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 Also "marshmallowy delicious" has been replaced by "That's me Lucky Charms" and I'll remember almost none of this tomorrow.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.