ARGHHHHH!
I fell on my face. I've been trying to think of a way to make it poetic or life-affirming, or anything other than what it is. I can't. I fell on my face. There was a moment as I was falling where the world blurred and slowed down. That was the moment where I contorted a little bit, so my face would land on the floor rather than against a bookshelf. Strangely, it didn't hurt when I landed. I was just a little stunned. I looked briefly at the carpet beneath my lips and then thanked the bookshelf for staying out of my way. I realized as I propped myself back up that possibly some of the rest of my body absorbed the blow, so maybe I didn't really fall on my face. I'm pretty unclear and still a little perplexed.

The face is fine, the patience, fraying.

Triumphs of the un-wonderdog variety and assorted other good news

*My crutch-ride to the Metro today was closer to 20 minutes than 30 minutes. I also think I can feel my stomach muscles starting to enjoy themselves as my legs swing through to the next step.

*When I dropped off a rental car, the counter guy noticed that I took almost full advantage of the pre-pay gas option by leaving the tank nearly dry. I barely had to try!

*I just got a gift certificate in the mail for last year's running. I didn't even know I could win stuff. Now I want to go run.

*I just remembered that I saw The Matador the other night and the funniest part was when the projector shut off at a "pivotal" moment. The best part was when the theater gave us a free ticket for our inconvenience. (Don't see that movie. I don't know what is wrong with kids today. One told me it was "hilarious.")

*I have banjo fingers starting to re-emerge.

*Tom Petty won't back down. I'm thinking I'll follow his lead.

Sprain boy drones on
I'm fairly sick of being in my own head. When that happens I usually try to avoid this here dee-verrr-sion, but not today. Today I'm going to prattle on about sprains, overcoming hardship, and how much I miss the use of my foot. Or I'm going to write six more sentences, look angrily at the screen and push "Publish Post" and walk away. Only time will tell.

I've learned some interesting lessons in the last week. A bus driver told me that crutches never get easier no matter how many times you use them. I've learned that people are basically helpful and mindful. They'll open doors. They'll ask how you are. They'll try to help you. If they like you, this helpful/mindful-ness seems to quadruple. If they're in a hurry, then not so much. I've also had to learn that it's easier and sometimes even entirely necessary to accept this helpfulness. Because it turns out that doors weighted to close on their own can be a real pain. Bathtubs can be particularly difficult to negotiate. There is no obvious way to go grocery shopping- I can't figure out how to hold a basket or how to push a cart and use crutches.

My jumping has become very useful. I find I can go short distances carrying items and hopping. This was particularly effective for negotiating stairs (Hop, hop, hopping down two flights has been some of my best work), for packing a car for a trip, and for transporting dinner and snacks from the kitchen to the couch. I also can be effective in a crawl. The problem is tile. I've considered investing in some kneepads, but I usually have to stand when I get to my destination anyway.

Once I find a rhythmn I do pretty well, but changing things up can be rough. Almost all of my near-falls have come when I've gone from sitting to standing, from crutching to hopping, or the reverse, or when I stop and try to restart. So far, I've either landed in a sitting position or jammed my shoulder into a wall or grabbed onto a handle before tumbling to the ground. I can imagine that one of these times I won't be so lucky.

In conclusion, don't sprain your ankle. And get to work on your plyometrics, they'll make life easier.

Erwin, TN is my new arch nemesis
Sorry, R, you had your shot.

I've never met a town quite like Erwin. Then again, when I met Erwin, I thought it was Weaverville. First impressions can set the tone of a relationship. I circled Erwin several times and long enough to get stuck waiting for a train to pass on my first visit. I did manage to notice the town had a Sonic and a Presbyterian church. One of those would entice me to return. On my second pass I was headed for gas and for Sonic. God would have to wait in another town. I managed both and only moments from the highway. It's been a while since I've been to Sonic. It turns out they've phased out my favorite item- the Hickory Burger. For the first time I can recall, I piped up and asked about a menu item.

"Do you guys still make a Hickory Burger?"
"(Muffled sounds), lettuce, bar-b-que sauce?"
"That sounds right."
"I can make that for you."
"Sweet."

Ah, Erwin, perhaps I misjudged you. I got my burger and then got stuck at a railroad crossing. Come on. I had a schedule to keep. I had to be home before the dawning of the age of Aquarius. The train wasn't interested in my schedule. It rolled past slowly. The conductor gave me a wave. I had time to count his moles. Thankfully, I didn't. I sat for a while. Then I pulled out my lunch and ate for a while. In the meantime the train rolled forward and backward several times. Forward and backward. Erwin, what's this all about?

With the slightly disappointing burger gone, and the tots gone, I was running out of ways to pass the time at an Erwin intersection. Eventually I gave up, turned around and headed another route to the highway. I knew I could get there from my first experience.

I finally hit the highway, chomped on black jelly beans and guzzled sweet tea (SWEET TEA! from a gallon jug. There's a taste sensation. Yum. That combination carried me most of the way home.

Other than the Erwin hiccups, I haven't had such a fine drive in a long time. A car (with automatic transmission) is a wonderful place for the sprained to remember, to sing, to dance, and to enjoy the scenery. All of that and a destination too.

The umbrella man is just trying to make a buck

It rains and he appears. He wasn't there a minute ago, but when the sky opened up and let out a drizzle he arrived. Magically, he has a box full of umbrellas to offer to those of us caught in the rain without so much as a newspaper to prop up over our heads. We could've looked at the forecast, or carried our umbrellas every day, but we chose not to. Some of us are too busy. Some of us don't think we need umbrellas. There are numerous reasons we get caught in a downpour without that trusty canopy on a stick. When that happens, the umbrella man is there offering up umbrellas at a "reasonable" price. Some folks will buy an umbrella. Some folks will just get wet. It's a personal decision, not something to get worked up about. I don't have the statistics, but I bet the people that buy an umbrella from our umbrella man today end up in the rain without an umbrella next time, or not too far down the road. It doesn't make them bad people. It just makes them wet.

Greeting card companies, the flower joints, these are million-dollar umbrella men. Valentine's Day is the rain.

Overindulgence, lack of creativity, high-priced teddy bears- those might be less-than-stellar things, but spreading love isn't a less-than-stellar thing. It's a stellar thing and Valentine's Day is a yearly reminder to spread some love. We don't blame the umbrella man for the way the rain makes us feel, even when he's pushy and annoying. So why blame those companies for polluting a holiday with its heart in the right place?

Valentine's Day might be all wet, but love the umbrella, man.

Ice + crutches= not best friends

Today has to be a good day because I did not fall when my crutches were slipping on the ice. I was showered with attention of the "What happened?" variety. Then after I told people that I hurt myself playing Ultimate in the snow, I did not beat them when they said, "You better be more careful." Other good things, I worked out my arms, got a seat on the Metro, got to plop my foot up on my desk. Tonight, I'm teetering on the brink of a cleaning spree. If I had knee pads, this place might get all spic and span. Instead, it'll probably just get all spi and spa. Closer, but far from complete.

I'm skipping a Hem show to save my right leg and my armpits from further agony. I haven't purchased the new album yet. They'll surely be back and they come to town every couple of years or so. (I just edited out two superfluous "anyways". I'm not quite sure what that says, but I'm sure it says something.)

Anyway, get ready for tomorrow, 'cause I'm dreaming of a white Valentine's Day.

A weekend of wizardry and magic hobbles to a close
All alone and surrounded by 13,000 people I sat in row Q, my back to the wall, and watched the Washington Wizards defeat LeBron James and the Cleveland Cavaliers in a less-than-stirring NBA basketball game. There were fireworks and dancing girls, but the drama of a good high school or college game just wasn't present. It was probably not worth the nearly obscene ticket price, but it was something I needed to do. Now it is done.

Saturday as the weather tried to decide between rain and snow, I, not surprisingly, played Ultimate. I was a trash man, cleaning up the junk that floated through and around the crowds. My team won easily, but I was most proud of an inside out flick that went right to my teammate Lauren in the endzone. We connected for at least 4 scores. Kinda sweet. Later that day, the weather made up its mind and left a nice white present for everyone to enjoy. Sunday arrived with 6 inches of snow- Whee. I made a snow couch and some snow angels. I took some snowy pictures and then I went to play- you guessed it!- Ultimate in the snow. That was going just fine. I was hurling my body around with abandon and having a lovely time in the snow and mud.

Then the fun ended rather abruptly. I was running along, my feet slap, slap, slapping, when for some reason my ankle decided to join in the fun with a slap of its own. Ankles aren't built for the slap, slap of running, so I collapsed on the ground in quite a bit of pain.

I made my way home, thanked my lucky stars and a few unlucky ones too that I had a roommate to take me to the emergency room, since walking doesn't seem to be working real well at the moment.

No broken bones, it turns out. Just a severe sprain. I always feel a bit like I've let down my doctor when something isn't wrong. Although judging by the baseball swelling out of my ankle, something isn't right. I'm now the proud owner of some swanky crutches.

Those should be fun in the snow. whee, indeed.

High School news

A step forward, regardless of what the writer thinks of the fashion of male skirt wearing. Two steps back. Three people from the same church have a school in Fulton, MO canceling The Crucible after a stir over Grease. Ooh. This irks me.

Love is in the mail

The first wedding invitation of 2006 arrived today. (Probably not the first in the world, just the first in my little niche.) I've heard a lot of I'm getting married chatter, but this is the first indication that I'm actually allowed to watch. Not just watch, actually the honour of my presence has been requested. Honor is serious when it includes the "u."

I'm thinking that I should try to come up with some sort of wedding announcement, invitation, wedding paraphernalia art project that represents what it is to be 20-something and making the rounds on this carousel of commitment ceremonies. The idea needs some refinement, but I can see it will need a catchy title like- Weddings 2006: Wave 2. However, that might make me wish that I'd followed through with a similar project during Wave 1. How about "pieces of weddings" or "An invitation origami diorama." I like that, but that might require me to acquire some additional skills. If I want I'm sure I could pull off something a little darker, juxtaposing singles and couples, maybe I could call it "And Guest" or "A tribute to Ted." Maybe I could do a bride and groom cake topper kind of thing, only full size. That might be cool.

There's potential with this art project. I might have to crash a few weddings just to get some extra goodies.

Uh. No. I am not just here to make a spectacle of myself. I was actually hoping I could snag some of the centerpieces. Do you mind? It's for an art project. The wedding was lovely. The bride looked hot, didn't she?
Oh.
Yea.
Sorry.
Well, I can see the resemblance. About those centerpieces, then?

Tom Ford saved my life

Thanks to those of you that alerted me that I need a subscription to Vanity Fair immediately. This could've been the cover that stopped my beating heart. Instead, Tom Ford ended up filling in for Rachel McAdams and therefore saving me from death. I saw the picture first. After taking several deep breaths I thought, if only Rachel could've been there too. (It's never enough, is it?) I had no idea how close we were, until I read some more. It's almost inconceivable, except for that part where clearly Tom Ford and I both conceived it.

I tip my hat to Tom Ford, art director, life-saver, FRICKIN' GENIUS.

My memory is fading
I'm pretty sure today wasn't that good of a day, but I can't remember. I was on a run, my thighs pink in the cold. The sun was setting, set even, before I noticed the sky layered like a dish my mother might make. It was light like cool whip at the bottom with a growing topping of the blueberries of night. The trees without leaves jutted into the dessert like diswasher-mangled utensils. Beneath the after dinner sky, I panted slightly, breathing in the crisp "winter" air. A chill from the breeze flitted through the mesh of my stocking cap. My lungs and heart awoke to the change of pace as I surged up the hill on my fortified calves. I climbed through the suburbs as possibility unfolded around me. There was no need for breath-taking views as I'd already taken my own breath. I slowed as I reached the top. I tried to remember my last run. I forgot the trials of my day. The memory may fade, but the soul can shine.

Rejection

In my line of work, I get a fair share of rejected emails. People drop addresses and don't tell me. They switch service providers the way some people clip coupons. I've noticed recently that the rejections, the bounce-backs we say, have become rather sensitive. "We're sorry asdfa@blahblah.com is not a valid address. Please check the address. Blah blah blah." And then, the big finish, "Virtually yours," from the Administrator. Virtually yours. I like it. It's the promise ring of closings. Not yours, but we're almost there. Maybe if you didn't bite your nails so much we could lose the virtually. 'Til then... Virtually yours.
Yep. Definitely like it.

There was another one that struck me, too. It didn't have the flair of "virtually yours" but for a last line, it was pretty touchy-feely for an automated response, "I'm sorry it didn't work out." Was it me? Was it something I emailed? I could've been virtually yours and it could've been B-E-A-U-Tiful. It's your loss, automated response. Don't come begging to have me back. I won't hear of it.

I should take my own advice

Here's the letter I just wrote my team.

Dear Team,

This is a sad email because I’m sad.
In November, you told me that Ultimate mattered. I don’t believe you this week. Was the end of January getting you down? Because it’s over. Did I misunderstand your intentions? Do you want to go to Sectionals and cause a stir? Because it’s not going to happen if we have many more weeks like this.

Look. I know Ultimate is not your top priority. Sane people don’t make plastic discs number one in their life, but you’ve got to make it near the top. Your teammates are putting it up there. You said you wanted to put it up there. Now do it.

I know it’s cold. I know it rains. I know you’re tired. Guess what? In a few years, you’re not going to remember that February 1 was cold and you were sleepy. You might remember that you and your team took down a giant at Sectionals. Or that you played beautiful Ultimate with an incredible bunch of guys laying it on the line. The only way to make those memories is to play for it now. To be a team, you have to play as a team. You have to test one another every time you have the chance to play.

I can’t make you play Ultimate. Dan can’t make you play. You are the only one that can make that decision.

Figure out what you want and then go get it. Or sit around and regret it.

Life is all about choices.

-Dave

My life as music montage

There is a lot of magic packed into that little silver iPod mini of mine. Those 900 songs don't hurt. The fact that I can block out cell phone conversations and other noise pollution isn't so bad either. The sheer value I now get for my music can't go unmentioned. Making my own playlists is kind of fun. Despite all of these fine reasons for enjoying my mini, I've been waiting for that moment when my life would be a musical montage. For more than six months now this has proven more elusive than I thought possible. Somehow the combination of my somewhat melancholy-leaning musical tastes and my tendency to be walking to or from work or sitting on the Metro just weren't jiving.

Today, on my way home from work all of that changed. Rather yesterday, while shopping for music all of that changed and then today my life as musical montage was finally blasted into my ears. It started on the Metro with a little Ozzy Ozborne as the sparks were flying and the sun had just set, "I'm going off the rails on a crazy train." Then as I was stuck in a crowd trying to wait patiently as we self-herded onto the escalator Real McCoy captured the moment, "Run Away. Run away. Run away if you want to survive." After I'd escaped the herd, good old Run-DMC suggested that I "walk this way." Which I did, all the way to the grocery store. Don't mind me, my fellow pedestrians. Once inside Safeway, the man tried to bring me down, but I wasn't having any of it. No. No. Not me. I was "Rockin' the Suburbs, just like Quiet Riot did."

There may have been a few other songs in there, but that was basically it. And it was beautiful. The first level of my iPod journey is complete. Don't judge me though, because, "Ya'll don't know what it's like, being male, middle class, and white."

(It all pretty much ended when Ben Folds continued on about "The Army" and then Missy Elliot tried to convince me to "Lose Control." I wasn't having any of it.)

Making out with cake
I like cake. I eat it for birthdays (when burritos don't catch on), for weddings, for the occasional here's-a-cake day at work, but I don't love cake. I didn't think I'd crave it on a spring night. I didn't expect to want it from a cake shop. Then last night, I tried CakeLove.

It's a cake place, like Cold Stone Creamery is an ice cream place. This CakeLove place has been a bit of a media darling around here. If memory serves (and it usually doesn't), this place was started by a lawyer that was fed up with practicing law and wanted to pursue his cake dreams. A bunch of hard work later and poof he starts this place. Fun, slightly cliched arc leads to dessert. As I was saying, I never thought I'd crave cake and need to stop at place like CakeLove, but it was next to Eggspectation (a whole other story) and new and open and so I tried it.

I ordered a slice of Razzamatazz, mostly for the name. It. was. delicious. It was so moist and chocolatey and raspberry-ey. I wanted to make out with it. I think I understand the name of the place now.

Back in your cocoon, social butterfly
No matter how hard I leaned on the wall, I was unable to disappear into it. I was in a beautiful space, high ceilings, multi-colored rooms. The wine and cheese set mixed with the spirits crowd. I mixed with almost no one, not even my fellow wallflower. The crowd undulated as the arrivers crossed paths with the departers. All around me conversation and alcohol seemed to flow smoothly in and out. No waves there. A few times I was able to insert a comment, but generally I had nothing to say about flex spending accounts, bourbon vs. whiskey, the Chinese Internet, or horror films. Admittedly, I never once asked anyone a question, but no questions came to mind. I never initiated the "Hi, I'm ..." handshake, because I knew that would require follow-up. Although, I'm not sure anyone actually followed up with me. Maybe they sensed my reluctance. Somehow during the evening my watch skipped an hour. I was glancing at my watch thinking, "it's 11:30, I could leave." Then I was informed that it was only 10:30. Time had slowed considerably. I did what anyone in this situation would do: I ate more cheese. It was tasty, but proved unmoving. So much for the power of cheese.

Duck! while I post in bi-polar
I'm ready to spew anger in all directions without a good reason. I'm not discriminating. This is not a happy place today. I have to write a job description and I hate describing what I do because that's admitting it. When I finish the job description I need to swipe some of those phrases and slap them on my resume. I don't like stealing and slapping either and I really don't like resumes. It's really not fun to try to quantify my contributions.

Meanwhile, my mini is starving for battery juice and the only song I like right now is I'm a cuckoo for obvious reasons (the beat and the line, "I'd like to see you. I had a funny dream and you were wearing funny shoes.")

Speaking of funny shoes, I got a pair in the mail. They're perfect. They're just like the pair of cleats I already have that isn't quite worn out. Now I've got two. Two. I guess I need two pairs of shoes because for the last 8 weeks I've been jumping three days a week. The result of all this jumping is that my calves are on fire and also ROCK HARD. (I don't know how that applies exactly. An extra shoe for each calf? Not sure.) Anyway, I thought all the jumping was going to make me jump higher, but so far I think the real benefit is in the jumping faster. It bothers me a little that this is my major accomplishment of late '05/early '06. Then again, if I don't injure anything, better jumping abilities are going to be pretty sweet.

Sweet like dining hall mint chocolate chip ice cream which somehow today did not have instant transformative powers. Perhaps it was because every time I looked up there were tiny 18-year-olds looking all innocent and unbathed. Then one asked me why if I had braved 4 years of college dining and now have a kitchen I wasn't using it. I had to explain about the side dishes, the banter, and the general lack of desire that comes with making a meal every night. This was more distressing than I had hoped it would be. Distressing like my throws in the wind and January's sudden interest in winter sans snow. And distressing like the identity of commenter R. R, Who are you? Are you the Ranger without the Lone? Are you Rambo? Rainbow Brite? RRRRRRRRRRR! I haven't had an arch nemisis in quite sometime. I might be due...

Ah, connection
The Internet was on the fritz. It wasn't so much fading in and out like a radio station on the edge of the listening area as it was generally not working. For a moment, I was panicked. I needed to check my email and make the rounds before bed. How could I sleep without it? I took a deep breath and realized that I would survive. At about that same moment or some 33 moments later, the announcement was made, "The Internet is working."

I lunged for my desk and fired up Safari. No email. The rounds only lead me to Meckhead's dress. Where else would the Internet lead but a bridesmaids' dress? I laughed at myself and went to sleep.

HOO HOO
Bring on the weddings. Or at least the receptions. I'm ready to dance! I couldn't keep my bowling-shod feet from tap-tap-tapping tonight. Admittedly, the bowling alley played its best music ever. It was a fantastic playlist. It was all I could do to stop dancing and bowl. If you dare call what I did "bowling." I need to get out and 2006 looks to be an excellent year for wedding receptions. I haven't received an invitation for any yet, but there are five weddings tentatively on my schedule and one other one that I'm hoping for.

If everybody is going to act like grown-ups and get married, at least I get to dance. Let's get it started, Ya.

Hungry Hungry Adulterers
It may have been hunger, but Match Point made me feel like I'd committed adultery. The movie was awkward; the actors seemed to be looking at the wrong things. I think it was well done, but it made me uncomfortable. It reminded me of Closer that way.

Attn: Rachel McAdams

Dear Rachel,

I'm not stalking you! I just wanted to make sure you and the rest of the Internets knew that. Somebody else told me about the Ultimate. Just out of curiosity, how often do you play?

Not important. Never mind. I'm not writing to clear my good name or find out about your Ultimate prowess. Well, if my good name happened to clear in the process and some Ultimate got discussed, well... No, I'm writing for another reason. I am writing to vouch for Briguy. He's a decent fellow, borderline hilarious, and relatively clean as far as I can tell. I don't want to get carried away in such a public forum, but I'm willing to put myself out there and say you could do much worse. I don't know this Gosling fellow from Zach Braff, but the two of you made me bawl like no other in The Notebook. I mean, the book made me cry, but the movie had me howling like a 6-year-old girl who'd just lost her puppy under the tires of a bus. Pink, puffy cheeks, oh it was just awful. Funny and awful. And endearing. Like Briguy, who I swear this letter is about. He's not awful. I just meant the funny and endearing part. Maybe. I don't know about the endearing. I'm suddenly not comfortable making that judgment, but if necessary I think I can find some females who would be willing to step up and certify that Briguy is endearing. He doesn't actually cook in that Zorro costume though, which, at least in my mind, has to knock him down a few points. I don't know how you feel about Zorro though. If you've taken to reading letters addressed to you on the Internets today, I suspect you've thought more about Zorro than ever. Unless you're really into Zorro and then I suppose it was probably a pretty normal day.

This may strike you as rather odd and I realize that you have no reason to believe me regarding Briguy's character, but you'll find that I do have a history of this sort of thing. Do you know Mandy Moore? Because I wrote a similar letter for my friend vouching for his character and now he's getting married. We're all very happy. It's too bad he never got a letter back from Mandy though. It was kind of rude. I'm sure you're not like that.

On second thought, I think I forgot to mail that letter. If you see Mandy, can you apologize for me? She could've found that something special, but I didn't have 37 cents and now that chance is gone. Thank goodness for blogs, so you don't have to suffer the same fate.

If the opportunity arises, might I suggest you enlist your sixth sense and give Briguy a call. He's better than fine caviar.

Thank you for your time,
David

P.S. I've never actually had fine caviar. Or any caviar. I once slaughtered some crabs with a friend of mine. I still feel kind of bad about that. I guess that's different though.

Framed, I tell you
The fun thing about shopping for glasses is that it's an opportunity for re-invention. With just a flick of the wrist and hundreds of dollars worth of plastic, I can be a mad scientist, or a hipster, or that Lennon guy, or some approximation of all three. I can be an intellectually cool Beatle-esque version of me.

Or I can continue the squashing of the big round circles that were my glasses in seventh grade. So I'm a squashed version of my seventh-grade self. Sounds about right. Which is why I'm going to wear contacts most of the time.

Things I learned on MLK day
By cursory reading, it appears that Iceland has a constitution and government similar to the United States. Iceland also has a population of about 300,000 people. That means the pick-up line there could be, "We've got a lot of work to do to catch up with the United States. Bring your friends." Or perhaps, "What else were you going to do during a 20-hour night?"

Unrelated to Iceland or pick-up lines, I also watched Rollergirls. From what I can gather, a bout consists of two timed halves in which women slam into each other while going round and round on skates. There's a jammer from each team skating through the mess of girls (ideally twice). When the jammer comes around the second time every opponent she passes is worth a point. When she passes all four opponents or gets clobbered, the point is over. I thought I heard something about no punching, but that seems to be a fairly flexible rule. I don't think I need to watch another episode, but the next time the roller derby is in town or I'm in town with a roller derby, I think I need to go. It seemed oddly compelling, and in ways reminded me of Ultimate.

Possibly the first serious post of '06
I'm currently struggling with right and wrong. The big things are usually pretty easy. Killing people- wrong. Rainbows- right. It's the speed limits where I struggle. Just because the governing body says it's right, that doesn't make it right. And just because the governing body says it's right, and has a really good reason for saying it's right, doesn't make it right. Despite the my occasional rebellious tendency, it doesn't make it wrong either.

Just malleable?

Compound this struggle by realizing that how I think effects how other people view this speed limit of a right and wrong. Does that change the rightness and wrongness? It shouldn't, but it sure makes me check my response.

Given the finger by the hands of fate
I should probably save that title, but then I'd have to use the arrow keys and stuff. I'll leave it up there instead.

Travelocity is offering a 3-day weekend special with low low fares and I was tempted. I decided maybe I would go on a little trip this weekend, but I didn't know where. So I rolled the dice, or more accurately closed my eyes and moved the mouse up and down and in a few swirling motions to choose my destination. Round and round and up and down, where I stop nobody- WASHINGTON D.C.

What?! Are you kidding?

I'm not flying there, I'll tell you that. I'm sure it's lovely this time of year, though.

I need a dental assistant
I have no idea who my dentist is. I don't mean he has a secret identity like Super Chloride Man and I just discovered it or that I thought he was good, but it turned out that he was evil in a Mr. Teeth/Dr. Cavity kind of way. I mean that I don't remember who he is or where to find him. The man has X-rayed my mouth and I can't remember his name. It seems blatantly disrespectful.

I'm trying to think up ways to find him. I could eat a whole lot of sweets while cruising the streets and see if he'd reveal himself. I could make dentist cold calls. "Excuse me. Do you have pictures of my teeth? Because I think I've lost one."
If he were a superhero, I could do something dastardly and force the mayor to shine a beacon into the sky in the shape of a bicuspid. Only we don't have a mayor, and I'm pretty sure he wasn't a superhero, just a dentist that cleaned criminals' teeth. It's coming back now...

Me in grateful damsel voice: Oh Internet! You've saved the day again.

Evil Memory Loss: This won't be the last you've seen of me.
(fading evil laughter)

Reveling in "so close"
I knew the disc was headed to the corner. The man I was covering was headed that way and he had me by a step. The throwers eyes lit up as she pivoted. She cocked back and fired a flick to his outside. I cut into the path and gave chase to the waist-high spinning disc. In that instant that I planted my feet, I had visions of making it "Dave food." I laid out, extending myself horizontally in the air, but I came up short. It was like my arms shrank in mid-air. I stood, mud splattered from my thighs to my chest, and trotted back down the field. Most of my day would go just like that. I seemed to be a step or two from the big play. I got dirty though. And I made the little plays. The right throws, the easy catches, the gnat-like defense were all working. It was 35 degrees. The sun was shining. The gloves were off and the disc was flying. If that's so close, I think I'll take it.

Takin' the blog back to its roots
The Chronic of Narnia is the funniest thing to come out of SNL since Jack Handey.

Laugh. It's good for you. (Note: The last link isn't funny except for the part where it says that a belly laugh is "an internal jogging." )

I have just resolved to write a post about internal jogging. I apologize in advance.

A pizza my mind
There's a certain mainstay pizza establishment that is currently advertising "A Pair Deal." The commercial has a bunch of twins delivering, not one, but two! pizzas to customers while a voice-over tells us about this wonderful deal. The voice tells us that when cashing in on this deal, we, the customer, get to choose two toppings (ooh! A theme!) and one of the establishment's many tasty crusts. I'm thinking, "Isn't that the way pizza is ordered?!?" Is choosing toppings and a crust really the strongest selling point this little hut has to offer? YES! It is and it's so amazing because with this deal, a person actually gets to go through this twice. Which reminds me a lot of ordering TWO pizzas, the same way it would be ordered anywhere else in the universe.

Incred-ible!!!!

And another thing
With no offense to the giver, Jelly Bellys are ridiculous. I like jelly beans, especially black ones, but most any jelly bean will do. Notice I say "most." Jelly Bellys are ridiculous. I've said it twice now, in case you're skimming. Don't think I didn't know you skimmed. I knew. We can still be online acquaintances, but don't go getting any other ideas there chief. There's a whole lot of wires and content to separate us and I think that's for the best. So, Jelly Bellys- Why? Why do they put in jelly beans that taste like the bottom of my shoe? Or hobo underarm? Why? I could go through and eat the beans individually, carefully identifying each on the back of the package, but that's annoying. I want handfuls. I want to reach into the bag, scoop out the contents, and pour jelly beans into my mouth like a savage jelly-bean-eating beast. For some reason Jelly Belly feels that my punishment for this savage behavior is eating tiny beans that taste like skunk mixed in with the fruit flavors. SKUNK! And not the good skunk either. Whenever I hit a bad jelly bean, I want to spit out the whole chunky rainbow-colored mess and wipe my tongue with steel wool. STEEL WOOL! I've taken to emphasizing things again. It's a little thing I picked up from Lewis Black. Too bad he does it better. Did I mention Jelly Bellys are ridiculous? And that we're still tight? Good.

In Vitro cinema
Ok. What's the deal with all the kids in the movies? Lemony Snicket has his series with those three unfortunate children. There's that run on Cheaper by the Dozen flicks. Then there's the same movie called Yours, Mine, Ours, Theirs? His? Hers? Who are these kids?! and now the one with the nanny that reminds me of Mary Poppins and the kid from Love Actually. What exactly is going on here? Is there a cinema baby boom? Are the Hollywood types so desperate that they are now trying to serve up family fare all the time? Kids are the new Schwarzenegger.

There's nothing on the Internets tonight, dear.

There used to be days and weeks of a "Winter Break" that it stretched on nearly as long as the snow was high. Oh, remember when there was snow? Remember how much I missed my friends over that long break? The agony of those days is gone, like the snow. Global warming/growing up the major contributing factors, not necessarily in that order. Weeks go by and I don't see my friends. I'm fine. I'm ok. I've got a nice bottle of Scotch, what do I need them for anyway? I miss them. Where are they? Wisconsin probably. Bastards. I didn't mean that. I'm sorry.

Let me tell you an embarrassing and not-all-together true story about my friends. They met on an island in the middle of the country. They were stranded after their paddle-boats wrecked during a nasty storm. They spent half an hour swimming to shore. They would've moved more quickly if only they'd stood up in the shallow water. The Midwestern monkeys descended on the new island arrivals immediately. The chief, Monkey-Do, offered his banana and a towel. The three were fast friends. The Chief told them they were a lovely couple. They eyed one another nervously and said out of unison, "We're not a couple." But Monkey-DO, had a knack for seeing, not unlike his second cousin Monkey-C who had a knack for doing. The family resemblance was uncanny. Anyway, after the awkward moment and the Monkey-C, Monkey-Do genealogy lesson, Monkey-Do cleared the error and the air by offering them drinks from coconuts. It seems that coconut cups are great healers of social ills in many cultures, none more so than the Midwestern ones. It's the hairy festiveness of the cups and the brightly colored straws. Never underestimate the comfort that monkeys and people take from brightly colored straws. With the drinks, the bond between Monkey-Do and my two friends became thick like my arm muscles. So there was still work to be done, it was the first day after all. They'd just met. Unrealistic expectations are a real downer. So, back off.

To move things along, I'll cut out the annoying monkey-people banter which rarely goes as smoothly as some people think, given the obvious genetic connection. To make a long and pointless story shorter, after many more coconuts of unidentified liquid my friends actually became a couple. Right there in front of the Monkey!

Some time passed. My friends were rescued. Monkey-Do tried to have a statue built in their honor, but working with contractors was never one of his strengths.

Statue or not, my friends later decided to marry. No monkeys or paddle-boats were included in the wedding, but it's still very embarrassing to go with them to the zoo, even now.

Welcome to 2006. It's going to be one of those years.

0% APR. $1 Cash back
"This is why we don't visit Starbucks," he grunts to himself as he clings to 2005. Twenty hours to go. Was this the way it was supposed to end? A clack-ball noisemaker sits silent on the desk. There are no champagne flutes, but hopefully someone checked the batteries in the light-up martini glasses. The big finish, the flourish at the end, is at least three grocery stores away. New Year's Eve. This is the speed trap of holidays. Christmas with the family is four lane highways, no traffic. This day is the pounding of pots, pans, and expectations. Don't let that get to you. Fireworks, balls dropping, all the symbols of a fresh start. Perfection, purity, potential, all those p's that never quite come to be. No worries. Smell that, my friend? It's that brand-new-year smell. Nothing like it. My boss won't be thrilled, but you look like an intelligent sort. What's it going to take to get you into a fully-loaded 2006?

2005 Lists

When I wasn't watching TV, or running, or playing Ultimate, I was tracking my life in lists.

States visited in 2005

1. Virginia
2. Maryland
3. Delaware
4. Connecticut
5. New Jersey
6. New York
7. Rhode Island
8. Missouri
9. Iowa
10. Minnesota
11. Michigan
12. Kansas
13. North Carolina
14. Tennessee
15. Colorado
16. Georgia (Provisional- 8 airport visits)
17. Indiana
18. Massachusetts
19. Alabama


Books read in 2005

1. The Effects of Living BAckwards
2. Seat of the Soul
3. Clockwork Orange
4. The Last Juror
5. Cat's Eye
6. The Wedding
7. Angels and Demons
8. Bobos in Paradise
9. Blink: The Power of Thinking without Thinking
10. Fast Food Nation
11. Count of Monte Cristo
12. Blue Shoes
13. Harry Potter
14. The Notebook
15. Bel Canto
16. The Magician's Assistant
17. I am Charlotte Simmons
18. Truth & Beauty
19. The Tipping Point
20. Jitterbug Perfume
21. The Alchemist
22. Kite Runner
23. Pride and Prejudice


New-to-me movies of 2005

1. A Very Long Engagement
2. Coach Carter
3. In Good Company
4. Hero
5. God is great, and I'm not
6. Spanglish
7. Bride and Prejudice
8. Hitch
9. Whale Rider
10. Million Dollar Baby
11. Anastasia
12. Ray
13. Get Shorty
14. Melinda and Melinda
15. Being Julia
16. I, Robot
17. East is east
18. The Games of their lives
19. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
20. A lot like love
21. Bourne Supremacy
22. The Life and Death of Peter Sellers
23. Pink Panther
24. Kinsey
25. Beautiful Girls
26. (Something about time travel?) Primer.
27. Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith
28. The Longest Yard
29. The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants
30. Crash
31. Ladder 49
32. Wimbeldon
33. Batman Begins
34. Mr. and Mrs. Smith
35. War of the Worlds
36. Fantastic 4
37. Wedding Crashers
38. The Notebook
39. Happy Endings
40. A love song for Bobby Long
41. Broken Flowers
42. The Island
43. The Grizzly Man
44. Kung Fu Hustle
45. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
46. The 40-year-old Virgin
47. Funny Ha Ha
48. Guess Who
49. Serenity
50. Just Like Heaven
51. Elizabethtown
52. Tootsie
53. Stuck on you
54. Matchstick Men
55. Shopgirl
56. 12 Angry Men
57. Pride and Prejudice
58. Walk the Line
59. The Wedding Date
60. Madagascar
61. Good Night and Good Luck
62. Second Best
63. The Family Stone
64. Cinderella Man
65. King Kong
66. Scenes from a mall

Pulled in a sadder direction
I think I pulled a muscle while watching The Gilmore Girls. It'd be fine if it was during the jumping portion of my evening, but it was during the sitting. It's not just any muscle either. It's a back muscle and it's in the worst possible place. I can't reach it. It's in that spot. I reach over the shoulder and nothing. I twist the arm back and under- nothing. There will be no self-massage. I tried to use a letter-opener, but I just bent it. So Johnny Cash strums and I twist in funny ways and feel kind of alone. It's not a bad kind of alone. It's just an I-can't-reach-the-pulled-muscle-in-my-back-so-I-keep-rubbing-up-against-corners alone. The corners aren't working. And Cash, he's kind of down. I think he's upset about that sore throat. Or else prison. As for those Gilmore Girls, while funny, they are not actually roll-around-in-the-cheescake happy. They're closer to reality, but with snappier dialouge. So there's that.

Wouldn't that look good on a stained-oak sign?

Home is where your underwear drawer is.

Two things I learned from Kong

1. If you're scared enough, you can out-run and/or dodge a brachiosaurus.

2. The best a writer can hope for is sloppy seconds from a giant gorilla.

They took the Holiday out of my ham
Same-It's an excellent ham*- for Thanksgiving. This is Christmas and at Christmas we eat Holiday Ham. It's got that sweet outline of crumbly goodness. It's got that hint of reindeer. The pigs that have the honor(misfortune?) of becoming Holiday Hams are obviously raised to the sounds of Bing Crosby while suckling on egg nog.

This year, my family has chosen another pig. It's a fine ham, excellent even, but it lacks the taste of Christmas. Therefore, I will have to rely more heavily on my other 5 senses, 4 considering that my ESP is in the shop. So fellow celebrators, expect a lot of sniffing. Expect a lot of "Whaaat?" Expect some extra looking. If you're under the mistletoe, expect a lot of touching.

I'm sorry. They took my Holiday Ham and I can't be responsible for the other senses in their attempts to make up the difference.


*I didn't know I was so partial to Holiday Ham until they took it away. "They" need to accept full responsibility and stop blaming my mom.

WIS-consin
KC, the good side-I was in the MKE airport reading MKE weekly when I realized that of course everyone's favorite MKE blogger would also be writing half the stories. I looked around to see if I could enjoy a Sprecher Root Beer with tales of a nursing home artist and Adventure-bound Milwaukee-ites, but it was not to MKE...er be.

I've got the Syndication Blues
My TV-watching is creeping up. That 70s Show, Everybody Loves Raymond, Friends, and Seinfeld are on like 40 times a day. It's nearly irresistible. Sometimes I switch between them, 'cause they are all on at once. So it's like That 70s Loves Seinfeld Friends. It's this Voltron of Television. And in this case, the sum is totally not greater than the parts. I end up missing all the jokes. I have to resort to laughing with the laugh track and that makes me sad. Three kinds of sad. There's the "Why can't I just control myself?" sad. And the "You've already seen this episode twice" sad, and then the "And I'm just talking about twice this week" sad. Then I get the sniffles. It's nothing. There's something in my eye.

Chandler, hold me!

A brief history of cake and the call for a breakfast burrito
Birthday cake has had its day. Hundreds of days, really. Thousands even. Sometime in the late 1830s, when egg sales were sagging, the esteemed John Crooker decided he could inject life back into the egg market, though not the egg itself, if he could find a tasty use for the egg. The combination of egg and some other stuff lead to the invention, or discovery depending on your take on cake and its pre-ordainedness, of cake. To make a long story shorter, but not nearly short enough, Cooker unveiled his cake at the anniversary of the birth of his niece Alice and the birthday cake was born. As you know, Alice Cooker went on to marry Ralph Crocker and they birthed Betty who would change the way cooking was done all over the world. And while Betty gets a lot of credit, it was really Alice that was able to spread the cake because she brought the icing. Oh. My. Alice brought the icing like Einstein brought the gravity.

Alice was a natural cheerleader and heavily involved in the church. Using the skills her uncle had taught her, Alice first cranked out cakes for every member's birthday. Later, Alice would put her cake skills into care packages. That church just happened to be the largest church of gold seekers in all of the East coast. When the rush hit, Alice packed up the church care packages and sent the gold seekers on their way with a slice of cake and godspeed. The icing didn't travel well, but the sustenance provided was so delicious and the milk-straight-from-the-cow moustaches so hilarious, that nobody seemed to mind. Since so few from congregation were finding gold, they started a series of bakeries out West called the California Golden Cakes and Icing shoppes. Later the name was shortened to Goldies Cakes.

Goldies Cakes were so delicious that some people forgot about the gold rush all together. Birthdays in the California Territory soon served cake as the primary dish. Meanwhile in the East, Alice and her cakes had become so popular that some people stopped eating vegetables. Increased cake popularity soon spread from the coasts to Middle America. No one really knows how, since people on the coasts at the time considered Middle America nothing more than a big horse trail. Despite that mystery, once a trend like cake takes hold of Middle America and both coasts, there is really no stopping it. Americans everywhere were eating cake on birthdays and often on other holidays. Cake was a rite of passage. Cake was the answer and Where is the fountain of youth? was the question. Cake was the hottest thing since tobacco. There were cake sales and cake parties. There were cake dances and cake town meetings. Abraham Lincoln said, "let them eat cake" when asked about the growing rivalry in the North and South. Little did he know...

It's fairly obvious where I'm going. Cake is wonderful, but wouldn't you rather have a Birthday Breakfast Burrito? Cake had the gold rush and the civil war. Cake had Daniel Boone and Perry Como.

I see an opportunity here. It's time to replace cake. It's time to unveil the Birthday Breakfast Burrito. It's different. It's spicy. It reflects the current values of America. Cake is passe. Cake was great for what it was, but the Breakfast Burrito has so much potential. It's about melding cultures. It's about getting a complete meal in the morning. Fight obesity. Be patriotic. Enjoy the salsa. Celebrate your special day with a Birthday Breakfast Burrito. Carpe Diem means just a little more when it starts with egg, sausage and a hint of oregano wrapped in a fresh hot tortilla.

The Breakfast Burrito is the new cake. Blow that out.

Live. Nude*. Customer. Service.
I gotta tell you- I've been pleased as punch with speaking to actual human beings when I'm cashing in gift certificates for purchases lately. They're friendly. They're helpful. One of them even gave me a dollar!

I love the Internets, don't get me wrong. It's a wondrous convenient place to siphon my money, but every so often, it sure is swell to talk to somebody to place an order for llama**.

Operators are standing by. Call now!

*The nudity of said service is unverifiable.
**No animals were harmed in my purchase. Uh. Er. Unless you count the cows that will be made into steaks. They're a little bit harmed.

Back and buckin'
Lick the salt.
Shoot Jose.
Suck the lime.
Ride the bull.
It seemed straight-forward enough. Yet, I was nervous. I didn't know what I was doing, and not just with the tequila.

Mechanical bulls are bucking saw horses covered in faux-cow skin. Immobile, they look harmless. Headless, buttless, completely still animals often do. To notice the mechanical bull's natural habitat is to question how harmless such a contraption really is. Anything surrounded on all sides by three-foot thick brown cushioning is either dangerous or fun. I was about to find out that this particular breed was a little bit of both.

The riding advice I had received earlier in the evening was of little to no help, but the bull operator must have taken pity on me when I foolishly reached for a second riding glove.

"You only need one," he said beneath his brown cowboy hat. Sheepishly I put the left glove back as he pantomimed the bull-riding posture I should take. "You grab hold and throw the other hand back like so."

I half-heartedly mimicked his gesture.

With a little hop off the cushioning, I climbed up on the bull. The cowboy told me to scoot up. "Git that hand in real close, almost in your crotch."

I did as I was told.

The sign for buck is to throw that ungloved hand up. It wasn't long before the bucking began. At first it was a little like riding a drug-store horse that takes quarters. I may have been a little dramatic in the early part of that ride. When the "head" went down, I leaned back and when it came up, I leaned forward, all the while gripping tightly with my knees and my hand close to my crotch. It wasn't complicated, or even particularly fun. Just really funny and a little awkward. As the bull got more comfortable, or as the operator saw that I did, there was more bucking and even a little twisting. I got caught in a funny position and realizing I had two rides left decided not to fight it and tumbled to the cushions.

I popped right up and rode again. This time the bucking and twisting came faster, but I had the rhythm and the giggles. I found it hard not to laugh as I was spun and rocked all over that bull's home. I rode a good long while, perhaps as much as 30 seconds before I grew tired of having my knuckles slammed into my privates. Again rather than hold on with too much pride, I tumbled off.

I stood up again, a little less ready for my final ride.

"You can take a break," said the cowboy. Sweeter words have not often been spoken.

So I took a break. During my break I considered the chafing on my thighs. I considered the awkward way that my back had been turned. Most of all I considered the giggles. Mechanical bulls make me smile.

I readied for my final ride. When I motioned to the operator that I was going in, he smirked at me. I had a hunch I knew what that meant, but I was ready. Probably four whole seconds of ready before the bull bucked me right off laughing most of the way to the ground.

"That's when I have my fun," the cowboy smiled. "The third ride is for me."

"I figured," I smiled back.

After that I watched the bull toss the likes of frat boys, cowboys, and 45-year-old birthday girls having a whole lot of fun. I watched the bull get seduced, ridden backwards, and treated like a diving board. A debate roared inside of me. Chafe some more and ride the bull or wait for another day.

My legs won out, but I will ride again.

Time out
Sometimes it feels like everyone is watching and listening and I can't hide. On those days, I erase blog posts and feel very paranoid. Today is one of those days. It snowed last night. But then you knew that. Because you're watching. In the old days it was enough to gossip among the people I knew. Now I end up gossiping to the general Internets. Gossip to the general Internets doesn't feel right. I'm going to take a few days to think about what I've done. It's very age 10. You should try it.

Mmmm.
I like that the Godiva Hot Chocolate packet says please.
Please prepare Godiva Hot Cocoa with milk only.

I think I like my generic Marshmallow Avalanche Hot Chocolate better though.

Remember this kids: Manners and a fancy box will only get you so far.

The post went sour
This was going to be a self-deprecating post. It might have been clever, but not entirely on purpose. It was going to be a post about a boy, who by most definitions was now a man, had overcome some obstacles, though not the obstacles to very likely become a winner. The boy was proud, but rather than admit it, he'd announce that he was a winner with a smirk on his face.
"I'm a winner, but..." he'd say. The list of buts wouldn't be long, because the boy's ability to mock himself was limited by his pride. Age-old struggle. Modern-day twist. "I'm a winner, but only in my age group of paying members of my running club. It's probably 10 or 15 people."

The smirk would say "It doesn't matter."

The eyes would tell a different story.

In the seeds of the thought that was going to lead to the self-deprecating post, the boy realized something. He was a winner. He is a winner. Somewhere he thought he heard Dr. Seuss giggling, but he pressed forward with the idea that had been in the seed. Every event, every competition, everything he'd ever been in was about a niche. He was proud when he was the best runner in high school. Heck, he was proud when he was the best runner in his class. Whittle it away and that wasn't 10 to 15 people. Sure, there were 400 people in the class, but he only had 5 teammates his age. If it was ok to be thrilled by being 1 out of 5, then it's ok to be thrilled to be 1 out of 10. Why not relish the victories of a niche? Because before any of us can be best in the world, we have to be best in the room. And then best in the building. Best in the city. The county. The state. The country. The hemisphere. And there's no reason not to relish every step of the way. There's no reason not to take pride in besting those 10 to 15 people. And better yet, though the boy hasn't mastered that lesson nearly as well, there's no reason not to take pride in trying to best those 10 to 15 people. More than winning, it means something to attempt to win. Or even to attempt to best, or just test one self. To be proud to get out and run a 5k in 19:31, a mile in 4:52, 3000 meters in 10:14, another 5k in 17:56, and then 10 miles in 66:04.

Whether those were age-group victories or not, doesn't the attempt and the gratification that came with each race make the boy a winner?

And isn't self-deprecation so much easier to read?

Winter has its moments
Coffee-flavored gelato (Gelato! as the sign says) at the cafe that I pass by twice everyday. The hot chocolate and letters written to the sounds of Dawn Landes, Hem, and Autumn Defense. The laundry was done until I went and perspired again. I sat, quietly on a bench, and tried so hard not to wait. It always feels like I'm waiting, but I don't want to always be waiting, sometimes I want bench-riding to be, to be, the activity. I got a real letter today. I think my friends are trying to make sure the post office doesn't die. I finally made it to the post office, myself. I'm trying to do my part too. I helped a lady pick up what she'd dropped, which inspired me to try to help a man save a button. He was too quick. I am not a button-saver. When I said "thank you," I meant it. I think the clerk knew, because she smiled. It looked like a real smile. I think I still know the difference. I'm not sick. The words are coming out and I like the way some of them sound. It feels like I'm pushing at the door that opens up to the hallway that leads to a good place. But then the darkness comes so fast. The good things that happened in the light, fall into the shadows. The trees get naked, but they don't seem to enjoy it. It doesn't smell like snow yet, but the sky remembers. Then the stars remember. Then I remember- this used to be my favorite season.

Thanks, Holmes
Insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind overtaxed.

-Oliver Wendell Holmes

This seems ridiculous
I was in a room in a circle of chairs. I was surrounded by the clean versions of ten dirty, smelly guys I watch play Ultimate. They were basically trying to decide if they wanted the next six months to be about taking themselves and their sport seriously or whether to play the same breed of Ultimate that they've grown accustomed to. It was a heated, but respectful discussion. They spoke eloquently and passionately on both sides. They talked honestly and openly about how the decision affected their lives. Then when everyone present had had a chance to express himself, they voted. I was amazed. It was one of the most beautiful meetings I have ever attended. These guys that yell and scream at each other for the stupidest things were articulate and intelligent and genuinely cared about each other.

And me? I'm struggling to determine how I fit in here. I said almost nothing. I do almost nothing. Except be. (And this time also prepare a calendar for the next two months of training, adding some direction to the otherwise pie-in-the-sky attitude.) Mostly though, I just am. I'm a resource, I guess. I'm told I'm a calming force. I'm trying to accept these roles, because I can't take part in the roles I'm used to. It's a helpless feeling. Sometimes it's a useless feeling. To be a part of something, but not be able to contribute in ways that feel like contributions. How do I translate "calming influence" into defensive plays? How do I translate "cheerleader" into scores? They don't quite translate.

So at the end of the meeting, I'm brimming with pride because I just got to take part in a very special moment with very special intelligent, passionate people. And I'm ready to cry because I don't get to play the part that I'm used to playing. I can work hard. I can calm and cheer, but can I make that enough? Can I make that what I need? Or enough of a part of what I need to make this worthwhile. Or can I find something to offer that is enough? I'm concerned because these guys now know what I know. Is it time to let them go out on their own? Or when this class leaves will they need me more than ever?

See title, but maybe it isn't.

Let it hair
Do you think a man with a beard is more likely to neglect his garden than a man without a beard? Do you think a man with a garden is more likely to neglect his beard? And what of the bearded-woman and her garden?

The difference between the sound of cut hair falling from my head and cut hair falling from my face is like snow and sleet.

For good skiing head to the top, but beware of the thin patches. Obstacles may exist. If my head were a bowl, I think the best run would be off the ridge down the backside and over the sweet bumps. Conditions vary. Ski at your own risk.

I'm thankful for mid-race advice and good competition
Saturday I ran in a 10-mile race called the Turkey Burn-off. I've been running lately with some consistency, but I haven't really been training for a distance like 10 miles. I set my sights on a 7-minute per mile pace, fully aware that such a pace might prove difficult. The morning of the race, I forgot my watch, which meant that tracking my 7-minute pace would also prove difficult. It didn't really matter. It never really matters. Nobody's watching. Nobody that knows me anyway. The only expectations are my own and they aren't very high (at least I claim they aren't.) I didn't want to slack off. I'm in the thick of an age-group Championship Series fight. Finishing, being out in the park, scoring a point or more in the CS, and 70 minutes if I could do it, were the goals.

I lined up in the middle of the starting pack and waited for "Go." Distances, especially the unfamiliar ones are tricky. Get out too fast and feel the pain later. Get out too slow and never catch the competition. There was an added wrinkle in this race. About half of the people would be finishing the race at 5 miles, while the other half turned around and ran the course again. So, I knew I could easily find myself in a battle with someone that was almost done. I had to make sure I wasn't sprinting with 5.5 miles to go. I picked people off easily for a mile or two or three. I felt tired, go-home-and-go-to-bed-tired, but not running-tired as I counted down the miles. Seven to go, I laughed to myself. My last 10 mile run was probably, oh, I don't know- October 31, 2004, in the midst of a marathon.

At about 3.5 miles into the race, I pulled even with a man in a "Hashathon" shirt. I never found out what that meant, but I read it numerous times. I'd pass Hashathon on the flats or the downhills and as soon as the course sloped up (and it did many, many times) Hashathon would come powering right on by me. After about his fifth trip by, I said, "You've got some serious hill legs." He chuckled and said, "Just lean into the hill."

Hashathon pulled away from me a little as we made the turn at the five-mile mark. I was fully prepared to see 38 minutes or even 40 minutes on the clock at the turn. Instead I saw 33:17. I was running almost 2 minutes below my goal pace. I may have wondered briefly about the coming leg explosion, but mostly I realized that Hashathon could quite possibly drag me into an excellent finish and I'd be foolish to let him get away. It was downhill after the turn and not surprisingly I soon made up the gap. I pulled ahead of Hashathon and leaned into the next hill. He came even with me on the hill, but didn't pass me. The next hill he stayed tucked in behind me. We neared mile 8 and were closing in on a man in front of us. I could feel the gap widening between Hashathon and me. I looked over my shoulder and hollered, "Get up here. I need you." I don't know if he heard. I don't know if he already knew how much of a difference he'd made in my race. I knew I didn't want him around during the last hill, but I didn't want to shake him with miles to go. Shake him, I did. He probably faded a little as I sped up a little closing in on my next victim. I whipped by the blue-shorted gentleman and arrived in no man's land. I couldn't see a soul in front and I was pulling away from the three or so behind me. Then, I spotted a balding shirtless man with a sizeable lead on me. I hungered for one more place. I don't know why, but fortunately I don't think about those things during good races. It doesn't matter, doesn't enter my head. I hope admitting it here won't change that. For at those moments it matters.

Balding, shirtless, and way in front of me, but forward. I wasn't going to look back at those I'd passed. I was looking up and going after those ahead. Forget pace. If there is any indication of the kind of race I'm having, that's the key. With a little over a mile left in the race, my stomach finally realized that I was running 10 miles. Nobody asked my stomach if he wanted to chug through 10 miles. Maybe, somebody should've. Angry stomach, tired legs, and a little over a mile until the bananas table. B-A-N-AWWWW. That side stitch hurts. I shortened my stride. I shortened my breath. And plunged on. I didn't seem to be losing ground to the man in front, but I was running out of real estate. A blessing. A curse. A blessing- just get it over with. Lumbering now, like a man untrained for a 10 mile burn-off. I had fleeting thoughts of being passed from behind. I had fleeting thoughts of punching the guy standing quietly on the sidelines. I had fleeting memories of last year's marathon. About the only thing not fleeting were my feet. Finally, with barely a finishing kick I climbed the last incline and crossed the finish line. 1:06:04*. I'd run the second half faster than the first? I don't know how it happened, but I knew that it would have been a different race without Hashathon. He arrived half a minute later and I thanked him. Happy Burn-off to one and all.

*The time has been corrected. The race organizers decided to take back the free 28 seconds they had given me. I'm still pleased.

Pride and what?
I knew when I said yesterday that Pride and Prejudice was fantastic that I was setting the bar pretty high. I really meant Keira was fantastic and the movie was good. Walk the Line is fantastic. Reese Witherspoon is downright amazing. Joaquin Phoenix is really good. The music and the pace of the film are great. After the movie was over, I kicked the iPod in gear and listened to a couple of hours of the real June Carter Cash. I don't have any Johnny or I would've listened to that too. Wow.

Close up and prejudice
In a 2 hour and 9 minute movie, one could hardly ask for more Keira close-ups. I'm going to estimate her screen time at somewhere around the 1 hour and 53 minute mark. Most of that time spent from the neck up, sometimes even the back of the neck. I think I'm trying to sayPride and Prejudice was fantastic.

Newspapers can't die
Then who would print tiny snippets of blogs that I read? Further legitimizing the rantings of friends and strangers for morning commuters everywhere (in the Metro area. So long as they read Express.)


It's a weird world we live in. People like me continue to spew thoughts and opinions OUT for all to digest if they so desire, then newspapers pick that up and print it and credit a website as if a real person didn't even write it. Odd. Disturbing. Kind of fun.

Motivation
"I heard you used to be faster," he said to me as we were jogging out to the stack in a friendly game of Ultimate.
"Whaaat?" I screeched. "Who said that?"

It didn't matter who said it. I didn't want to hear it and now the messenger was going to pay. I was going to inflict pain the only way I know how- passive-aggressive whining. NO! The other only way I know how, by running and running and running until those around me are reduced to only pants and grunts. This used to be more effective, but I've still got a good bit of endurance left in me. From that moment forward, every one of his cuts was going to be contested and every one of mine would be at full speed. He would strike first, much to my dismay. He's not a slouch. Then I would quiet him. I scored. I attempted a greatest or two. I played mean defense and always, always lined up across from my new nemesis. It didn't take long, before he left the game for a rest. When he returned I went after him again until finally I heard what I wanted to hear, "That's the last time I get him going."

I think maybe I need to take things personally more often. That was fun.

The dandruff of home
There's frost on the ground; it's a little like somebody left the earth in the freezer a little too long. Saturday morning and I want to be home. I don't want to be where I live, I want to be where I was raised. I want pull on my robe, stand inside the front door and steel myself. I want to fling open the door, quietly, because my family is still sleeping. Glancing out the door and down the drive, I want to eye my target- the morning paper. "Are there any evening papers left?" I'd think as I bound down the porch steps. My bare feet would slap cold, very cold concrete as my robe flew open. Bending at the waist while still moving forward I'd reach down and grab The Star as I skidded to a stop. My feet would be uncomfortably cold as I zipped back up the steps and into the house, pulling the door shut behind me. The sigh of re-acclimation, the promise of hot chocolate, and the minutes of solitude before my parents rise would greet me in the kitchen.

"Morning," I'd say, wrapped in familiarity.

Shake. Shake. Shake.
What if we did things right when we thought them? Are the purest desires caught in reactions?

I went for another run. Running is making a big comeback around here. I bought some blue and tangerine shoes. The runs keep me sane, usually. Today I was plodding through the motions. My world took a bit of a shaking this afternoon in one of those unexpected ways. My initial reaction was denial. After that, I was moving to France. Life is really fragile. Stability is an illusion. Barely able to function in my current situation, I plotted out multiple escape routes. France was the clearest, and only because someone told me they could see me in France. So is that escape route any more valid than the usual inertia that keeps me in place? Or does it come down to the post-choice choices? Say I move to France. That affects a few things, my address for one, but how much does it affect life. France is cleary unstable. Life. Unstable. Life in France, not so stable. And when did stable become so valuable anyway?

I need a shower. I need dinner. I need to take a deep breath.

Yes, but I don't care
In the first five seconds, he'd told me his intention to become an intern. Within a minute I knew his college of choice, a brief history of the struggles he'd overcome and his promise to adapt to this and any situation. I had fetched him from the lobby, but my contact with the new temporary employee was supposed to end there. He latched on, seemingly searching for the right phrase that would allow me to rise above my status as a bottle-washer and elevate myself to hiring manager; he, of course, could be my first hire. He was new. He was nervous. He knew what he wanted. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, and the benefit of my uncomfortable smile as I pawned him off on someone else. That wouldn't be the last I saw of him. Later in the day, unprompted, he'd tell me how quickly and efficiently he'd dispatched of the menial tasks my colleagues had set before him. I smiled awkwardly and said, "good."

I thought it was just me until he made a phone call. "I have a tendency to exceed expectations," he told the person on the other line.

I have met the proudest temp on the planet.

Not yet a novelist
I fold. I'm not in a noveling mood and I'm not in a mood to suffer attached to my chair, regardless of the triumph at the end. I've decided to suffer physically instead. I'm not going to be a National Novel Writing Month Winner, but I don't think I'm a loser. I wrote 5,000 or so related words and another 2,000 unrelated words. That's not all bad. I've got another 15 days to write some other stuff. at my leisure. No pressure.

Kenny Rogers said, "You've got to know when to hold 'em. Know when to fold 'em. Know when to walk away."
G. Love and Special Sauce said, "Could I get a cold beverage? I need some leverage."
The Phunk Junkez said, "What the F$%@, Chuck?"
And I say, so there.

Ketchup time. Other condiments not included
Just saw a bumper sticker that read, "Frodo failed. Bush has the Ring." I was around the corner before I laughed.

Fall
I feel a bit like someone has a hold of my trunk and they are shaking the leaves off of me.


College Ultimate
Somewhere between clown, glorified cheerleader, college-age male, and voice of quiet reason is where I stand on the college Ultimate scene these days. The ride south was spent in headbanging, screaming, speeding, obnoxious splendor. Somewhere in that madness a cheer was born,

Have you heard of the Popemobile?
Yes we've heard of the Popemobile.
Big and strong and made of steel.
Big and strong and made of steel.
1-2-3
The Pope says Win!

Invoking religious leaders will only get you to .500. It's a step in the right direction.

The ride north was spent in calm discussion of good things- life, Ultimate, brilliant traffic-dodging schemes.

Somewhere in the middle
I knew as the dare was being issued that I would be unable to resist. A karaoke bar, a bunch of new people, the promise of a Bailey's payoff, and a willing partner named Emily meant that my heart would go on. When they called my name, Emily was missing. I made my way up to the mic and did my best Celine. Emily was pulled from the bathroom by my new best friends and she joined me to sing back up. The reviews came in at "better than expected." Barbara Ann as part of a dashing trio of gents was certainly better than that. I think I understand the draw of this karaoke a little more now that I've done it outside of the American Legion.

The pre-run post
!#!$#@%@$!%$@!$%Kinkos!#$!$#!$!##$!$#@!$#!$#{violently remove tie and hurl it into the corner}!#!$!@#$!#@#$!$#!#$!$!@$meeting!#$!$#!#$#@!${consider gouging eyes out and/or ripping face off}@$%!@#$!$#!@$#@!$@%^$@^^*$.

The post-run post
My life is a postcard. Wish you were here.

I think maybe I need to run more.

I blame television
I realize that blaming television doesn't make me that different from a lot of people, but I'm going to do it anyway. I blame television for all of my recent negativity. Pre-TV, I was a happy-go-lucky young man, but since TV re-entered my home, it's been a long drop down. Television creates a climate of instant gratification and I'm finding more and more that my life doesn't work that way. When life doesn't work that way, I turn back to television.

It's blatantly unfair.

Oh, I've controlled my consumption. I'm well below the national average, but I don't think much of the national average. And my average is growing along with the darkness of winter. I'm finding myself stuck in my home with nothing to do. Nothing other than read the 4 books lined up and ready to go, play the banjo, write a frickin' novel (not going real well for those of you scoring at home), figure out what to do when there is light. Those things can wait, because "That 70's show" is on for the umpteenth time today.

It's not television's fault, I know. It's mine.

That doesn't make me feel any better.

Tears of a funky chicken
Encased in headphones and cut off from the world, music fills my ears but not the air around me. Sometimes, yes, my foot will take to tapping. Or I won't be able to contain a quick little "dancing catfish," but for the most part my dancing like my digital music takes place in the comfort of my own head. Will I still be able to dance without wires? Am I a marionette and the mini my puppeteer? I don't think I've danced, save in my kitchen and right now in my desk chair, since May.

It's time for a party. The running man begs you. The pony cries out. The sprinkler grows rusty with each passing day. And the robot. Oh the robot.

He was never particularly well.

Return of Kill. Kill. Kill.
I'm not a "gamer." I don't "play the video games." I'm not one to "be able to keep up the quote joke."

Might I say that sometimes it's nice to just kill and be killed in that invincible sort of way with your friends and/or their friends from around the country.

Now, it's "time for bed."

Writing a novel
I promise that every post this month will not be about National Novel Writing Month. This post will be. I started today, which puts me a step ahead of where I was this time last year. I had written about 700 words, or 1.4% when I left to go for a run. This month is going to be great. I get so much stuff that isn't writing done when I'm trying to write. I've already gone grocery shopping, cleaned out the dishwasher, and gone for a 5.5 mile run. The run was particularly helpful today. I was trudging along thinking about where to take my next 1.4% when I realized that I was writing the same novel from last year. I had just convinced myself that I was going to write the novel that I was ready to write. Pretty pleased with that low-pressure philosophy, I was a little caught off guard to find out that I was practically plagiarizing myself. Yes, I'd changed the setting slightly, but I couldn't push myself too far out of the middle of the country. I'd changed genders, but none of that had really shown up yet. Basically I was writing the same characters in the same setting using the same style. Last year was a good experience, really good, but I'm not sure that I want to repeat it. I'm sure neither of my readers would want that either.

So at the risk of destroying a franchise, I'm making a change. I'm going to push myself and try to do things differently. Ah November, such an educational month.

I'm still sticking with my philosophy though, "I will write the novel that I'm ready to write."

Today a cowboy
tomorrow a novelist. I was going to be a potential juror tomorrow, but they've unsummoned me. I'm kind of disappointed. Maybe I should stay home and write.

I went in to work today with a neon green shirt, a carriage on my bolo tie, and a courtesyWild Bill's straw cowboy hat. From the waist up, I was a poorly dressed cowboy. From the waist down, it was even worse. The first two coworkers that I encountered stared at me, but didn't say a word. Finally I said, "It's Halloween." "Oh," they said. Then one said, "I wonder at what age one stops dressing up and just thinks of this as another day."

"I was thinking the same thing last night and I decided I didn't want to find out."

Yee-freakin'-haw.

Don't go to bed frustrated
The weather was gorgeous this weekend. The skies were blue. The air was crisp. I had two brownie sundaes in as many days. So, what went wrong? I made several very sweet catches playing Ultimate. I threw some scores, made some Ds and didn't make too many mistakes. So why is every little mistake haunting me? I'm mad about inaccurate throws. I'm upset about a dropped pass. I can't let go of a disc misread and a blown defensive assignment. Ultimate today was not really fun. I was too busy not being perfect. I was too busy not chucking my body after the disc, too busy throwing over people's heads, too busy making my receivers work too hard to catch scores. The margin for fun grew so small today that I could barely see it. I thought I had it back for a moment when I realized I'd gained an hour, but it's gone again.

Oh. well. at least I have work to cheer me up in the morning...

Double decaf mocha latte
Ordering at Starbucks makes me think of Julie. In the shared yearbook/newspaper computer lab, Julie had recorded a sing-song "DouBLEdeCAFMO-CHAlatte" to replace the usual "ding" that comes with an error message. It was an upperclassman joke, one of the few times Julie allowed class to be a factor. And to be fair, it was the disembodied voice of Julie making a joke, not the actual girl by the time I heard it. Sometimes I'd make an error just to hear it. Julie was some kind of perfect. She treated everybody like an all-star. She had this enormous smile framed beneath her short bowlish haircut. I've never met anyone else who could make that haircut scream style. Julie could do it. She could sit and talk about anything or nothing and her words would hypnotize. I can't remember more than a handful of conversations we actually shared, and yet I always felt included, and more than that, special in her presence. I couldn't have been alone. Her senior year she was voted queen. Somehow in that time when Julie seemed to be looming ever larger, I got to be closer than before. She moved away, but we stayed in touch. Popping in and out of lives, she came and went like a warm hug and a meaningful wink. Even then it seemed fleeting. When the physical distance between us shrank, Julie disappeared from my life. I'd never understood how our lives fit together anyway. Sometimes I get sad that I just let her disappear. I wonder if the universe made a mistake, or worse that I made a mistake, but whenever I step up to the counter "Double decaf mocha latte" doesn't leave my lips.

I can only assume the universe knows what it's doing.

Enthusiasm is like fungus. Only prettier.

Shoestring 15th place
It was a rainy morning, colder than the last few. It was a race day, the first in a month or two. The gun went off and we splashed ahead, a bobbing, breathing pack of runners. Moving up quickly on the fast flat course, I passed Tyler and told him, "Get on your horse." He and I pumped together until we'd nabbed a small pack, then he left me alone as he fell back. Caught between groups I lingered for a while. If I'm alone, am I in single file? I finally closed in and passed two others, but I couldn't shake them despite my druthers. One battled back and overtook me. My shoelace came undone frustratingly. Staring down as it went splat, I thought, what the heck should I do about that? I considered stopping and tying my shoe. I looked back and I looked up. Stopping now just wouldn't do. I pressed on, never losing touch. I dug in, but couldn't find much. As we approached the last few turns, I set up a charge and let it burn. I passed two men and looked ahead for one more pass. My legs burned and I nearly ran out of gas, but I didn't die and I didn't fade. Splat, splat, splat. I finished the race, just like that. My shoestring dangled off of muddy kicks, a quiet triumph of 17:56.

Better than the last race and now I'm in third place (in my age division in the series.)

My pleasing moment of the day
Running through the rain with sweet potato pie.

So, how do you feel about football?
I was crushed to find out that the Cardinals lost last night. I had a tiny rooting interest in the team from the other side of home, but I haven't watched a baseball game in ages. So why was I crushed? A deep hatred for the Astros? Hardly. Then why was I glancing over shoulders and missing parts of conversation to see how the Cards were doing? Why was I watching innings of a game that hasn't held me for more than a few pitches since the last strike? It was all her fault. I had been secretly praying for this series to go seven games. It didn't and I'm crushed because playoff blogs like playoff hopes can't last forever. In her eyes, I could remember baseball as it should be, as my grandpa saw it, and not the way I see it now. She captured those things that don't really matter and made them ache with importance again. Things that aren't money, or steroids. Things like sport and class. Things that make people stand up and cheer.

There's always next year.

I'll give you an E-town review
Kirsten Dunst far outshines Orlando Bloom in this movie. That isn't saying that much. I've seen Elizabethtown compared to Garden State and they are similar. Especially in the soundtrack is better than the actual movie sense. There's some death and some wacky family, but I didn't really give a hoot. There are some magical sparks between Dunst and Bloom or at least there were supposed to be. That must have been lost while someone was picking out music. There's a road trip set to mix tapes which is genius, but by that point all I could think was, "Somebody really wants to sell a lot of soundtracks."

I think what I'm trying to say is, save up for a CD or (a download if you're into that sort of thing) and skip the movie. You won't miss much.

Winning isn't everything
I have cuts and scratches all up and down my arms and legs. There's a raspberry the size of a baseball on my left hip. Those are the post-game complaints. They aren't even complaints, more observations. I'm a little bit proud of my cuts and scratches, although that pride disappears when the water from the shower rains down on me. This is all post-game pain. I want to write about the pre-game.

I used to walk up to the field ready to go. Two laps, a quick stretch, a few throws and I was ready to win. I wanted to win because winning was fun. I'd stand on the line waiting for the first pull of the game. Looking directly across at the person I was about to guard I would pretend to hear his thoughts, "Ha. Look at that gangly poofy-haired goof. I'm going to make a bigger fool of him." I'd squint a little bit, perform the mental equivalent of cracking my knuckles and prepare for this battle, which was now personal. The game and the score mattered because they mattered and that's all that mattered.

Things have been changing the last few years. I teeter on the brink of injury. It's getting harder to make the score matter. For one thing, I realize that I have such a small amount of control on the score. Even when I play my finest game, I'm still just one member of a team. I've also realized that Ultimate is a fun game. Sometimes we win and that's fun. Sometimes we lose. Well-played losses can be fun. Sometimes we don't keep score, and that's fun too.

That's dangerous knowledge. If I'm out to have fun, and winning isn't the only fun factor anymore, how do I play well enough to help my team win? I can't hold a grudge against the people I play against. I see them monthly now and I have for three years. It's not personal. It's people out having a good time and keeping score.

What do I do? Yesterday I got to the fields earlier. I took a walk around the park and looked at the scenery that isn't enclosed in the 70 x 40 rectangle we play in. While I walk I think about the things that I can do right today. I think about playing smart. I think about making good throws and catching well. I think about how to play defense. And I look at the lake from which the fields take their name. I think about the beautiful blue sky and the light breeze. I have a real thing for blue skies. Winning today is not the only thing that matters, but I plan to play my best to help my team win, just to sweeten a gorgeous day.

Me voy manana*
Nervously, he flipped open his electronic pocket translator. His trim pink fingernails lightly pressed the tiny keys. "I am leaving today" flashed on the screen. He paused, touched his hand to his face and then forcefully wiped at his cheek. Staring out the window for a moment, he tugged on his little black-haired ponytail and scrolled to the next entry. "I am leaving tomorrow" appeared in digital print. His flannel-covered shoulders dropped slightly as his gaze returned to a place far outside the window. He shut the translator with a click and then just as quickly reopened it. Pressing the keys, he stared intently at the screen which soon read, "I am leaving tomorrow."

*I don't know Spanish, but I thought that's what I read.

As the World Turns
I saw this woman today. She had a bunch of flowers. She didn't look like a gardner, but she looked familiar. I followed her up the street. It wasn't a stalking sort of follow, I was going that direction. Home was that direction. I didn't have the foot speed to overtake her. I was slowed by trying to place her face. She glanced over her shoulder. She pulled out her phone and started talking. I suspect she was talking to no one. She just wanted me, her follower, to see that she was connected. She wanted me to know that if I was currently debating some vile act like asking her if I knew her from somewhere, that she was busy and her friend on the phone would know about it. I wasn't really debating an act. I was trying to figure out where I could follow without being creepy. This happens too often. I slow my pace. I move to one side trying to get into peripheral vision. Then I just end up wandering to the other side of peripheral vision. It's a creepy little dance. It leaves everybody tense. Finally she crossed the street and I could breathe a sigh of relief. I was exhausted from being a potential killer/stalker/annoying hobo. As I came to an intersection, a man purposefully crossed the street away from me. It wasn't me. It was him. He didn't want to be the potential killer/stalker/annoying hobo. That's the sense I had in the .5 seconds I considered his departure from my path. Was that gender bias? Was my sense real? When is it ok to follow? Is it my awareness of the situation that creates the tension? Do monkeys have this problem?

Not a bad cheer
At the end of Ultimate games there is a tradition of cheering the opponent. The cheers range from simple "Go Team" to musical numbers complete with jazz hands. As the game gets more competitive, this wonderful tradition of the post-game cheer seems to be going the way of the wooden nickel. After some initial resistance, the Catholic team I coach came up with a cheer to be proud of (assuming you enjoy the outskirts of blasphemy.) The cheer with bowed heads and hands held went, "Our St. Mary's who art in heaven, hallowed be thy game. You made us run and that was fun. And now we're done. Amen."

Breaking news
TV fears have been realized. Those of you believing in the power of my self-control were wrong. Couch-potato wrong.

Who is Root Beer?*
I just introduced J-Dub to 15 Midwesterners he'll never meet. The setting was a cavern-like dining room in the basement of a German restaurant or perhaps the restaurant was the basement. Either way, we were below ground and surrounded by mounted trout and large-mouth bass. The impetus was a waiter listing the evening's liquid refreshment. He'd just finished a list of beers by the bottle and on tap, when he casually added "And we serve root beer."

"Who makes your root beer?" I asked in what would turn out to be the beginning of a string of server encounters that may not get the blog time they so richly deserve.

"Sprecher's" he replied.

"Ah," I said with a smile. "I'll have a root beer."

The woman to my right turned to me and asked, "They make good root beer?"

I then began to expound, "In college I had a friend from Wisconsin who would bring Sprecher's to the dorm from his home and share a taste with those of us lucky enough to be in his favor. I remember the first time I was one of the lucky ones. He had promised the finest of root beers from his home. He was as proud of the root beer as he was of his own roots. He sat me down in his sparsely furnished room and reached down into his mini-fridge. Then with the distinct lack of flourish that comes from good Midwestern upbringing, he pulled a bottle of Sprecher's out. He popped the top and handed me the chilled root beer that he had bragged of. I brought the bottle to my lips and took a slow swig. The root beer slid down my throat coating my insides with a passion for both root and beer. 'Thank you, J-Dub. That was delicious,' I cried. He smiled the triumphant smile of a man that knew quality. I returned to my life in progress awaiting my next taste. My home then, like my home now, does not serve Sprecher's. I'll drink this in his honor and in celebration of splendid root beer."


*The title of this post was stolen from a wonderful children's story that my parents read to me. It had talking bugs. I don't think it was a true story. This post may therefore share characteristics with that fine story.

huh.

Coming down
It's some kind of perfect to descend from the clouds onto a dusk lit District and see the Capitol and various memorials from above.

You have no idea
Downtown Indy- Several discussions, a few Ann Patchett books, hell that Tom Wolfe book, and some recent blog posts have me thinking that we have no idea. I mean, for me I'll just look at the last 5 years, which in a typical 80-year life is what? 1/18th of life? and look how much things have changed and how much things have worked out and how much things haven't. Let's look at my job. I didn't want my job in a million years. My job from the outside has basically every element I wouldn't want, now I'm trying to get promoted. Look at my house. It was too small. I was too messy for the Sandwich. My house is almost perfect and I clean the toilets. Look at my friends, they aren't that outdoorsy, they don't love the things that I love, they're these incredible amazing people with no reason to be in my life except that our lives cross and now continue to cross at pivotal moments. Most of the time I don't think they're the friends I'd pick if I saw them on the street, but I'd probably die if they hadn't picked me.

Sometimes I feel guilty because I have no 5-year plan, but I look back at the last five years and think how I could have possibly planned better than this. I've fulfilled multiple dreams. I've laid the ground work for others. In most given spans, I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm going to do it anyway because things tend to work out, nay, The Universe tends to unfold as it should. I'm done now. I've got a Hard Rock T-shirt to go pick up, a complimentary drink to grab, and some strolling around another Midwestern town that I never realized had so many charms. There's never time to do it all, so I figure I might as well enjoy the time I've got.

That's not pink; it's watermelon, baby.
Decked out in watermelon, swamped at work, somewhere between sickness and health, I'm riding a wave of a-ok. The things I generally count on for happiness aren't making their appearances and yet I'm not crumbling. Then again, I did iron my shirts last night (though you'd be hard-pressed to tell) while watching Desperate Housewives (eh.), so it's possible aliens have invaded my body.

Something has changed and I don't think it's the leaves just yet.