Hurray for fake holidays!
After I accepted my card, some breakfast grub, and a lovely gift, I decided that maybe I'm not so administrative anymore. I offered to give back the gift, but it didn't fly. Happy AP Day, yo.

Next up, No Pants Day! is May 6. Speaking of not flying, I don't think this one will fly at work either. I want to be a rebel, but I also want to continue being an overpaid-non-administrative-wizard of whatever it is I do. So my options are use my personal holiday, which would be fun, or celebrate after work. I think the latter is probably the ticket. Who is up for some pantsless fun the evening of Friday, May 6? Maybe we could go pantsless bowling or to see a pantsless movie. Or we could just ran pantsless up and down busy streets. I'm up for a goodly quantity of pantslessness if you are.

Seeking balance?
Try beer and a Nicholas Sparks novel.

If a greatest occurs and nobody cares, how great is it?
The hunt for a successful greatest ended this past Sunday. The reaction wasn't that stellar. I guess I'll have to do it better next time.

Tuesday is too close to Monday
It's moving in the right direction though.

Vanity
is filling up your camera's memory card with shots of yourself. It's not full.

What makes an administrative professional?
I'm just asking whether or not I get to celebrate tomorrow.

Especially not in slow motion or with an extreme close-up
Do you ever picture Keira bending over to one side to throw a perfect flick? Or laying out to make a sweet grab? Do you ever picture her running through the streets, the pinks and greys of the morning sky painted above her bouncing hair? Do you ever picture her curled up in an Ikea chair, her legs hidden beneath an afghan while she quietly reads and sips her tea? No? No. Me either.

The drink of my life
The thing about sports movies, like say, The Game of Their Lives is that when I'm through watching them I like to do things in slow motion and play passionate orchestral music in my head.

I. will. now. walk. to. the. kitchen. Remove a glass. from the cabinet. Hold it high. like a trophy. (the music in my head crescendos). I will pour. the water. Raise the glass. in triumph. again. And take. a satisfying drink.

The music will continue. If you're lucky, you'll get a montage of the previous scene. Removing glass. Drinking water. Raising glass!
AHHHHHHHHHH.

The movie of the game of their lives
The movie was decent. Kind of generic. They started in on the inspirational music waaaay too early for my tastes. The soccer games were fun. I'm pumped up and ready to go play something. That's all I really wanted. It wasn't "Rudy". Grown men will not likely be crying. Unless they get something in their eye, of course.

Some sort of emotional fender-bender
It started yesterday when I nearly cried during a preview for an Ashton Kutcher/Amanda Peet movie. Maybe it started before that, when I was thinking about my 85th birthday party. I planned a bike ride with my family and neighbors in my groovy living community. No flying cars for us, it was back to basics on a beautiful sunny day in 2063. Then I was forced to imagine it without my family and I realized that optimism is a lot easier from 58 years away.

Today it’s this.(Thanks, Rob.) I feel like I’ve lost another little piece of my past. It feels a little selfish for me to whine about the death of a man I never spoke with. It is. a little selfish. But I’m going to do it anyway, because there are times when I feel like little pieces are just chipping away from my life all the time. Memories get fuzzier. Yesteryear gets grander, today is not quite so golden. There’s no one to blame but me. Five years from now this will be the time of my life, or else I’ll be on the cusp of something really big. Why not now? Let go of the pizza places of the past and their eccentric parking attendants. Embrace the Potbelly of today. There are crazy guys all over this city and if I want one, I’m sure I could go out and find one. I didn’t want one when I was in C-town, why do I miss him now? With no offense intended to his memory or his family, what am I really losing? What have I really lost? A tiny piece of the human embodiment of a memory of a place that I didn’t even frequent all that much when you consider how ridiculously close I lived to it. Yet, I’m sad, like I’ve lost something important to me. It’s worse than “lost,” it’s losing. It’s this slippery slope of memory and I can’t control it. It’s tumbling away.

There are days that I make new memories. Days that I make new friends, but the intensity of the past isn’t there. The intensity of the past wasn’t at school either. The intensity of the past is always past. So why does it seem to linger so much in my present?

This 85th birthday. Living communities are the wave of the next 50 years. It’s what we’re lacking, isn’t it? That community? Those people who were like family even though they don’t share your blood. Small towns will rise again. People will seek connection instead of refuge. Or they won’t and they’ll sit around and pontificate to the emptiness of the Internet and remember the wonders of long ago. They’ll remember a time no one quite remembers and dream of a time they can’t quite forget.

Some stuff that desperately needs to be told to the Internets
1. Fever Pitch, the movie, based on the Hornby book, with the twist. That one. The real twist is it's pretty good. I want to be in love. I want to watch baseball. I want to move to Boston last year.

2. The KTBD (Kate to be determined) is an Erin. It's all so clear to me now.

3. The twin. She knows her peoples. Henceforth, when she tells me to go hang out with someone, I'm not wasting six months first.

4. This will come as no surprise but "The Twenty" at some theaters which is 20 minutes of commercials is like three cellphones on my annoyance rating system.

5. The annoyance rating system (ars) is something I created while typing number four, but I'm thinking that it starts at one cell phone and ends at five strangers on cell phones poking you with burning sticks. There's also stuff in between.

6. The ars may need some tweaking.

Cool
Record-setting decathalons in Columbia, MO.

Not so cool?
Besides being not healthy, now coffee is increasing commute time. It's The Starbucks Effect. Wonder what the black cup thinks of that...

Absolute power
I'm declaring this Monday null and void and refusing to participate. I'm also declaring every red food to be packed with essential vitamins and minerals. Red hots will save us all. And laundry will do itself.

International House of STFU
Two chocolate milks is at least one too many, especially out. The corporates put too much sauce in their milk. Next time I’m getting me 1 order of milk, 1 order of chocolate milk, and 1 extra glass. That’s just plum smart. And another thing, swedish pancakes not made by Al Johnson (or using the Al Johnson mix) are like really thin pieces of ass covered with lingonberries. Lingonberries!?! It’s like it’s not even a fruit in those other countries that make up the I’m Hopped up on Pancakes establishment. It’s just fruit flavored or something whack like that. This is not Wisconsin and IHOP can suck it. And lingonberry butter is a bad idea. It combined the tastes of bad berries with the tastes of bad butter. Nobody puked, but they don’t sell the stuff in stores for a reason.

I blame Ol' Roy: Continuing to reflect on "coaching"
I was watching some old running movies and listening to what the coaches were saying. It was "Go." It was "Catch that guy." It was "You can do it." By the time the race is in progress and similarly by the time the game is being played there's not much a coach can do. There are personnel decisions, but we'll ignore those for this reflection. Coaching takes place behind the scenes, in the preparation. When it's game time, coaches become cheerleaders. Less so in football, perhaps, but in the fluid sports, the only chance a coach gets to coach the whole team is during the breaks, timeouts, half-time, commercial. There they get to make adjustments, make recommendations, but they can't teach new skills and they can't reach a team that isn't listening. And that I decided is what really defines a coach. Is anybody listening? If they are- coach. If they're listening and they're talented- coach of the year. I don't mean to question the value of a coach- they teach, motivate, adjust. Coaches change people's lives, but a coach can't do any of that without players that respond. So, why do I blame Ol' Roy? Because the only time I hear about coaches are when they are out there in the big game. The coaching is nearly done by then. It's one last little push (perhaps a bigger push at the higher levels, but relative to all those months and years the coach has put in, it's little.) Pushing on...

I get my news from Leeza Gibbons
Just heard word that the metrosexual is out, manly men are back in, which leaves me in about the same spot I was when you last checked in on my mantasticness. When did Leeza Gibbons get on the radio?

The only stapler I've ever wanted to drag race
We got a new stapler in the office today. It's silver. The florescent lights reflect off it's shiny surfaces and it makes me want to staple faster'n lightning. It also makes me want some flame decals, a pretty lady dropping a scarf, and a malt, not necessarily in that order.

And for those of you not driving staplers
There are flags for crossing the street. I'm all for smarter pedestrians, cheap solutions, and sleek sexy staplers, not necessarily together.

On the outside looking in
I've spent roughly 21 hours outside over the last 5 days. I watched a lot of Ultimate over the weekend. I don't think I've watched that much since Nationals 2 years ago. It's usually hard for me to watch because I want to play, but this past weekend it was different. Maturity? perhaps. More likely vanity. It was a B-team tournament and not to say that there weren't a number of athletes who could have jumped over me, run past me, and thrown 10x as far, especially in my current state, but I was content to watch knowing that I had a funny thing called experience on my side. I'm an old man, but at least I don't prance around with my shirt off like some other team's coach.

Coach. There it is again. I've denied that term all along, but I seem to be slipping into that role. I'm trying to figure out how much you need to know to be a coach. I feel like there's a line I should have to cross or a test I should have to take to be a coach, but maybe it's not so much a matter of skill but a matter of commitment. I'm going to ask some coaches I know what they think. Maybe I crossed that line when I showed up to support the team for a whole weekend. Maybe I passed that test when I kept right on screaming until the last moment of Sunday. I'm not a Bobby Knight kinda coach, but if you've shared the field with me you know sometimes I like to add a little volume to my instruction/opinion/blatantly ridiculous statement. My two favorite hollers of support from this weekend:
1. Hard Defense. Smart Offense. Hippopotamus.
2. That was boring as hell. I love it!

The latter was in reference to my team (they also became my team over the weekend) making pass after pass down the field. It was always the easy pass and it took a while, but they scored and it was one of the most satisfying moments of my Ultimate career.

Not again
I miss the days when you could look at a person speaking out of the side of her mouth, head cocked, looking at a place neither here nor there and think--"Hmm. Crazy person." Today, I'm forced to think, "Hmm. She might be sane. She might have an ear piece." It really muddies the waters of madness.

There’s lots of I
In Columbia, I’d started too late. In Kansas City and Ohio, I couldn’t stick around. In DC, I haven’t found one that I like or the ones that I do like are pretty laid back and have a revolving door of players. So, I’ve never really been able to grow with a team. Or have I? I spent this weekend watching a group of 10 or so goofy looking Ultimate players. Ultimate players are inherently goofy-looking, but this group takes the lack of intimidation to new levels. I’ve watched and hollered and “coached” several of them over the last two years and this weekend I realized that they’ve grown. They played their hearts out. They played the toughest defense and smartest offense I’ve ever seen them play. They did that, but I think my hollering may have helped.

I’m so proud of them.

Heaven
probably looks a lot like today. I also surmise that there are no groin pulls, or any other injury for that matter. The wind always blows lightly at your back and every bid is h-o-t, hot!

Brief news (NOT news about underwear)
This week has afforded me the opportunity to read a lot of newspapers, mostly USA Today, the Washington Post, Express, and the Examiner. For the most part this means I've read a lot of comics, a lot of advice columns, and a lot of headlines that I then immediately forgot. I did realize that I've missed the feel of the news. The Internet just doesn't quite go as well with breakfast as the morning paper. My favorite stories this week provided to you without links or even reference for that matter:

1. The pope inspired this retired journalist to convert to Catholicism.

2. Parity in basketball in both the men's and women's game. Since the men's game is in an overall decline due to the exodus to the NBA and the women's game is improving I'm hoping for the story about the men vs. the women. I think the Harvard president should write it.

3. The incredible story of the Baylor Bears and their determined coach. Spurned assistant coach leaves alma mater, builds losing program with savvy scouting and determination. Champions. Much rejoicing. It's a good story. So good that I think I read some version of it at least 6 times.

4. It doesn't take an Ivy league degree to be a CEO anymore. There is hope for all of us, or at least the next Trump-ette.

My least favorite story:
Camilla and Charles

The most embarrassing realization:
There's a war going on and I ignore it almost completely.

Dear John
With the sort of desperation that can only come from too many lemonades and the potential for long rides on short trains with no bathrooms, he slipped into a port-a-potty that seemed built for him. Perhaps not him exactly, because it wasn't particularly well lit and since the sun had set this caused a particular darkness when the door was closed, but it was so messy anyway that he was sure that poor aim would probably go unnoticed. The port-a-potty of his prayers was located in a bit of an alley between the yuppie grocer and a movie rental establishment. As he relieved himself in the darkness he heard the clack-clack-clack of several pairs of high heels making their way past. The thing about high heels is that they almost never travel alone. Usually a woman takes up residence above them. Not looking forward to emerging from this street toilet into the company of the opposite sex, he listened closely as the clack-clack-clack faded away and then pushed hurriedly on the door. It didn't budge. The plastic lock was stuck. He had wondered if shutting the door completely had been a mistake and now with renewed wonder he debated the potential embarrassment that would follow if he had to shout for help. The embarrassment looked to be so thorough and the plastic lock so weakened by repeated shaking that he was able to emerge from the alleyway loo violently, but unscathed. A quick scan of the area revealed that the people around him had not let him down with their collective and complete disinterest in both the man and the toilet. He slipped quietly away and out of third person.

It's make-believe
Yesterday, I either made up a picture or I made up Scott's presence on the canoe trip. A second look through the photos reveals no trace of Scott. It's plenty of people Scott has purported to like on more than one occasion, but the man himself is glaringly absent- like a vampire or a myth or a little of both.

It's magic
Public Transportation is magic. It makes me walk more than I otherwise would. I don't even like walking that much, but what's another mile when it's such a beautiful day? Over the weekend I visited two different art cinemas, the grocery store, the Moto Photo, a Lebanese restaurant, two major chain bookstores, an Apple store, and a paper store without ever going near my car. Magic!

I'll give you nostalgia
I was already feeling a little funny going to pick up what could be the last roll of film I ever have developed. It's a funny thing to think about. Rolls of film, having pictures developed, wondering where to store all those negatives, those are now dated concepts. The world is a changing place. There's no lag time between taking the picture and seeing what you've done. It's crazy.

Almost as crazy as taking in a roll of film that's been sitting around for at least 3 years. I knew one picture was on that roll, a picture of me and my mini-keg trophy. (For defensive disc prowess rather than whatever it is that mini-kegs usually bring to mind.) I assumed the rest would be from the Ultimate tournament. They weren't. They're from a canoe trip. Twin was there. And a Kate to be identified later. Justin, Scott, Rob, Chrissy, Chris, Dori, Laura, Paul-- they were all there too. So was an unidentifiable leg. It was the start of their senior year, or junior in some cases. They look so young. I look so young. So beardless, so haired. These are the pictures from a transition period. The time between school and ski lift operator. There are only 7 and had I developed that roll of film 3 years ago, it probably would have slid straight into an album without much thought, but right now it seems very special. It arrives in another transition period. Maybe this time it's from rolls of film to digital, or maybe it's something else. Either way, it's nice to see my friends.

Woody and another decade
There's something special about watching Woody Allen movies in old theaters, or at least theaters that look old. I think it's the music and the simple white on black credits. It just makes me feel like movies are still special and Woody understands that. I don't love his movies, but I think he understands the experience. He makes me feel a little less guilty about spending $8.50, because he gets it. He gets the "going to the pictures for entertainment" feel that isn't all about SELL. SELL. SELL. I appreciate that, but then of course I would, because it reminds me of a time that I wasn't born in. I'm a sucker for someone else's nostalgia.

Fools, Fools,
we're all fools
Today at work I said, "Everyone is an idealist when it's someone else's work." I'm sure it's been said before and it doesn't even look that good in print, but it sounded really profound. I, uh, swear it.

Fools, Fools,
we're all fools
It's almost 7 pm on this Friday night and I'm feeling all jumpy. I want dinner, but instead I'm eating Tuxedos, everybody's favorite faux-Oreo, or is that fauxreo? Wow. I like that. fauxreo, FAUXreo, fauxREO, faux... I don't like it that much. I'm sure that has nothing to do with the jumpiness.

Fools, Fools,
we're all fools
I have no plan. I have no plan for tomorrow. I have no plan for tonight. I need to go to the bathroom. OOH. A PLAN!!!!

fools, fools...

What if friends were like passwords and you had to get new ones every 90 days, but instead you just changed them slightly so that you wouldn’t forget them?
That would be sad.

Peeps to the pizzo
Peeps arrived in the cube today through the mail. I guess they'll ship anything these days. Upon arrival and after expressing my disgust, I found out that the little pink peep bunnies were not in fact the original peep. Oh no. There are little pink chicks too. The chicks are more three dimensional, though just as foul. As I meted out the little peeps to coworkers, I got suspicious looks.

"I just don't like them, all right," I tried to explain.
"Didn't you just go to the SPAM museum?" they asked.

Curses.

La,la,la,layover
It was a land of flip-flops and cotton-candy pants. I could almost feel the sunburn on their cheeks and smell the tequila. It didn't matter if they were coming or going. Bleached blond boys with their roots showing were hanging onto tiny girls with cali on one cheek and fornia on the other. Woven together by the fibers in their trendy track suits they meandered toward the gate to Ft. Lauderdale or Cancun or some such tropical destination. "This is going to be awesome" their eyes seemed to say. Mostly, they traveled in threes and fives. Someone's arm was always around someone else. One could only imagine that the odd one out was hoping that the closer they got to the equator the closer the group would become. And it wouldn't just be them, it would be an entire bar or row of bars or maybe even a city. It would be this pulsing mass of track suits and flip-flops and butt cheeks with important messages all pounding together in one heap of rollicking Spring Breakedness. All this in the Detroit airport. And it wasn't even noon.

I met the girl of my dreams
and was none too pleased when I woke up.

She played Ultimate for a mixed team called The Cynical Tyrants though she wanted to start a women's team. She was a bit of a nudist, didn't quite get along with my friend Renny, and drove a really nice car that I don't think exists. She was cute and funny and had snowboarding posters on her walls.

Other details I remember: Renny and I compared the sleeves on our Gor-Tex jackets.
The car seemed to be part BMW Z-3 and part old-time roadster.
There was snow on the ground when we got to her car, but I don't remember any before that.
Renny had friends with him, but I didn't know them.
I asked her out and somehow we had to go to her car and then to her house to get her phone number. That seems awfully smooth.

Easter Bag Hunt
Tomorrow morning while lots of little children are running around searching for candy, I will be running to the airport to search for my luggage. Northwest was really in a giving spirit this week. They gave me more food vouchers than I could use. They upgraded my seat. They sent me to an airport closer to my home, but they couldn't do the same for my luggage. All I had to endure was a two hour delay, a cancelled flight after a three hour delay, and another one hour delay. For those of you that haven't been in first class, it's not amazing. The drinks come in glass instead of plastic and the armrest is big enough to share. Other than that it's a few inches of legroom and a lot of strange looks from the flight attendants. (Free drinks of the alcoholic sort if you so desire.) I'd take an on time departure any day.

Super Techno-wizard jargon debunked and/or mocked
I'm shopping for a digital camera. Being a curmudgeon-in-training, I have quickly come to realize that the tech-speak gives me a headache. In order to make light of my inability to care about important technology that will revolutionize my picture-taking experience I will now mock some of the terminology that I don't know or understand.

megapixels: not just giant dots anymore, megapixels are like calories, the more you have the better you feel, as long as your megapixels aren't empty megapixels. Nobody wants that.

Optical zoom: Picture Grover (not Cleveland)going near and far. Now picture his eye. Now picture an eight ball over his pupil. Punk Sesame Street characters with their personal expression.

Digital zoom: This is the sound your favorite techno band makes when the crowd gets really rowdy and they have to leave in a hurry. Either that or it's the sound robot toddlers make when they are playing with their miniature digital cars. Why does my camera need this sound?

NIMH batteries: These are batteries powered by brilliant, though misunderstood rats. They don't last as long as Lithium batteries, nor do they provide 1.21 Jiggawatts, but you're not running a flux capacitor here.

Flux Capacitor: Uncommon on today's digital cameras, but it's what makes time travel possible.

LCD screen: This is where you watch all the kids taking their LCD. It's trippy, but the bigger the screen the clearer the trip will be.

Film: Glaringly absent from the entire digital camera phenomenon. Kodak is pissed, but you will now have the not unique and mind-numbing ability to shoot hundreds of pictures and then share them with your friends with little thought to cost or quality. (Not that anyone you know would do that.)

And thusly, chanting my favorite piece of non-advice "Ignore unsolicited advice" I managed to keep my big yammer shut and not offer advice that was not asked of me

More thoughts from the road:

*To me road trips are about past-- so much reminds me of what has already happened. The waking up to the sun reflecting off of snow was a friendly reminder of the good times I had in the longest winter of my life. The red-roofed building, a reminder of a Stuckey's joke I never quite got. The music blaring requires that I recall so many road trips from before to N'awlins, Chicago, Toronto, and more. The times I was stuffed like like a sardine in a teal Mustang, or had no one riding shotgun as I headed to see Elvis. It reminds me of mountains and emotional valleys that I have since driven away from, but always seem to be driving toward.

*It's also about present. About the realization that certain people hug like they have something to prove and certain people hug like they have something to give and certain people hug like they need to borrow a little bit of your love and you should let them. About the fact that when you say "good sense of humor" you actually mean "laughs at my jokes." And the fact that there is a whole different world out there and it's best not to forget it. Because somehow you need to remember that far apart is not always spacious and grown-up is not always suffocated by responsibility. It's ok if vegetarians eat meat and it's ok if two people want to rush back into love. It's ok to camp out in the living room near a creek, Dawson's, because vacation is what you make it.

I have seen the SPAM
and it is glorious. While it's true that I seem to have an affinity for the cult-favorite processed meats, I would think that anyone* would enjoy the SPAM museum. I spent 2 hours there. It seemed to me that most people were done in 35 minutes. Go figure. Although the SPAM exam was a bit of a thrill, I think my favorite tidbit was The SPAM girls. We just don't have enough traveling shows with singing and dancing to promote products anymore. The SPAMettes seemed kind of interesting too. Like the lady said, "There are thousands of female quartets, but we're the only ones that sing about SPAM." The best part of all though, FREE ADMISSION. The SPAM museum gets my seal of approval.

Thanks SPAMtown, USA!





*In this case anyone should like SPAM, SPAM advertising, and Hormel (whether you say it Hormel or HorMEL, you know you're right...)

The SPAM museum IS SO a vacation destination
I'm on vacation. I'm going to the SPAM museum. If I get free samples, I'm stuffing them in my pockets and everyone I know is getting some because never before has my vacation destination caused such an adverse reaction. Not even the Rhode Island-Delaware combo with the side of Newark-Newark caused this kind of stir.

On my trip I am making a few other non-SPAM related stops. I am currently impersonating Kristin in the Quad City area. It's a good gig. There will probably be more on that later. For now, I'll share some of my thoughts on the first leg of my road trip.

-Rest areas have wireless Internet, now? Because you can't rest without the Internet.

-Kum & GO? Seriously? Is this convenience porn?

-Driving in the Midwest makes me think I'm headed to one of two destinations: University of Missouri-Columbia or the Rocky Mountains. It's strange when I'm not.

-I used to think everyone on the road was headed to MU with me, now I look at cars and wonder where they could possibly be going. There's a metaphor in there, I'm sure of it.

-Road trips are doing nothing with a destination. There's something deeper in there too.

I'll try to shake some more out and sing more songs in falsetto tomorrow.

SPAM. SPAM. SPAM. SPAM.

Ways my life is not like my fuzzy recollection of the Dukes of Hazzard
1. The only woman in town is neither my cousin nor wearing short-shorts.

2. My brother and I don't live together. The man I live with almost never slides across the hood of his car (at least not when I'm around).

3. The law is not a fat man; though it may or may not be as incompetent.

4. I do not enter my car through the window. No one I know does this. Which begs the question: What's the point of growing up if you don't enter your car through the window?

5. I can't remember the last time I tried to jump a crick 'cause the bridge was out. For that matter, I haven't run from the law in quite some time either.

6. My uncle does not wear overalls or drive a jeep or possibly run moonshine.

7. I do not know anyone named Ennis.

8. The narrator is conspicuously absent.

9. The line between good and evil is not so easy to distinguish outside of Hazzard County.

10. I don't have cool music nor does life freeze right before I'm about to find myself in a whole heap a trouble.

...and she has to be animated...
I'm not looking for Ms. Perfect, more like...
Elastigirl. It's a stretch, I know...

"It's kind of like an unofficial college holiday"
When did green beer go out of fashion? I don't remember ever hearing so many (at least 2) people (or was it publications?) rail against green beer. Is it the town? Or has green beer gone the way of jalepeno pepper Christmas lights? Why it seems like just yesterday you couldn't have a party* without either and now look at this place.

*I've never been to a party with either as far as I can recall. It felt poetic. Happy St. Patrick's Day. If you've got Irish in you, let it out.

Avril Lavigne: gateway drug
It could be a coincidence, sure. At about the time that I snagged my first Avril album (Wait. Have there even been others? That answers your query, Clare.) I started to realize that there was a whole lot of music out there. I assume some part of me already knew that fact, seeing as I had multiple friends with CD case upon CD case, but I had always managed quite nicely on less than 25 CDs. Suddenly, it occurred to me that the world was more than SK8r boi and what the radio was feeding me.

Fast forward to today where I now consume what the Listening rack at the local independent bookstore is feeding me. (Still with quite a bit of restraint compared to some.) Today's entrees are a fun bluegrassy, folksy, female-driven The Ditty Bops and Petra Hayden sings the Who Sell Out. I'm not much of a The Who fan. The Who? Exactly. has often been my motto, although I suppose I did name a snowboard after a rock opera that I'd never seen, but that is neither... Right. So this Petra character sings the whole album, a live album from what I'm told. When I say the whole album, I mean everything. This is an acapella version of The Who Sell Out , all the drums, the guitars, the-one-can only-imagines-what-The Who-plays all sung by Petra. When I first heard it, I found out that I did know one song, "I can see for Miles and Miles," but basically through the whole unfamiliar album I didn't know whether I was supposed to laugh or be moved. I kind of like that in a CD and I couldn't get it out of my head, so today I bought it. I can't decide whether to laugh or praise it for being beautiful. Maybe I should ask Avril.

The more things change, the hungrier I get?
For those of you just tuning in, or looking at blog trends, the last 17 days for me went something like this: search for meaning, forgetfulness, self-confidence/food/weather, vanity, music, video games, "Nobody mocks harder," frustration/dreams, weather, frustration/escape, nostalgia, food.

I'm detecting some trends here. Let's compare it to the same time period last year: Hilary Duff, DE poetry, blogs, voting, CVS girl, action, Saturday AM, Grand Canyon/girl, laughs, "YOU CAN'T HAVE MY PANTS!" TV on DVD, interview with myself.

The year before that: musical prepositions, Mr. Rogers died, friends, grumpiness, Avril Lavigne, "My life has more bells and whistles." elevator etiquette, war, mix tapes, awkwardness, sister's growth.

Hmm. Very interesting. (That's what you say when you don't know what else to say. If you really don't know what to say, extend your "r" in the "very" and speak slower. Like this: verrrrrry interesting. It makes you seem more thoughtful and/or stupid. It's a crap shoot, really.)

The burrito that's killing my brain cells
My burrito, so carelessly wrapped in foil. First it’s a shiny silver gift. Then an ice cream cone. Soon a spicy hot forty in a soft silver bottle. Walk with a weave, as rice and peppers and little bits of chicken fall to the ground. At least the ones that don’t get stuck in my beard. I’m saving the scraps and ruining my breath. I burrow deeper into the cylinder of faux-Mexican meal on the move. Savagely biting at what’s already dead. The weave of my walk is but a drunken burrito stupor. The last unpleasant scraps are slurped as chewing has become too much like thinking and both I eschew. I wad up the wrapping, the cone, the bottle, the foil, the trash. It’s a tiny misshapen ball, remnants of a meal squished between a malleable metal. Crumpled and useless it lands in a barrel as I stumble on toward home. The motion sensor lights announce my arrival as I make my way straight for the car. Climbing, I lie face up on the roof. For what better use of an auto than as a metal mattress with a perfect view of the sky and telephone wires. This is not where I usually take my respite, but then I’ve never been bombed on a burrito.

With respect to the author, Ms. Olson, I offer up a little inspiring bit of nostalgia. Hope she doesn't mind, wherever she may be.
I found this going through some zip disks. It still gets me right *here*.


Let’s say there’s this bunch of kids that you know.
Maybe you even met them once upon a time in what you now
know will one day soon be a faraway land.
And perhaps you knew the moment you stepped into the world
they share that these kids were like nothing you’d ever
seen before.
Probably even like nothing you’d ever see again.
They are the artists of a generation that has been said to have no
direction, no defining characteristics, no real purpose.
But you realize upon introduction that whoever said that hasn’t
been to this world, and certainly hasn’t met the ragged
bunch of kids that live here.
They offer themselves honestly and without pretense in a calm
come-as-you-are fashion.
They are harsh critics that know what they like and dislike
about you within seconds.
But they are forgiving, and they won’t hold a grudge over a simple
flaw of the personality—they simply find you all the
more interesting.
These kids don’t really know themselves yet, haven’t had a
chance to explore, and most of them have seemingly no
idea of their full potential.
When they do finally realize it, they’ll probably scare the hell
out of the rest of the world.
These kids are not perfect, but you realize, as the old saying
goes, nobody is.
They have courage beyond their years—courage to find
themselves, to live according to their own happiness, and
to make their own ways.
Perhaps you wish that you had the guts to act with their
abandon.
They want to share every thought that occurs, every word
produced by their pens, and each melody that plays at
the tips of their fingers and parting of their lips.
To think twice about confessing sin, divulging desires, or
professing true love is unheard of, because these kids
live to tell a story.
To go unheard is to starve.
Maybe these kids are so talented and so bright that you have
been afraid to take part.
Maybe you’ve always been envious that you couldn’t quite
follow suit.
Maybe one day, you get brave.
You’ve always admired their world from a distance, and
wondered what it would be like to participate.
But you’ve come to realize that you’re never really going to
belong here.
But this doesn’t make you sad—not at all.
You’ve had your chance, had a taste of this incredibly unique
world, and that taste has been far from bitter.
It has simply shown you that you belong somewhere else.
So maybe you leave this world and this amazing group of kids.
You’re probably torn, because you know that you’ll never find
another place like this with people like that.
But you know that it’s time, that the decision has been made,
and that you have to go.
And maybe, just maybe, you will forever hold in your heart a
little piece of that world.
Because you have to know, to feel that it would be impossible
to forget a bunch of kids who have shown you so much,
who have taught you to perform, reminded you how to
play, and who have blessed you with the courage to
finally give back a little part of yourself.
And maybe most of all, you hope that these kids won’t forget
you, either.

Not even a good spectator
I'm so sick of watching Ultimate. I just want to play. I don't think I mentioned that I pulled my groin last week. It's great for say, having people ask, "How's your groin?" The attention is nice, but really it's kind of a private area; mine perhaps less so than some... Anyway, I'm tired of standing on the sidelines and wishing I could be in the action. I had three lovely weeks of running and jumping and now I'm back to stalking the sidelines and hollering. It's just adding to my frustration, actually I think it's more like multiplying. I just read a book that was all about the "things happen for a reason" schtick, which I totally buy, especially if the reason is postive and instantly gratifying and identifiable. When it isn't, like now for instance, I'm all about the WHY? WHY? WHY?

Candy quiche and the liquid brownies
We could stand around and debate the times and places where I may have erred in the kitchen tonight, but maybe you should sit. I can see (and still taste several hours later) now that shortbread crust is not the best crust for a quiche. But it said "Ready Crust" in such big letters.

Maybe ginger is not the ideal nutmeg substitute, but really they're both spices, right? How different can they be?

Timers, measuring cups-- those are for people that don't cook intuitively. I feel the kitchen. The kitchen feels me. And the kitchen likes. Me. Ow.

"I just felt like running"
Escape is my new four letter word. It's all I do. (Not that four letter words are all I do.) I get home, turn on the Xbox and escape into a game of football. I don't listen to the game, I'm too busy escaping via the radio. When push button football turns me antsy, I head to my room for some vicarious living through blogs- which is just an escape. That gets old quickly. I'm not sure if it's me, or the sites I'm reading, but things seem to be a little slow of late. So I escape with the closest TV on DVD. I'm tempted to start watching Buffy all over again. Alias doesn't tempt me in the same way, not that I wouldn't watch the new season if it happened to be on a DVD wiggling in front of my face. That lasts an hour or two and then I'm ready to escape into a nice slumber. Every morning I grab my hip Express which is just my Metro escape tool. After a week of hard work, it's either escape to the cinema or escape to the Ultimate field. Escape is a four letter word. It may also be spelled l-i-f-e. Can't escape that...

Old man hangs in
I've got to hand it to the old man. I had my doubts early, but Old man Winter has been hanging on. I thought he'd slipped away when it reached 60, but with the paddles to his chest his chilly heartbeat came beeping back through the heart monitors. This morning it was 50 degrees and for all practical purposes I figured the old guy was out. 50 degrees in the morning? That's like a closed casket or something, but the old guy ripped through the casket and turned the rain into snow and then with a mighty huff he sent the temperature plummeting 20 some odd degrees.

(Now between you and me, I know that the DC version of old man winter is a little weak. He's getting on in years, though you wouldn't know it from the way this town reacts to his dandruff and icy stares. In all fairness, I'm judging him by past performance; it wouldn't be right to compare him to a real winter. Compared to someplace like Texas, he's like Super Old Man winter. Whose comic book incidentally never took off. I digress.)

We interrupt this post to announce that there will be no more gressing for today. Tune in tomorrow for another exciting gressful post.

What's the written equivalent of shaking your head really really fast back and forth so that your lips flap around and your brain rattles against the inside of your skull?
'Cause that's what I need to do to get back on track. Any semblance of creativity has taken a major dip, even the old confidence shower didn't quite fix things up. (Bet you didn't know that if you twist past cold and past hot you get to confidence. It's true and you know it works because it burns.)

I'm stuck. I'm stuck. I'm stuck.

I had a dream last night. In it I was running a race, only I was so sore from earlier in the day that I couldn't get anywhere fast. All I could do was plod along. And everyone was running faster than me. In my dream I could tell they were waiting for me at the finish because we had someone important to meet. Someone important like Margo. Still, I couldn't go any faster. I distinctly remember my friends Monika and Matt commenting on how incredibly slow I was. At some point it became night time and all the other racers disappeared. I was all alone and running at speeds that can't even technically be called speeds, because that sounds too fast. When out of nowhere this car came along and nudged me. The next thing I knew I was in a screaming match with the female passenger. When I realized yelling wasn't helping the situation, I told her to take a deep breath. I took one too. Then I calmly explained why she needed to share the road, and why it wasn't necessary for her car to run into me. She saw my point and changed her driving habits forever.

There's a valuable lesson in there somewhere. I think it's don't race around if you have to meet Margo, lest you get hit by a car driven by a passenger.

If I had a radio station and/or Soul Train spinoff
The slogan would be: Nobody mocks harder.

You want to talk pressure?
It's half time in the Carriage House final regular season match-up between the Denver (smelly) Broncos and the Kansas City Chiefs. Both have incredible 2,000 yard rushers, with three games left in the season. Both have winning records, though the Broncs currently maintain the leagues only perfect record. The Chiefs lead 10-3 at the half. The Chiefs are a 9-4 team, but they are used to the gritty battles. They have won some very close games, and they'll try to win one right now. They are plagued by mistakes and a poor defense however. I'm predicting 17-13 win. Back after the half.

The reason his soul burns
The game was tied at 17. A fourth down stop left the Chiefs at the 43 with 2 seconds left. Trent Green, under pressure, rolled out to the left to avoid one Bronco and as another came near he launched a prayer down the field toward the goal line. At the 5, two Bronco defenders mis-timed their jumps. Standing at the back of the crowd, Samie Parker pulled down the prayer and then managed to get into the end zone. Parker will remember his third catch of the season, I have no doubt. (Except for the doubts that come from remembering that X-box game players don't really have memories.)

girl pop punk
They might not like it, but we do.
Melting into the wall so warm and pretty.
Just a flower watered by Irish creme and I'm
Waiting for some women to kick it,
not your bad mic banter you tiny Elviscostelloman.
It's not femme folk funk
Angry bald headed band with your distorted plan
It's girl pop punk, say it faster now--
it's girlPOPpunk, girlPOPpunk.
the drummer is appropriately mad
the lead, she's drunk, but still she's rad
that damn bass player, she makes me jitter.
girlPOPpunk, so angry, so bitter.
It's girlPOPpunk, yea yea yea
girlPOPpunk, come back for your encore
girlpoppunk, don't leave yet, we want more.
GIRL. POP. PUNK.

To the patron saint of Wails
The problem with such vanity is that when one tires of oneself, there's little left to say. Good thing there are photos.

Cheers, then
Self-confidence, what'reyou doing 'iding in the bushes? Come on out, then. Bring your lil' mate personal responsibility too. It's right nice to see you both.

City sludge
When it snows the whiteness never lasts. The streets quickly turn an icky brownish gray.

When I made snow ice cream, I ran out of white sugar and had to substitute brown, which quickly turned my snow ice cream an icky brownish gray-- in the most delicious way.

Perhaps I'm using the wrong search engine?
I don't think what I'm searching for can be googled. Not that it stops me from trying.

Mind closing
I had two epiphanies on the Metro today, but I forgot them both.

But it's ok to crush?
foot speed is not a reason to fall in love
foot speed is not a good reason to fall in love
foot speed alone is not a good reason to fall in love
foot speed alone is not a good reason to fall in love
foot speed alone is not a good reason to fall in love


It's so hard being this deep.

In a sea of human children
I don’t get to see a lot of children these days. We just don’t hang out in the same places anymore. We don’t run in the same circles. (No fair pulling this post out someday when I write about everyone around me making babies.)

The office was flooded with children today. In my day-to-day existence one hallway containing four children constitutes flooding. It’s not like children were crowd surfing over my cube or leaping from the cabinets. Then again, it’s not like my office is the home of kiddie death metal either. What’s that? Oh. Right. Back on track. Four kids can seem like a lot since I usually see, hear, and think about none. In this instance there were four little girls- one mildly bored twelve-year old and possibly the three cutest six-year olds on the planet. We are talking fist-flying, ninja-kicks-to-the-shin adorable. Sugar and spice? That’s so 1950s. It’s dancing Cheetah Girl time and also punch David time. It’s possible the surprise attack duck, duck, GOOSE got them riled up, but it’s not like I ran full tilt down the hall. I even let them catch me. From that moment forward I seemed to be the number one target for little girl aggression. I’m not a large man by many means, but I can hold my own against six-year olds, most of the time. It’s fun to have half-sized humans around even when they insist on the flailing and the kicking. Several times today I found myself enjoying their company quite a bit. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t allowed to do the Cheetah girl dance with a girl doll. I could bust a move with a boy doll. He was boy band-esque, big head and all. I did worry that I might cause some squeals or get the dreaded dirty look from a parent, but kids are fun. I wonder if men reach a certain age where they decide the best way to have serious play time again is to have a kid of their own. Or is that just me? (And really, how much more serious can my play time get?)

"Plastics"
It may still be the future, but I sure like when it's flying through my present.

FURNITURE metaphor SALE!

The desk I had in high school is catty corner to the chest of drawers I’ve had all my life. The mattress is on the floor and the stackable black boxes are stacked in the corner. This is comfortable. This is thrifty. This is me. Isn’t it? I could get new furniture. It could have Swedish names and Swedish lines. It could be all grown up and wonderful. It could be the new me. Maybe the Swedes are too much pressure. I could have some good sturdy furniture, my own box springs for instance. That could be the new me. None of these scenarios are impossible to imagine, even difficult to imagine really, but I want to decide. I want to feel like I’ve made a furniture choice even if that choice is thrifty. The path of least resistance is fine so long as that’s the path I want to be on.

By the way, the Naugahyde stays for a while longer. There’s personal style redefinition and then there’s core furniture values.

Some more things I miss about college
or I get this way when I play Disc golf with college kids on a campus

*I miss being able to watch the mating rituals of students. The mating rituals post-college are sometimes observable, but they seem generally sleazier, more jaded, and/or more secretive. There's a far more innocent quality to the pre-collegiate hook-up. Or so I've come to convince myself.

*I miss the outside. Outside used to be ok. It was a place to go away and get some peace. Now it seems like it's the space to go through between buildings. It occurs to me that this is partly my fault. I'll work on that.

*I miss "random." Everything takes planning now. Where are the organic disc games? (those are disc games that just happened rather than games with discs made from earthy materials) Where are the impromptu wall-climbers, the impromptu most anything-ers?

*I miss missing. (I've found other ways and other things to miss, so this isn't entirely true, but wasn't it neat the way the seperations seemed so imposed and then the reunions so glorious?)

*I miss the lack of a degree. I knew what I was shooting for and it didn't change for 4 whole years, let alone every day.

So they ask me, "What are the advantages to being out of college?"

One word: Freedom.

So much that most of the time I still haven't figured out how to harness it, but I know it's there and I know it's potential is awesome and scary. A lot of scary, but I don't tell them that.

Working from home without the work
Sick days are for sickness. Let me tell you how my dictionary defines sick.
1. physically or mentally unwell. Check
2. likely to vomit not unchecked
3. distressed or disgusted. I would've been had I done #2.
4. bored with something through having already had or done too much of it. Check. Check. Check please.
5. finding amusement in misfortune or in morbid subjects. America's funniest home videos was good for a while...

I'd say I qualify. Good, now if I can just get over the guilt. The hacking cough helps.

Hickeys will not be addressed here today
I'm sitting here in my VD best- lips tie, used car salesman sport jacket, black pants that don't seem to fit quite right anymore, and black socks, trying to come up with some sticky gooey confection of love that can shake some people right out of their blahvalentine'sday tree. I'm not doing too well.

Love without hickeys. Burgers without fries.
The farther away I get the more perfect it becomes. There have been moments, sure, but none like those. I'm not sure I even know anymore if what I remember is real. I can no longer separate fantasy from the memory. It was the perfect size, shape, taste. If I concentrate, I do recall moments of imperfection- things got too hot, or I got too full. Now, several years later all that has blurred. Now, I only remember the good times. The fun times, the way things were going to be. The smiles. The laughs. A love so savory it needed nothing else. It's almost legend now. My heart beats for it almost daily. I miss it. I crave it. I can live it without it of course, but is that what I really want? Life always seems to be missing something. At the the time, I paid a price, sure. But I'd pay it again, twice even to have that back, to once again share in the joy of a Booches burger.

I went to 5 Guys today. They have a lovely burger of their own. One of the area's best, I'm told. It was piled high with toppings and condiments. It was a fine burger in its own right, but when my friend turned to me and asked "Is it the best you've ever had?" I had to answer with a heavy heart, "No. That spot is reserved for another. My first. The greatest love I have ever known. The burger with soul. The burger that made me want to be a better man. The burger that I cannot seem to forget." And she said, "You're strange."

"Love will do that to you."

Still no hickeys
I find it fascinating that in a time that "we" are so obsessed with reality, we don't believe anything. Is it really so hard to believe That Pepsi Girl could inspire her own following. Some people are asking if they've stumbled onto a corporate site. We're so desperate for real that we won't believe a thing.

Once more with context
I want to talk about the context of experience-- how what you know and what you've done affects every experience that you have. I read somewhere recently that the reason years seem shorter as you get older is because the days become difficult to differentiate. The days don't feel shorter, we just don't try new things and so upon reflection less seems to have happened. Didn't someone say to try something new every day?

Back to the experience- If the experience is affected by context, then isn't every experience different for every person? It kind of makes me feel guilty for screeching, "What!? You don't like ______!" But is experience always affected by context? Here's the unfortunate example that has me thinking along these lines: The whole Buffy musical excitement was roaring when I moved to town. They (they being my friends) made me watch and I couldn't help agree that it was creative and kind of funny and ok, but not something to be so excited about. Until today when I watched it again. This time I watched it having seen all of (most of) the stuff leading up to it. I understood, liked even, the characters involved and it was something to be excited about. I'm not gonzo crazy over it, but again, my experiences with the show are compressed compared to theirs. How often is this occurring? And how many opportunities do we get to have catch-up experiences? Score one for DVDs?

Let's be honest, I'm just glad the tube has me thinking at all.

And,
She reminded me that pancakes can be a key ingredient to seizing the day. I need more reminders like that.

Pedaling on the edge of perfection
With day-old disc soreness from here down, I stretched and primped. I was preparing for a bike ride. The first since October? Somewhere during that hour of spinning through the streets, soreness slipped out and a smile slipped in. It wasn't the temporary kind brought on by singing dancing Indians or Buffy characters cut from that cloth, but the kind from somewhere deeper. The kind that says life isn't standing still; I'm not standing still. I'm pedaling just on the edge of perfection. Heart beats. Lungs gasp. Legs churn. Wind blows. Smile grows. Pedaling on the edge of perfection.

My superpowers: not so fully charged
I haven't really sprinted since August. Turns out it hurts way more than I remember. I'd say there is some work to be done between now and whenever. Let's hope endurance is one of those qualities that roars in pre-March lion.

It's time for some plunging
I'm not talking about squishy bathroom appliances here. I'm talking about grabbing on as life whizzes by. This wishy-washy stuff has got to stop. I don't want my twenties to be remembered as the decade life stood still. It's time for some serious button mashing. I'm in Mortal Kombat and I'm {this close} to pulling out the finishing move and grabbing life by the still throbbing heart.

I have no idea what that meant, 'cept "seize the mother-effing day suckah! And while yuze at it, you might as well take the night."

Also time for singing and dancing
Bride & Prejudice. I went in with low expectations and left happy. That's all we can really ask in these situations. We can also ask for good-looking people on screen. This movie delivers. If you are expecting a cat fight in the rain between Miss World and Miss India, however, this movie will let you down. The silly sweetness of the singing and dancing nearly make up for the lack of a good cat fight, but not entirely. My recommendation: Sing and dance your way to the matinee, ya cheapskate.

be vewy vewy quiet
It's a necessity when stalking Valentines...er...wabbits.

Egghead Dave and the Magazine
Tonight I ate at a joint called Eggspectations. I'm serious. They bill themselves as an all day eggsperience. They look chain-y, so you might have been to one and basked in "Le Cirque des oeufs." I am not making this up. I just found out that you haven't been to one, because they seem to have two locations in the world and they are both near me. The point I'm trying to make is that you don't go to a place called Eggspectations and order the Mango burger. It just isn't done. At least not on the first visit. So, I ignored my desire and went with the "Eggswhat?" Eggs-actly. The problem with every egg dish, save the 12 eggs benedict dishes, was that each dish came with eggs cooked to my liking. I knew I could get the eggs scrambled, but after that I start to get fuzzy on what eggs-actly my egg options might be. (You think this post is bad, you should see the menu.) Then in a fit of panic I have a Runaway Bride moment and become very concerned that not only do I not know my egg options, but that I don't in fact even know how I like my eggs. Such strong movie recall led me to believe that I should not order the scrambled eggs. Choosing sunny side up both because I knew the name and because I admire the optimism, I steadied my inner Julia Roberts. The sun was kind of runny and gross, which is why I prefer scrambled eggs, even if the whites actually went pretty well with the corned beef hash, honeydew melon, and potatoes. It was a strange meal and in the end I think it left me with foul breath, a funny feeling in my stomach and a number of less than eggsistential questions.

Black and white
In non-egg related news, I have a magazine whose cover asks in white type "Are dating services really worth the money?" Directly next to that in black type is "Trace your family tree."

It's all about the beverages
Napoleon Dynamite is a beer movie. Maybe not a whole beer, just 3/4. Laugh while the chilled glass bottle rests on slouched, now-horizontal hips. Toss back a swig or two and consider the dork within.

Slurpee is the new February walking drink. Walk through the suburbs where the houses and the trees both seem taller. Walk past the homes that seem to house the hippies who haven't quite turned yuppie despite the Audi in the driveway. Slurp. Slurp. Try not to stare at the thin pale woman cleaning her Mercedes to the twanging country groove. When was the last time I heard country? Slurp. Slurp. Flags and multi-colored shudders, snow remains separate from the abandoned sleds and "War is not the answer." The houses are closer, maybe older, and yet somehow more stylish. The porches are open, welcoming, but empty. Slurp. Slurp. "Hi" she announces with the confidence that comes from being 4. "Hi" I return, my cheeriness tainted by not talking to strangers. That rule was for the children, not for the bearded man walking up the street. Tell that to the mother who notices me, but seems to sweep her child inside. Slurp. Slurp. Over a grate it smells like oatmeal on a camping trip, which smells far different from oatmeal at home. The sounds of children playing fade to cars and the purposeful wander of the urban student. A move-in special, first month free, no thanks I think I've got a home and Slurp. Slurp. Slurpee.

It's time for some ads
My degree allows me to enjoy a whoopee cushion and some monkeys on so many levels.

I also found a new crush. She is the brunette in the Pepsi ads. Reuben says she might be 18. Sir Paul would understand. Or he would've before he had grandkids.

The Mustang commercial sucked. Twice. This fine ad parody, however, almost makes me want a "new" car.

Depending on who you ask, America either liked the Bud light commercial with the guy jumping out of the plane or didn't. For my money, more ads should have abandoned their chutes. I'm counting on my old roommate to fix that next year.

I nearly forgot to give a nod to the cell phone hold-up. The shotgun really touched me. In my mind, it went off.

Dear Bank of Mine,
I want to state for the record that I hate your guts. While I appreciate that you keep my money in a safe place thus enabling me to maintain the already delicate control of my mattress stability, that still does not excuse all of your other annoying mailings. Why do you insist on offering me everything under the sun? I do not want your credit cards or your special accounts. Most of all I do not want to convince my friends that banking with you would be a good idea for a $25 plastic gift card. Let's be honest, I bet I couldn't even convince your employees to bank with you for $25. You are so freaking annoying. I wish I had a mailbox that would chew up anything with your logo on it. That would be swell. It could have a little basket underneath to catch all of the little pieces of paper. I'd empty the little basket into an envelope and send the pieces back to you, or maybe I should take all the scraps of paper and spell out DIE! on my kitchen floor. I could take a picture of that and send it to you. Would that work out for you? 'Cause I'm thinking it might be pretty satisfying for me.

Turn blog drivel into silky schizzle
Don't believe me? Ask Snoop.

Just call me Great-Aunt David
"Hi David" I heard from somewhere behind my cube. It was a child's high-pitched voice, but when I turned around I found a much larger version of the little girl I'd expected to see. My coworker's daughter had grown almost two feet taller and the first thing to pop out of my mouth was, "My gosh you've grown."

I might as well have just pinched her cheeks, thrown my shawl over my shoulder and cried out, "Mortie. Have you seen Christina? She's so tall!"

Watch out Abdul!
I'm choreographing a dance to the Alias season 3 DVD menu music. I can't tell you much, but I promise there will be some shimmies and some great hand movements. The problem is going to be the big finale since the music is on a loop.

Application for my weekend
After two consecutive quite wonderful weekends with two quite wonderful people, I now find myself in the position of having a weekend vacancy. If you would like to fill this vacancy or a future vacancy, please fill out the following application. Thank you.

Name:
Supercool Nickname I can holler if needed:
Three items you will bring with you on this weekend:
Where do you see our weekend taking place?
Stated purpose of our weekend (think big):
Actual purpose of our weekend (give it to me straight):
Two activities you would like to undertake with me:
Please rank your preferred method of transport starting with your favorite: A. car B. public C. walking D. running E. sliding F. magic carpet
What is your favorite card game? A. Go Fish B. Poker C. Spades D. Canasta E. Break the Bucket
Do you see yourself as A. Fiscally responsible B. Rich and looking to treat C. Hoping for a free ride D. hungry ?
Complete this sentence Snow makes me .
Complete this analogy David is to pants as I am to .
Fill in the blanks A weekend is not complete without blank, blank, and blank.

Optional Bonus question: What is the likelihood that we're going to make out?



Due to the competitive nature of my weekends, you will only hear from me if you meet my needs at this time. Thank you for applying and good luck with your weekends. We do not discriminate based on anything that might offend anyone including but not limited to age, race, sexual orientation, favorite color, ability to make cookies, and/or english/metric system preference.

Hey. It's 2005! I am now accepting challenges
Last year, some friends and I traded challenges. They ranged from the simple "read this book" to the more difficult "Get a new job."
I don't think anyone met all their challenges, but it was a nice way to feel a little sense of accomplishment*("net removed") and say, "Hey. I did something you thought I should do." I liked that. I'm not sure everyone felt the same way, which would explain why we haven't re-introduced the challenges this year, but I'm here to offer you even more blog interactivity. Readers, I am now accepting challenges. I'll be happy to keep you posted on my failures and successes.

Let me give you some examples from last year and my results just so you have a better idea of what I'm talking about and how you shouldn't get your hopes too high.
1. Challenge: Get drunk, do gay karaoke*(I'll spell it this way if I must.) Results: Karaoke* Revolution doesn't like my falsetto and I'm still on the wagon.
2. Challenge: Learn how to play "Rainbow Connection" on the banjo. Results: I haven't touched my banjo in at least 2 months, but I mean to.
3. Challenge: Make salsa; hike the AT, read A walk in the woods. Results: I looked up a lot of salsa recipes, hiked a section of the trail recently and read the book.
4. Challenge: Call brother-in-law; have 10-minute conversation. Results: 15 minutes, no sweat.
5. Challenge: Ultimate lessons for all. Results: I can't even get everyone outside.
6. Challenge: Go on a date. Results: Maybe. Maybe. Ok. I did it.
7. Challenge: Find seafood you actually like. Results: I like flounder, but not sushi, salmon, crab, or shrimp.
8. Challenge: Write a rebellious short story. Results: How about 50,000 words instead?

So that was last year's challenges. Who wants to shape my 2005?

For the articles and the pictures
I don't usually read Esquire. I don't usually look at the pictures. Sometimes I flip through, find out the 10 things I need to know about women and then head right to Real Simple. That's the kind of man I am. Unless...

Unless, Scarlett is on the cover. Unless, she's looking at me all sexy saying in her husky voice "You will read. You will look at the pictures. You will start to melt and be short of breath."

Yes, Scarlett I will.

So I read and I look. I start to melt and be short of breath, when Scarlett's voice returns and says, "I think you should get out more and stop fantasizing about some 19-year old in a magazine."

But, but...

That Scarlett, she's so sage.

So there.
We’d met before, sort of. That didn’t give me reason to spew an antagonistic chicken-grease kiss at her cheek in a field in Fayetteville, Arkansas. I’m not sure how I expected or wanted her to react since I’d be states away in just days. Maybe that’s why I slobbered in such grand fashion. It was a sloppy hello. It was a liquid-y see you later. Except I didn’t expect to.

It starts to get fuzzy after that. She infiltrated my home in Colorado on her Thanksgiving break. The cold winter of my acquaintance-filled existence suddenly found a bright and lively new face and voice to entertain and challenge me in ways I’d never considered. She managed to jumpstart the dying lump that my heart had become. Close to Valentine’s Day, she sent me a package. I was in the car headed to a day on the slopes after my roommate Bruno and I swung by the Post Office. I told him to go ahead and open it. He did and promptly pulled out a pair of plastic handcuffs that said, “Take me. I’m yours.” It was a joke, but there was no explaining that to Bruno. He wasn’t about to let me live that down.

It seemed with her that life became an insane road trip. I think she’s still on it. I got to ride along through more stops than I probably deserved. One of my favorites will always be Hays, Kansas.

It was the afternoon on the first day of a three day weekend and we were on the phone. I was in Colorado, she was in Missouri.
“I want to see you” one of us said.
“We could meet in Hays, Kansas,” someone replied. I can’t remember who said what anymore. “It’s a 6 hour drive for each of us.”
There was a pause. Perhaps an “Are you serious?” or two. And then, “I have to shower. I’ll call you back and decide after that.”
“Ok.”

A shower passed and we were back on the phone.
“Ok. Let’s go.”
“Really?”
“Yea. We’ll meet at the Arby’s in Hays.”
“You’re sure there’s an Arby’s?”
“Yep. Aren’t you?”
“I think so. Leave in thirty minutes.”
“All right. See you soon.”
“Drive safely.”

There was no back-up plan. It was just a matter of showing up at Arby’s in six hours and spending a day or two in Hays. Logic had not entered the terms of our friendship.

It wasn’t that trip, but somewhere later that I realized I couldn’t keep up. I always figured she knew she couldn’t stop yet, anyway. So now I get phone calls from the road that say things like “I’m with my friend Liz and she’s about to run a marathon. You two can talk about marathons. Call her at (###)###-####.” Because it’s her and no one else, I pick up the phone and call Liz. That’s just the way it works.

I never know what I’ll hear next. Sometimes I get a letter with a joke perfect for campers “Two muffins sat in an oven. One turned to the other and said, ‘Is it hot in here, or is it just me?’ The other screamed “AHHHH! A TALKING MUFFIN!” Sometimes it’s a postcard from the Northwest in code, or a bottlecap magnet that says “Clothing Optional Club”. Or a pumpkin pin without tire tracks. Sometimes the letter is filled with reminiscing, other times it’s about the new web she’s weaving. Ultimate, love, and life nearly always make an appearance.

It’s hard to believe I’ve only known her for a few years. And I’ve never known her to be in the same city, and rarely the same state as me. She lets me live vicariously through her. She’s got such guts, half the time I don’t know what she’s following, but I admire her for going after it, whatever it is. If anybody can track it down, it’s her. She’s going to be a writer, a nurse, a hairy-legged new-age hippy, a trailmaker, a heartbreaker, a wonderful mother, teacher, an artful student, a lifelong learner, a wanderer. She is one of the most fascinating people I know. And she makes me remember what it’s like to be a kid, what it’s like to be an old man (not that it takes much). When I forget, she reminds me what it’s like to think and feel. She challenges me to write and care and LIVE in all capital letters. Everybody needs people like that.

If you’re out in the world and you happen to see her, whether her hair is down to her butt or shaved all the way off, you might recognize her by her skirt, her smile, or her homemade Lady Danger Man Shirt. If you’re lucky, she’ll burp in your ear. If it’s Friday, tell my friend Amanda "Happy Birthday", will ya?

I could get addicted to Physical Therapy. There's physical contact and special attention to the parts that ail me and talking about running and the possibility of massage and ultrasound and all kinds of good stuff.

I feel guilty that I seem to rent more DVDs than I buy books or CDs from the local chain bookstore. It's not my fault they have a split personality. It is my fault that I would rather consume and return than consume and own. Or is it?

I am seriously feeling the effects of PVD (Post-vacation Disorder) or PHS (Post-Holiday Stress) or some disease that relates to the extreme level of suckitude that results from being back to work on a regular basis.

I will probably feel better after dinner.

Road Warriors*
*Those of you prone to post-event worry, or those of you considering road trips with me may want to skip this post. Let me direct you to some highlights or a hilarious prank.

Sticking it out, are you?

The snow had been blanketing the road and the now-invisible countryside? cityside? world, around us for several hours. I gripped the steering wheel, tense and excited. My passenger/DJ/navigator/new partner in crime/possible last person I'd see on earth, calmly sat as she spun patient relaxing tunes/took over as my eyes/believed in me/possibly prayed; only revealing her nervous jitters, like her southern accent, when speaking to her parents. The tell-tale yet coded sighs had gone silent. It was too dark and too far to my right to see if any of the now famous smile remained.

As the windshield shrank and the wipers collected ice, I shifted in my seat, hands still glued to the wheel, trying to keep sight of the white road below me. For a while I had the last of a wiper swath to look through, but the icy build-up on my blades soon took that from me too. I rolled down my window to attempt an Ace-Venture-style technique, but quickly found that my face wouldn't stand for the pelting snow. My head bobbed and danced as I looked for some way to continue down the road without discontinuing our lives. It was like watching TV without an antenna (and no cable), yet Clare,my favorite reality TV show critic, was now crucial to this actual reality. With poise, she began to direct my efforts through her windshield view.

We made our way slowly, likely traversing across the lanes, though rarely slipping, as my little Saturn outperformed SUVs. I rolled down the window to keep an eye on the concrete divide. I saw no sense in hitting that. A few times Clare waved me in the appropriate direction, until finally we were able to wind around and around and around the longest entrance ramp to a New Jersey Service Area. We wiped off the snow and cleared ice from the wiper blades. After answering a call of nature, we returned to the winter wollop already in progress and continued our slow push south on the turnpike. In minutes the windshield returned to its near useless state. Without a trace of external panic, Clare and I went through the same motions again. I clung to the steering wheel, slip-sliding as necessary and pushing on. I rolled my window up and down trying to catch a bigger glimpse of anything. We followed the dim lights of a snow plow and any other real or imagined glimmer of hope I could find. Clare again bravely dug in, leaned forward and managed to point and wave us to a hotel near the airport. Cars ahead struggled at the stop sign while the Sheraton sign shone like a beacon above. Even after waiting nervously for the cars in front of us to right themselves, my wonderful car plowed on and skidded to a stop outside our ridiculously overpriced new home in Newark.

Giddy with life, yet exhausted by a trying drive we collapsed into a fit of yoga, snow angels, handstands, room service with a side of twenty questions, giggles, and perhaps the greatest collaborative game with a clear winner of all time- Break the Bucket. Not yet available in stores!

Four more years (gulp)
After the 10 inches in 45 minutes crawl en route to the pat-me-down tent, and after the Eagle scout b**** was unable to bully her way through the line thanks to a man more resolute than me, I finally got touched all over by a security agent who was slightly suspicious of my wallet and sandwich. He still managed to send me on my way with literally minutes to spare before that old judge swore in that presidential guy. I was too far away to see, although after about 10 minutes I think I figured out which speck in the distance must be speaking. I could hear just fine, but it still seems to me he pretty much said, "Freedom good. Tyranny bad." This is a message I generally support, even when spoken by a man that I generally don't. Despite my misgivings about this country's decision in November, I have to say that hearing a president speak with the capitol as the backdrop is a special experience. There's something pretty powerful about hearing words like freedom, liberty, and America echo around the mall. Several people called it a "once-in-a-lifetime experience". Seeing as this is the second inauguration for this guy and the third for this family and the fact that there seems to be one of these about every four years, I'm not sure I agree with that. Then again I don't agree with fur coats and I saw more of those today than I have ever seen before in my life. What do I know anyway?

Thanks Genie
I got what I wished for.

Freshman-year abs?

One thing at a time. It snowed. Which according to most of the "adult" world I inhabit is something akin to paying the utilities bill. I heard so many complaints today that I finally resorted to instructing people to move south if they didn't like it. I think a few were considering it. (I remember now why I so needed that stint in Winter Park working the chair lift.)

What part of your insides has to be dead to not like snow? It's so white and charming and peaceful and soft and fun.

In honor of today's snow I am going to list some of the great moments from my snowy (and icy) past.
*The out-of-my-door-into-the-snow-drift-and-straight-to-the-shower dive in Granby. Snow there was plentiful.
*The nighttime frozen lake Ultimate game. Glowing discs, glowing cones, glowing world.
*The neon green cowboy shirt WP snowboard run.
*The post-sledding dive into the bushes in CoMO.
*The bike out of FARC and down to the corner where I wiped out because of the ice, but then still had to make it to Hearnes for practice only to run/slide all the way there to find out that practice was cancelled. At least we got out of class.
*The day it iced and I could dive and slide across every driveway on the block. DIVE SLIDE RUN on the grass. DIVE SLIDE...repeat 10x.
*The Bill Carwin skiing experience complete with jam-packed Mustang, Psycopath Gully, and big waves of snow at every stop.
*Ski breaks.
*The aspens and the terrain park with Bruno at Steamboat.
*Bunches of ski runs on bunches of days spanning the course of my personal history.
*The year the spring in the backyard flooded and suddenly we had an icy toboggan run. Yea.
*Killer cul-de-sac snowball fights.
*The year of the 8 foot tall snowman.
*The Sectionals Cross Country snow.

There are more, but I'm stopping for you.

Follow that bird
It's moustache-freezing cold. I'm not complaining, I am just stating for the record that sometimes I should check the temperature before I leave the house without my gloves. And speaking of the temperature, the Ultimate News (you too can get the Ultimate newsletter by being a UPA member) is full of HOT! HOT! HOT! pictures that make me want to play Ultimate.
Real.
Bad.
Instead I'm riding an exercise bike and making my big goal be the return of my freshman-year abs. I don't even know if that's possible. That might be like asking for the return of my freshman-year hair. Both seem like myths these days, but I decided that if I could choose the return of one or the other, I would pick the abs over the hair. Surprised? I was. I bet you didn't know I was this vain. It turns out there is a lot of time for vanity when you run out of things to read. I'm not exactly out, but I just finished The Effect of Living Backwards by Heidi Julavits. I think I bought it because the cover reminded me of The Time Traveler's Wife (Great book, I tell you again.) and because there was a Dave Eggers quote on the front. The thing is, I'm not really that fond of Dave Eggers anyway and this is no Time Traveler's Wife. It's some weird cockamammy hijacking story with psychology mixed in for reasons that I'm not entirely clear about. It wasn't awful or anything. It just wasn't that good. Maybe it would be better if I had a sister, no, that's not it, since I do have a sister. Maybe it'd be better if I was a sister and was incredibly manipulative. Yea. Whatever and Spanglish would've been better if I'd had kids. They can't all be Garden State can they you whiney little...

Anyway, it's better than The Rocking Chair Reader which has wonderful intentions but turns out to be a poor man's Chicken Soup for the Soul. It was also far more readable than The Seat of the Soul which could probably change my life if I would only let it. We know how those things go, don't we? (wink. wink.)

In conclusion, I do not need a Mac mini, but a cake would be nice.

Thank you for listening and for supporting Bartles&James. (Do you remember those guys? Are they still alive? Do they have jobs anymore?)

Golden zzzzzz's
Anything can happen? Anything? Like a bunch of people can look really sleepy and make me give up watching after an hour. Thanks Golden Globes. What a treat. One thing I think should come from tonight is a new tagline for HBO. I can't quite remember who said it, but he called the cable station "Audacious, Provocative, and Essential". Cool.

In Average Company
I saw the latest S. Johannson flick today. It's average, really average. In Good Company is basically a two hour greeting card that says "Decent is good." Which is kind of nice, but Scarlett and Topher were just so very bland. Not that Scarlett didn't have one heart-melting full-screen smile. Dennis Quaid played well. He was above average, at least by Dennis Quaid standards.

And he's got to be fast
I also saw Hero. I am now greatly disappointed in my personal swordplay and calligraphy, and music for that matter. I guess they are all kind of related. Really, I've just been wasting the last ten years of my life anyway. I could've been perfecting at least one of those skills.
And what does Quentin Tarantino have to do with this film? His name is on the box. I think he just said, "Hey. Good movie. Put my name on it. Kill Bill fans will watch it." And the Hero people said, "Ok."

P.S. I nearly forgot the flakes
Tiny, white, nearly-invisible flakes falling from the sky. Big brothers, uncles, and cousins of these flakes could coat the world in a peaceful and charming white. These little guys will melt before they have much of a chance to coat anything. Still, they are snow and therefore rule.

I-70, AT, other unabbreviated items of interest

I-70 makes Lucille's heart titter
In my first drive of any significant distance in 2005, I passed by good old Interstate 70. For those of you that don't know, Interstate 70 has played a pretty big role in my life. I was born off of 70, visited my Grandparents off of 70, went to college off of 70, skied off of 70 in a series of spring breaks, and a couple years back traversed 70 in search of a spot to call home for more than 6 months. So when Lucille (that's my car) and I drove on 70 for a little bit today, I could tell that she wanted to go somewhere. She thought we were going to see the folks, or the arch, or the columns, or at least the truck stop in Concordia. Or maybe she thought we were finally going West again to go skiing. Heck, she's sat idle so much lately she probably would've taken Kansas happily. Sorry, Lucille, I said as I pulled off of the interstate. We'll get you back on the roads. Soon, Lucille, soon...

AT, where it's at?
I hiked the Appalachian Trail this morning. Yep. I was bored and I thought 2,189 miles, whatever, complete with two-handed "w" hand gesture. Ok. That's a lie. I hiked a teeny tiny section. What's 3.5 miles divided by 2,189? I'm not sure I'm ready for the AT. I had on a day pack and my back is still a little sore from my 8 mile hike. I was tired and hungry and I made up a song about fecal matter. The wackiest thing to me was that the sound of my own steps was driving me crazy. Not as crazy as the song about fecal matter sticking in my head, but that was much later in the hike. (The song was sticking in my head, not the actual fecal matter.) In less than 4 hours I drove myself crazy. What would I do in 3 months? I may have improved patience, but I'm not ready to be a hiker just yet.

Other items of interest without abbreviation will have to wait
They could include:
me and the movies
Jackie's is too cool for me
My continued quest to preserve the species

Somebody doesn't get it
So Triathelete Girl meets Triathelete Boy at a Triathalon. They live far far away, but schedule meetings around crazy long endurance events because they could be possibly, OH, are in love. Tri-Girl and Tri-Boy become Mr. and Mrs. Tri because they understand each other. I know all of this because The NY Times told me so.

As much as I desperately wanted to like this story, I didn't. I can't figure out if the writer didn't get it, the photographer didn't get it, Mr. and Mrs. Tri don't get it, or when it's all said and done I don't get it. Maybe you'll get it?

The day the music died
Well, not died so much, more like moved south. And it wasn't today so much as the other day. My favorite DC radio station went Central American, which is fine if you like that sort of thing. (And to be honest I have no idea if I like that sort of thing. I've got some Brazilian ditties on a CD my former roommate Gui gave me. It's in Porteguese, so I'm pretty sure it's not the same thing at all. That disc is ok though. Which should tell you nothing.) I'll admit that the now defunct station was known to play the same Killerz (?) song as another DC station at the same time on more than one occasion. And it really played the same playlist as the station winning out the alternative set, only with a few pieces of "new music" mixed in. (I don't know why new music needed quotes there. I'm pretty sure the music was actually new as far as musical newness goes.) So if we get right down to it, the biggest loss other than a piece of this town that was never mine anyway and a few new songs that I rarely heard, is that I can no longer easily scan between 99.1 and 99.5. Instead I have to jump from 99.5 all the way, that's right I said all the way to 101.1. It wears me out just thinking about it. It just got a whole lot harder to bounce between thug and modern rocker. You know it's bad when that happens, dawg.

like if time stood still.
we wouldn't need clocks

That's so 26
I've never been very good at those interview questions that ask "Where do you see yourself in five years?" I don't see the future. I'm trying the present for size and I've got to say that the moment I had in the kitchen was, at least for me, so 26.

The moment: Somehow I've totally ruined Minute rice. I know. I thought it was impossible too. I've just finished crunching through a few soupy spoonfuls when I decide to just give up. I close my borrowed copy of "Seat of the Soul", the latest read about finding meaning. I stand up and walk over to the kitchen sink. I put the rice down and pick up the last of the soup. I scoop straight from the pot into my mouth using a spoon, thankyouverymuch. I tilt the pot for easy access. As I am slurping up the last of the soup, I look in the window and there I stand in a button-down work shirt, a draft blowing against my exposed legs. The counter tops were shining, no thanks to me and Mud Pie ice cream was waiting in the freezer.

Five years ago, if you'd asked me, I wouldn't have said that's where I'd be. But what can I say? That's where I am.

I don't like the ending
Some time ago, we'll say spring twenty-oh-four, I ran into this little woman who had locked her purse-keys and all, in her trunk. She gave me her sad story and I bought it. She was very sweet and we walked all the way to the ATM where I proceeded to hand over way too much cash so she could get a cab ride home. Somewhere in all of our walking I started to realize that I was probably being had, but I couldn't fight the inertia of the situation. I still held onto the dim hope that she might not be a swindler. A few days went by and I didn't hear from her. I even called the number she gave me; it turned out to be a fax machine. At least it was a fax machine at the place she claimed to work I'd find out through some nifty research. No woman by that name, however, worked there. She won. I lost. I was pretty embarrassed.

Since then I haven't given money to anyone. People on fire saying "Give me a dollar to put out this fire!" get nothing more than a skeptical look from me. (Ok. I'm lying here. I think I gave a dollar to a guy who needed some money to ride the Metro, but I'm serious con men and beggars who might be reading this, I look away much faster now than I used to.)

The other day I was helping this blind man (that in no way relates to the story but it sure does make me sound good, doesn't it?) when I heard this woman announcing to people within earshot "I locked my keys in my trunk." As I walked by and saw her out of the corner of my eye she grumbled, "Doesn't anyone help anymore?" At that moment I realized that this woman is the same little woman who locked her keys in her trunk way back when. Suddenly a shot of adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I'm hoping the blind guy doesn't notice as I hurry him along, but I have to keep an eye on the old bag. I see her conversing with this younger woman and I dart back to break up any transaction that might be about to occur. I pull up short as I realize that the younger woman is not falling under the old bag's spell. Because of my positioning and their positioning and some other positioning, my presence sort of forces younger woman and old bag to get on the escalator. I'm two little steps behind a woman who swindled me and my heart is racing. I want to punch her. I want to tell her that she owes me money. I want to scream and yell and expose her. Only I can't. I certainly can't punch her. I can't prove she's a liar. The only thing I can see happening is that she starts screaming and all of a sudden we've got larger bearded guy "assualting" small well-off looking evil woman. Only the evil won't be so obvious to the general public. So when she turns to me and asks, "Did you want something?"
All I can muster is a very sweet,"No ma'am"

I'm sure that will keep her up late at night, her poor conscience filled with regret.

DSL works. Brain, not so much
Who do I call about that?

Why don't I Keira?
It could be that the recent flirtations with Scarlett Johannsen (yes twin, I'm sorry. No. no, I'm not.) have affected me more than I realized. Perhaps, my love is fading. Or maybe I just don't understand why I would want to hear anyone make pointless remarks over scenes of their film, even Ms. Knightley.

Add DVD audio commentary to the things that I just don't understand and/or appreciate.

Why DSL WHY?
Please come back to me. Please stop with these trial separations. Please stop with the intermittent dropping in. I need you here. I need you stable. I need you on.

Have I mentioned my teeny tiny towel lately?
Yes. I thought I had. Still splendid. Still revealing and effective.

Well that’s a FINE mess global warming has gotten us into
If you’re not going to make winter, then neither am I. I’ll wear shorts. I’ll drink lemonade. I’ll go for long walks and I won’t ask you to come with me. If you won’t bring me any of the white stuff, then this will just be the dark summer. That’s right. Winter is a distant memory. This is the dark summer. Remember the dark summer of 2005? I’ll ask my children. And they’ll say, “No. Silly. We weren’t born yet.” And I’ll say “show a little respect!” And then I’ll start to throw a shoe at them, but realize that would be mean and take a deep breath and say, “Well, the dark summer of 2005 was a miserable year.” Only I’ll say miserable like it had 8 syllables instead of 3 or however many it has. Like this: Mis se ra bu uh le. That way they’ll know it was bad.

“Why was it dark, Grandpa?” they’ll ask. “Was it a meterorite?” “Weren’t you just my father?” Time moves so quickly.

And then I’ll scream and say, “It’s dark because MA Nature says it’s dark, dagnabbit. And if you kids knew anything at all about history you’d know it was dark because it didn’t snow. And also because of the tilt of the earth's axis.” And then I’d fall asleep in my rocking chair. The great-grandkids would roll their eyes and say, “What’s snow?”

Sometimes it's funny
to overhear those gosh-darn cell phone conversations.

I couldn't hear what the first key was, but "The second key is look attractive, NOT SEXY, but attractive."

The evil Internet demons are looking the other way
So I've got to be quick while the DSL is still working and while the static on my phone line takes a rest. This gives me the opportunity to tell you that classical music makes everything sound more important, including cutting tomatoes, which by the way is unbelievably more exciting with sharp knives. Know what else is exciting? Teeny tiny towels. I kid you not. I got this Aquis towel that doesn't even fit around my waist. That's not the exciting part. The exciting part is that it dried me off and probably could have dried you off too. It's this great microfiber and now that I think of it, why were you showering without a towel of your own?