Let's go cross country

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

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

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

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

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

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

(18:38)

You all can just...

There will be times in your life where you lose sight of what you want. You'll get distracted by what your friends think, or by the status quo. There will be a dream that pulses in the back of your mind, but it will get buried under a pile of dirty clothes. The challenge is to look inside, to find that dream and to hang on. You'll have to block out the voices that say, "No." and "You can't do that." and "Listen, biotch, there ain't no way you'll ever see my fine ##$ there." At that moment you'll have to take a second to wonder why one of your voices sounds so ghetto, but I urge you to get past that.

When you do, reach deep into your pockets, pull out $9.50, step up to the counter and go see Stick it! with me. I want it. You want it. Otherwise you can stick it.

I know that I am late to the party,
but I promise to leave early.

I'm suddenly obsessed with myspace. I want to locate everyone I've ever known. If I had my yearbooks here, I might just leaf through them and use them as myspace fodder. I'm not sure what I'd do then. I don't know what to do with people when I find them. It's not that I plan on getting in touch with most of the people I find. It's just nice to know that they're alive and kicking, and quite likely sharing questionable information with all of the world. OOH! We've got that in common! But the worst part is those people lead to other people who may or may not be familiar. There's a whole world of people that people I once knew now know and/or pretend to know. I think there's a sociology project just waiting to happen. Or is it happening already?

Oh. Hello best friend's little brother. Are you sure you want the Internet to see the pictures of you drunk?

Oh. Hello prom date. I see you've cut your hair in the last 9 years.

Oh. Hi guy from track. Congrats on your move to Grenada.

Hey girl I can't quite remember. Didn't you used to run around with my sister?

Oh. Hi person I don't know. My gosh, do I come across that ridiculous?

Hey. My friend Chuck wasn't 46 or 16. Who are you?

Hmm. I wonder if we'll need a 10-year reunion. I can have one in the quiet of my room with your myspace soundtrack playing over my speakers. Gawrsh, I missed high school as much as I thought.

Thomas Edison, I am not

A hat tournament is an opportunity to reinvent yourself. Names are put into a hat, or paper sack in this case, drawn out and assigned to teams. This randomly drawn group of people spends the day together playing Ultimate and trying to defeat other randomly drawn groups of people.

This is the second hat tournament of my life. All I recall of the first is that it nearly ended in death by heat exhaustion. It definitely ended in vomiting and a brutal car trip from Columbia to St. Louis. Thanks to good friends and whatever it is that keeps me going, I survived.

This past Monday was no ice cooler filled with beer. It was more like charcoal grill just getting warmed up. I drank plenty of fluids in anticipation. Back to the reinventing...

I took the field with new people that only knew a name and the fact that I was prepared to spend my day in the heat chasing plastic like they were. I was not quiet, or fiery, or even good to them. I don't know if I'm those things to other people. I just know that in other places I sometimes feel the weight of expectations. Here, I was Dave and I was going to play. There is something refreshing and invigorating about that. My team was filled with cutters. We aren't the people that pick up the disc and make the big hucks. We aren't the tall people bringing down those long throws. We were a bunch of 6 foot or less movers with ok throws, ok hops, and decent speed. There was one true handler on our team; so for much of the day I, like many others, shared in the handling responsibilites. I also wound sharing in the leadership responsibilities. That's a mantle I take reluctantly, but somehow I think my scoring and my personal battles on defense had elevated me to leader. There are some roles that apparently can't easily be turned down. With this came cheerleader, strategy-maker, and even a little of the dreaded rules expert.

At one point I raised my rules expert mantle a bit too high. In a heated battle, as I was chasing down a long throw with my defender on my heels, as I readied to leap into the air and grab a score, my defender jumped up and swiped the disc right out of the sky above me. There is a rule called the principle of verticality. It states that a person has a right to the space immediately above him/her. The disc had been immediately above me and so I called foul based on the rule. A discussion ensued and my opponent may have mentioned not so kindly how he had played defense above my head- he had "skyed" me. I argued that I had a right to my vertical space. I stared into his eyes refusing to back down. He stared back angrily. Then he said, "If that's true, how could anyone ever sky anyone?"

At that moment I could no longer keep the anger boiling inside of me. I felt a smile creep to the corners of my mouth. Here we were nearing the end of a gorgeous day playing a game. He had probably made a spectacular jump to steal my score away. Even if the principle of verticality supported* me, I wasn't sure it mattered. Those corners quickly became a full smile and I replied, "I have no idea. Turnover."

I felt good about the call. I worried a little that I'd backed down from confrontation, but my worry quickly dissipated when he checked the disc in and immediately threw it into the ground.

They went on to win and play for the championship. My team of cutters (I love how by the end of the day "a" team becomes "my" team) proudly took third place.


*The principle of verticality actually doesn't support my argument as he didn't contact me; he just jumped over me. The UPA rules (more rules!) state: "The Principle of Verticality: All players have the right to the space immediately above them. Thus, a player cannot prevent an opponent from making an attempt on a pass by reaching over an opponent. Should contact occur before the outcome of the play is determined, it is a foul on the player restricting the vertical space."

Humility is fine in theory
From Wikipedia under the terms section of Ultimate (sport):
Callahan: When an opposing team's pass is intercepted in their end zone, scoring a point for the intercepting team. (UPA rules only)

Like this


photo credit: Peteball

plane with a view
A good window seat on the airplane is like a really slow ViewMaster. Thursday, I awoke from my nap as the plane neared St. Louis. I began scanning my home state looking for something familiar. I saw some lakes and rivers that I wasn't sure I could identify. I saw the road split around a warehouse in a place that might be Osage Beach. Eventually I was able to identify the Missouri river. It's big and brown, even from the sky. From the river, I knew I would eventually come to Interstate 70 (my favorite-est Interstate). The question on my mind and on the minds of those like-minded was whether I had passed Columbia. Near the river I spotted a large road, one with an interstate quality; it turned to the North and crossed the big brown Missouri in a rather familiar way. I followed the road through a town and soon my eyes arrived at the big "M". Much Merrymaking Mandated Mindfulness in my Utterly Unexpected excUrsison over Utopia, MU. Soaring by my alma mater at 600 mph, I was able to make out various stadiums and arenas, Stankowski field, the South Quad, and Jesse Hall. Old Missouri, Fair Missouri, you're really small from 15,000 feet.

The glory of my window seat was not just about being up on the top, upon the top of Columbia. No, no, my window seat had more fight. And a bully for that. As I arrived in St. Louis, my ViewMaster of alabaster came through again unveiling downtown and the gateway to the West in the east, the 630-foot tall arch. Cruising into Illinois to make a u-turn, I was able to view the arch from all sides.

To cap off my day, we punched through the clouds just after dark in DC and I stared right past the Washington monument, down the mall, and into the twinkling lights of the capitol. We squealed to a stop and the circle of tiny slides was complete.

You can do what with stamps?
Denver- Desperately, I have searched for stamps. I wanted post card stamps, but I was ready to settle for good old fashioned first class stamps. I finally gathered up the courage to ask the convenience store guy.

"Any chance you've got stamps here?"

"We've got packs of two for $1.39."
My math is sometimes rusty and the prices of stamps have been kind of erratic the last few years, at least in so far as erratic is that steady march toward infinity pricing.

I eyed convenience store guy and repeated, "Two stamps for $1.39." I squinted a bit and half-mouthed, half-uttered, "but..."

He then launched a missive which included the following statements. "We can do that. King Soopers does not do that, but we can." He then closed with, "I actually discourage people from buying stamps here."

"Well, you've discouraged me," I said as I turned and walked out the door.

I marched on, not wanting to give up. I talked to Diana at the Family Dollar, but they didn't have stamps. I arrived at another gas station and patiently waited my turn. When I asked for stamps I was told almost apologetically, we have books of 6 for $3.99.

With the math firing on all cylinders, I quickly departed-- stampless.

Dear self,

Insert mildly amusing anecdote here.

Love,
me

P.S. Don't forget to go home.

Picking at scabs

I bet it really sucks to break the picket line of the following: acrobats, firefighters, navy seals, king's food taster, pimp.

I bet it's pretty cool to fill in for the following: train conductor, president, the dancer in a ska band, dean of admissions, independently wealthy guy.

Self-awareness and TV on DVD don't mix

My neighbor kindly bought every season of Gilmore Girls and then let me borrow them. I already own seasons one and two, so I've worked my way through three and into four in the last week. All was well and good through most of three. Laughs, fast-talking, pop culture references, the vaguely familiar but mostly greeting card-esque heartfelt moments. Then Rory graduated from high school and went to Yale. Now I find myself contemplating the potential of my daily existence as it compares to the high school senior and college freshman. I'm awed by how unaware I was at that time. I'm amazed at how much I can't remember, already. Will I look back at this time and feel the same way? Do I need more education for that to happen? Is this standing still? Or is this tweaking "not unhappy" until we can reach happy? Is happy something to reach or is it more something to continuously stretch for and occasionally rub up against? Do I need to apply my philosophy in sports to the rest of my life? Is my sports philosophy too masochistic for day to day existence? Have I already applied it?

And finally, how many Nutter Butters is too many Nutter Butters?

Adding injury to injury

My left ankle, the one that's caused me so much trouble this year, was already reinforced by sturdy slabs of plastic. This weekend's tournament would be a big test for the plastic and for my recovery. In the first game, we lost a man to an injury and I bummed support for my other ankle which must have been compensating. Other than a forearm to my jaw, the first game provided only minor aches and pains all around. I would not be so fortunate in the second game. Late in the first half, my right calf cramped up. I was left writhing on the field. After an infusion of bananas and Gatorade, I was able to return to the game. I played for a while, even grabbing a Callahan (defensive score) at one point. Then my left calf decided to get in on the cramping. More writhing ensued. We lost the second game and I went on to play a few points in the third game. My right hamstring decided to join in on the fun. I was running out of body parts to cramp.

I thought I was done for the day, but I really didn't want to be. My team needed me. We were playing a fresh young team with lots of subs. At this point, we had no male subs. I paced the sidelines, massaged my legs, drank the juice and crammed bananas and salty chips past my sore jaw. The team was holding off the opponent, but it wasn't easy. Every so often, I'd try a little jog to see how I was feeling. There wasn't much improvement. I was jogging down the sideline just before halftime. I jogged past a large dog. I'd passed him at least twice before, but this time he jumped up and bit me in the side. Other than the terror I initially felt at having a 100 pound beast lunging at my unformed love handles, it just stung a little. Still, I felt a little strange, because after all, A DOG BIT ME!?!

I couldn't play. I had teeth marks on my side. My team was hanging on for dear life. I felt bad. Powerless. Bitten. A few more points went by. I jogged lightly in the other direction and noticed that my leg pain had gone away. Just as a test, I hopped up a little. No twinging in the calves. I sped up. I felt fine. On the next point I announced that I was good for a point or two if anyone needed a rest. My teammates were happy to take me up on the offer. I scored a few, made some defensive plays and we wrapped up the victory. In the vein of spiderman, perhaps the bite had given me superpowers.

Or rabies.

The breeze doesn't blow through shuttered windows

"I'm bored," I told my mom between reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. There was a time she would have made me homemade Play-dough or set me up with scissors and markers in an attempt to free the artist in me.

Some years later she would have said, "Work on your scrapbook," or "Clean your room." By then her suggestions would have irked me even though I didn't know what "irked" meant.

And now we've come to this. "You'll find something to do," she told me. I've never considered myself much of an entertainer when the audience is me. For a while, I could pick on my little sister, but I think I may have exhausted that option in the late teens. It can still be worth a kick, but long-distance sibling war lacks satisfaction. It's a bit like vending machine chocolate donuts. Put the quarters in, punch in the numbers. The possibility is there, but the taste is off. It's just not as fresh as it should be.

What to do? What to do?

Then things just started happening. I don't know what changed. I was open to one possibility and then along came another. Suddenly, I'm in the midst of a good book The Handmaid's Tale, and my favorite TV show on DVD is backlogged on the coffee table. There are bikes to ride, frisbees to throw, avenues to explore, potential to consider, friends to meet, and chicken salad to eat. Maybe it was the chicken salad. Suddenly the watch is ticking (or is that the clock in the living room?) a little louder. There's so much to do. Where will I find the time?

Here. YOU take the donuts. I'll take the change.

Internet, I have but two things to add*

1. I don't think the developers in this story get it. Every one of 'em keeps talking about the money that he could have made. Maybe the guy wanted money, but since they couldn't get his side, I'm going to pretend he just wanted to follow through with a pizza kitchen dream or just wanted to be stubborn to piss off some developers. It's fun that way. And, it's a place that's going to have some real character.

2. No pants day is tomorrow. Celebrate!

*at the moment

Hey Gatorade, it's in me.

After my first year of high school cross country, I took the winter off. I came back for track season and was unable to replicate the success I had in the fall. When track season ended, I decided not to make that mistake again. I have not gone a whole winter without running since then.

The ankle sprain set me back for most of February, March, and April. GEEZ. It didn't seem quite that bad until I wrote it down. I went nearly three months with minimal exercise- the new winter of my discontent.

Saturday, I played Ultimate. The ankle performed better than expected, but my body revolted. By halftime I was spent. I know this because my lunch popped up and told me so. Repeatedly. I don't think that's ever happened to me in the first game of the day. It was rather unpleasant. By Sunday afternoon, I was making another decision. I decided to come roaring back. I know it's going to take some time, but winter is over.

Segways are the new cell phones

I've known from the very beginning that I don't like Segways. They are little motorized microcosms of all that's wrong with America. Segways are for self-involved, space-hogging, fat bums. They are the SUVs of the sidewalks. Segways are inappropriate, ineffective, and in-my-way. Which is why today I took particular delight in watching a Segway wreck not 5 feet in front of me. It was a Segway tour group, which if I start thinking about could really send me into a frenzy, so I won't. I'll focus on the crash. It was really more of a bump from behind, but it did send one driver? Segwayer? fat bum? off his ride and onto the ground. I tried not to laugh out loud, but then couldn't help shouting as I rode off, "Segways don't kill people. People kill people."


No one was injured. Sometimes exercise makes me lippy. Segway people might understand that if they tried it. Oooh. Burn.

Roads. Where we're going...

My car is like a time machine. Sit inside and be transported to the land of Rock Radio '84, Summer Radio '97, and the greatest mix tape to ever be jammed down in that little area on the door that should have the maps, yes I do mean- I can streak for miles and miles.

I sit in my car, the car in which I took my driver's test, the car in which I took my prom date, the car which canvassed the Midwest on a paintbrush called I-70, and I travel the highways and byways of now. Only with the tapes, and the growing smells, it starts to feel like another time. A moldier, oldier time. A time when the end of high school was closer than the ten year reunion.

My car is a time machine.

Yesterday, I traveled to the future. Despite my best efforts to cling to the moldy and the oldy, I went to the future. I know this because in the future gas prices are $3.19 per gallon.

The future looks grim.

The punchline is: these are new lights
That's why this joke sucks. The punchline isn't worth crap. I've drooled better punchlines. It's got no zip. It doesn't make any profound social commentary. It doesn't leave anyone slapping a knee saying, "It's funny, because it's true." Mostly they're just saying, "it's true." If any slapping is to be done, it's probably going to be directed at me. Save the knees!

I went into work today in a foul mood. We are talking I burrowed a hole beneath the dumps and when I got there I used a wooden spoon to dig a little further down. I'm pulling up to my cube, sack of dirty clothes and shoes on my back, not even looking around to acknowledge the thirty minutes of lateness trailing behind me. I'm plopping into my seat and firing up the slave-driving screen when I look around and think, "@%$#@$%. Is it just me or do these lights seem really bright?"

I actually felt a little better when I overheard a coworker talking about the eye-saving benefits of our new lights.

How awesome is this commercial?
I'm going outside to run in the rain, right now.

(in my Asics)

Blame it on the sweet tea
It just slipped out. I didn't mean anything by it. I was on the phone; the first work call I've taken in two days. We were talking. She had that syrupy Southern sweetness and I responded with my uncleaned dipstick of a voice. I made it through a sentence or two, but then with a wipe of the dipstick, a warming familiarity entered my tone and out came "ya'll." I couldn't stop it. She didn't notice, but my eyes grew wide. That's what I get for drinking Milo's sweet tea, bless my heart.

Breath mint binge
David checked into the clinic today after an apparent breath mint overdose. A source close to David reports that he had shown restraint in previous breath mint encounters, but lost control in his cubicle today. After finishing an entire package of mints, David was found sobbing next to the trash can. His breath and his tears both smelled minty fresh. David's publicist refused further comment.

Inflation hits. Three Musketeers snicker
A trip to the vending machine today revealed a shocking 15% increase in candy bar and nut prices. Amateur economists theorize that the prices are tied directly to the recent hike in gas prices, while conspiracy theorists cite anti-dime sentiment for the increase. The reason for the rise is unclear, but waist lines and wallets will not go unaffected.

"Salty cashews for $.75" snarled Carl. "Why, I remember when I could get more nuts than I could handle for half that." Patting his tummy, Carl claimed that Easter Monday was as good a day as any to start his new diet.

Others did not take the news with such optimism. Nancy, a self-proclaimed vending machine junkie, took to pounding on the glass and mumbling about her cost of living increase being only 2.7% this year. "They're trying to bleed me dry," she said.

Vending machine spokespeople said, "We will continue to provide coils full of morale-boosting goodness at the lowest possible prices."

Healthy eaters and snack bringers did not appreciate the plight of their starving coworkers. "I just bring some carrot sticks every day to work. I don't understand the fuss," said Mary.

An unidentified source in Mary's department said that no one really likes Mary.

Incomplete reflections on paper Ninja stars
Ninja stars were second grade boys' answer to the multi-fold notes of second grade girls. In theory they were deadly accurate weapons of the dark army. Their destruction potential was as beautiful as their intricate designs. When I made ninja stars, they were slightly pointed pieces of trash with so many colors that it looked like Crayola had a fight and everybody lost. I think that's why I stopped making ninja stars. What were girls writing about in second grade anyway?

Transitions are dead
I have 25 minutes to tell you the things you came here to find out. Well, let me tell you. I'm contemplating a return to tchoukball. It's not that I feel like tchoukball has really been missing in my life, but it seems like a better choice than golf. It's cheaper and more accessible and easier to give up. It's played by fewer people and so it has novelty going for it. Plus, it's less frustrating. And more active. I suppose I could try to find ways to occupy my time that didn't involve sport, but I could also learn to belly dance. Couldn't I?

I played a game of Ultimate the other night. I don't want to talk about the things that hurt. I want to talk about the dirty look I got from one woman. I realize I shouldn't take it personally, but that's not helping. A hammer went up and I was trying to help out on defense, so I made tracks to get to the disc. My chase was fruitless because gravity was bringing the disc down faster than I could move. I realized this at about the time this woman was dropping the disc and so instead of diving for the disc, I tried to dodge her. As I splayed to her left, parts of my body contacted parts of her. I stood up and apologized, but she glared. She glared the "you have no right to run into a me glare." She'd already dropped the disc by the time we bumped. I didn't mean to do it. These things happen. I'm trying to let it go. I'm trying to figure out if I'd get the same glare from a man.

It's not like the first impression I have of my friend LL. A bunch of the dorm kids were playing Ultimate on the big green Astroturf. It was the usual gun and run, 11 v. 11, college-age kindergarteners chasing the flying plastic wherever it might fly kind of game. I was chasing a disc. LL was chasing a disc. It was coming down. She was out of position. I jumped up. She reared both elbows back, thrust her palms forward, and jammed them right into my chest. She pushed me. I was shocked. I was also knocked down. She got a glare from me, believe it. I didn't think much of her then. I don't like cheaters much, but I guess I forgave her because we're friends now. As horrible and obvious as that push was, I think I had to admire the fight in her. She was going to go down swinging. I can't reconcile that at the moment. I can't reconcile it with Spirit of the game either.

Please don't tell me that belly dancing is a sport.

In 45 minutes of play, I fell to the ground at least 3 times. Once I slipped. Once I "dove," although I was basically out of control and couldn't get where I needed to go without flying forward a bit. We've already discussed the splaying. 45 minutes. I wasn't even playing that well. And I was on cloud 9. I need more things in my life that do that. 3 minutes to go. When this comes out right, it's pretty close. Cloud 7, 7.5 at least. It just doesn't come easy. And it's fraught with so much risk of injury to R.

What did emo ever do to you?
Someone in my 'hood is unhappy with emo. I know this because a number of stop signs are now "STOP emo" signs. I didn't realize that emo was such a problem. Sometimes it's kind of depressing, but it seems to be a music genre that deserves to continue as much as any of the alternatives. Not only that, but I'm not sure altering street signs is the most effective method for altering people's opinions. There was a stop sign not too far from here that said, "STOP DRIVING" for a while. I kept watch and it doesn't seem that anybody abandoned cars. I think rather than whipping out the spray can every time this person or persons feels like maybe emo is cutting a little too close to reality, he/she/they should consider turning off the mp3/cd/tape player and just walking away. Unless, maybe they are talking about emo as an attitude rather than just a music genre. In which case, this campaign still makes no sense because the emo attitude really doesn't ooze through the streets of my suburbia.

Oh, and another thing, "Bump emo" makes no sense at all.

Autumn has me thinking
or Man I hope this isn't plagiarism

I've mostly given up bursting into the living room to announce that some aspect of blogging, "BLOWS MY MIND." Generally, I've stopped thinking in those terms. I don't track who is reading except by comment, anecdote, and the conversational misstep where I'm told, "I know. I read that already."

I pretend that people visit here don't/can't/won't pin me down because I'm vague. I don't have a list of links or an about page. They don't really know me. My vagueness, my borderline incoherence has turned a few potential readers off. When I think of my blog as a writing tool, I find that discouraging. Not terribly discouraging, because as a writing tool, it's given me confidence to write in other venues, for nanowrimo, for my family, for me. To sit down and write is no longer such a battle. To sit down and write coherently... another story.

Obviously, my blog is not just a writing tool. When Anne first encouraged me and I responded directly to that encouragement, it became at least in part about the readers. It became about reaching out to people I had lost touch with. I was taking some of my cues from the more experienced bloggers in those circles. These were not just any readers, but the people I knew or wanted to know because they interested me, or at least interested people I knew, or they updated enough to make my blog addiction feel justified. Very quickly this blog became about community. I think it came just in time too, because as everyone "grows up" and gets busier my email traffic has plummeted. So I keep in touch or just meet and hang out with this online presence. Is it a little creepy and voyeuristic? Sometimes, yes.

So as a reader, it's a little creepy and as a writer it's invasive. I'm sharing my thoughts with the general online public. That's a little weird, and not at all like the paranoid person I thought I would be. I mean I blog, but I don't have a SmartTrip card because I don't want "them" to know I'm on the Metro (I don't want to pay the fee either, but these are issues for another post.) How can I worry about Big Brother watching and then serve him breakfast every day?

Creepy, voyeuristic, invasive and Autumn brings to light yet another drawback- privacy. I don't live my life in a vacuum. ('Cause that would suck, of course.) I interact with people. They're part of the story. Recently, my aunt threatened to avoid me when I went to visit my family because she didn't want to end up as blog fodder. That didn't work so well, but what should I do with people? Do I leave them out? Give them aliases? How much is their privacy worth? What if they have a blog? Should I wait until they mention something, before I do? So many questions.

Then. Finally, it boils down to just one question- Is blogging worth it?

So far, the answer is yes. It gets me to write. It gets me to look, listen, feel, think more than I otherwise might. It keeps me in contact with wonderful people and allows me to build and grow relationships with them, even from afar. Heck, it provides an outlet for my incoherence. As long as I can answer yes to that one question, I'm going to keep at it. Hopefully, nobody will get seriously injured in the process.

Guess who has shoestrings
The grocery store!?!

$!%$@!#$%
I shrunk my favorite stocking cap. I was on this cleaning kick and that involved the last of the winter garments in the washer and the dryer. I'm sad. I'm mad. I just put it on, pulled it tight down over my ears and screamed "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" as I looked skyward. Dang it. That hat had years of wear left. Years! It had the pom-pom and the work memories. It was green and purple and fuzzy and warm. I washed it in cold water and dried it on the low setting. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Why?

-Why does UCLA look just like GMU against Florida?

-Why would I "build something together" with Lex Luthor?

-Why would you assume I'd think Hoosiers instead?

-Why does the good hurt in my legs make me so happy?

-And finally, why are Tom Wolfe books so freaking long?

Details
I need some place to store these details in case I need them later.

-A little girl takes apart her toy to figure out why it makes noise. When it's in pieces, it's silent, and she remains baffled.

-A woman paints everything- chairs, vases, cabinets, but is terrified by a blank canvas.

-I went searching for shoestrings. It turned out to be quite a challenge. I found sporting goods stores, children's shoe stores, women's shoe stores, stores with only 4 shoestrings left (all in black), and shoe stores with no shoestrings at all. What? When I finally found a store that I thought would have my strings, the clerk said, "Try a grocery store." What's wrong with this world? I tried one last place where they used to sell my shoes when they were still in style. The guy there said, "Sorry. We only have regular shoestrings." I pointed at the wall filled with shoestrings of all colors and I said, "Polka dot shoestrings are regular?"

He said, "Yea."

I went digging in my personal archives and decided that this one needed to see the light of the Internet. It was written in June of 2002.

Automated Forces conspiring against me

They called my name. I walked across the stage, shook hands with the appropriate officials and accepted my diploma cover. A few weeks later the proof of my 16 completed years of education would come in the mail. My ticket to anywhere had arrived. Where would I go? What would I do? The world was mine for the taking. Only it wasn’t. Options seemed to disappear faster than I could dream them up. Jobs weren’t to be found under the usual rocks and they certainly weren’t falling from the sky.

The sky. Freedom. Maybe I could work for an airline; at least until it rained employment again. I could be a baggage handler. I’m not a large man, but I can handle my baggage. I managed to get an interview with UnNamed Air (to protect the ridiculous). It was automated. A gentle recorded voice instructed me to Press 1 for yes and Press 2 for no. I answered questions abut my education, my past employment, and my skills. The gentle woman quizzed me relentlessly, but I used my keypad like a pro. I think she could detect my confidence. So she pulled out all the stops.

“I will read a statement. Using a scale of 1 to 5 decide how you feel about the statement. Press 1 if you strongly agree and 5 if you strongly disagree.”

I was ready. I even wrote it down, 1-I strongly agree;stronglyronlgy disagree. She wasnÂ’t going to fool me. I was a college graduate after all. The questions were straight-forward. The desirable answers were obvious. “I’ve always liked to kick suitcases,” she’d say. And I’d press my response. I was honest. I could see no sense in lying. I knew this was just a formality. Question after question I strongly agreed or disagreed with my automated interviewer. By now I knew she had to be impressed with my abilities. I’d handled myself so well over the phone. I was certain I would handle baggage even more skillfully.

Then things turned sour. “Thank you,” the gentle recording told me. “You’re not what we’re looking for at this time. You may try again in 6 months. Thanks for your interest in UnNamed Air.” --Click.

What!?!

I just bombed an automated interview? I have a college degree. I’m responsible, ethical, and I can lift up to 75 pounds. You’re kidding me, right?

But no one was there to hear my plea. It was true, my ticket to anywhere couldn’t even get me into the local airport. I called Time and Temperature just to make sure automated systems weren’t out to get me. “88 degrees at 3:45 PM,” the aging gentleman told me. It seems hotter than 88 degrees, doesn’t it?

When anyone says TV Guide scream real loud
PeeWee's Big Adventure was on TV last night. The TV Guide Channel listing described it as, "A childlike man searches for his missing bike." When I saw the description I thought the TV Guide had missed it completely, so I set out to write a better description. Here's what I came up with during the commercial breaks. Maybe TV Guide wasn't so far off...

PeeWee's Big Adventure:
-An epic journey through Texas navigated by a screaming dancing Paul Reubens.
- The perilous road between the 'hoods, adult and child.
-1990's Keraouc on Ritalin searches for bike and innocence.

I've got the madness now
I'd love to tell you that I knew where George Mason University was a month ago, but I can't (Fairfax, VA). That didn't stop me from standing in the airport today, huddled with other George Mason fans, be they recent converts or not, as we watched the final 37 seconds of overtime against the University of Connecticut. The crowd cheered and sighed together as fouls were given, free throws were missed, and the three-pointer that would have ended this cinderella story bounced to the right as the clock ticked 0.0.

On my ride home from the airport I encountered more George Mason faithful. As they poured into the Metro station the green and gold exchanged cheers. They boarded the Metro and one car was rockin' to the chants of "G-M-U- WHAT? G-M-U WHAT?"

I didn't fill out a bracket, but I know whose bandwagon I'm jumping on.

That's right, G-M-U.

The Order of the Chincoteague Ninjas
My mother has joined the Order of the Chincoteague Ninjas. How do I know? She has a Chincoteague Ninja star. Granted, it isn't on the front of the house, which perhaps means she is only a supporter of the Chincoteague Ninjas and not in fact a member. I would ask, but I am fearful of the repercussions.

Long ago, the Chincoteague Ninjas, as you may or may not know, were exiled from Portugal before Portugal was Portugal. They had wasted valuable tin resources forming stars instead of cans for vine-ripened tomatoes. They had angered a factory foreman who also happened to be the king's nephew. Dramatically, the king had pointed to the seas and then asked nicely if the ninjas would leave. He said it with such a royal smile that the factory workers who would become ninjas could not defy him. Plus, they'd never really liked Portugal before it was Portugal. You see, they weren't ninjas at that point. They were men with families who had not yet found their place. They were just factory workers that liked big tin stars.

The next day, the men that had been asked to leave did not leave. Instead they waited for the rain to stop. The day after that though, they loaded their families onto tiny horses and rode those tiny horses across the seas. Those horses were sea horses and had rich breeding history and names like "Salty Pete" and "Waves of Peppermint" to mention only two of the more storied of the sea horses. When the factory workers reached an island, they stopped. They were tired of galloping over the seas and so they decided to settle the island right then and there. There was immediate argument over what to name the island. The citizens of this new place across the seas went back and forth between "Land of tin stars" and "Future site of American Legion Karaoke bars." Those are only rough translations, of course. Eventually a compromise was reached and bits of both names were taken. Chinco, meaning tin stars and Tage meaning bad singing were combined to form bad singing tin stars, this was quickly mispronounced and mangled until it became Chincoteague, or "tin stars all up in your grille."

It was this very attitude contained in the name of a mispronounced island, that led the factory workers to become ninjas, though not immediately. First they had to build ice cream shops and beach trinket businesses. A small group also began to learn the art of taffy-making. It was taffy in fact which led to the factioning of the citizens of Chincoteague island. The purists felt that taffy should not be made at all. They felt it was an affront to the gods, besides being very difficult to remove from between teeth. The purists were persecuted, called foul names, and shipped to a neighboring island dubbed Assateague for reasons which I think are too clear to mention. The purists raised horses and lived peaceably. Other than their feelings on taffy, many feel that these citizens were what historians like to call, "pretty freakin' wise."

The remaining citizens of Chincoteague still had one point of contention and that point was stretched out and refolded like taffy. That point actually was taffy. A large portion of the citizens felt taffy should be made for the gods and served on tin stars. They reasoned that no greater island treat had ever been discovered and only the gods should delight in the taffy. The other faction felt that taffy should be made for profit and they had other uses for their tin stars. Quietly at night, this group began training with the tin stars as weapons. They worked within a code of silence, secrecy, and other s words which can and should be applied to the more traditional ninja. Quickly, this faction had a trained army of candy-striped warriors ready to do battle with their tin stars.

One man, Ben as he was known by those closest to him, had uncovered his unique ability to wield multiple tin stars in battle. The battles against the taffy-loving hinged on Ben's ability to decimate those around him, but the Chincoteague ninjas as they became known, were not cold-blooded killers and the threat of death by the tin star soon became enough for them to overcome the taffy-loving. It was a strangely sweet and bloody time in the island's history.

Still to this day, you will find the mark of order of the Chincoteague Ninjas all around this small area. They were silent and deadly, but they are not to be forgotten, because still to this day, you will find ninja descendants making a fast buck with that beach favorite, taffy.

Undecided Thursday
With agitation Tuesday days behind me, I have moved on to the aforementioned undecided Thursday. Today, not even my eyes can decide what color to be. Mr. Lefty is browner than usual, while Cap'n Right-o has this hazy greenish blue thing going on in the middle and drifting to the right side. Sometimes I think my clothing choices affect my eye color, but I was shirtless while making this observation. So, either this is my natural eye color or else I have mood eyes.

Mood eyes. Coming soon to a leer near you.

A theory gets lost in there
or Life is a spin cycle
I was all set to blame Original Scent Tide for my flip-flopped smile of late. The weather, after all, has been nearly perfect here. The crutches are gathering dust in a closet. The mailman keeps delivering letters. My arch nemesis has returned and now I know whence she came. (And I just used "whence!"- not correctly, I had to remove from, but...) The chorus of "it could be worse" continues to screech in my yet-undestroyed-by-the-pod ears. (I have a whole other unformed theory about "it could be worse" that I'm saving for a day when it is worse.) So, basically I've had nothing to complain about. My smile should have been right-side up and it wasn't. I started to examine the downturn and realized that it pretty much coincided with my purchase of Original Scent Tide. It could be worse, of course, it could be Mountain Fresh. It could be better too. Why, it could be No Scent if the grocery store had not forced its hand on this issue, just like they have on the spicy black bean burgers. Oh if only the INSANE spicy blackbean disease had not felled that mighty bean and caused the shortage of '06.

No Scent Tide, like the burger, isn't being stocked at my friendly neighborhood grocer. Have I ever told you about the spunky Asian woman at my friendly neighborhood grocer? She's about 4 foot 8 inches tall, has clear braces and if she isn't the manager yet, she will be one day soon. She commands the store. I'm awed by people that command things, especially small people. If I ever meet a leprechaun, I'm going to go nuts. Or possibly, I'm going to go nuts and meet a leprechaun. I wonder how the woman feels about No Scent Tide. Maybe she could make a change. In the meantime, I realized that it wasn't a scent that was causing my gloom. Or maybe it was, but thirty minutes of exercise and an Orson Scott Card novel and suddenly I'm bubbling over with enthusiasm. Life is washing machine and sometimes that means agitation.

Housekeeping

Dinner
With the two-pronged fork he skewered a slab of meat that had been marinating overnight. It was already past time for dinner. Uncooked meat wasn't on the menu. With a nod to tomorrow's meal, he placed the roast in the oven for 2 hours just as he heard the ding of the microwave. Flipping the Gardenburger wraps so they'd heat evenly, he checked once more on the pound and a half of pig now warming in the oven.

Conflicts? What conflicts?

Chores
I'm in laundry debt. There's a pile of clothes that I just can't seem to get clean. Every week I scrape together what I need to get by, but the pile only seems to grow. It might seem like laundry interest, but trust me, it's dis-interest.

If I declare laundry bankruptcy, can I start over?

I'm a digital boy living in a digital world
Labels Halt Downloads to Increase CD sales is fascinating. Here we are in the instant-everything age and music labels are trying to figure out whether releasing singles prior to the album release is less profitable. I'll be interested to see where the labels end up after they've had some more time on this one. It seems to me that counting on radio play and marketing to build excitement for an album is risky business. Do kids even listen to the radio these days? And is waiting really going to increase album sales? I know people who are perfectly happy with the "upper right-hand corner" of their Picasso. I have to admit that I'm pretty pleased that I can buy a single song for $0.99 these days. I always found the "single" to be a rip-off and I didn't buy many albums to get just one song. I don't think the timing of the release is going to affect that for me.

Another sad day in baseball
Kirby's gone and it was my sense that he was one of the "good guys." I'm going to cling to that, especially after reading about Barry Bonds in the recent Sports Illustrated. Thinking about baseball almost breaks my heart.

When I was younger, I used to collect baseball cards, read baseball books, and play baseball. My measly batting average was directly comparable to those guys in Royals stadium. Not the measly part necessarily, just the fact that we both had these numbers. Their numbers were printed on the backs of cards and could be compared to the greats of all time. Baseball is as much about what's on the paper and in peoples' memories as it is about what's going on now. It's the coolest statistics class ever. Yes. Cooler than Dr. Larry's. It has such a great and storied history. I don't even like to watch it anymore, but I can still appreciate the history- Dimaggio, Durocher, Gehrig, Ruth, Robinson, Reese, Kofax, Williams, and on and on. Great players that those players I used to watch aspired to be, and sometimes I aspired to be.

What's the point of aspiring to that on performance-enhancing drugs? Or worse for kids now aspiring to the numbers of the performance-enhanced? It's so sad. Sadder than my baseball career, even.

I was on a team called the Angels. It was my third team. My first team, Well's painting only won one game. I remember my coach from that team. He was a portly man. He had a good heart. Questionable taste in uniform colors, but a good heart. I liked baseball that year. My second year of baseball was with a team called Regal Plastics. We wore blue pin stripes. That team never won a game. I think I got to pitch a few times. I continued to hit poorly and play marginal defense. It wasn't a bad year. Then I joined the Angels. The Angels were good. Several of the team members would go on to high school sports stardom. We went something like 12-3 that year. I made a few nice catches in the outfield, but mostly I rode the bench. I ate sunflower seeds and talked with another David. He was a good friend that year, but I realized that baseball wasn't fun from the bench. I quit baseball after that. I figured that was pretty much it for me and sports. I was wrong about that, but baseball has never really gained a toehold again for me. Today doesn't help the poor game.

So glad
I've freed up my hands so that I can jam them in my pockets. So glad that I can once again stand up straight so that I can slouch while I walk. So glad that I can walk so that I can feel bad about not running. So glad that my "appreciate what you've got" lasted all of 5 minutes.

I'm walking again and off the crutch ride. This morning the crutches would have been faster. There are moments where I still find myself ready to crawl into the next room or where I'm leaning heavily to the good side. I know these things take time, but three weeks was time. Shouldn't I be able to put down the crutches and step straight into a pair of running shoes? What's all of this strengthening talk?

I threw a disc today. I will be back. Soon.

It's all about the music

The wedding music
I've been reading entirely too much about weddings, lately. (I'm blaming you, Sweeney. Since I started reading your blog, at least three other blogs I read have gone wedding-y.) How do I know that weddings have entered my consciousness just a wee bit much? Let me tell you. I was listening to Tennessee Waltz on Hem's latest, No Word from Tom, and I thought, "Hmm. Might be a good dance for my daughter and me at her wedding." WHAT!?!
There's no daughter. There's no wedding. There's no!!!! AH!

Here are the lyrics (credit Redd Stewart and Pee Wee King),

I was dancing with my darling to the Tennessee waltz
When an old friend I happened to see
I introduced her to my loved one
And while they were dancing
My friend stole my sweetheart from me

I remember the night and the Tennessee waltz
Now I know just how much I have lost
When I lost my little darling the night they were playing
The beautiful Tennessee waltz

I remember the night and the Tennessee waltz
Now I know just how much I have lost
Yes I lost my little darling the night they were playing
The beautiful Tennessee waltz
The beautiful Tennessee waltz

The crazy guy music
There is something about fingerless gloves that makes me think of crazy homeless people. I don't know what it is. Bikers wear fingerless gloves. Hunters wear fingerless gloves, but when folks aren't biking or hunting I assume crazy.

Now, I've taken to wearing my bike gloves as crutch gloves. They have good palm padding. It just made sense. Still I can't help feeling a little crazy with my gloves and my crutches. Today, I was sitting on the Metro in my fingerless gloves. My crutches were propped up next to me. Just a little crazy maybe, until, I reached into my bag and started fiddling with my new CD. So I added crinkling of cellophane to this whole picture. Fingerless gloves, crutches, fiddling with items in a bag- CRAY-z guy. Crazy bearded guy, no less. Oh my. This inspired me to sing a song as I crutched it home. That's right, crazy guy singing to himself. You've got to love it. Here are parts of my song. We don't make excuses for crazy here.

Fingerless Gloves
Wearing fingerless gloves
searching for bittersweet loves
My palms are covered
My fingers are not
Don't you wonder
What I've got
Fingerless glove
searching for love
My fingers are free
my heart at cost
Fingerless gloves
what have you lost?
My fingers can feel.
the sweat of my brow.
My hands are covered.
My fingers are not.
Don't you wonder
What I've got?

I forgot the rest, but it went on for at least 10 minutes.

Hello Tuesday
I'm pounding cherry limeades one after another. Just throwing them back like every serving doesn't contain 10% real fruit juice. I've got my feet propped up on the coffee table. My slut-red toenails are glistening by the light of the 75 watters. I can almost feel my chest hair growing, but still I'm looking for something. I stop the pounding for a moment to change the channel. A little belch. A little scratch. Ah. There it is. The Gilmore Girls.

You are here
Yes, but where are the nearest restrooms? Am I ok here or would I be better off somewhere else? Is there a pretzel store on this floor?

Don't cry for me NY Times
It's a linkfest and it all ends in NYT.

The much talked about Modern Love led me to this article about working abroad. Very interesting.

Giving it my all
My wastebasket shooting percentage has plummeted in recent weeks. For a while there I was hitting shots from the naugahyde chairs, from the sink. I was automatic. I was hydromatic. I wasn't Greased Lightning, but I could hold my own with an empty bread bag or a wadded up paper towel. Lately though, I've been shooting blanks. It's trashcan airball after trashcan airball. It's like there is a force field surrounding our wastebasket. Nothing goes in. If it wasn't for the tenacious rebounding skills of "Rodman" Reuben our kitchen would be littered with my misses. Luckily, he's been there for the put back.

I'm in a slump, but I'm going to keep shooting. That's what the greats do. I'm always looking for the assist too, but those opportunities can get pretty scarce.

Those Mancusos sure are screamers
I've been hitting the Olympics pretty hard the last couple of nights. I have to try to slurp down a few more Olympic moments to hold me over for another couple of years. I dig the Olympics. I admire the athletes and their sacrifice. I love the competition and the joy that comes from incredible performances, but I've had just about enough of the media. Have we really gained anything from sticking a microphone in someone's face immediately after victory or loss? I got it. When Julie Mancuso was screaming and her family was screaming, I understood that she was overjoyed. When Jeret "Speedy" Petersen didn't quite nail his "hurricane" I understood that he was disappointed, but not beaten. I don't need a reporter to shove a microphone in the competitor's face to get an inane quote like, "it hasn't sunk in yet." Just let the cameraman capture it and then give the athlete a chance for it to sink in. That way later in the studio we can hear insightful comments from the likes of "The Flying Tomato" about how Burton lets him choose the buttons on his clothing line.

All right. Fine. The Olympics reminds me that I'm glad that I'm not famous because then I might have to try to answer ridiculous questions while I'm still out of breath from another stirring curling performance. (I don't get curling and I'm ok with that. I hope curlers don't begrudge me for that.)

My favorite Olympic moment this time around was from Nordic combined. I didn't even see the ski jump portion. I just saw the lead pack of three get eaten up by the favorite who was coming out of seventh when the cross-country skiing portion began. Only the leader refused to get passed, so the favorite and this young kid pulled away and the young kid stayed tough and won the gold. Then in the race for the bronze, they had to go to the photo finish and even then it was hard to determine whose boot crossed the line first. It was awesome. I don't know the people's names involved. I don't even know the countries. I just know that it was special.

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.