place.

In the morning, the Las Vegas Strip is a slightly different place. The cigar smoke has nearly all been washed away. The sun seems to bring a fresh hope to this sad architecturally-challenged little street. The lights pale compared to the morning sun. The fake Eiffel Tower, fake New York Skyline, fake everything seem small, insignificant, almost silly with a mountainous backdrop.
More to come...

"It's cheesy and sleazy no matter how you slice it."
Vegas Airport/Slotville USA- My coworker said this about Vegas and I think it should replace the wonderful "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" slogan. It might not attract the same crowd, but judging from the people I watched this week, it probably won't matter.

More details to come on Sin City, Seniors, wet pants, "O", and adventures in Boise, ID.

I miss my blog and yours.

Vegas Baby Vegas

High Fructose Corn syrup is my favorite food
I just saw Supersize Me and it was ok. I'm not awed, but I am thinking. That's a good thing. It's making me think, and I'd like to keep thinking for a while. I think I need to look at my own diet. I think I need to start making some healthier decisions. I think maybe I should replace some of the Tuxedos with fresh vegetables. Then I'd like to think a little bigger. I'd like to start thinking about the kinds of companies I'm supporting with my dollars. Maybe it's time to grow up a little and start really looking at the decisions I make. I realize this is in a post-movie sort of glow, but maybe if I put it out there it might last a bit longer. We'll see.

Put your pants on and cheer
One of my favorite things about Washington DC is public transportation. Yes, the fares are getting out of control and so are the MetroPolice. Yes, I've experienced overcrowding and long delays. But, Mass Transit is cool. So cool that people sing about it. Song #0107.

Pick me up and fly away
In airports I like to sit in that last row, the one that faces out into the space of the airport, the one where I can watch people hurrying to a gate, or munching on cinnamon rolls. I also like to sit at the end of a row, but I think that is more of a personal-bubble issue.

I was sitting at the end of a last row comfortably reading a book and waiting for a plane. I would be a negligent story-teller if I didn't admit that I had noticed her before. She was directly in my line of sight whenever I looked up. To say she was unattractive would be grossly unfair. To say she was distracting me from reading, probably inaccurate. Until he arrived. I watched out of the corner of my eye as this Irish-looking fellow put his bag down at her table and then took a couple of steps into my light. Perhaps he was looking at flight information above my head, but I'd realize later he was collecting himself before he returned to the table.

He sat down and began speaking to the woman. I stopped reading and watched as discreetly as I could. He was pale and his red hair was thinning. He looked to be in his late 30's. She was Asian and no older than 30. It was not impossible that these two knew one another, but I watched to find out. Snippets of conversation quickly told me that my instinct was right. It didn't take much to realize that our man here was on the prowl. I caught, "I was hoping to get a card." He was denied. She politely took his phone number and he mumbled something like "it was worth it," as he hurried off to his plane.

Wouldn't it be funny if she was on the same plane as me? I thought and forgot as I returned to reading. I was far more attentive to my book this time around. I perked up when my name was called over the PA system. All right already, I'll board the plane.

I made my way past all the full rows and spotted my empty window seat. Who was sitting in the aisle seat? She was. Funny indeed. My stomach rolled all around as I tried to decide what if anything I should say. Finally the pressure inside got to be too much and out popped, "I have to know, was that guy successful picking you up?"

She laughed and asked somewhat horrified, "You saw that?"

I did. And I was fascinated. We chatted for a while like single-serving friends will do. Then we arrived and said our goodbyes.

Did I get her card? Why, a gentleman never tells. Not to mention that this gentleman couldn't figure out how to go from poking fun at a guy who asked for a card to asking for a card himself. Starting a conversation with a not-unattractive stranger is a triumph for me.

A-ooooo-ga. A-oooooooooo- ga
I'm in this fog. It's that pre-eight-am-not-quite-awake sort of fog. The world is a little fuzzy, possibly not all there, but I'm not worried about it. I'll be awake soon enough.

The whistle blows. (I don't have a whistle, but I'm thinking maybe that's what's missing from my existence.) It's time to go home. The fog still hasn't lifted. It's Friday and the fog persists. The cloudless sky, the blue, the upper 70's temperature, none of these things is lifting the fog.

The fog says "Go back to bed." Isn't that what got me to the fog in the first place?

Sound the alarms. Brave a headache. Drink a milkshake. (I am not clear on why this will help, but I have a hunch that I need a milkshake.)

The fog says, "Just a little nap."

Maybe, I think. Maybe just a little nap. That can't hurt, can it? No, surely not, I think. A little sleep never killed anyone.

(Cue the dopey statistician and the suspensful music.)

For God's sake man. Just cry.
-I'm listening to the latest Hem CD and this Sally Ellyson woman sings unbelievably. Unbelievably. Her voice is loves lost, promises to keep, and perfect.

-I just read The Time Traveler's Wife. It's fantastic. It's a timeless love story told in a charming time-traveling tale. What great love is not past, present, and future? I can't tell you how many times I got choked up, or how many times I had to just close the book and stare off into the distance. This book is artful, it's philosophic, did I mention fantastic? (good call, Kate)

-There are some things about travel that make me very lonely. Travel also makes me want more travel.

-Speaking of time, travel, and philosophy, I paid 25 dollars for this hour*. I haven't figured out if that was a bargain or if I got ripped off. For 25 dollars should I be trying to achieve more, or should I relax? Was it really this hour? Or was it an earlier hour? And finally should work reimburse me for an hour? Sometimes they seem to owe me so much more and sometimes it seems maybe I owe them.

*For 25 dollars, a certain airline will allow you to leave on another scheduled flight if they have seats available. Hence, I am home an hour earlier than anticipated.

Oxford American Dictionary
date (dayt) n.
1. the day on which something happened...--no.
2. the period to which something belongs... --don't think so.
3. an appointment to meet socially.-- maybe, that sounds about right.
4. a person of the opposite sex with whom one has a social appointment. --its ok for me, but it seems a bit exclusive. Then again you can't be too hard on a book with a 1980 copyright.

That's it? That's all Oxford American has for me? It's the College Edition for crying out loud. That's not what date means. Where's the overthinking? Where's the elevated heart rate? Where's the potential for a roller coaster ride of emotions? I don't see any mention of the awkward pauses, of the should-I-or-shouldn't-I-goodnight kiss, the nerves, the thrill, the disappointment, the out and out rejection. Oh Oxford, you fail me here. You're usually so on top of things, right to the point, all over it, but here; here, you seem to agree with my mom.

Have you and my mom been conspiring? Are you actually trying to tell me that date doesn't have to be such an overdramatic experience? It's just an appointment. It's just social. Nothing more. My very life does not in fact hang in the balance? I should just be myself? Not get so worked up? Is that what you're saying?

Maybe next time, Oxford American Dictionary. Maybe next time.

Or maybe I should stick with the small, brown sweet edible fruit of the date palm, a palm tree of North Africa and Southwest Asia.

Dear Great-Highlight-filmmaker in the sky,
When you are making my highlight film after I've danced my last dance or whatever we're calling it, can you please include today's highlight. I only point it out because I am fearful that it might otherwise be overlooked. It is not as obvious as say, the fake-ballet dive I did into a fellow groomsman's arms last year at the Smith wedding. The ballet was fake, but the dive oh so real. Or apparently the time I wore all of the clothes in the lost and found at FARC. It certainly isn't as obvious as the time I outkicked "Nacho" in a two-mile, or the time I caught a Callahan for the winning score in a Sectionals game. I know I'm only 26 and the highlight reel might seem a little long, but how can you resist a highlight that involves 4 dashing young men, a wee bit of the street smarts, and queen-sized box springs? I'll fail to do it justice in the description, which is why I hope you got it on tape, or whatever they use for recording up there. For those people who don't get to view the tape, I'll try to explain how this highlight unfolded.

We were in the process of moving some friends.
The main players in this portion of the drama were Matt, Rob, Reuben and me (we're the 4 dashing young men, see). We had just finished struggling up three flights of stairs with a mattress. We hit wall at nearly every turn, and if not for the bendy nature of a mattress we may have struggled for quite a bit longer. When we returned with the box spring, the proverbial light bulb went off in someone's head. If we turned the box spring, we might be able to hand it up through the hole at the center of the staricase. Like a SWAT team in a highly-skilled manuever we rotated expertly as we pushed and pulled the box spring to its final destination. We were a well-oiled machine- a team of high powered box spring movers. For a moment we four were the grand champions of the moving universe. All those who saw bowed before us. Which is why it's so unfortunate that no one saw this triumph in moving.

Respectfully yours,

Fine. I admit it.
There are times I like cell phones. It sure is convenient when I'm lost; that's lost on my way to a party or lost in the more cerebral sense. I like that you'll be there on the other end when I need you. I realize that you might be busy and I certainly hope that in those cases you'll ignore me, but if you're not busy then you're there to listen. And sometimes I need someone there to listen. Because I do get lost. I get lost more than I want to. Most of the time I find my own way out, but every so often it's nice to know that I can call you and you can help me out. Thanks. And thanks for having a cell phone.

Even if they are a direct connection to the devil.

Who let Bartlett loose?

A quote from the roommate
"I feel like I want to shower again but I'm not sure if that's necessary or a good idea. I'm not sure I smell bad. But walking to and from here and Foggy bottom..."

The ellipse occurs at the precise moment when my ability to hold a conversation (cough. cough.) and my ability to type (giggles.) were at odds with one another.

A quote from me
"I feel like I want to unbutton my shirt and dance on my chair. I also want to do lots of whooping and hollering 'cause it's the weekend and I'm kind of pleased with that."

A quote from Amber
"A Belgian Waffle has no offensive tactical strength."

A quote from my green naughyde couch a.k.a. "The UltraLounge"
"pfftttf"

One more quote that won't make my mother proud
The setting of this quote is pertinent. I was at a Catholic University playing Ultimate. When my team made a mental error, I started screaming, "When you switch the mark in the middle of a play, you are SCREWING! your teammates." Repeat at full volume at least 3 times.

The moratorium on thinking is over!
....er...at least I thought it was.

Items for discussion
1. Are beards symbolic emotional shields? Does the length matter? Or is it all just hair on the face?

2. How sexy are my calves? Are they irresistibly sexy? Or just really really sexy?

3. Do colognes and perfumes go bad? And if they do, should they be called something else? Like old smelly liquid?

4. Swedish pancakes vs. Belgian waffles- Who wins in a Death Match?

Talk about your gray areas
I really didn't know who to root for here. It's a battle between the overbearing Metro cop and the Annoying Cell Phone User.

Actually in this case, I think I'm going to have to side slightly on the side of the Cell. It's not because she's pregnant, though that could not have been pointed out much more often, but because the punishment didn't fit the annoyance.

I'm not paid to care part 2
or Does Marilyn control the universe?
I went to work today with my mind heavily engaged in my own "stuff". I did my work, but I didn't feel like I was really there until at least mid-day. However, once I got going, I didn't want to stop. Which I think somehow further proves that:
1. I have no idea what I want.
2. Refer to 1.

What do I want?

Welcome to Overanalysis Theater
I'll be your host this evening. I hope that's ok with you. Maybe you'd like a different host. One with a deeper voice? Or maybe you'd rather not be at this theater. Maybe you wanted to be on Broadway, but you got turned around and ended up here. I hope you aren't disappointed. I'd offer you drinks, but I'm afraid that might seem like I'm coming on a bit strong. I don't want to come on too strong when you just got here. I'd hate for you to leave. Then again if you left,I wouldn't have to put on this performance. Maybe it'd be better for both of us if you left. Then I'd miss out on an opportunity to really give a sensational performance, the kind of performance that could make me famous and you stand up and cheer. Of course I could also flop. I could end up miserable and alone. Maybe that's what you want. It probably is. That's why you're frowning. It isn't possible that you're frowning for some other reason. It most certainly must be a sinister desire to see me fail. Why, I bet you came here just to see me fail. You'll be 7.5 times as likely to be happy if I fall flat on my face. That's what you want isn't it? I should stop talking to you all together. Or maybe it's not like that at all. Maybe your frown is just a figment of my overactive imagination. Maybe it's a smile and I'm just too dense to recognize it. Or it's a smile and my brain is failing to invert your head. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. The voices. The whispers. The madness is closing in like a curtain. It's the curtain call at Overanalysis Theater. I hope you enjoyed the show. I hope it wasn't too long or too short or it left you appropriately adequately satisfied, if that's what you wanted, I mean.

My advice to you
Ignore unsolicited advice.

Mr. Sandman
WTF mate?

It's after midnight and neither hungriness nor horniness is strong enough to compel me to action. Instead I sit here, ready to discuss my recent Buffy and Angel addiction. I feel this story is most appropriately told from the beginning.

In the beginning there were Buffy fans. These fans went to my college and they said, "Rah. Rah. Watch Buffy." And I said, "No." And they said (in high pitched voices, of course), "Why?" And I said (in my coming-of-age-manly-college voice) "Because Ed's on. And also because I might want to play frisbee. And furthermore I don't want to." What I really meant by that last part was that I didn't want to exactly because these fans wanted me to. There are times when my sense of rebellion is um, like, totally lame (said in my best valley girl).

Time passed.

I moved to this area and found all those same Buffy fans and they said (back to their high pitched-ways), "Rah. Rah. La la la Now you should watch and sing Buffy." And I said (in my wise twenty-something voice) "I'd really rather not." And they said, "La La La. You don't have to watch but we're going to talk about it ceaselessly and make you sing along- la la la."
And I sang.

Time passed.

For a moment the fans seemed disquieted by the lack of news in the Buffyverse and the ceaseless talking ceased.

And deep in the recesses of my deep and recessful mind, the rumblings of the end of a rebellion rumbled. So one night, not so long ago when the question "What shall we do?" was posed, I suggested (in my I'm-26-and-too-cool-for-all-this-faux-rebellion voice which sounds nothing like Bob Saget) "Let's watch Buffy."

And the peasants rejoiced.

My friend Kim, who in my opinion should have an honorary degree from the charred remains of Sunnydale High, was placed in charge of picking an episode that would be both enjoyable, but also have what they call in the industry (What industry? Who cares?) the "hooks".

Kim, like a frickin' fireman, came through with the hooks and the ladder, bi-atch! But that was like August and so I have almost no recollection of which episodes she chose. I'm pretty sure it was in season 2. And I know there was some serious Buff and Angel melo-DRAMA.

And Time passed. Only in this case it was like lots less time. And it was hardly passing at all unless I was consuming either Buffy or Angel. The fruit of Joss's mental loins was like my f-in' rock candy. And so I'm jamming away, chowing down on DVD after DVD, and now like 2 months later I've been through something like 4 seasons of the Buff-ster and 2 of good old Angelicus. OUT OF CONTROL.

And the next thing you know I'm surrounded by all these fans and we're watching season 1 and I totally realize that I'm one of them. I don't have all the ties, because like Riley wasn't breaking Buffy's heart at the same time as my boyfriend was breaking my heart and so Buffy and I do not lead parallel lives. I just don't have the life time investment connection that the TV fans had, but I've developed my own sense of fanaticism. And it involves the desperate need for closure more than the full-on identification with the characters. Don't get me wrong. These shows are some good times, which I suppose is what most of you were saying all along, but Carol Vescey and Ed and the bowling alley... And I had the rebellion thing going. It was all modern-day James Dean only with more khaki and less jean.

P.S. I love Charisma Carpenter.
Shut up.

Spare me
You only have two bowling choices anymore- leagues or X-treme Cosmic Galactic Bowling. So either you're a serious bowler or you're like high and tripping on your bowling Xperience.
Curses.

I've got the caution.
You've got the wind.
Catch.

Worryometer readings continued cause for worry
Of course I get paid to care. What good is anyone if he/she doesn't care at all? My real point was that I'm not doing anyone any good to worry about stuff while I'm not at work. I can't fix things not in my control. I can't fix things that are already done. Got to move on here. Get over it. Come on. I can do it. I care. I'm just frustrated with the apparently inevitable Responsibility Creep. I'm doing the best I can, but everyday it seems like I have to do my best on a few more things. I'm starting to spread a little thin. And I'm concerned. And no I haven't talked to my manager about it. I haven't failed yet. I just don't want to. Probably because I care, whether they pay me to or not.

I'm not paid to care
There was a time in the not-so-distant past when I could put in my time at work. At the end of the day, I could go home. I didn't think much about home at work. I didn't think much about work at home. The world was in balance.

Now I'm teetering. I think about work at home. I don't want to think about work at home. I'm not paid to think about work at home. I can't (won't) do work at home, so I don't really see a reason to think about it. Now, how do I convince my brain of same?

Is this why I should be a robot? So I could just shut off the work part of my brain when my feet hit the sidewalk. "Work Mode is off. Ding!"

If I were a robot, I probably wouldn't like to watch Love Actually. And I probably wouldn't pause it when Keira was getting married. And I probably wouldn't drool on myself.

So I won't be a robot, but I should really return the DVD. At least with a VCR when I hit pause it made it fuzzy. Now I can look in Keira's perfect eyes and there's no fuzz. There's almost no reason not to pause.

Like Score
I like to roll it around on my tongue. I like the way it sounds, "Twenty". It smells like perserverance and tastes like determination. I like that Matt was there. He can verify it, because he's crazy too. I like the way it makes my calves hurt, the way it sent me through 3 plus hours of misery, glory, wretched pain and natural high. I like the looks I get when I tell people what I did on Sunday.

"I ran twenty miles." I like that it made my Monday morning fabulous, and my whole Sunday superb. Most of all, I like that I did it.

The stars are ours tonight
they sparkle and they shine so bright, go the lyrics to one of the songs on one of my birthday mix tapes. The song was terribly cheesy and perhaps therefore more fitting.

I can't find the tape. I don't know the rest of the lyrics. I rarely see the stars. Tonight the DC sky is filled with them, or as filled as I've ever seen the sky here. It's kind of like when a Midwesterner (not counting Chicagoans) says they have bad traffic. Bad traffic in the Midwest is light traffic here. A DC sky filled with stars is like an overcast night out that way.

I've always liked stars. I used to make lots of wishes. Sometimes I'd stand outside and wish I wasn't lonely, and sometimes I'd wish to get rich, or wish that I knew what I was doing, but most of the time my wish was more like, "I wish to be happy more than I'm sad."

So far so good. I didn't recognize any constellations; a failure of light pollution or a lack of astronomy knowledge. The two lines from the song played on repeat in my head as I tried to take in the clear night and fight off the slight chill. A silent tiny streak flashed across the sky- a shooting star. I made a wish as quickly as I could- not for me, for I am coming off such a fine weekend whose weather and recreation approached perfection. But for another. One whose happiness I can't help but wonder about, especially under a dark canopy poked through with a hundred pinholes.

For a moment, the stars are again, ours, tonight.

I'll take things that are laugh-out-loud funny for 200, Alex

This woman and her antics.

And things that nearly make me cry for 400, please

Joey and Sarah B. I don't know 'em, but that shouldn't stop you from reading Part 1.

Go on, read all 4 parts.

Boxing with idiots
I still haven't fully come to terms with the lack of television in my life. (DVDs don't count.) Although, tonight I started to realize just how "out of touch" I have become and just how much I don't care. It was Thursday night TV, my first TV since the Olympics. The pre-Joey Inside Edition, ET, or whatever, was on and it was unbelievable how much I just couldn't handle all the on-screen cutting and the commercials. It was all driving me mad. I was getting a headache. At first I couldn't figure out why, and then it hit me- I haven't watched a commericial in weeks. Oh how the ad major has fallen...

Tune in later to find out how the lack of TV has contributed to a less material-driven, more word-of-mouth me. It's not that I don't want stuff, it's just that I don't want the same stuff with the same intensity.

It's like (very much like, in fact it's barely a parody of) that Moulin Rouge Medley; only instead of lovers it's neighbors because you should move into the house for rent next door to me
Instructions: This is best read with the Moulin Rouge Love song Medley (I don't know what it's actually called) playing along and your imagination stretching on several of the lines.

(Start Music)

Me (Ewan): Next door is a very splendid thing.
Next door is where you belong.
All I need is you next door.

You(Nicole): Don't start that again.

me: All I need is you next door.
you:We can't afford the rent.
me:All I need is you next door.
you: We won't pay a cent.
me: All I need is you next door.
you: Next door is just a dream.

me: They built a house for you to live in.
And I live right next to it.

you: The only way we're moving in see
is if you'll pay our utilities.

me: Just sign a lease, sign a lease.

you: There's no way, unless you pay.

me: In the name of neighbors, just sign a lease for me.

you: You crazy fool. I won't give in to you.

me: Don't. Leave me this way. I can't survive without you next door. Oh baby, don't leave me this way.

you: Some people want to fill their neighborhoods with all their friends.

me: I look around me and I see, it hasn't worked.

you: Some people want to fill their streets with all their crazy pals.

me: Well, what's wrong with that? I'd like to know, 'cause here I goooooooo again.

me: Neighbors lend us sugar when we run out
fix our rec-ipes in emerg-encies.

You: Neighbors make us act like we are fools, throw our garbage away on trash day.

Me: We could be neighbors! just for one year.

You: You, you would be mean.
Me: No. I won't.

You: And I, I'll drink all the time.


Me: We could be neighbors
You: We can't do that.
Me: We could be neighbors. And that's a fact
You: Though nothing could bring us together
Me: We could steal timeshare, just for one year.

Us: We could be neighbors forever and ever. We could be neighbors forever and ever.
Us: We could be NEIGHBORS.

Me:Just because I iiiiiiiiiii will always live next door.
You:IIIIIIII will always live.

Us: How wonderful this place is, now that you live nearby.


Short French guy: (French words I don't know. Je ne sai pas.) NEIGHBOOOOOOOORS!!!!!!!!!!!

Schmoozin' on the river
I hate schmoozing. Hate it. It's worse than small talk. It's small talk multiplied by insincerity to the power of suck-up. Schmoozing, as Wayne and/or Garth might say, "Blows goats."

Today, I had to schmooze on a cruise as our office took a "summer outing." So I schmoozed, or I at least politely nodded while people schmoozed all around. I admit there was a pinch of small talk mixed in, but it was quelled by the schmoozefest. The two worst moments:

1. When a coworker of mine, one I'm fond of, and one that happens to be a fascinating individual gave me the same insincere, "Heyhow'sitgoing?Doingallright?Havingfun?" bit that she was giving everyone else. I think I stared vacantly past her.

2. When the topic turned to Vegas and another coworker, whose vibe I've never liked, started badgering me about interest in the Vegas burlesque scene. What the ???? You don't know me. You don't know how I feel about burlesque. Lay off.

Sometimes even free meals aren't worth the price.

My new motto
You'll get there faster if you run screaming.

Everybody wins
at Thursday Night Laundry.

Commuticable diseases
This morning I tried out that hour plus commute that so many of my neighbors seem to enjoy. What's all the fuss? I had a lovely run to work, except that one section that made me want to vomit.

One for the Gipper
I stalked the sidelines in my khakis and dress shoes. I hollered. I bossed. I cheered. I coached. I didn't play Ultimate. I wanted to, but I didn't. One small victory for me; let's see how the team does.

What?
If I was a giant Tuxedo-eating robot, starring in a romantic comedy opposite Keira Knightley, do you think I would need to be the rough and tumble type or would I need to be more of the sensitive robot type? Are there even sensitive robot types? I think there probably are, like the ones who wear lipstick, or like Johnny 5. He was sensitive, then again he was alive. Johnny 5 is alive! You think he's still alive? I think so. I mean he had a rough couple of years what with the short circuiting and all, but he seemed to come out on top, in fact didn't he come out golden? and not in the slang way either, Johnny 5 was gold-plated if I remember correctly. My favorite line from those movies was, "Your mother was a vacuum cleaner." I am not willing to wager that was the first big onscreen Mom joke. It killed! Oh my.

Tuxedos are Safeway brand Oreos. They taste just like Oreos, but better than Hydrox. I've never liked Hydrox much. The name is kind of creepy too. Like some weird cookie science experiment.
Do you think the cookie monster was a weird science experiment? Like maybe he wasn't supposed to be blue at all. Oh the horror. Poor guy.

In reference to #2 of the previously unnumbered list
It occurs to me that I may not have ever known who or what I was missing; instead there were times I was distracted.

Do you ever look in the mirror and say, "Who is that?"

-I am waging a battle with pride and instant gratification. I know that if I play Ultimate I could very easily hurt myself with a mere two months to go before the marathon. Twice I've played. And twice I've ached. It's time to accept the reality or face the consequences.

-I don't even know who or what I'm missing anymore. I just know that there are moments where my heart hurts. I reach out but all I clutch at is emptiness.

-Until I trimmed my moustache, I was very very pleased by the whiteness of the bathroom thanks to recent cleaning efforts.

in-law
Sometimes when I'm telling a story I come to the part where I need to say, "my sister and brother-in-law." And sometimes "brother-in-law" does not come out of my mouth as smoothly as "sister" did. My verbal slip-up invariably leads to the question, "It's weird having a brother-in-law, isn't it?"

No. It isn't. I thought it would be, but it's much harder to say than it is to accept. Now granted, he's been in action for something nearing 3 months and in that time I have spoken to him minimally, but as I put together photos from the wedding in an album, I am quickly reminded at how natural it all seems. My sister and Kevin look like they belong together. My sister loves Kevin, by extension I love Kevin. And that's that. So I don't say brother-in-law very well; I don't say stunningly handsome very well either, and I think we've all adjusted to that quite nicely.

Let's make a deal
I will serve you a heaping bowl of Mud Pie ice cream if you give me a back massage.

DOh! the comedy
The Laurel to my Hardy: So Dave, I heard you went to an Orioles game at Camden Yards. Who won?
Dave: I don't know.
The Abbott to my Costello: You don't know? Did you leave early?
Dave: I couldn't see.
The George to my Jerry: You couldn't see? Was there an obstruction?
Dave: Yes.
The Peter to my Paul and Mary: There was an obstruction. Why didn't you get up and move?
Dave: It was a big obstruction.
The Romulus to my Remus: How big?
Dave: About the size of the East Coast.
The peanut butter to my jelly: THE EAST COAST! Dave, you do exaggerate.
Dave: I ain't exaggeratin'. The game was in Florida.
The Jenna to my Barbara: (wide-eyed head shake)
(laugh track)

Quoth the Raven, "We're closed"
Having been denied the pleasures of an Orioles game, I decided to visit the home of Edgar Allan Poe. No publicly available map at the Visitor Center stretched far enough to show the location of Poe's home. The "you should be all right there in the daylight" may be an indication as to why. I arrived at the home of Poe in the heart of the ghett-o (that's poetic, see) only to find a sign that said, "Closed at 2:45pm on Thursday". I looked at my watch- 2:47. Poe escaped my clutchs, but will probably die a suspicious death and end up buried on Greene St. At least I think that's what will happen.

I got you Babe
About the only saving grace in my otherwise futile attempt to tour Baltimore was Babe Ruth's home. Allegedly fun fact: The Sultan of Swat allegedly ate 18 hot dogs in one sitting. It wasn't the most thrilling "museum" I've ever seen, but at least it was open.
Another fun fact: Babe was short for Baby 'cause Ruth was just out of high school when he played in Baltimore.

Who ended the Olympics?

I wasn't finished.

You kiss your mother with that mouth?
I'm sorry universe. I shouldn't have used such foul language. All I needed was a little run.

The equilibrium in the universe
DAMN YOU, UNIVERSE! I need a weekend.

Dear friend,
This is a rather difficult letter to write. In it I intend to admit that I am not perfect, you are not perfect, and our friendship is not perfect.

Where do I start? We've been friends for how long now? I've lost track of a life pre-you. You've been there when things got tough. When I was down about work, or down without work, or bummed about my broken heart, you were there. And even if you were down about work, or down without work, or bummed with a broken heart of your own, you put up with me. You put up with my wandering rants and my sadness masked as comedy. You stopped me and said, "I'm here if you need me." What did I do to thank you? I insulted you. Granted it probably wasn't an out and out insult, but I injected enough cynicism into my compliment that left you no doubt that I was cutting you as I was praising you. Swell. That's what friends are for?

Somewhere along the line you came to expect my two pronged statements, often calling them refreshing bits of honesty. They were honest, for even strengths and weaknesses have big gray areas. Big gray areas that I frankly think too many people ignore. Yet, it isn't fair. Sometimes praise needs to go unchecked. I need to appreciate you in the moment. You have been a fantastic friend to me. You've been better than I ever deserve and for that I need to ignore the gray areas. Not all the time, because I wouldn't know how, but every so often I need to let you know that I love you. I think the world of you. I can't imagine my life without you. You listen. You care. You keep me in line. I can't thank you enough.

I know we have our disagreements. I know we've struggled with how exactly our lives should fit together, but we're not puzzle pieces. We don't have interlocking sections, we are more like different flavors of ice cream melting together (forgive me, I had Spumoni tonight). Our flavors mix and meld together to make a big tasty treat. Friends like you don't go away. You change me, add to me, make me more me than I could be without you. Like any mixture, sometimes there's too much and others not enough. We're always working on our recipe.

We've been through a lot and there's more to come, but before we go on I just wanted to stop and say again, thank you for being in my life.