The NBA

I've had a resurgence of interest in the NBA this summer. I watched more playoff games than I've ever watched as I cheered on the Wizards and then the Spurs. The daily checking of ESPN carried me through May and June and the habit stuck. I've been watching and waiting to hear what LeBron James was going to do.

Today he came out with "The Letter" announcing his return to Cleveland (http://www.si.com/nba/2014/07/11/lebron-james-cleveland-cavaliers)

I don't root for LeBron. I saw him play once at the MCI center in DC. He was powerful and fluid and at times it looked like he was playing a level above the Wizards. Yet, I prefer the underdog and I don't really like to root for "the best player." It took me a long time to appreciate Michael Jordan. I had Magic Johnson posters in my bedroom and it took a long time to let that go.

"The Decision" in 2010 made it easier to dislike LeBron. His televised hubris was more than I could stomach, but I'm not a Cleveland fan and so my wound wasn't particularly deep. I rooted hard against LeBron last year and this year, but my interest didn't come from a place of anger.

I'm impressed by "The Letter". LeBron seems to want to do more than win. He wants to pick up a region in the process. He knows this time that it won't be easy. He lays that all out eloquently. I can't help but cheer a little bit for a hometown hero returning home and trying to lift Ohio up. It sounds like a movie. The only mis-step I see is that hubris once again. He told Cleveland and Miami at the same time that he told the general public (EDIT: Apparently that's not true. Guess he learned several things.). Perhaps I don't understand free agency and I don't understand what it's like to be considered "the best", but it strikes me again that he is putting himself ahead of the organization that gave him his "college education" and the organization that he's returning to. 

I can root for Cleveland and Ohio as places, but I'm not going to root for LeBron or the Cavs for long. By the time LeBron takes home his first million, I'll be rooting for the Wizards, the Spurs, and most of the rest of the NBA to take him down. 

I can root against him and admire what he's trying to do.

Urban country

I'm working on a country song about public transportation, but I'm stalling out.

Here's what I have come up with so far:

Well the gold rush passed me by
but the gold line will be found

My horse is a light rail
and my pasture is downtown

Saddle up, boys
There's enough country to go around

My twang'll never leave  me
the next train comes at 10

Packed tighter'n sardines
good thing I left my spurs

Saddle up, boys
There's enough country to go around

Goodbye, half my face

I stood staring into the mirror. The scissors open and poised to cut, engulfing a good 4 inches of beard. I looked at my reflection and wondered.

It's been 11 months since I've really trimmed my beard. There's been some maintenance along the way, but mostly I've just let it grow and grow and grow. I get compliments in the street. My mother complains every time she sees me.

I wasn't able to form coherent thoughts as I stared. The decision had already been made. The scissors were in hand. I cut. The first snip didn't quite close. I paused as 75% of my beard hung in the balance. Now the thoughts came to me, could I somehow reattach this beauty? The decision was made and my moment of remorse was just a moment. I finished the cut and got out the clippers. 

No longer does my beard get stuck when I pull on my t-shirts. I don't have to move it out of the way to sleep on my stomach. Far less food will get stuck and I will better weather the temperatures in the 90s. As I looked at all that hair in the trash, I couldn't help but reach in and touch it one more time. That's the longest my beard has ever been. 

In the first 24 hours, I've had phantom beard moments where I thought it was there brushing up against my chest. I've looked in the mirror and seen a thin face staring back at me. I'm sure I'll get used to that guy. He's not bad looking, but I'm not sure he'll get compliments in the street. 

Slot car racing

I met a man who regularly plays foosball alongside his girlfriend. This made me smile. He described the local scene, where to play on a given night, and alluded to a surprising depth of strategy and organization. I smiled because he was smiling and because I have a soft spot for the niche scenes. I was having this conversation just off a roller derby track after all.

Foosball is a bar game, a fancy office game, a basement game, I'd never considered it a scene.

Of course it's a scene. Almost everything I've ever enjoyed is a scene and so are lots of things I've never enjoyed.

I happen to be looking for a scene right now. I'm still too hobbled to play disc golf let alone Ultimate.

I need a scene.

My dad used to race slot cars. I've thumbed through his neighborhood rules and he's always shared his track and cars.  Many times during childhood we commandeered the ping pong table to set up a wonderful track that he'd played with as a kid. A few times we've even found shops where they race cars by the hour. One of those shops happens to be an hour from here.

I've been meaning to get there, but the distance, the limited hours the shop is open, and life has been in the way. About two weeks ago, I ducked all those excuses and showed up to check things out. Other than the owner, I was the only one in the shop. He set me up with a car and let me go to racing. I zipped around the track, absorbed his helpful tips and smiled as my lap times sank. I crashed a lot, but eventually got down to just over six seconds. I felt like a kid and I wanted to share that feeling with someone.

The best way I could think to share that feelings was to get my family into the shop. I used some birthday leverage and brought the crowd by. It worked out wonderfully. We raced and crashed and crashed and raced, laughing all the way. My dad was delighted and everyone seemed pleased.

Is this my scene?

There are still several steps to make it so. I'm going to have to get my own car or cars. I'm going to have to find a way to the track on a regular basis. I'm going to have to meet new people, admit I don't know what I'm doing, and do it.

It all sounds exactly like something I need. I just have to find the slot and get racing.

Inside my mind

I just need to write. I need to stop making excuses and write. My best excuse is that I have nothing to say, but something can pour out. I just need to knock this jug over.

Yesterday I started wondering what would happen if I had Internet amnesia. I'd wake up tomorrow and all my browser history and bookmark bars would be empty. I wouldn't remember Google or Facebook or even that the Internet existed. The Internet wouldn't be gone, I  just wouldn't remember it.

I'd come down the stairs and see my computer on the desk. I'd walk by and into the kitchen where I'd pour myself a bowl of cereal. I'd sit at the table instead of the desk and read one of C's magazines. I'd finish breakfast and then what? I wouldn't know what to do. I could work on the house or read a book or keep trying to get rust off my grandma's bike. I'd have the sense that I needed to go to work, but I wouldn't known how to get there. I'd ask C. She'd tell me how to get work.

"How do I get to work?" I'd ask. 

She'd guffaw while I stood there looking as innocent as a large-bearded man can. 

Her head would tilt and her eyebrow would scrunch up. She'd sigh and say, "Go to your desk."

I'd go to my desk, move the jar of peanut butter to one side, thumb through a pile of post-it notes and then touch my mouse to turn on the computer. I'd see the items on my desktop and the ribbon of applications running along the bottom of my screen, but I'd have the sense that I was missing something. 

I'd open a few word files on the desktop, but those would look finished, so I'd ask C again. 

"Now what?" I'd shout.

She wouldn't hear me. 

I'd wait. I'd open a few items on the ribbon while I waited. The simon says-looking ball might be a good place to start. I'd click and a Chrome window would open in front of me. 

There in bright colors "Google" would greet me with an empty box. What's a google? It sounds like a lot. The box would beckon. It begs to be filled in, typed in, completed somehow. 

"Hello" I'd type, hoping that Hal from 2001 a space odyssey was not going to answer.

 A menu of Hello's would pop up in response. A menu of 337 million if the little gray type is to be believed. None were a response, instead I got Hello! online magazine, hello wikipedia- the free encyclopedia, and a small Lionel Richie Hello on something called YouTube. Intrigued and overwhelmed I'd choose the familiar Lionel Richie.

I'd enjoy a moment of sweet nostalgia played on the keyboard and that familiar syrupy voice, but then Lionel would ask if it was him I was looking for. Hello! Is it me you're looking for?  

It wasn't. Now what?