Irrelevant and irreverent

There are those in certain circles who might equate these two words. I'm not going to name names, but recent conversations have led me to believe that I have strayed from the latter and toward the former. After serious consideration, I have decided to blame others. I'm a self-absorbed sort as we all tend to be, but I've noticed a rather sharp decrease in others' interest in me. I've done a quick check and I seem to be in full fascinating function, so I'm clearly not to blame. Admittedly, there is a staleness creeping around the edges of my being, but it's nothing that a little spit-shine, a glance at my pumice-hard abs, and the end of that ream of a John Irving yarn A Prayer for Owen Meany. Oh my OWEN MEANY, is the runt ever going to die and fulfill his purpose? I HAVE A LIFE TO LEAD here Meany and you're pulling me down like concrete flip-flops.

It occurs to me, that some of my irrelevance may be overstated due to the approaching end of the year. The end of the year, like the end of the night creeps up quietly and then in a deafening roar pierces me with my own uselessness. It begs me to complete something, anything, to give my night and my year value. Please, please, Mr. David stop wasting time on the Internets and save yourself from drowning in information of questionable value.

But voice, but night, but life, Katherine Heigel has a movie called Knocked Up in production for 2007 and the Roomba was introduced in 2002. Also "marshmallowy delicious" has been replaced by "That's me Lucky Charms" and I'll remember almost none of this tomorrow. Irrelevance? I think...perhaps...not.... Maybe?

Merry and bright

Television as Time Machine

I saw this amazing Digital short on Saturday Night Live tonight. It was called "Lazy Sunday." Hilarious. My favorite line was about Hamilton and Aaron Burr. My sense is that this is going to be big. If only there were some way to share the clip with the world. Some way to communicate with other Internet junkies through images. (SIGH.) I suppose I'll just have to settle for words...

Me in the mags

Not only am I on the cover of Time magazine (you are too, really...), but U.S. News and World Report is prepared to give me a laundry list of New Year's resolutions, including at least one that I've already made.

I made the cover of Time and I thought 2006 wasn't quite up to snuff. Watch out 2007.

Hi Kate or I'm breaking the unspoken and oft-broken rule of blogging about blogging

The glove was thrown down in Texas, where warm weather allows that to happen with more frequency. Despite our planet's impending doom, (I watched an Inconvenient Truth and now live by the code- WWAGD? what would Al Gore do?)I decided to take up the gauntlet in Maryland. There's nothing like a long-distance secondhand challenge to inspire a chap.

I sit here, typing like I typed in the days of yore, when ye olde blog was new and fresh and exciting. I search the deep dark caverns of my mind for something of value (5 cents!) to say. Sometimes a little something spills out, other times I consider myself lucky that I'm not trying to sell blog posts on eBay.

I don't know if I can keep the pace of this December after a rather weak year, but I will try. Like the critics of global warming, I will submit that posting is cyclical; the only evidence I have is the post totals in December for my history.
2002- 26 posts
2003- 35 posts
2004- 20 posts
2005- 15 posts
2006 (through today)- 12 posts

Word counts are not available, but I've got to think the 12 posts of 2006 are nearly equal to or above the previous years. Five years of having very little to say has certainly increased my skill at saying nothing with more.

With that said, let me just say, nothing else.

The kind of man I am; item 243

After walking an extra few blocks to get on the Metro, I sat down and rested my head against the window. That's when I heard the announcement that said my train was delayed. Not in the mood to ride out the delay, I got up, walked back to within a block of where I started, took a different train, and made my home some 25 minutes later than expected. This detour cost at least an additional $1.35. None of that mattered though, because what I lost in time and money I made up in moving. I'm like water and delays are like my dam. Or maybe I'm a marble and Metro is my marbleworks. Either way, I can't avoid the funnel and gravity, so there I go...

Or so I've heard

The man who sleeps with dirty laundry is odd.
The man who sleeps with clean laundry is odd with bleach.

Dear Santa

Here's a list of things I no longer need thanks to global warming:
*ice picks
*skates
*really thick sweaters
*hot chocolate
*skis


Here's a list of things I need more than ever because of global warming.
*Margarita glasses and tiny umbrellas
*suntan lotion
*lemonade
*sandals
*beach towels
*waders
*chiles

Please adjust your list accordingly. I have been mostly nice, with some naughty streaks mixed in this year.

Thank you and Merry Christmas.

Sincerely,
David

P.S. Are you concerned about global warming? Is it cutting into your real estate?

Jingle babes

Dashing through 55 degrees of pre-winter hinterland, the horses of a Lexus as black as the night was making spirits bright while I rested with pies and a pillow at my side. Arriving in the land of fighting blue hens, we pulled into another suburbia. From Virginia to Delaware all of suburbia looks the same. Yards are groomed, lights are up in force, and people are gathering for food and wine and either creme brulee or rainbow-colored fish depending on particular tastes.

This house was filled with reluctant singers, but host and honoray co-host had the chops big enough for all of us to follow. They were Jersey-sized entertainers in a Delaware package. The songs were a mix of Christmas and childhood fare. The thrill of a party with a sing-along is the window for socializing is reduced and the door for singing is flung wide open. When meeting strangers in that neighbor to the north, this combination suits some of us quite well. The night wore on and the singing more flamboyant greased by the rainbow-colored fish and the red and white wine. This was my first sing-along, but many regulars waltzed in and out of the house. Good King Wencelas was unable to make an appearance, but Hairbrush song was quite a crowd-pleaser.

The night wound down by 10:30 and the children were put to bed. There were hints that these sing-alongs used to go much longer. Also hints that Hairbrush song was a fairly new addition.

Babies change the world, laughing all the way...
What fun it is to ride and sing, in Delaware at night...

A magical tale of unrealized pancakes
inspired by Abba's comment

The tale has been told many times before. It’s as old as a fourth-grader by now.
Inside a rail-thin man, there lived a little boy. Behind his spotty beard, his
eyes glistened with the anticipation of late December snow. The rail-thin man
with the boy inside grabbed his bag and his plan to dispense good cheer. He
went by Tim 364 other days, but on this day he was known only as Santa Tim.
Santa Tim gathered up good cheer and set about dispensing it.

Good cheer comes in many shapes and sizes. For some folks good cheer pours from
translucent bottles and tingles when it goes down. Good cheer can be served hot
or cold. It can come powdered, in pieces or slices; good cheer has been known to
break the mold. Some people hear it and others can smell it. Some people hug it,
sing it, dab it, kiss it, and then some people forget to bring it. But good
cheer has mathematical powers. It can multiply and get all exponential. Even
divided up it has unlimited potential. Good cheer is as magical as it sounds,
the problem see, is that sometimes people forget just where to find it,
especially in unfamiliar places.

Santa Tim had no such problem. He knew just where to find it. Many places sell
it, but Santa Tim chose the dollar store or some such entity. With the
jolliness usually reserved for much plumper men, Santa Tim filled his sack with
goodies. Toothbrush holders, candle holders, imitation Pez dispensers, soap
dishes, romance novels with half-eaten covers, egg holders, and small pillows
with inappropriate sayings joined kitchen utensils as just a few of the
contents of Santa Tim’s big bag of good cheer. With red hat and white pom-pon
atop his head and bag slung over his shoulder, he and his elf John made the
rounds through the halls, dispensing cheap trinkets like they were frankincense
and myrrh. This dispensing brought great joy to many overgrown children
masquerading as adults. Squeals of delight, pats on the back, why it was almost
as if all the Who’s in Whoville danced in the bellies of the residents.

One boy in particular was overjoyed by his bounty of good cheer. He introduced
himself as David, but all the other children called him Dave. Dave was a lucky
one. Blessed with good looks and remarkable curly locks, he had Austin
Power-esque charm (women wanted him and men wanted to be him). Yet, he was very
humble and remains so to this day, despite his maniacal discourse on subsequent
days regarding kitchen utensils…

Santa Tim was nearing the bottom of his bag and so he offered Dave a choice.
Black plastic spatula or box of multi-colored toothpicks? There was guilt in
Santa Tim’s offer. His guilt had no place here. These were not the dregs of his
goody bag. Certainly not. Fate had brought these items to David. These items
were perfect expressions of all the goodness in Santa Tim’s heart. Dave
recognized it immediately, although he’d never be able to put it into words.
Exactly.

Considering for only a moment, Dave reached out and accepted the black spatula.
It was plastic. It was black. The nearest kitchen was at least two floors away
and locked half the time. Dave wouldn’t make pancakes for years, yet the
spatula was perfect. It was a bat, a racket, a sword, a missile. It was a baby
doll, a loyal pet, a back scratcher, a robotic arm.

Years later, the black spatula rests between the wall and the desk in David’s
home. It’s fallen from its makeshift paperclip hanger and Dave did not take
notice. For all its uses and all the joy it brought, the black spatula now
serves up reminders. Piping hot, fresh, reminders of good cheer.

Why used dessert forks would make a great gift

Come on, used dessert forks would make a primo gift. Let me list just a few of the reasons why:

- Used dessert forks are smaller than regular forks, therefore they are cuter. Used dessert forks are the Mini of the utensil world. The slightly smaller tines alone must be worth 250 cute points.

-Small not only equals cute, but it also means accessible. Dessert forks are great for pickle jars, and uh, dessert. So there's that.

-The batteries may not be included, but stick a dessert fork in an outlet and like grease lightning, "It's electrifying."

I know that so far I have only scraped the tip of the double chocolate cake surface of the advantages of the used dessert fork, and I really haven't focused on the "used" part of things. Fear not, for I saved the greatest argument for last.

-Two words: Leftover icing. Try to get that with Tickle me Elmo.

If you can read this, your Internet is too close

As I peeled the remains of an "I'd rather be playing Ultimate" bumper sticker off my bumper, I wondered if drivers with "Honk for Jesus" stickers went through a similar range of emotions when they picked and poked at the remains of their stickers. As the tiny sticker flakes stopped peeling off in my hand, I thought about the time in Columbus when I lived by my bumper sticker. I found a place where there was too much Ultimate or at least not enough else. I'd rather be playing Ultimate, it turns out, really only works when there's actually something else to be done.

As I scraped at the sticker with a screwdriver, I was reminded of how much Ultimate has meant to me. I get confused when my weekends are without it. Nearly all my friends who don't share some connection to Mizzou are Ultimate players. Ultimate is the reason I wake up Sunday afternoon and the reason I limp to work Monday morning. I run because I like it, but I run more because it will keep me in shape for chasing discs. There's something to this Ultimate thing.

Finally, as I turned to the razor blade and I scraped away the last of "playing," I worried that maybe I'd let Ultimate become too important. Bumper sticker removal and tears don't go together. With a flick of the blade, I erased Ultimate from Lucille. She shuddered as she remembered trips to Lawrence and through Slippery Rock. Discs pulled from her trunk in places as far apart as here and Hays. "Too important?" Lucille's freshly cleaned maroon body asked. Then quietly she directed me to her gold racing stripes. I saw in the stripes what she wanted me to see. Lucille is a fine car without those stripes, but that flair makes her special.

Honk for that.

The boys who say "Wii"

The Wii fairy paid a visit to me this evening. And I've got to say now, I'm all hopped up on Wii. It may not have been the most amazing video game performance of my life, but it was certainly one of the more active. I was particularly fond of boxing and tennis, particularly frustrated by golf and bowling, and alternately satisfied and dissatisfied by baseball. I cannot decide whether I need to buy this latest Nintendo, but if anyone asks why this system has such a ridiculous name, I surmise that it relates to the sound that everyone will make while playing. Wii!

Keep an eye on this Japanese contraption, it has the potential to be a cultural phenomenon not unlike iPod. You heard it here 242nd.

Mice. Men. Best laid plans and stuff

If I-70 is open, then it should be on.

This was the thinking, if we can be so bold as to call it that. MODOT said it was so, and we were off. Cruising down the highway in 22-degree weather that felt like 18, we did not roll down the windows or let icicles roil through our beards. Instead, we rode out of KC with the rising sun and set our course for C-town. On schedule, we arrived at the promised icy patches of Boonville and continued to avoid death. The goal of all driving is to avoid death, just as the goal of all insurance is to avoid paying. Like flood insurance in Arizona, we were successful. There were some nervous moments, like the time when I crushed the flowers my prom date had just pinned on my lapel; there were nervous moments on the road too, like the time a large truck forced me to drive over an icy patch shaped like an 8-bit Abe Lincoln, but we survived. My traveling partner napped through most of this, but he'?ll vouch for our survival if asked.

We arrived in Columbia at 10 AM for our cancelled 10 AM tournament because we had been told there would be hat tournament action. As I came cruising down the hill toward the field, I announced that the drive would probably not be plowed and I should probably seek alternative parking. Then seeing tire tracks on the drive, my optimism got the best of me. Left turn, fifty feet through the sixteen inches of snow and then I could go no more. Forward or backward it turned out. My co-pilot checked for Ultimate players and found none. I yellowed some snow and considered the best way to dig myself out and/or bury the bums not playing. After an hour of forward and backward progress, the rear end of my parent?s' car hung out into traffic. We were still stuck. Furiously digging beneath the car while trying to keep one eye on the road just to see what kind of vehicle skidding down the road might crush us, we worked. Taking another stab at an exit from our snowy parking spot halfway on the road, a car stopped to wave us out. They didn'?t seem to understand that we needed more than hand gestures to get free of the snow that bound us. Or maybe they did understand, because as soon as they opened their doors to come give us a push, the car freed itself from the spot, and we were off.

Finding 4 other hearty souls, all of whom had walked to the alternate fields, we engaged in 3 on 3 Ultimate. Ultimate of this variety haunts me on Stankowski field. Yes, there were many games and many nights where I played full robust games on the turf, but there were also many days and nights of disappointment when the field couldn'?t attract enough players to play. This was not quite one of those times. For the next three hours, we goofed around in the snow. We found that in 16 inches of snow, a person can dive, catch a disc, and then land face first in the snow and be completely covered. We took great joy in whitening our beards, and flopping to the whitened world below us. Joy times at least 50. Some of that was in the bounds of a game with scores, but most of that was just purely throw and catch. It was a goof for sure, but quite an enjoyable one.

And so, as our fingers got cold and our stomachs started to ache from so many landings, hunger set in and we made our way to BoocheÂ?s for burgers. I know now that I didn't consume nearly enough Booche's in college. I attempt to attone for this on every subsequent visit. I introduced two new souls to the burgers. One fell in love with the reuben sandwich too, but the one in Columbia, the one likely to tell her friends- she dug the burger. She also laughed at me for the way I savored them.

Savor I did. After traveling a thousand miles to goof off in the snow, nothing could have tasted better than that sweet delicious $2.50 cheeseburger.

The bad news of a cancelled tournament may have hit me with a shot of mint in the Detroit airport, but snowy Ultimate and burgers reminded me that mice and men don't always know what's best anyway.

24 goes wedding

The commercials have told me that all of TV-land will soon be a-buzzin' about a show called Big Day. On this show, we'll see a wedding day dissected into tiny, and undoubtedly laugh-track-worthy, bits. I expect charming arguments, family tension, and if we're really lucky a tears-of-joy ending. I can't wait. To change the channel. Before I do, I was struck by a little something in the premise of this show.

One day. One season.

Recall with me, if you would, a little show on another network called 24. That action-packed show puts us in the fray as our real American hero wrangles with terrorists in one crazy day of his own.

One day. Wedding. One Day. Terrorism.

I'm not watching either show, but I thought I'd allow others to draw the wedding/terrorism parallels with me. I'm fun like that.

Disappointment with a shot of mint

I didn't realize how excited I was until I stepped into the airport. I was going to Kansas City. There was a winter storm sweeping the midwest. There was Ultimate to be played and old friends to see.

I knew there was a chance that Ultimate would get cancelled, but I never believed it would happen. Ultimate players are too hardy and I was on a 4-day vacation. The flight to Detroit was filled with turbulence. I had to grab on to my seat to make sure I didn't fly out at one point. I stayed seated, survived a landing, and waited for my connection to KC.

Sippping my mint-laced-coffee-drink and eating gingerbread in the airport, the phone rang. My travel partner and I exchanged nervous glances. He answered and his face fell. "16 inches?" he asked. "The roads are closed?"

And so, we suddenly found ourselves on the way to KC without a tournament to play. It was hard to believe as we cruised through blue sky. Then as we neared Missouri, we noticed white below us. The state was covered in snow. At least to a point. As we got closer to the airport, we realized that we were flying just along the edge of the storm. Out to our left, the ground was covered in snow. Out to our right, the ground was covered in ground. It was odd. We were flying the line between snow and no snow. And snow was in the south. That line was also the line between disppointment and activities as planned. Somehow the visual representation made the cancellation sting just a little more.

There's a chance that if the roads open, we'll still see some Ultimate action. In the meantime, I'm left with the puzzling challenge of showing off KC.

The biggest test in 16 years

Age: 16
Goal: 70% and the freedom to wake up in the middle of the night and drive to McDonald's.

The parallel parking did not go as smoothly as hoped. Chalk it up to nerves. Stopped on a large hill, the instructor informed the young driver that those with manual transmissions deserved an extra level of scrutiny, not extra credit as he had hoped. Stopped at a stoplight, a wee bit too close to the car in front. Marked for various other infractions Returned to the DMV, nervously.

Grade: 70%. Passing is passing. Freedom in the eyes of the law. Restrictions in the eyes of the parental units.

"Well I'm not bragging babe, so don't put me down"

A pink learners permit folded and crumpled at the edges sits between 15-year old boy and his parent as they wait together at the bottom of the hill in suburbia. The boy sits on the left, his hands are tightly gripping the steering wheel. With his left foot jammed on the clutch and his right poised to dart between gas and brake, he nervously prepares another go. Slowly letting out the clutch, he slams his foot on the gas and the engine revs its disapproval. Startled, the boy pulls his feet off the pedals and the car lurches to a stop again. After the neck bouncing ceases, a discussion of feathering the clutch, of feeling for that point when the depressed pedal is ready to pounce and unleash a life of cruising for Big Macs and open road, occurs. The left foot raises slowly and the right foot does not jam on the gas, it depresses the pedal inversely of the right and the car rolls to life. It sounds simple enough, though the boy doesn't really know anyone else going through this ordeal. Automatic transmissions, the go-karts of the adult world are what his friends ride. The boy does not have that option. It's either manual in the little red Saturn or the mini-van. If he can just get this now, freedom awaits. Freedom to avoid steep hills, especially at the light on Troost where he imagines the cars lined up behind him and honking as he struggles to find that point on the clutch under pressure, but freedom all the same. This will not be the last day of practice, but the neck snapping, car lurching cannot go on forever.

The ups and downs of my existence

A little piece of the dream cracked today. You may have won the battle, Friend, but I'm resilient. I'm like silly-putty and I am a b*tch to get out of your hair.

That was the down, the up was Stranger than Fiction. It was everything I wanted my movie-going experience to be. I'm calling this the performance of Ferrell's career. Take that Ron Burgundy.

Is it just me or is this mock turtleneck getting awfully tight?

I'm letting my world shrink. Ultimate. Work. TV. Intergalatic planetary space travel. Repeat. There must be more...

Every so often I stumble across some details that I truly appreciate about people in the general sense, even though my stumblings are about a person in the specific sense. Today those details are:

1. A man who likes to read in the outdoors. He takes his books on a walk, finds a spot, and reads. Between paragraphs and deep thoughts, he picks up flowers or leaves or blades of grass and toys with them as he returns to his reading. Twirling, pulling, caressing the pieces of nature, he eventually grows tired of the words and the greenery and folds the latter into the former until eventually all of the books in his library have the pressed remains of outside.

2. A woman who recalls with pride that she was the tallest girl in middle school. Everyone around looks down and laughs at her 5-foot 3-inch frame. Height can be relative. Pride can too.

Fighting uselessness with futility

I felt useless all day long today. My brain then determined the best way to combat this feeling was to escape into the world of Tony Hawk Project 8, aka the gazillionth in a series of addictive video game skating games. Thanks, brain. Nothing makes me feel more useless than the never ending list of challenges with the three-tiered judging and the impossible trick combinations. Why, now I'm so useless that the garbage takes me out.

We're a very cute couple. And completely useless.

The turning point

There's a moment in sports movies where momentum shifts, fortunes change, and underdogs begin their final push to shocking victory. Yesterday, I thought I was in that moment. Facing the perennial local league champs, my scrappy team was tied at 3 all. We were playing well, but it seemed like we didn't believe it could last. They were so tall, so fast, could jump so high, and throw so well. I broke deep, running toward the end zone with my defender on my heels. A big huck went up seemingly out of reach. I raced after it and then left my feet in pursuit of the soaring disc. Laying out, I stretched out my left hand because I needed every extra inch. The disc hit my hand and stuck and moments later I slammed into the ground. My hand gripped the disc and I raised it slightly above my head to signal that I had held on to make the score 4 to 3. For the first time in a long time, it felt like we could win. We seemed to match this team in skill. The other team was fighting for every point and we were fighting back.

Unfortunately, they struck back and took half 8-6. From there, we could never close the gap and they went on to win 14-11. I saw, and I hope my teammates saw that winning is possible. Perhaps we'll meet this team again in the championship game. Maybe that was the turning point and this is one of those really long sports movies with lots of false climaxes.

Voting on the run

I have a long-sleeve white T-shirt that says, "Runners. Yea, we're different."

I like that shirt. It says a lot about who I think I am. I ran to the polls yesterday. I stretched while I waited in line. I cast my vote that mattered a very very very little and then I ran out of there and on for another 3 miles. While I was running through the mist and past the lined up cars waiting to lurch through another traffic light, I started to think about my sixth favorite topic of late. (1. Ultimate 2. Hotdish 3. Offices 4. Hot drinks 5. black licorice) That's right, I was thinking about planned communities. What the world needs now is love sweet love, but also we need communities that allow and encourage people to walk places. Communities with sidewalks and public transportation instead of suburban sprawl would be very good for people that can no longer drive and people that don't exercise and pretty good for the rest of us. If walking to the store was part of the culture, if not always hopping in a car and spewing exhaust into the air wasn't part of our daily routine, if polling places, haircutteries, restaurants were near by, imagine how wonderful life could be in terms of exercise (and stress relief), air quality, and general neighborliness.

That's my life and I approve of this message.

Verrrry interesting

Emergency Preparedness Day at work coincides with the elections.

('Cause they want us to be ready for the outcome.)
(And the ensuing black out.)
(And panic.)
(Don't worry. We'll be trained.)
(And so will our newly elected officials)
(They will protect us)
(as usual?)

Move along. Nothing to see here.

Remember Halloween...that was wicked







A younger, smaller me once said, "Give me a box and I can be anything." So much wisdom and considerable thrift in someone without all of his permanent teeth. That quote was probably in the year of the aluminum-foil robot costume, or the spray-painted green dryer get-up. It may have been the year of the third-tallest hat in the world complete with King Kong action figure hanging from the radio tower, not a Halloween costume granted, but still an impressive box-making feat. I know it wasn't the year of the punk rock ghost or the regrettable decision to be a cross country runner when I was in fact a cross country runner. Of course, there were no boxes involved during the cross-dressing years.

Halloween is a challenge that I particularly enjoy. Unfortunately, when my creativity gets going it often outstrips my building abilities, even in the box construction area. There was an ent a few years ago that looked a bit like I tripped and fell into our recycle bin. Sometimes both my construction abilities and my creativity fail me at the same time. I'm wondering if that was the case last year, since I only recall wearing my cowboy shirt to work and no other costume.

In the year 2006, the story is very different from just a year ago. Saturday night I attended a party as a Frosted Mini-wheat. I make a fine breakfast cereal if I do say so myself. I don't have pictures that I feel like sharing, mostly because I think there need to be a few benefits related to seeing me in person. A Frosted Mini-wheat me just moved to the top of that list right past watching me raise my eyebrows at salacious stories. I am, however, willing to share my work costume. I would've been a Mini-wheat at work, but that get-up didn't allow sitting, so I racked my brain and finally settled on clever over construction. I know clever is in the eye of the beholder, but I taped two dimes to my chest and proudly asked my coworkers, "Do you like my costume?" They looked at me strangely while I pointed to my chest. "Does it help if I shift?" Every time, it did not. And then, fully anticipating the eye rolls I received, I announced, "I'm a Paradigm Shift."

I think some of my coworkers have stopped talking to me.

There's a tic in frantic

I wrote a note at work today. Somehow it seemed easier to just rip off a sheet of lined paper, scrawl some words and addresses on it, and sign my name. The signing gave me pause. There's no automatic signature on the pages torn from a notebook. After struggling through the closing, I felt refreshed. This was the pace of work at one time. The pace of writing. The pace of mailing. The pace of waiting. I had a coworker who used to talk about the days before computers. It wasn't all typewriters and carbon paper. She said mail would come in daily some time near 11 AM. The mail would get opened, sorted, letters would get answered and sent back out into the world. Sometimes in a day. Sometimes not. They didn't follow up on the same issue three times in an hour. They were buried in paper, sure, and they had occasion to use a tickler which makes me giggle a little bit, but work was different. For five minutes, I felt that today. It relaxed me. We go so fast. We get things done; it's true. Some of them get done multiple times. We are doing more than ever before. And that's what matters... That's what matters....

Checked into the boards by Mr. Universe

I'm not sure about heaven, but Oklahoma...

Not how I wanted to start. Sorry.

Let me start again. There's a beauty in the universe and I suspect it's hanging around everyday. It's like beauty smog and it just sort of infiltrates everything around us. We breathe it in and stare it down and sound waves ride gondolas steered by able-bodied smog Venetians through it on the way to our ear canals. Most of us get caught up in too much other stuff to notice the fog of the smog of beauty flatulence. It takes an elbow to the throat to jolt us into noticing. I've had great fortune this week to take at least three elbows to the throat.

Elbow the first: I know that babies have a high cuteness quotient, but so few of them run with my crowd so I don't usually realize the depths of that power. Last week, I met Anya for the first time. It was a pleasure. She was fascinating. She'd move her hands while dreaming and the room full of people who had not stopped staring at her would collectively smile as if we were her puppets and she controlled our mouth muscles on strings. I was not immune to her power. It was a calming sensation and it put my whole week into perspective. The false complications, the various manufactured stresses- what is all of that compared to a tiny baby? Nothing. Each of us was once that small and that helpless. Each of us started out only wanting to eat, sleep, poop, or some combination of the three. We only pretend we have passed that stage.

Ulna the second: My iPod mini is full of music. Some of it makes me want to shake my tailfeathers. Some of it makes me want to grab my banjo and slow dance with it. There's music that makes me smile, makes me rock, makes me appropriately sad, fired up, or makes me want to break out my falsetto. There is one band though that reaches down inside of me, plucks out my soul, and serves it with cream of mushroom soup as part of the growing-in-popularity hotdish. That band is Hem. This weekend I got to sit in the front row while they served my soul as a delicious meal. Somewhere in the last few years I lost track of how much meaningful music they have put out. I delighted in nearly every song as they carried me through love, loss, and that place of peace that I can only recognize when I hear it in my innards.

Codo de tercero: High on a hill in grassy field in Virginia, framed by the Autumn colors of reds, yellows, and greens, chilled slightly by October air, a group gathered to play a game that has come to mean so much to me. That game- Ultimate. My mistress, my salvation, my social network, my release, my happiness. My first game of the season. I twisted my "good" ankle just before we began to play. With my bad ankle and my quadriceps already causing concern, I feared that I was done, but the switch clicked when the game began and the pain vacated. White plastic cut through chilled air and I gave chase. We carved tracks back and forth across the grass and let youth, joy, and beauty run into the indentations our pounding cleats left. The indentations overflowed and so we leapt into the air, diving, bounding, jumping, and hollering to pursue it all. Beads of sweat formed, deer appeared to watch this display of natural beauty as the disc spun on sometimes just out of reach. Bodies extended to fly through the air, feet darted, sometimes slipping, but panting and smiling we soared to meet the high of activity.

Excuse me, did you say Hot Dish?

I don't remember how the topic came up, and I refuse to admit that I might have been swapping recipes. Nonetheless, there was a "hot dish" (apparently that's Minnesotan for "casserole") that sounded pretty delicious and pretty easy in this conversation, which may or may not have extended beyond hot dishes. Anyway, I came home, whipped it up, slathered it with ketchup, and put it in my tummy for the last two nights. It's so good I wrote all three ingredients down on a recipe card and wrote "Hot Dish" at the top so that my grandchildren can some day enjoy a hot dish of their own.

Hamburger (or soy crumble)
Cream of Mushroom soup
Topped with Tater tots
Cooked for 45 minutes

Hot Dish. It's almost as fun to eat as it is to say.

The Garter family

It never feels right trying to catch a garter from a barely-known groom. It always feels like there should be some bond between this groom and the "next one." At least that's my excuse for only coming up with one garter in seven tries this year. Those in attendance might call in to question the word "tries" for several reasons. At least two of the weddings decided to forgo the dive beneath the bride's dress, so they were out. I caught the one. I don't remember how two others went down, which leaves us with just two.

In the first, my young cousin took one for the team with a stunning diving grab. I was quite proud of him for his catching ability as well as his generosity in taking the heat off those of us that have actually reached marrying age. Good man. Good show.

The second of the uncaught garters came much much closer. The garter whizzed out to my left and above my shoulder. It was catchable; I should know, I like to catch whizzing things for fun, however, it didn't seem right to steal the moment from the gentleman to my left who was not only in the direct line of flight, but was also about a head taller than me. Quickly considering these factors, it only seemed fair to let him have the prize. He must have been considering a different set of factors because he politely stepped out of the way to allow the garter to fall to the floor. Like befuddled baseball players, we looked at each other disappointedly before recovering our dignity. "Dear sir. I believe that was yours. Please do pick it up now," we both said. This back and forth went on for an awkward stretch before a young lad saved us from further discussion and plucked the garter from the ground. This seemed like an excellent compromise to all parties involved.

The wedding wave crashes

I thought that I'd feel a bit more jubilant now that I have my weekends wrestled back from the marriage monster. I closed out Wedding Wave 2006 with my seventh and final wedding over the weekend. My suit will head to the dry cleaners. My tuxedo will head to the tailor. (There was a crotch-ripping incident. It was a good year....) It's odd, not knowing what's next. I can only wonder when I'll be able to vogue again. I don't know whose Mom will be the next Mom I get to hug or whose Dad I'll get to struggle through a conversation with. It could be six or eight months before I see another bridesmaid. I may be calling my friends to give toasts during my meals, just to ease me back into the weddingless existence. I thought I'd be happy right now, but I'm a little lonely. It seems that... uh... there ain't no party like a 19,000 dollar party, 'cause a 19,000 dollar party don't stop. Say what? er. They do stop. And people sort of stumble off the dance floor, hug, kiss, and wish the sharp dressed man and that happy woman an enjoyable visit to somewhere romantic. The rest of us return to our lives already in progress. Maybe we caught up with some old friends, but by Tuesday four days will be just like four years. Maybe we made some new friends, but by Wednesday who knows when we'll see them again. At least we've got pictures, and also CDs, coasters, coffee, small bags of edible goodies, and our memories. Someone will drink to that. They always do.

Ways to look a gift horse in the mouth without sustaining serious injury

-Sneak up on the horse while she is sleeping.

-Stand perpendicular to the horse and use peripheral vision.

-Two words: Magna Fication

-Translated as one word: Binoculars

-Become a gift horse dentist, then it will be an occupation and OSHA will print guidelines for the bulletin board which will be oh so helpful.

-Wait until the gift horse is dead.

Or follow the advice passed down by generations of folks wiser than Salman Rushdie and don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Plant it on my cheek

Zach Braff is all the rage. Or at least he was like 10 minutes ago. I don't know why anymore. I saw Last Kiss and I'm depressed. It's a sad movie about how life sucks. I don't like to go to movies to find out life sucks. I go other places for that; country music stations for instance. I go to movies to escape, not to be reminded that at the end of this whole show we're all just going to end up dead anyway. I mean according to this flick, life is pretty much over at 29. Come on Braff, not all of us get to mambo with Rachel Bilson. I don't know what that means exactly, but I'm pretty sure that it adds rather than detracts from my ill feelings toward Last Kiss. The movie isn't dark and meaningful. They curse a lot, so it sounds dark, but it doesn't do it for me. It has some good music, but I wonder if it has the same problem that Garden State had. In that one, I found the soundtrack more moving than the movie. I can't confirm this on the Kiss yet, 'cause I haven't heard the soundtrack separately. It's just a theory at this point. Rachel Bilson had a really short pleated skirt. This factoid also seemed worth mentioning, though unconnected to much. Although in this case the pleats improved my opinion of this movie. In fairness to the folks that like men, Braff took off his shirt. This neither added nor detracted from my experience. Overall, I have to say that I wasn't pleased with the first movie I've seen in a theater since California*. Save your money.


*I'm looking into new ways to mark time. I have not ruled out states.

A Public Service Announcement for my New York readers Or is it reader, now?

The baring of one's teenage soul seems like loads of fun. Or at least worth a cringe.

Let me know if you end up on TV.

The ballad of disease

Here's the profanity-laced follow-up to my first *hit* single, The stability song. This one was inspired by a heart patient with pneumonia. I figure it has to brighten her mood just knowing that I won't be singing this to her.


Just because it's still dark
Doesn't make it night
Just ‘cause they removed the fat
Doesn’t make it lite.
She’s out of bed,
But fighting a foe.
You can call him Murdoch,
But I’ll call him Moe.

He’s pneumonia
A mean ol’ lung infection
He's pneumonia
Nobody’s candidate for re-election

He’s banned from the A-team
And cut from JV
If he were walking
I'd kick his knee
That surly bastard
Attacking the impaired
Come on, Moe, bring it.
Are you scared?

He's pneumonia
Doesn't rhyme with Jack Sh**
He's pneumonia
Y’know she’ll get over it.

The immune system sounds the bell
does its Truman
And gives him hell
Pneumonia goes down
With a right to the jaw
The crowd cheers wildly
And sings this song

He's pneumonia
Doesn’t rhyme with Jack Sh**
He's pneumonia
Y’know she’ll get over it.

Immune system dances
Cha-cha in the street
Pneumonia shrinks away
He's been beat.

Just because it’s pink
Doesn’t make it dusk
Just because it's perfume
Doesn't make it musk
She's out of bed
And besting her foe
This song should've ended
A long time ago

Pneumonia!
Bloody hell.
Pneumonia.
Go on, get well.

Here's a quote

From Eugene Mcarthy, "You have to be smart enough to understand the game and dumb enough to think it's important."

Pretty much sums it up, doesn't it?

The Juan Valdez where everyone thinks they know your name

There is a Juan Valdez coffee shop on the corner of 6th and Fun Street. It opened six months ago. Across the street is a Starbucks. The green wheel of coffee shop dominance spins in at least three Fun Street locales. Juan had to know this when he opened his shop. Still, he pulled his red awnings down and opened his sterile white walls to the world. Lines snake out the door of the Starbucks. There are no lines at Juan's. For a time, Juan didn't seem to have niche. Then, one day, looking in the window below an awning I saw someone I knew perched at a table. It wasn't just someone I knew, it was my friend Amy from elementary school. I did a double take and she was gone. A blonde girl with remotely similar features stared past me. Turning the corner, I looked in another window and saw Mike. I haven't seen Mike since I left Winter Park four years ago. I squinted and Mike morphed into an unknown scruffy coffee drinker.

Wondering who I'd see on the inside, I took my seat at the window and chewed on a Juan Valdez tuna salad sandwich. There's a reason Juan is not known for his tuna. I was reading the paper as I munched, when an attractive woman burst through the door, turned the corner, and cried out "Nick..." and then trailed off into, "Oh. I thought you were someone else."

These events have lead me to believe that Juan Valdez was not so foolish as to challenge Starbucks. I believe Juan Valdez is not on the corner of 6th and Fun. Instead, he's set up shop smack dab in the intersection of reminiscence and familiar faces.

I think I was blind before I went to your wedding*

The Internets are already burning up with tales of the Voltron-like union of Kristin and Justin, but in an attempt to make up for my dismal blogging September I thought I would add my own account.

I admit to wondering how a wedding in a high school auditorium was not going to feel a bit too much like "awards night." I stopped wondering when I heard the rumor that Chuck had designed a set. I've seen the man's entertainment center, I knew he was capable of class. So I took to wondering what sort of song and dance number we'd get to see. Kristin and Justin did not can-can, but they put on quite a show. The stage was set simply and beautifully. The programs on notepaper were perfect. Every detail from the hot pink ties to the music had Kristin and Justin's personality in it. Lucky for all of us, they each have fantastic personalities. My favorite ceremony moment was hearing excerpts from their personal letters. Both are such wonderful writers with such distinct voices, to hear those voices wrapped up in a growing love was a special treat. Arguably a better treat than the the 1 million different varieties of cake offered at the reception. Although, in fairness, the Butter Pecan did rock my world. Do you know what else rocked my world? Paul. He was a beautiful dance partner. The most beautiful dance partner I had all night besides Julie, Anne, Kristin, that one girl, J-dub, and of course, Clare. Beautiful in his own way. And, a genius. Paul came up with the routine that would carry us to third place in the dance contest. Jumping jacks are sweeping the countryside like giant electric brooms. You'll see.

The thing about this wedding and the thing that I'm not sure I can really put into words is the love. There is joy in seeing two great people come together and it helps so much when you know each one is great. What makes it even better is getting to witness such an event surrounded by bunches of other great people. It doesn't hurt at all when those bunches can cut a freakin' rug.

I'm glad I didn't die before I got to party.

*With all due respect to Bright Eyes and the song that I've listened to 8 times today and sung constantly since leaving the Midwest.

The stability song

I've decided to write a song. I'm not so much with the music or the lyrics, but I'll italicize the words and make odd line breaks and everyone perusing the Internets like child molesters that thought they missed me this month can remember that they didn't. That same everyone can also be insulted that I just compared them to child molesters. Then they can wonder why good-looking singer-songwriters are such jerks. Then the ones that are singer-songwriters can be upset that I insulted them too. Oh. Man. The child molesting singer-songwriters are going to be furious. Maybe they quit reading in early September. Please don't tell them. I hope they don't have an RSS feed.


This is a song about being stable.
I didn't write it. I wasn't able.
This is my song about stability
Sitting here in all my futility
Working hard every day.
Just so I can say,
Oh, I'm working haaaaard

This is a song about being still
I wouldn't sing it. I'm not Phil.
This is a song about not moving.
Broken down and not grooving.
Working hard every day.
Just so I can say,
Oh, I'm working harrrrrd.

Traveling the countryside
In my gas-guzzlin' ride.
I'd rather take the train.
I'd rather it not rain.
I'd rather you silence that phone.
I just don't want to hear it.
I'm busy working hard.

Why-oh-why
does your ringing,
sound three point five times better than my singing?

I'm not classically trained,
I'm not filled with pain.
I'm not having fun.
But
I'm
Working
Hard.

Pink Perfection at the "Sugar Shack"

The sun was painting the sky in a daily farewell. Pink lemonade strips were woven between fluffy white cumulus clouds. A rain was coming, but only one. Followed by another. Rain, like underwear, is puzzled by its number. Unlike underwear, rain is not nearly so puzzled when it comes to gender. American rain lacks an obvious gender, but French rain is female. The buttons on her shirt are on the left, for the rain-servants. French rain can wear short skirts and get away with it. When French rain gets asked out for coffee, the thunder almost always picks up the check. This makes American rain exceedingly jealous because American rain has to pay for its own coffee. Plus American rain is tired of Pat jokes. What's that? It's American rain.

At night, after the sun has set and the little ones are asleep, sometimes American rain cries itself to sleep. It's very hard to tell because tear drops on rain drops can be a subtle phenomena only detectable by trained eyes. Although, there was a man with no eyes at all who could hear the tears. They drove him mad and he invented a shampoo for children and sensitive adults, but his brother... His brother Johnson lived in a Sugar Shack next to the home of American rain. Johnson didn't have the incredible ears of his brother Johnson, but since people often confused the two of them anyway, this story has shifted in his general direction.

Now, Johnson lived in a Sugar Shack. That sounds sweeter and/or dirtier than it was. He worked part time as a painter and the other time he spent thinking of ways to get out of working altogether. In a fit of inspiration, Johnson painted his modest meadow dwelling to look like a spun sugar egg. There are those that claim he had a Gretel fetish, but the most commonly held theory is that the younger Johnson decided that he could charge tourists to gawk at his shack. It was not altogether a bad plan, especially when one considers that the Precious Moments chapel attracts 400,000 visitors a year.



(The answers to your questions are yes, I'm reading Tom Robbins again and Pink Perfection and "Sugar Shack" were my dinner. The former was a smoothie, the latter a platter with baked beans, crepes, eggs, and Black Forest ham.)

I got Lost in the fictional town of Neptune

DVDs and cliffhangers are a bit like Oreos and freedom. With only work, pauses for meals, and the jaunts to the bathroom to slow me down, I have made my desperate grasps for closure and in trusty television fashion I have been left wanting. They can take the commercials out of the TV, but they can't take the consumer off the couch. With the ads gone, my desires are more uncertain. I don't know whether I want Budweiser or Kellogg's Corn Flakes, but I know that I want. Somewhere deep inside of me, I want. I hunger. I thirst. If not glued to my seat, I'd pull out the blender and mix everything I could find. Twizzlers, hummus, milk, and mystery. Is that a me-shaped mold on my couch? If I'd rotated couches, I could now make multi-colored plastic me's and sell them off to pay for other things I might crave.

I heard I might crave one of the new Apple gadgets. The nano comes in color now. Just what I need. The wee little shuffle is so small it can be swallowed and passed through the system. Eat it with fiber and it'll shuffle inside of you for a full battery cycle*. (*Not recommended or proven) I'd run out to buy one, but I'm not speaking with my iPod at the moment. We got in a tiff recently. My silver mini was blocking out the world all proper-like, spitting my music collection through the buds and directly into my brain. Swept up in a Funnel Cloud blowing down Metro's tracks in a crush of suburb-dwellers, my eyes passed over the weakened force. Silently I commiserated with the masses. Ties were loosened, bone-crushing heels clung to feet, eyes remained downturned. As my cloud paused and the doors that always seem to be closing hinted at opening, a woman waited next to me. She was leaving. I was staying. She was dressed in her conservative best. Her big black heels raised her golden hair slightly above my dumpy lid. She turned to me and I watched her lips move. Words, a sentence, spilled from the moist pinkness below the brown eyes tilted just slightly in my direction. She was speaking to me. In an instant I reviewed the rules of public transportation. No eating. No drinking. No music without headphones. No littering. Oh. Yea. And the unwritten rule, the genesis of the infamous Metro stare, the rule that says nobody ever talks to anybody, especially not the smelly bearded men, a party with whom I was currently registered.

The woman was talking to me. Having reviewed the rules in my head, I also did a short equation. Attractive + woman + stranger + Metro = Avert eyes! Avoid the burning of human connection! I ignored my calculation as she had ignored hers and ripped a bud from my ear.

"Excuse me?" I asked.
"Nothing," she muttered as she walked out the doors.
"Please stand clear, the doors are closing," said the only other woman that ever talks to me on the Metro.

Buds?! What kind of buds are these, Apple? The kind that shut out the secrets of the universe. The kind that prevent me from telling the Internets about the specifics of a failed pick-up attempt. These are not my buds. These are tiny white fists pummeling destiny. They are awkward little hands strangling fate. They are the miniature subwoofers adding pulsating depth to an otherwise ordinary moment.

My little weather

In the east, the storms have names. Ernesto is on his way. He's a Spanish storm prone to light destruction and searing bouts of depression. He's recognizable by the tears he cries. The weathermen all hail Ernesto. Ernesto will affect us all, they say. Especially our ratings, they don't say. Storms like him are big news. Here the storms take their time in coming. They plot and plod, spinning around those beady eyes and leaving a trail of fallen branches. We name them because we have time to name them. They aren't our friends, more acquaintances really. Freaks of nature, we claim behind their backs as we all track his progress eagerly on TV and radio and Internet. Even through our insults, we build a relationship with the storm. We introduce him to the family. We think about him while we purchase toilet paper and SPAM. We know him. Maybe we fear him. We definitely talk about him. Ernesto was quiet. I never would have expected this.

In the middle, storms are nameless. They answer to cyclone and tornado. The east may think this reflects a lack of imagination. What many in the middle gain during commutes, they lose in a storm. Proper names and waiting periods give way to green skies and the swirling winds. It's not a lack of interest that prevents naming convention. It's a lack of time. Storms in the middle are lust and raw energy. They are bumping against a bathroom stall, grunting, destroying. They are singular. They are in the moment. Storms in the middle sneak in, blow by, and leave us wondering where that came from. We remember them, but in a vague way, in a numbered way. That tornado in '86. The big one in '99. Storms in the middle are no less personal, they're just less personal to so many people. They don't give us a chance to talk about them until they are gone. It's like a tornado hit this place.

Storms in the west are a mystery to me. They seem to occur less frequently. In the west, mother nature is both more open with her emotions and more reserved. In some places, she doesn't allow them to build up inside and then come out in a rush of power and anger. She releases them daily with a sprinkling of rain and a mixture of sunshine and clouds. In other places, she withholds the emotions all together. She cries no tears and we sweat, but more figuratively than literally because it's all so dry. Of course, she has her moments, lightning and thunder and rain that still make children cower, but they seem to lack the magnitude found in the middle and the east. She makes up for this in other ways. Fires, earthquakes, droughts, she is a complicated woman.

Meanwhile, Ernesto stops at the beach for a frozen daquiri, a ride on the waves, and a desperate search for somewhere to let out his frustrations. Ernesto is on his way.

Unpaid advertisement

I picked up a little tip while I was in an Apple store the other day. I can create "Smart Albums." These albums group together my photos according to criteria I set.Oh the power. For instance, by first labeling all my wedding photos (with a little trick called Batch Change) so the comments field contains "Wedding," I am now able to instantly album-ize all photos taken at weddings this year. That way I have them all at my digital fingertips and I can tell you fun facts like: 132. My camera has snapped 132 pictures at weddings in '06. I can certainly up my totals while I ride the latter half of Wedding Wave 2006. One day, when I'm feeling particularly mean, I will create a slideshow from all the weddings I attended, set it to sappy music, and torture single people everywhere. Although, I must admit that I have ended up in about one quarter of the pictures, so what I really need is a Smart Album and accompanying slideshow titled, "Me. The digital years." That way I can torture everyone equally.

As, Bon Jovi didn't quite say, "It's i-life!"

(And it's now or never...)

Better yet, I should create a tune in Garage Band to go with my slideshow. Vanity in the 21st century ROCKS!

Memorandum
To: Mr. Daimon
From: Mr. David
Subject: Comments on endurance

Dear Mr. Daimon:

Please come back to the U.S. of A so I can chase you around and around shaking my fist in a threatening manner. I had a history teacher once who said, "Old is 15 years older than you." I intend to live by those words. Runners are in their prime at this age. Cyclists have only just begun. I will not be putting up with your negativity.

If you have questions or need to reach me, I'm going to be out running.

Thank you.

If your comment was some sort of reverse psychology kind of thing, good work.

There's a black hole in Minnesota
Rochester, MN It's unfair to blame Minnesota for the downturn that my vacation has taken. I overestimated my energy level and underestimated Ma Nature. Tired and rained upon, I managed to eat a salad by a lake, wander almost aimlessly until I stumbled to the pinnacle of Americana, the symbol of all that we are and can ever hope to be, the Mall of America. Shops, restaurants, theme parks all in one building- this is why we beat the British and this is why we fight the terrorists.

It's not the enormous mall's fault that consuming could not lift my spirits. It's not like the mega mall didn't try. I mean, virgin mango daiquiris, come on, people that want to be cheered get cheered by that sort of thing. I sulked on and then drove on. As I trudged up the stairs to my Motel 6 boudoir, I thought about how nice it would be to find a Laundromat. Yes. A Laundromat. I drew my curtain and there. Shining before me was a MegaWash. Open 24 hours. With a hop, skip, and a little tail wiggle, I unpacked the dirty clothes and prepared to wash the California out of them. Overjoyed seems a bit strong, but as my clothes spun, I had a moment to relax and enjoy the quiet slow rock of the MegaWash. I read. I pinballed. I folded. I returned to Tom's light a happier lad.

I woke this morning to the gray that has stalked me on this trip. It was gray all day and in kind I was in a fog of my own. For 5 miles, I broke free of the fog as I made my way along Bear Creek on foot-pounding good jaunt. I realized something during my run. I have taken out the long slow distance over the past two years. I should do something about that; it's likely the cause of my deteriorating endurance. Other than that moment of light, this day has been less than bright. I have some small hope for an entertaining evening, but at the moment I wonder if that, like Bunyan and the big blue ox are merely myth. Babe, I wonder.

Oh you're not hardcore...

Salinas, CA- Dark Italian Coffee, free wi-fi, an empty downtown Sunday morning three blocks from the National Steinbeck center. Six locals and I wander the streets trying to pick the best coffeehouse and breakfast establishment, only I don't need breakfast. I've been up off and on since yesterday, which I suppose each of us could say about ourselves since conception or whenever napping truly begins, sometime after stem cells, no doubt. I meant I didn't sleep particularly well last night. Some less hearty souls might blame the ground for it was hard; I came prepared for that. I blame the chill. I'm not sure where I thought I was going, but I should have brought some heavier clothing. At 4:30 AM Pacific time, I could no longer abide by the upside-down-sprint-crawling-in-place method of warming up, so I left my campsite and went for a drive.

There are certain advantages to traveling alone. No one was around to complain that I was up and driving before 5 AM. No one would be concerned or have to find sleep of their own if I just stopped by the Pacific and took a little nap in my nice warm car. I had hopes of waking up to a gorgeous sunrise or some such poetry, but instead found the sky and the world to be what I can only assume from my short trip to be typically overcast. I was hoping my poetry would have yellows and pinks dancing on an ocean blue. I got greys and browns dancing on different shades of grey and brown. The poetry is subtler here.

Popping Pop-Tarts and guzzling water from a gallon jug, I made the drive back to camp in the light. Under grey skies I could see beauty in the countryside that had not been present in total darkness. I could also see golf courses. It is a strange sensation to sense the nearness of a vast ocean but not be able to see it. There is an endless quality to ocean and darkness, a pull outward toward the unknown. It is somewhat less strange to see the ocean in the morning. Vastness ends at the horizon. Vast still, but limited somehow. An ocean at night truly goes on forever and begins at the edge of sight. Golf courses, with their out of place and neatly trimmed fuzz of green, by early morning light and in total darkness offer a different flavor of strange. I had not felt the pull of golf course as I drove by in the dark. Now that I could see them, I did feel a slight pull inward. The ocean pulls out; golf pulls in. I am not sure what that says about adventure and privilege.

It's still morning and I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I've put golf and the ocean a bit behind me. I've filled myself with coffee and filled screens with this jumble. I feel mentally calmer and bladderly more excited. I don't know what the day or the night brings, which is more like life than most of us want to admit. I'm going to be ok with that. I want to camp tonight to continue to prove my... cheapness, a quality that I seem to place up there with honesty on the pedestal of important qualities, but warmth is a quality that has its own particular value and so I will likely end up in a seedy motel watching HBO and wondering exactly what I had hoped to gain from this whole thing and then remembering that this struggle between golf and ocean, in and out, me and my particular set of values is fun. I'm thinking, awake, suffering, free. Speaking of suffering and free, I'm not used to this much coffee...

Oh the places...

The backpack is all stuffed with tent and clothing. I'm leaving on a jet plane knowing to the minute when I'll be back again, unless I get delayed by weather or maintenance or some unforeseen circumstances. I'm looking for a few of those starting after noon- weather, maintenance, and unforeseen circumstances. In the mornings though, all foreseen circumstances, please. After lunch, it's time to start wandering in my rented carriage. Chauffeur and passenger all rolled into one, I'll be a human Cordon Bleu and adventure will be my cheese. I have direction, as that seems to be my hot pants of late, but the plan is only loosely defined. I've packed freedom, of course, and underwear. I trust both will be clean and still fit tomorrow. There are certain things I need to take care of and certain things I have to admit to myself. I'll pay my respects to a dear friend by spending some time with the fishes. I may admit that the allure of the big city is less my style than the drive away from it. Or I may find the opposite- that the big city is an enormous powerful magnet and I am but a slender paperclip powerless against her pull. How quickly will I discover that my travels are much less profound and so much more Pictionary? Person. Place. Thing. Object. Action. Difficult. All play.

110, 99, 131

A. The number of calories in each of my bites of ice cream. Ah, a delicious treat.
B. The bowling scores from another tough Monday at work. Ah, a delicious feat.
C. The number of ways three chefs can think to prepare beef. Ah, a delicious meat.
D. None of the above.

K through 21

Hairy-chested kindergarteners have nothing on me. I skipped the trip to the babysitters, haven't had to color inside the lines in more than a month, and had a beer with my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It wasn't as delicious as I'd hoped, but then memorizing my phone number has not proven to be as valuable as "they" claimed it would be. Like chasing the girls at recess, I have found this day to be an excellent stress release. I'd climbed a few too many jungle gyms, piled on a few too many Mother's Day outs sans mom, and just plumb had my fill of Legos and Lincoln Logs. To negate that overburdened feeling, I've filled my day with idle TV-watching, like Saturday morning cartoons only on Sunday and with Gilmores on DVD. Every day cannot be filled with activity. Sometimes we just have to take a moment to buy more Johnson and Johnson's "no more tears" shampoo, even if we're too much of a big boy to need it. Or we have to remember to use the kickstand on the shiny blue bike with the banana seat instead of always flinging it into the grass. Or we have to come home when the street lights turn on. And no it doesn't matter if one of them is out and never comes on, it's still time to come home. And yes, have a drink before bed, but just one, and that's it.

What you get is not what you want and what you want is not what you get

In a clearing between the deep green of conifers, two enormous log bridges floated in the air above the smoothest pond I've never seen. It was calm, serene, beautiful. One end of each log was sliced perfectly. The other ends were too far away to see. As if in a helicopter, I hovered into this serene clearing. There was a mack line of disc players on one of the logs. That should provide some picture of the scale. They played comfortably; the fear of falling wasn't a factor. I landed on the other log, not landed really, but appeared. I had the urge to cross the log, to reach the other side I couldn't see. I started to walk and then I lost my balance. I was clinging to the underside of this enormous log when I lost my grip. Suddenly I found myself a lot higher above the water than I'd realized. I was higher up and I was falling. It happened very quickly. I plummeted toward the sheet of pond and then with a splash I woke up.

Saturday afternoon at the quote factory

It's a gradual descent into a life I never meant... R. Kiley

In the end, perhaps we should simply imagine a joke; a long joke that's being continually retold in an accent too thick and too strange to ever be completely understood. Life is that joke, my friends. The soul is its punch line. T. Robbins

You said you provided your guests with a welcome basket of eyeballs. All I found in my room was a trash vase filled with old tragedies. You also claimed to offer free overnight humping in your garage. Not true, Fella. M. Libs

My broken Landis

Dear Floyd,

You have hurt me. I watched the Tour this year with more delight and more fervor than ever before. I watched and cheered for you in a boyish way, in a way I have not cheered for a stranger since I was a boy myself. You see, long ago, baseball burned me. They broke my heart and I still haven't forgiven them. I stopped cheering after those baseballers struck. I stopped tuning in on my transistor radio. I stopped being glued to television screens. I found out that there was very little power and very little satisfaction in pouring my heart out in hopes that my little hollers could somehow affect the universe enough to force in one more run, or basket, or field goal of professionals. Professionals were people doing a job. Some focused on the money. Some got caught up in drugs. Either way, it didn't take long to find a more appreciative audience. I found my teammates. They don't get paid and ideally they don't cheat.

Every so often, I dabble in fanaticism again. I start to believe. I start to think that I can be more, I can be great, because I get to witness greatness on that 20 inch box. Then you come along. I devoured your amazing story. The difficulties you have overcome. Your dedication. Your gritty determination. And I watch. I watch hours of men pedaling through France.

Floyd. Some places torture war criminals by making them watch men pedal through France. But I watched on the edge of my failing couch. I tried to will you to success. I believed in you. And you did not let me down. You delivered a stirring victory. An epic story. One for the ages. It seemed glorious. Instead, it teeters on tragic. Whether you're innocent or not, and oh, I cling to the hope that you are, the victory is tainted. I'm shaken. You didn't deny it like an innocent man. But how? How could you be that stupid? Or if this is some vast conspiracy... It's too much. I can't go on. One parting shot- suddenly Zidane, the man who lost his temper in a heated battle looks like a hero. Assuming he wasn't on drugs, at least he was competing on an even playing field. Is that really too much to ask of professional athletes?

I don't have tears to cry. Please make it go away.

-Dave

New age

I think I accidentally grew up in the last week. One minute I was carefree and unmotivated, then I spun around three times and poof I'm working late and fixing my resume and having actual ambitions. It's like I've aged 5 years since last Tuesday. Or maybe it's just the weight of my friggin' moustache.

OH, THE LAYERS OF MEANING

In the dumpster of life, the Happy Meal (registered Trademark) and the empty carton for a six pack of bottled beer look eerily similar.

It was a short break

Beach Ultimate. The words are an engraved invitation for flight. Churning legs and soft landing spots beckon the bodies to take off. Soaring after plastic, someone seems to be flying by in every direction at every moment. Had gravity gone missing at any given instant, 50 people would have floated into space. Instead, soft thuds reverberated through Wildwood, New Jersey for two hot days.

Sand comes in two flavors. There's the empty sweetness of a completed pass or a successful block and there's the grainy dryness of an effort that falls just a little short. I tasted the sweetness and the dryness. I covered myself in sand. I played in it. Bathed in it. Wore it like a suit or a hundred thousand itsy-bitsy badges of honor. I had a blast! My team played without the usual distractions and personality conflicts. That's not to say we didn't make mistakes or get beat, but we played with more trust and more peace than I've played with in quite some time. We played like we were having a good time. The teams we played seemed to share that attitude. It's been a long time since there was so much shared awe, shared spirit, shared good nature at an Ultimate Tournament. Wildwood reminded me of the good old days. It's the old man in me creeping out, but I was reminded of the good things about sport. People putting it all out there opposite one another, but not against one another. There were contentious moments, but mostly there were smiles. It was glorious and hot. When it became too much of either there was salt water and waves for a refreshing change of pace.

There were many thrilling moments in the last two days, but my vanity and my blog allow me to toot a few of my own.

-There was the swing pass I plucked from the air. The throw went up and I saw it the whole way. With a mighty step and a leap at about shoulder height, I went for the disc. Arm outsretched, body trailing behind, I flew in front of my man and ripped away a pass intended for him.

-There was the momentum shift. Tiring more easily than I would have liked, I fell behind my man as he streaked for the end zone. The throw went up and I summoned my reserves to get back on defense. The disc hovered for a moment caught by some wind. I accepted my good fortune by grabbing it away from the waiting receiver, landing, pivoting, and throwing to my open teammate at the other end of the field for a score.

-There was the crowd. I'm not sure how I ended up on top of this heap, but the disc ended up in my clutches and I ended up on their haunches.

Illuminating, isn't it?

I've had green, pink, blue, purple, and the traditional yellow. Lots of the traditional yellow. I have "1-800-Collect" and "Project CHEERS," undoubtedly an acronym long-since forgotten like the designated driver they acknowledged now sitting alone in the corner of the bar, his drunken friends wandering off with women of questionable mores. It isn't that I didn't understand their purpose or even that I had not attempted to use them to fulfill their destiny. I knew what a highlighter was. I knew why one might wield said instrument. But knowing and truly highlighting are two very different things. I don't know what the Bible says about highlighting, but in seventeen years of school, after countless thousands of dollars, through more highlighters than digits, highlighting still remained a mystery to me. Once in college, during an experimental phase, I had marked a passage of The Golden Ass in orange, but without my highlighter decoder ring, without my powers of deduction a la Sherlock Holmes, or my gritty crime-fighting wit like so many Hardy Boys, and even without that super-sleuthing boyish prowess of the one and only, the legend, Encyclopedia Brown, I was just coloring. I lacked understanding. I lacked clarity. I was inside the lines, juvenile. If I highlighted a passage in the forest and no one ever reread the passage, did it make a sound? I was a war protest on the White House lawn.

Then one night, not unlike last Thursday night, I had a revelation. Fluorescent inspiration hailed me like a taxi cab. Highlighting, the art form, is a two part process. I knew that, somewhere deep inside of me, but a quesadilla awakened that knowledge, and I perceived that not unlike the strata of said quesadilla, there are also multiple layers in highlighting. The first involves applying color to a page, of course. This part is not done willy-nilly. No, no. Selection of a passage is crucial. The highlighted must capture meaning, symbolism perhaps, or a theme, or just a quote that might later be doled out like Halloween candy to greedy little ghost-impersonators. The second step is perhaps more crucial than the first. The second step is the Aboriginal step. It's the boomerang, the return to the first step. A rebirth, if I may. This rebirth, though not as painful as the first time through, should still recall some of that early awe as meaning springs to life yet again beneath the colored lines of my handiwork.

The tingling sensation that I feel; it lets me know that my highlighting and my shampoo are working.

More Tour

Lance who? Maybe I wasn't mature enough to truly appreciate the 7 Lance Armstrong victories or maybe dynasties aren't as fun as we think. Maybe I missed the beginning of the Lance story or maybe I just didn't have OLN, but for some reason this Tour de France has me as excited about sports as I've been in I don't know how long. I'll give you the 60 second recap, but you should really read the NY Times for more.

Floyd Landis, a favorite and a Mennonite, hid his hip injury from all but his closest friends. He walks with a limp, but rides like mad. He takes the yellow jersey early and decides he doesn't want his team to defend it. He lets this rider Oscar who no one really sees as a threat get back into contention after being down by more than 30 minutes. Oscar is in a breakaway on one stage that gets him all the way back to the front and suddenly Oscar is wearing the yellow jersey. All part of the plan they say. Then Floyd rides like a machine up the mountains, takes back the yellow jersey and Oscar is down by 10 seconds. Next day of big hills, Floyd looks solid. He goes in a breakaway with the other leaders chasing this lone man Rasmussen who is climbing like no one else. Rasmussen is gone and then Carl Sastre makes a move to break away from the group Landis is in. Landis watches him go and looks like he's on a site-seeing tour. He is dropped. He can barely pedal as all the major players pull away. He is losing 2 minutes, 4 minutes, 8 minutes when it's all said and done. With three days left, the tour is over. Even Floyd says this gap is disheartening. So what does Floyd do? He comes out today and flies. He breaks away on his own and blows the doors off the last mountain stage, with bonuses he cuts Oscar's lead to 30 seconds. What the? It now comes down to time trials. Floyd is good at time trials. This is going to be fun.

Pain in the city (and also in the mountain stages)

Last night while watching the Tour de France, that's Tour DAY France according to one commentator, though I really shouldn't judge since no one in my office could say, "au bon pain" in a way that our French-speaker could understand, it was pointed out by my watching friend that many of the competitors were about the same age- 31. One of the commentators must have picked up on her statement, because he added, "these men have put in a lot of years of pain." I think he also said something about making withdrawals from a pain bank, but the whole pain bank scenario involving deposits and withdrawals of pain was a little awkward though it did convey his sentiments. By 31, these riders have had many years of training and they know what their bodies can do. Without getting all Carrie Bradshaw, I wonder if we could pick out a similar timeline for emotions. Is there a point where emotionally we figure out how hard we can go up the mountains? We've had some nasty falls, some even over the guard rail. We're talking scraped skin and broken bones. We've had some success too, maybe even won a stage win or a smaller tour, but at that certain age we reach that emotional understanding. We know what we're capable of and so on that next hill we know just how much energy to expend.

Or

Maybe we get dropped.

That doesn't look villainous

Unless I shave the beard, I won't get to join these guys, either.

France, France, France

It is so hard to lead a successful imaginary breakaway with so many stop signs and stop lights. Do you have any idea what it feels like to know that the imaginary peloton is closing in on you while you watch the little white man blink and blink and blink? It's agony. So much agony that I decided my only recourse was to head butt Reuben in the chest. Too bad he's not here yet.

By the way, I'm not wearing the yellow jersey because it's stained and there will be no doping scandal on my tour.

Moustache: That's French for moustache

Oui. Oui. Yes, I am trying to grow a handlebar moustache. Handlebar moustaches do not, despite popular belief, form themselves. They require a little coaxing. That's where moustache wax comes in. Wax, is an interesting fluid/solid/thing. Car wax is for shining a car. Candle wax is for burning. Sex wax is for a smooth ride on surfboards and skis. One could surmise that moustache wax is for ..., but then one might then be kicked out of polite society. That's why unlike one, I have chosen to follow the French directions. "Appliquer une petite quantite de cire sur les cheveux a l'aide de la basse. " My French is a little rusty, but if I had to guess I'd say this roughly translates to "Apply a little bit to your hair to aid in catching la babes." Those French, they think of everything.

I am not overly concerned about catching la babes as I have already reaped great rewards during my handlebar growing phase. Twirling my moustache has provided me with great pleasure and I have yet to master a villainous laugh. I was accused of being dramatic, but there was nothing mellow about it.

If the wax works particularly well and my moustache cooperates, I look forward to tying damsels to the railroad tracks and copious amounts of fast-paced piano music. I will also be donning a black and red cape and mastering that laugh. Like the box says, "TENIR HORS DE LA PORTEE DES ENFANTS" or for those that didn't fake three years of French, "Protect the women and children."

I'll disappear in a cloud of smoke. Laugh. Cry. Love me. Hate me. No one ever said this relationship would be simple. Au revoir.

tales from the road

Missouri is not a fly-over state. I checked it out just to be certain. I spent three days searching for the point where deep green farmland met bright blue sky, but every time I looked up from pedaling my bike it seemed to be further away. I came across some interesting places on the ride, the Wal-Mart in Boonville comes to mind, but perhaps none as entertaining as Tebbetts. The town of Tebbetts, like a number of towns we passed through, looked like it could have been in a stage production of "Our Town." The post office was in the same building as Jim's Country Store. Jim's Country Store would turn out to be an entertaining place in it's own right, but the main reason for our stop in Tebbetts was Mrs. Turner. Not bad for a dead lady. I may be a little fuzzy on my facts, but I think I've got the gist of it. The Turner family had a store where Jim's now resides. Mrs. Turner set up a foundation and left that foundation a house to be turned into a hostel. This hostel has two stories, about 20 bunk beds, three showers, two dilapidated ping pong tables, a refrigerator, various old magazines, air conditioning units, fans, and a picnic table. For five dollars a night on the honor system, all of those luxuries were available for passers-through. In theory, the place is amazing. In practice, it was kind of neat. A little something got lost for me between the mildew of the shower curtain, the continual squeaking of the plastic cover on the mattress, and the bright red glow of the EXIT signs. A shower, a bed and a fan for five dollars is tough to beat these days though, so I need to banish my complaints. I wonder if Jim's had something for that.

Jim's Country Store was a treat. Both times we entered we found three or four regulars smoking and drinking the evening away. Except for one, they were different regulars. On our first pass, we asked the man behind the bar about finding some dinner. The man, who not surprisingly turned out to be Jim, offered us "Five-star pizza." He then added, "It's frozen."
We finished our liquid refreshment with the promise to return for the pizza. Before we left a woman tugged on my father's sleeve and launched into a lengthy diatribe that seemed to contain details about her many dogs and about their propensity for barking. I don't recall seeing or hearing the dogs during our stay in Tebbetts. Good dogs. We actually only encountered good dogs on our trip. I was a little nervous at one point when I spotted a dog just outside of a junkyard. Fortunately, the dog redeemed the late Leroy Brown.

After we settled into the expansive hostel, we returned to Jim's for some of that five-star pizza. As we waited at the bar for Jim to heat our pizza, my cousin spied an electric guitar propped up against the wall. Displaying a confidence that would continually surprise me, he asked Jim if he could play. Jim wasn't keen on hooking up an amp, but asked as he pulled another guitar from under the bar if acoustic would be ok. My cousin quietly strummed for a few minutes and refused requests to play loud enough for other folks to hear. It seems the store's whistle was whetted for some music, because another gentleman proceeded to pick up the guitar and serenade us all through dinner and beyond. Most of the songs I didn't recognize, but could still enjoy. I'm not sure if Jim recognized the tunes either, but he proceeded to pull out spoons and play them for at least thirty seconds. Not a minute later he pulled out his harmonica for another rousing thirty seconds of accompaniment. Jim also offered up a mandolin, but unfortunately none of us could play. I'm still not clear if Jim could play. My dad wanted me to ask for a banjo, but I was fearful that Jim would have one. I wasn't sure this crowd wanted to hear one of my four songs.

We left Tebbetts quietly the next morning. Jim wasn't up yet to serve breakfast. Left to our own singing, we went spinning on to the east. The skies had not even spit in our general direction until we neared our final destination, the sprawling metropolis of Washington, Missouri.

Another year

Another mile. 4:49. Last place. The good hurt.

On mortality

Do you ever worry that your kids may not have a Vanna White? Who will turn their letters? Who will blind them with her white smile?

Happy 4th!

There's something special and worldy about watching the thrilling finish of the Italy v. Germany World Cup game and then immediately flipping between the Nathan's Hot Dog eating contest and Le Tour de France.

Outright lies and other generalizations

I took an early lunch to watch the second half of the U.S. soccer game. I'm not an enormous soccer fan, but I have an appreciation for the game and when the world gets a little excited, sometimes I get caught up in it. We watched the game in Spanish as sport is apparently the other universal language. I pulled up to a table after 6 minutes had elapsed. At that point there were probably 8 people watching the U.S. try to dig themselves out of a 2-1 hole. There were another 3 people conversing near the TV. At about the 30 minute mark, there was nearly a goal by the U.S. and the growing crowd groaned together. At that point the 3 people conversing turned toward the TV and I heard one say, "Oh. Is that soccer?"

Now, I realize that soccer is not the most popular American sport. But. But. This woman had been standing within 3 feet of the television for almost 20 minutes. Surely she felt the room shrinking as more and more men and the occasional woman crowded around the TV. There were people sitting on the floor in the lunch room. No one else in the room was saying more than three words at a time. All of our eyes were focused just to the right of her head. We watched as Ghana players seemed to zip around the field and their passes always seemed to find another man in red. We watched as the U.S. worked the ball across the field and back, before trying to play over the top of Ghana. Failing and then just as suddenly getting a move, a shot, a genuine opportunity to make something happen. Some balls went wide. Some balls high. The best chance for a late tie ended in a disappointing pass. Why couldn't they be more selfish like that guy we just saw from Italy that wouldn't pass to his open teammate and instead took his second shot off the goalkeeper's hands? It worked for him, but we passed. How had all of that escaped her notice?

Fifty minutes elapsed with a few more groans and moans from the crowd. There was some hand wringing, maybe a curse or two, but in the end Ghana advanced with a final score of 2-1.

Yes. That's soccer.

Catching flying objects and the overuse of the adjective awesome

June is a blur. It's hurtling by in a blaze of awesomeness and it's taking a good bit of my energy and a freaking huge pile of laundry to get me to sit down and reflect on that for a moment. It's summer today. Officially. 100% Grade A scientist approved summer. Today. But summer never started June 21. Summer started when school ended. When school stopped ending, summer started when there was more sweating than not. That might explain why it feels like summer so often in my arm pits and between my toes. Vacation destinations one and all...

So. Summer. Hotness. My first big adventure was to Honfest. Honfest had more Beehive hair-dos and bouffants than I ever knew I wanted to see. "Welcome to Balmer, hon" said through the gum-chomping jaws of women of all ages will stick with me long after my new cat's eye sunglasses break. Thanks, hon.

From there I wound up at this shindig that never ended. It might still be going on right now. I've never been to a party where I wanted to talk to more people. Usually I want to talk to less. And when the talking got old, out came the singing. You may think you've heard "Crazy in love," but honey, you ain't heard nothing until you've heard me cruise through "oh no, oh no ohnono" and then proceed to screech out ear-piercing verses of numerous other popular songs in duet with other *ahem* awesome singers. Eleven years I've been practicing my falsetto at high volumes in the car. Karaoke revolution allows me to unleash it on the world.

I'm sorry, world, but awesome gifts need to be shared.

Summer also means the draft league for the local Ultimate league. It's meeting new people and remembering how much teammates help in the quest to be good at Ultimate. I've been touting the advantage of the expectation-less Ultimate game in this space, but there's a flip-side to that. It's being flat out ignored by people that don't think I'm open, don't know where I'm headed, and don't know that I can catch. The early summer breeds a hesitant brand of Ultimate. It also breeds over throws, and I'm looking to pick up as many of those as possible until we can find balance.

For lack of a better transition, balance not unlike the balance of man and wife. Or so I've heard.

Summer weddings are popular sport. There's something about mosquitoes that make people want to spend forever together. I hit up my first summer wedding last weekend. It required a bit of travel, but it was all kinds of fun. I like my trips like I like my rooms- multi-purpose. This trip was part road trip , part reunion, and part gooey wedding goodness. The road trip worked out well. It helped that I wasn't driving. In case I haven't said it before, if you can get your best friends to marry each other, you should go ahead and do that. If that means supporting same sex marriage, do it. If it means more drunken trips to Reno, get thee to Reno. Whatever it takes. Marry those two kids and make like a fairy tale.

The reunion portion of the weekend was no slouch either. Had you been theorizing that your awesome friends from college would grow up to be awesome people, you'd be right if your friends were my friends. If they happened to go out and get awesome boyfriends, well sit down at a table, watch your buddy get married to a very sweet woman and raise those empty glasses to the sky. Lest you think my only talents are frisbee and bad singing, let me quickly tell you about my dancing. That's right. It's awesome. I couldn't pull out the traditional moves (John Travolta's from "Saturday Night Fever"), but I took to partner dancing like a fish takes to a bicycle. Grab on because you're gonna follow!

I'm getting ahead of myself. I nearly forgot to tell you that while seven groomsmen primped and preened, ushers seated 220 guests. We're talking guests down the block. We, two ushers, that's right 2, seated guests, made announcements and still didn't get a seat at the head table. Ushers are second class citizens, only with better dance moves. At least in this case. They also apparently have better hands or at least that was the theory of the other Ultimate players in the room after I snatched (another) garter out of the air. I can't help it. It was flying. It was right there. I couldn't let it hit the ground. I took a step forward reached out at waist level and pocketed another promise about the future. The girl that snagged the bouquet was 4 foot 10. I let my 6 foot friend hear an earful on that one. Where's the fire? Maybe I'm using too much of it. In my four remaining weddings this year I'm looking to come away with at least one more garter, two if I get feisty. It's not like the last one worked anyway, that's why I was in this wedding. After that I'll be taking bids or at least suggestions for alternative garter uses.

Alternative garter uses. Band name or closing to this post? A little of neither. Awesome.

Riding the rails
Plopped on a dirtied orange vinyl slab, the world stuttering by outside the window, I have recently contemplated destinationless travel. I could spend the day on the spindles inside the beltway. North, South, East, West. The Metro could take me. The evenly spaced mouths opening and closing to gulp in and spit out another crush of passengers could become my only distraction on this pointless journey. Flowing like drain water, I'd spend part of the day underground in the roots of the city. I'd occasionally emerge into the sunshine to the click-clack of train on track. Back and forth, to and fro, up and down, red, green, yellow, blue, orange. Neither here nor there, my day would be spent everywhere and nowhere. Please stand clear. The doors are closing.

Let's go cross country

It's simple to like things that I'm good at and nearly as simple to attribute liking them to success. In high school, I had immediate success in cross country. I flirted with victory on more than one occasion. Even as I protected my underdog status and often played unaware, I knew people were talking about me. That felt good. There were times when the success kept me going.

My junior year a boy named James joined our team. He had a good heart. He ran and trained every day like the rest of us. As far as I know, he was putting his all into running, or at least all he could spare like most of the team. During races, he was often near the back of the pack, even last. Week in and week out we waited and cheered James to the finish. This is not a tortoise and hare recollection. By the numbers, James lost. At the big meets his place was in the triple digits. Five runners on a team contribute to the score, James was consistently number seven. As far as I know James didn't get down on himself, at least not any more than any high schooler. He kept running. When I thought about him then, I wondered why he kept going. My collection of newspaper clips was growing. I was battling for the top spot on our team, and on the really good days a spot among the area's best. James was plugging along. "How did he do it?" I thought to myself.

Last night, I ran in a local club cross country race. I pulled my blue and grey nee white Zoom Country spikes from their original but faded, torn, orange and grey box. I went through all the motions, albeit in an abbreviated fashion, that lead to high school success. The striders, the plyos, the deep breaths, the handful of grass rubbed between open hands, and the nervous butterflies were all there. The starter signaled "Go" and a hundred runners poured off the line, with only a little less intensity than a hundred high schoolers. The lead is not often my consideration any more, but at first I battled to stay with that first bulge of runners. For 9 minutes I was feeling good and making progress. I was passing more than I was being passed. I even took a moment on the crest of one hill to look at the rays of sun poke through the remains of the thunder clouds as they shone down on a sweeping curve of runners pummeling the half-inch freshly groomed green grass.

After 9 minutes, the fun transformed into pain. After 9 minutes my body began asking certain questions, the loudest of which seemed to be, "Why?" My brain picked up on the vibe and started making suggestions as my pace slowed. "You could drop out." I took glances behind me and saw I had some time before I would be passed. But passed I was. With each group that passed me, I tried to tuck in and let their momentum carry me forward. It did manage to change my speed and keep me going a little longer. At some points, I could hear my high school coach hollering my name. I had to keep going. I don't drop out of races. I briefly wondered how I would tell this story in this space and then quickly reminded myself, "NOT NOW." I was passed some more. I'd settled in to a new slower pace, but I was still fighting myself. With 500 meters to go, I was passed yet again as I trudged up the last hill. I knew I had enough left to finish, so only one question remained.

How was I going to finish? Nobody knew me. No one was cheering for me. The only people that cared were immediately behind me and looking to move up a place and me. I cared. I didn't know what place I was in, only that their place was better. As I rounded the tennis courts I gained on the two that had passed me up the hill. I moved to pass them and the younger of the two challenged me. With 150 meters to go, I surged and put him out of sight. Then I felt the pounding foot steps of another challenger. I never saw him, but I felt what he felt- "I want to get to the line first." Everything I had left I put into staying in front of my challenger. This time I succeeded. I had successfully defended what turned out to be 20th place, nearly 2 minutes behind the winner. I contemplated none of that as I left the chute and proceeded to lose my dinner in body shaking heaves.

After the taste wore away, I started to remember that running wasn't about the newspapers', or the friends', or the families' definition of success. It was about the good feeling I was currently stumbling along with. It was about a battle against me that only I could win. Running is about testing myself, pumping my body full of endorphins, and then icing my legs when I get home. Maybe James knew that all along.

(18:38)