If I could just ramble for a moment
DFW, or thereabouts- It's like I'm at summer camp for grown-ups. I'm at a training and we're staying in a compound. I've had cafeteria food for the last three days and it's been fun. One day I had a Frito pie for lunch. I was thinking that a Frito pie might be more manageable than the also-available Super Frito pie. The Frito pie was *newly-added-dictionary-word* ginormous. I can only imagine that the Super would fill a bus with chili and cheese. It was Texas-sized, y'all.

This place is a perfect training facility except for one thing. I'm trapped. Please, don't send help, but there is not a lot to do here at night. I have decided that my best course of entertainment is the ping pong table. Sure, they have a pool, a tennis court, a basketball court, a strange bar-like room, but the ping pong table immediately attracted my attention. Two nights ago I volleyed with with a colleague for around an hour or so. It was quite enjoyable. Last night, I volleyed with the same gentleman and then another man from a different training cut in. He was quite a bit more agressive in his ping pong style. I had been toying with my paddle grip all evening. Growing up, I had played with an upside down paddle- four fingers on one side and a thumb on the other. This was fairly effective for me, but involves moving my fingers whenever I need to hit a backhand. I toyed with a grip that looped my index finger and thumb around the neck and left three fingers that had to be moved to hit a backhand. It was also ok, but I knew something more lurked. Finally, I decided to loop all my fingers around the neck to meet my thumb. This grip immediately yielded a lower, faster serve and some natural forehand spin. At the risk of revealing my weakness, it also rendered my backhand nearly worthless. I began to find ways to cope, but I still need more time to perfect this technique.

This man and I volleyed for a while. As the evening wore on, I decided to test my grip in a game situation. I was immediately trounced to the tune of 21-13. During a second game, I quickly found myself down 4-1. Then I had a realization and some good luck. The good luck came first, as my forehand with top spin began to find the table. The man I was playing had a fairly wicked backhand with top spin, but I returned a few and clawed my way back into the game. Combine that luck with a realization that there are more weapons than one in a game so nobley dubbed ping pong. I started to change the pace of my shots. I stopped serving everying low and fast. I'd lob some in. I'd put some to the left and some to the right. This wasn't an exact science and some of my good luck continued, but I found my opponent unable to rip his backhand with as much confidence as I did this. I pulled away and won 21-12. In our final game, he again pulled ahead early. I talked myself off the ledge, went back to my pace changing strategy, threw in some good luck top spin and found myself on top again 21-14. Oh, the delicious smell of sweat and victory. Also my greatest sports triumph in more than a month...

Apparently delirious from my victory, I somehow set my alarm clock an hour earlier, not the alarm mind you, the actual clock. I thought that I'd lost an hour awfully quickly last night as I was watching TV in my tiny room. Now I find that hour. Too bad I rushed through my bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch (product placement alert!).

Endless Summer

It smells of burnt marshmallow and despair. The perspiration has pooled inside my bike gloves. The pools leak through the fabric and slime my palms. It reeks of day old pit toilet and anger. My weakened lungs wheeze at the effort of pedaling up the last hill on the way home while my sore stomach muscles grind against one another in an unnatural friction. The Guinness on my breath goes unmasked by the moldy water from my bottle. I begin to question the wisdom of the Southwest burger medium well. I'm now riding like I'm mired in the guacamole from dinner. I sweat profusely in a way that has far more to do with genetics than jalapenos. I labor through the thick summer air, cooled slightly by an afternoon thunderstorm. This is my ride home. This is the second best part of my day.

Don't I know you?

Perhaps, nostalgia may have been swirling around the wrinkles of my brain. I'd skipped my high school reunion not a week before. Maybe, my mind had taken to inventorying every face I had ever seen and culling them for those that were still relevant in day-to-day or year-to-year existence. Whatever was going on, I seemed to be nearly recognizing a number of people. There on the Metro, wasn't that the girl from high school pom-pon squad who also taught at the local gymnastics class? No, her face had been thinner, her nose more angled. As my old classmates walked a fine line between remembering and reliving, I stared at Ultimate players who tend to look similar anyway and was sure I'd find one I used to know. I didn't.

A week later, as luggage slowly tumbled from the conveyor belt, I spotted a girl I'd known in middle school. She was taller than I remembered, older too. She found a man and they embraced. I looked away and waited for a suitcase. The man stayed and the woman left. I was tempted to walk up and ask him if the woman he was waiting for might be the girl I once knew. I was dissuaded from this notion as the kinked metal went round and round. I looked back and saw that the woman now waited for the man. She was propped comfortably against the wall, an instrument case at her feet. The girl I had known played an instrument of some sort, but then at that age most of us did. There was no hurry about her. She was waiting patiently. Unable to silence the voice in my head, I turned and walked up to her.

"Are you Lisa?" I asked.
"Yes." she said, quizzically.
"I'm David. I think we went to middle school together."
She looked at me stunned and then said, "We were in Science Olympiad"
I don't know whether it was a statement or a question, but I confirmed that we were. We had a brief conversation, the kind you have after a surprise greeting from an adolescent teammate who now sports a beard, very few mutual acquaintances, and 13 or so years between the last undoubtedly awkward interaction. It was middle school after all.

I fled before her fiance returned and could only cackle with glee at the thought of her telling him that some guy from middle school had just recognized her.

Baseball, Irish torts, scotch, and fireworks

America. America. I like to celebrate with thee.

I was treated to some fine Nationals baseball on my birthday. Reuben even let me wear his glove in case any foul balls managed to reach the middle upper deck. None did, but it was a birthday my grandpa would've been pleased to attend, although he might not have joined in during the wave. The Cubs knocked off the Nats 3-1. We had ample opportunity to shout "HeyBattaBatta," but didn't. I consumed a hot dog, a lemonade, and grew nostalgic for the lightboards that are not yet extinct.

After the game, I was treated to an Irish Chocolate tort and an 18 year old Glenmorangie single malt scotch. I savored the scotch well into the 4th of July and was excited to discover that Glenmorangie has a Missouri connection. It is aged first in casks made from wood from the Ozarks. It appears that Glenmorangie and I have taken our original Missouri connections and aged into tasty inside-tingling savor-able goodness. Or something like that.

Firework viewing in this area is a bit of a challenge. There's something about seeing stuff blow up in the capital that just brings out the crowds. I've been told that the mall used to be a massive fourth of July party, but last time I was there it resembled an outdoor airport security line. Last year, Clare and I watched the fireworks from a Metro station. It put us a ways from the fireworks, but paid dividends in both oddity of the environment, trains occassionaly blocked our view, and the efficiency with which we managed to beat the crowds. Construction this year has obstructed that view further. This year we rode our bikes to a prime viewing spot about 2 miles from the Washington Monument. We gathered with a crowd, but a much more manageable one. The Monument wasn't in a position to add much visual drama to the exploding colors filling the sky, but it served as a nice peripheral reminder of why the sky was exploding. The ride home in the darkness was my personal celebration of independence as we manuevered past lines of traffic and packed Metro stations.

July 5 seems to be just another day, but it's still early, so I'm holding out hope.

It will be soon
To sit and eat peanut butter and jelly and drink the celebrated Oatmeal Stout is the flavor represenation of the clash of my youth and a new age. Finger painting meets art appreciation set to classical music. I've always believed that age is only a number and as I continue to be unable to play Ultimate that number hovers dangerously close to 500. No offense to the hobbits.

Is it prime?

I got passport photos taken last week. Time has certainly passed between passport photos. Nothing makes ten years quite so apparent as comparing 2 x 2 close-ups. My glasses have squared off. My hair has migrated from the top of my head to my chin and jawbone. I look wiser and rougher, but I'm still me.

Upon a time: A short review
Once is a rich man's Music and Lyrics. It's beautiful and moving, charming and genuine. What it lacks in Hollywood production it makes up for with splendid singer-songwriter music that spins a tale of awkwardness, connection, and creativity. I suppose it's a musical, or perhaps a love story. Either way, I dare you to watch it and not want to make music and love of your own.

Word

The word fairy has pointed out that "fervent" may not have been the word to use in yesterday's post. fervent (adj.) having great warmth or intensity of spirit. I might have been able to get away with it once, but twice really elucidated the awkwardness.

Ripe might have been a better word. The banana joke certainly points in that direction. ripe (adj.) advanced to the point of being ready to use.

Words have been tricky for me lately. They aren't coming out so well and I'm second-guessing them when they do. Times like these make me pleased that blogging doesn't put food on the table.

The great thing about Mary

Kella has greatly undertold the ambush of Mary. It grows more fervent with each passing day. By now, it's pretty fervent; if it were a banana it would probably be black. Luckily, its just a story and I'm just its teller.

I needed to visit the icon and ice cream establishment Ted Drewes, famous for concretes and other cold concoctions. Having grown up with just the bulk of Missouri between me and Ted, I was fond of the place and suggested we hit him up for something chill. Kella agreed. Then she hatched her ambush plan.

It didn't start out as an ambush plan, just a friendly visit. It started with a phone call that went unanswered and then another and another. If we had been asking Mary out on a date, our call volume would have been high, but we weren't and it wasn't like she was answering the phone anyway. I should mention at this point that although I was and still am quite fond of Mary, she and I had fallen pretty far out of touch. Far enough that if Kella hadn't been around I wouldn't have even found her in the phone book or known which side of the Mississippi she called home. If Mary and I had been components of a BLT, we probably would have been on separate sandwiches at this point. None of that would stop Kella; she is a determined woman.

We arrived on Mary's street, where brick houses bumped up against their neighbors and sidewalks sliced through front yards. Every house had porch steps. The straight slightly sloping street looked like the suburbs of a childhood someone older than me would remember. We found Mary's home and the ambush unfolded.

More calls went unanswered. So did banging on the door, ringing of the doorbell, and shouts of "MARY!" through the screen. Lights were on, but nobody was home. Dogs didn't bark. Babies didn't cry. Streets were quiet and Ted awaited. I would have given up at this point, if not at points before. I didn't want to wake anybody. I started to doubt my appeal to Mary at 9:30 PM on a school night. I tried to convince Kella of this; but, and you may have heard this, she is a determined woman. She strode confidently to the neighbor's door and rang the bell. A neighbor, a friendly enough Midwestern woman with proper neighborly curiosity answered the door as I stood on the sidewalk between the two houses. Kella introduced herself and explained our plans and our surprise that Mary's family was not to be found. The neighbor took in the story only eyeing the bearded stranger lurking on the sidewalk once. Fortunately for me, beards hide blushing, and darkness hides the rest.

The concerned neighbor and Kella proceeded to go through the same knocking, ringing, shouting ritual that I had already witnessed as I stood on the sidewalk behind them. Had we been scorned lovers of Mary's this was the point where she might have considered a restraining order.

None of this seemed to have an effect. And then when I was really ready to give up, which was three notches above ready to give up, their ritual reached ears and my blush reached pinker. Finally, we entered the house, Mary appeared, eyed me for a moment in then said in a high-pitched greeting straight out of my past, "DAVE." The blush left, Ted was on his way, and I was regaled by the fabulous storytelling styles of Mary.

Score one for determined women. Score one for an ambush.

Like the Kool-Aid Man says

Oh yeah. If you want to see the College Championship Finals , check it out on CSTV: men and women. Try to spot me in the crowd!

Where were you when the Internet overtook TV and where will you be when Ultimate takes over the world?

Book review: Pistol

I don't find books. Books find me.

I just finished a wonderful, painful biography of Pete Maravich. I'd heard of Pistol Pete before, but I had no idea what he meant to the game of basketball or to anyone else. Kriegel did a beautiful job of trying to capture the thrill of watching Pete play (here's a glimpse on YouTube). He also captured a lot of the pain that Pete went through trying to live up to expectations and fight through injuries. He told a complete story from the generation before to the generation after. I didn't quite cry or leap from my seat, but I think I was close on both counts.

Update: This glimpse is better. It really shows what a great scorer and passer he must have been. He's got all the moves that NBA players of today have clearly copied, or by now have copied the players that copied Pistol Pete. He was clearly ahead of his time and probably hungry... Wow.

Now even spam is taunting me

From the inbox between the snapfish solicitations and the promises of better performance (wink, wink) comes the latest jab at my inability to shake an apparent ab strain- "Can you imagine you are healthy?"

Leave me alone, spam. I'll get there.

I made a Steamboat Willie joke today. It wasn't that funny. I don't want to talk about it.

Black pants, black shirt

She melted into her black Passat. Her exposed arm became silver trim. Her blonde hair the translucent passenger window. This singular event in a parking lot caught merely by a passing glance would forever confuse his mind's tenuous hold on women, cars, and transformers.

The straw before the straw

The little things are getting on my nerves lately. I suspect it's related to lack of exercise. Today, a very little thing about sent me over the edge. I was grocery shopping. On my list were the item eggs. Eggs is probably too strong for what I want. I really just want "egg". I think I've used an egg in the last three months. It was time for another. I'm willing to plop down $1.50 for one egg and 5 eggs that will have unrealized potential, which is really doubling their unrealized potential. First they are not baby chickens and then they are not brownies. The eggs that pick me end up seriously down on the actualization scale. If there is an actualization scale.

I looked around at the eggs and saw the various dozen egg holders. Now, back in the day, the last time I bought eggs, I could tear one of those dozen containers to make two six-egg single-guy friendly egg carrying cases with extra ventilation. I ripped and clawed and eventually came up with one this time. It was a lot harder than I remembered. As I was being checked out, the checker paused and looked at the eggs. She was new, so I didn't think much of it until she said, "Did you rip this? Because we don't sell them like that."

I nervously laughed and said, "You should."

She called her manager over and he looked at them too. He wasn't new, but by then I was embarrassed and unable to get my words out. He said, "We don't sell these."

I wanted to eloquently state that I had no $#%@%$# use for 12 eggs, but all he got was my sheepish grin. At about that same moment he opened up my six eggs and noticed one was broken. "One is broken," he told me. "Give it to him for a dollar," he sighed. The checker confirmed that I still wanted the 5 good eggs and 1 broken one.

I should have cried out, "HECK YES! That puts me closer to my actual egg need," but instead there was vigorous head-shaking.

Epilogue: I have emailed my displeasure to Safeway. I am trying to decide whether next time I should buy 12 eggs and then drop 11 of them on the floor, along with a note that says, "bring back the six." It will be in lowercase letters because they are ominous.

It's drive-into-and-then-fly-around-in country, thankyouverymuch
I'm going to start lobbying for a Mideast counterpart to the Midwest. I think Ohio (that's spoken with hand gestures and transformer noises-oo-ee-ee-oo) is unfairly classified as midwestern. It's not even in the central time zone. Ohio (oo-ee-ee-oo) proved to be an excellent driving destination. Just far enough to make the ol' rumpus hurt, but not far enough to send shivers up my spine. There would be no Arby's encounter this time, only a car ride full of arms in the air like we just didn't care or perhaps cared too much and dancing, or the seated marching to The Bravery's circus/Andy Griffith-esque trip theme music. Eventually, we'd end up in Columbus to watch the annual flight of the frisbees. It's a mating ritual. It's a force of nature. (C) It's none of the above. (D) It's all of the above. The College Ultimate Championships is where some very aggressive, physical, beautiful Ultimate gets played. My favorite moment was a successful greatest in a quaterfinal match-up between Stanford and Texas. A big huck to the end zone by Texas was D'ed by Stanford. The Texas guy then jumped out of bounds to grab the D'ed disc and flung it back in for a score. They don't call it the greatest for nothing. I was awed by one Colorado man because he appeared to be doing nothing and then suddenly was doing everything. I think I only saw him try once, every other time it was effortless. He was bored. Discs couldn't move fast enough to elude him and no one could keep up. In the end, he was only one man and he was felled by a bunch of Ho'dags.

Life on the streets
The Spring Onion's on this street are possessive. Not in an Ike and Tina kind of way, but in a purposeful and commanding way, in a way that rhubarb will never know. I sense that these onions have it figured out. They aren't the sticky hot onions of summer. Their insides are not a frozen wasteland of emotionless existence. No, not at all. They are Spring Onion's. They are onions of rebirth, of new life; they are the phoenix of onions, rising from the compost to take over a salad. A really big salad. A sort of mixed greens of the universe.

I'm lying. I don't even know what spring onions look like. I certainly wouldn't know a purposeful one from a slacker onion. Maybe the onions on this street are no more purposeful than you or me... or mostly me.

The blockbuster as metaphor

I have not seen Live Free or Die Hard, but I don't think it was filmed in New Hampshire. That's disappointing. However, from the preview, I was able to discern that it's clearly a movie that goes beyond action flick and straight to social commentary.

As best I could tell, Bruce Willis represents the boomer generation. The villains in this film are representations of government programs like social security or health care. Hopefully, one of them is named Doc. It looks to me that as the action unfolds, the boomers (Willis) have to fight the villains to save their children. Only a screening will let me know whether the boomers and Willis succeed in righting the societal ills or if as the final installment of this franchise, we finally see some hard dying.

It just takes a little

There is a tightness in my stomach. It's not nerves or a premonition or a hernia. What it lacks in narrative qualities it makes up in ongoing pain and annoyance. The abdomen is a vastly underrated piece of the machinery of being mobile. I know it should, but my pain has not stopped me from playing Ultimate, a less-than-stellar brand of the stuff, but Ultimate still. Today the off brand was particularly frustrating, as the pain in my abs was supplemented by the very poor decision to eat pre-game pie.

Take it from me, pre-game pie equals error. Pregame pie will, how do you say, gum the works. It's a recipe for the gastrointestinal fireworks. Not, as Napoleon would claim, flippin' sweet. So between the muscles that surround my stomach and the stuff going on inside I was not exactly fit to rock. I was probably more fit to be a rock.

Dropped passes, poor throws, a handblock by my defender... my play was a reflection of my mid-section. Except for three points where it wasn't. The highlight of those three was when my defender asked, "do you stop running?" At least for a moment, my torso went back to being carried around and around by my legs.

That's better than post-game pie.

I'm trying

In about fifth grade, I tried out for the Bob's IGA baseball team. Bob's IGA was a grocer, now defunct, and strikes me as an excellent little leauge team sponsor. I don't know whether Bob was, I didn't make that team. I never had much of a bat, or much of an arm. My fielding was decent, but not spectacular, and certainly not enough to make up for my difficiencies in two other pretty important baseball skills.

My freshman year of high school, I tried out for the freshman basketball team. Baseball had been out of the picture for a while, and basketball was my new sporting interest. I was a five-foot something scrapper. My shot was ok at best and it was matched by my passing and dribbling abilities. I could run and I could out-rebound a lot of other five-foot somethings. I might have had a chance. Only in my preparation for basketball I had discovered running. Running, it turned out, I could do well. After a single day of gymrat-like drills, I realized something about basketball. It wasn't running. So I scrapped plans to be a high school basketball player.

That was my last tryout for a long time. Running tends to take all-comers. Ultimate in most communities tends to do the same, and if it doesn't, there seems to be a self-sorting process. Not in this town. The Ultimate community in DC is large enough to support at least two men's Open club teams, and might have room for a third. So, after nearly 14 years without a tryout (job interviews don't count), I found myself out on the field trying to prove something to the people doing the picking.

It's been a complicated thing trying out for an Ultimate team. It's complicated by my body and its nonverbal complaining. It's also complicated by the sheer dependence on other people. There are certain skills that can make an Ultimate player shine, but to really have a great day, it takes great teammates. Teammates, who in this case are also trying out. Add to the mix, the wind, the lack of a weekend-ending goal, and this try out somehow seems more involved than my other two. It could be that it's more involved because, I've been playing this sport for 6 years and for once in a tryout my positive attributes seem to outweigh the negative. Maybe there's more at stake too.

The most interesting part of the process for me is trying to find the line between those that are going to get cut and those that aren't. It seems so fine. Talk about complicated, the best players may not get chosen, based on a team concept. Sometimes the best outright don't fit with the other puzzle pieces. In that sense, I'm glad I'm not the one doing the picking. This isn't gym class, but I'm never quite sure what it is. Fun, hopefully.

My future's so bright, I have to wear shades
or at least tinted glasses. Or maybe a hat. With a wide brim. Or a brim.

This game wouldn't be fun if we were perfect

There are moments when discs stick to hands like crazy glue is somehow involved, days where the sun shines brighter than an HDTV, and times when words fall into this box like they were wild horses released from a pen. Then there are moments, days, and times when the very opposite occurs.

Yesterday, in my first game of the day after my first cut, I had a moment when the disc hit my hand and glanced off, floating away in a sea of surprise and disappointment. It was a harbinger. The day was not filled with those moments, but we were never quite able to right the ship. And we sank.

The day was overcast. Rain has threatened us for nearly a week. It hasn't made good on those threats, perhaps realizing it is too drunk to fight, or maybe hoping that the threats will be enough to keep us in line. With the threat still lingering somewhere between cloud and sky..... Soaked. Shirt, shorts, face dripping with water. The weather had risen to the challenge and fulfilled the threats in a storm of nature's tears. With drops of rain rolling down my bike helmet and into my beard, I could not help but sing.

Rain. Rainbows. Lemons. Lemonade.

Times. Times just like these. When the wild horses can't be found and the pen isn't even mightier than the sod. Not that grass can't cut deep. They don't call 'em blades for nothing.

The life of a bean

Tonight I want the life that the L.L. Bean catalog promises me. I want to be in a place with my Adirondack chair in one of its three adjustable positions, perhaps all three as I mirror the sun sinking behind the lake. As darkness drips over the scene, I'd pull on my hunter green anorak, snuggling comfortably up near the light of a rechargeable lantern to finish a chapter in my Tom Robbins book. There'd be no mosquitos in my night. The only pest would be the one inside of me wondering how I'd gone so long without crocs hugging my feet. Yawning, but knowing that the night was too young for sleep, I'd switch on my LED boules balls and play the game that European campers preferred 20 years ago. Only, I'd do it in the dark. With the moonlit-colored jack just centimeters away, I'd emerge victorious, chuckle audibly with my mates, and then retire to my hammock, pulling a fleece blanket tightly around me and nursing my beef jerky. During my slumber I'd dream of another day frolicking near the dock under the warm summer sun. When the only cloud in the sky failed to shade me, I'd pull on my British-khaki-colored trekking hat, adjust the neck strap, and return to the frolick already in progress.

The re-Hash

The world is a smaller kinkier place and it has been since last Thursday. I went on my first Hash run on that day. This group, like others, was said to be "a drinking club with a running problem." Having a bit of a running problem myself, I figured a hash run might be a kick.

I arrived to find a wide variety of people in a wide variety of shapes and colors milling about, some already drinking beer. The pink skirt, the green on green matching shorts and shirt, the billowing black bucket hat stand out in my memory. Some had the look and shape of typical runners, others had the look and shape of typical drinkers. Most were somewhere in between, and a few even had on really tight pants.

At some point during the milling I noticed a chalked "6:54 Hares off" on the sidewalk. The hash had already begun. Four runners, called hares, were out setting the course. They left small piles of orange flour to mark the trail and where the road split the hares left a chalk circle, called a check, to send those of us in the pack to scurry in all directions to search for the right path.

Meanwhile, the millers organized to introduce the vistors, those that had hashed with other clubs, and the virgins, those that had never hashed before. Introducing myself and giving the club-appropriate nod to the recruiter who had brought me to my hash I announced before the crowd, "I'm JustDave and Bound-to-Succeed made me cum." Experienced hashers have descriptive names. These names tend to be on the vulgar side, as does much of the "official" hash conversation. Throughout the night I would meet "Sticky Throt*le", "Cum Dumpl*ng" and "Dildo Bag*ins". There was a pack full of like-named hashers.

As the pack took off after the hares by following the flour and chalk on the streets, I felt the world shrink. We bounded over sidewalk and street, 50 or more people racing around like recess had just begun. Loosely, we had direction and purpose, something like beer, running, and company or maybe it was tracking the hares. The objective was not as clearly defined as the course we were trying to discover.

There was a fascinating "leader and lemming" mentality in action. Some leaders were clearly not trusted by experienced hashers. The checks tended to produce a moment or even a minute of standing around and waiting for the right trail to be discovered. Sounds of "bad trail" or some signal of the right trail could be heard before the stampede would start up again. Personally, I struggled some with cutting corners on the trail when the opportunity presented itself. Was I cheating myself? fellow hashers? the hashing deities? None of the above, it seemed. And the crowd of runners poured on, sometimes bunching together and other times stretching out in a dynamic band not entirely related to speed.

"BEER NEAR" may have been one of the most excited hasher calls of the day. Eventually everyone found the van that carried the beer and settled in for a gossip or a drink or both. A few could be heard re-hashing the current hash. Others were doing a bit of pre-hashing. Next week, apparently is Cinco de moustache; an event I was encouraged to attend based on my current facial hair situation.

After everyone had gathered again, and the hares had set out to set the second half of the trail, the group pounded away from the van in the coming darkness. Within 200 meters, we stumbled upon my first BC- back check. The whole pack then set about retracing our steps. The new trail soon plunged us into the woods where running became more of an exercise in not stumbling or getting poked by branches than a fluid movement with the legs. Eventually we emerged from the woods and continued on to the finish.

The second half of the hash seemed to have fewer checks and the pack began to unspindle into a long line of runners, much to the disappointment of my hash buddy. We bounded through places I'd never have found on my own, and wound through alleys that I didn't even know existed. The world seemed like ours, 50 or so runners out taking over the night. We pressed on until the sounds of "Beer Near" echoed through the air again.

I thought that beer and running wouldn't mix, but beer has never tasted so good. It was a bit like magic Gatorade, only with fewer electrolytes and more hops. I downed some beer as well as some delicious cookies and waited for "the circle."

The circle was a delightful place, filled with singing, revelery, and pornagraphic references. I'd describe it more thoroughly, but the song lyrics escape me, the revelery may have been beer-induced, and the pornagraphic references are probably best left untold.

The cops did stop by, but apparently they understand the world in all of its shrinked kink.

Talking to my TV

Every so often a commercial comes along that makes me say, "Spot on."

Hanes new commercial starring one Jennifer Love Hewitt is that commercial. Admittedly, I don't buy a lot of bras, but the attitude, the casting, the lines seem perfect.

Kids say the darnedest things
or I am bringing sexy back

I was passed by a 5-year old kid and his mom pushing a stroller today on the way home from the grocery store. He said something quietly to her. She turned around and said, "Did you hear what my son said?"

I had not. She asked him to repeat it.

"You look like Justin Timberlake."

In a rare moment I am going to not only admit that I work, but also admit that I care

Today, I learned about pivot tables in Excel. I was aware of the pivot table's existence, having seen a few in the wild, but it had never ocurred to me that I could create one. I didn't think that kind of power was granted to just anyone.

This may open up a whole other dimension to my spreadsheet experience. This must be how movie-goers felt when Smell-o-vision was introduced. This is like a whole new flavor of Excel. Although, I still have to figure out how to really use it. So right now it's still pretty much vanilla Excel with chocolate chip potential.

A greatest negated

I was not having the kind of Ultimate game that I prefer to have yesterday. I'd been more unbalanced than usual. I like to consider myself a pretty steady performer. I'd taken some early shots at the end zone with questionable throws and had some luck. That luck turned sour and I threw away some discs that I'd like to have back. I dropped a disc and I just felt a little out of whack. I had some good moments too, just eluding my defenders for a score and just missing on some defensive efforts. As the game wore on and both teams battled in and out of the lead, I found myself cutting break-side toward the endzone. My teammate, dipped down and threw a backhand around her defender that floated up into the air and toward the front cone and on its way out of bounds. With one of the best players in the local league on my heels, I jumped up after the disc. He bumped me as we went up, but with my body in the way he couldn't get to the disc. I latched on to it with my right hand and then as gravity pulled us down, I flicked my wrist and sent the disc flying over my left shoulder before we landed on the ground in a heap. I rolled over to see my teammate diving into the endzone to catch my desperate throw. A GREATEST! I barely reacted. It seemed right and lucky. Sometimes when a game is moving so quickly and I'm asking my body to be special, I don't get the opportunity to appreciate what is going on like I do when I watch someone else. I really don't know if it was disbelief or something else, but I didn't get to ponder it long. My defender questioned whether I had jumped from in bounds when I made this greatest attempt. Unfortunately, there was no way either of us could see where I had left the ground. Everyone else on the field was fairly far away from the play and no one had a very good perspective. We discussed it briefly and unfortunately decided that the best course of action was the do-over. One of my teammates told me that in my heart I should always remember this greatest, that I was in and it should have counted.

I want to.

I also want to remember the do-over. With the disc back in to the original thrower and a new defender on me, I made another cut for a throw. This was a force-side throw, but it floated as well. I reached for it with my right hand extended and missed. My defender flung his arm windmill-style to swat the disc down, but also came up empty. Spinning around the disc floated down at about shoulder level and I plucked it from the air. I made a couple looks up field and then threw an inside-out flick past my defender to a cutter for the score. For those that believe that the disc never lies, chalk that up as a victory. For those that think that's a lot of hooey, we still got the score.

It's the little moments that make this game so special. The ups and downs of competition, of pushing to the limits, of believing that if I just run hard enough or stretch far enough I will be rewarded-- by a disc that floats to just the right spot or sticks to an outstretched hand. It's impossible. It's beautiful.

My shoes should be on VH1

And not in that washed up, they had a career, but now they don't Behind the Music sort of way. No, sir. My shoes should be on Best Week Ever. Last week at this time, my shoes were hanging out in the Grand Canyon. This Tuesday evening, in all of their red-rock-stained glory they took to the track to help a friend meet a lifelong goal of running a sub-five minute mile. I don't know about my shoes, but I wasn't exactly sure this would be an easy task for anyone involved. We set out to come as close to five minutes as possible. My shoes were in charge of pacing, since they had some experience in this endeavor. The first lap was 76 seconds, one second too slow. It took some convincing, but my shoes and I very carefully resisted the urge to panic about starting off a little slower than expected. My shoes carried us through the second lap at 2 minutes and 31 seconds, exactly on pace for a five minute mile if it hadn't been for that start. Knowing that the third lap can often be tricky, the shoes found some fortitude. The third lap is where a lot of shoes start to ask really poignant questions, most of those questions starting with "What the ???" So the shoes surged to fight off these questions, and together we rolled through the third lap at 3 minutes and 45 seconds, perfectly positioned to run a 5 minute mile. The final lap, with the imaginary bell ringing through my laces brought at the best lap of the day. Cruising in that painful way that only shoes on the track know how to do, my shoes moved to the outside and encouraged my friend's shoes up next to me. Coming out of the last turn our shoes mirrored one another. Pulling and gutting, our shoes charged for the finish line that just wouldn't get there fast enough, finally crossing in 4 minutes and 57 seconds.

Somebody buy those shoes an odor-eater, they're having the best week ever.

Even big beards are tiny in the Grand Canyon

I had the look of a man on a backpacking trip, so long as the look includes cheap white plastic cat's eye sunglasses with fake rhinestones, a thick curly brown beard surrounded by week-old stubble, and a sweat-stained full-brimmed safari hat. I had that look, but the look was secondary to the attitude. The attitude is in the freeze-dried Teriyaki chicken and rice, in four liters of water, in full length toothbrushes and deodorant left behind. The attitude is in one short-sleeve shirt for three days, a sleeping bag that takes up 3/4 of that previously enormous blue backpack. The attitude is in 38 pounds, a walking stick, and the silent pleas to my knees and in the rankle of my ankles.

We'd descend a vertical mile while traversing six. We plunged into the canyon I'd always planned to save for later, but the company proved to be too much to pass up. I was a member of the death group, males in my age group tend to die in the Grand Canyon with greater frequency than others, but fortunately I had my family looking out for me. We made our way down the South Kaibab trail, only once passing through New Zealand, and only ten times passing through the scorch of a desert spring day. At 30 degrees shy of summer temperatures, my parched lips wondered how the summer crowd handled the intensity. At the bottom, just down the creek from Phantom Ranch, there was a campground with real toilets, lots of running water, and picnic tables. Phantom ranch had a small shop and a pay phone. The bottom of the Grand Canyon, where less than 1% of all Canyon visitors go, is really quite cushy. Cushy if you stay on the main trails and don't veer into the 47 degree Colorado river or into the vastness elsewhere. In our bid to reduce cushiness where we'd landed, we slept in our tents next to the creek, and only lit our tiny stoves when we needed to boil our bags of dinner or fire up our oatmeal.

Our trip up proved much easier, as it taxed heart and lungs rather than pounded down on my poor legs. Every bite of food transferred the weight on my back to my stomach- the poetry of "the weight of my decisions" dissipated into the calories for me to burn up, up, and up. We split the trip back to the rim into two sections of 4.5 miles each. The first half took us to the Indian Garden, where there was a campground, cushy, but not like Phantom Ranch. This walk may have been the most pleasent of all of our days, as the morning crowd was thinner. The trails we chose, even with 99% of the visitors hanging out near the rims, were surprisingly crowded. Moments of solitude were best caught between breaths and breaths were best caught in the narrow sections where the sun wasn't shining and the mules had not recently found relief. Or maybe it was the following morning, when the rim was just a few hours away, the bag was just a few pounds lighter, and the trenches carved by those same mules made for steps that resembled starting blocks, allowing hikers to propel up the hill when they found the right rhythmn. With a bounce in my step, and most of 2 liters emptied from the bladder on my back into the bladder in my middle, I began a final surge through the rim crowds. I passed hikers that wouldn't leave the relative comforts of the canyon wall. I passed families with their flip-flop shod children bounding down the trail and I thought about the nearly 15 miles behind me. Was I emerging from the big hole a different person? There was a sense of purpose in my step and a sense of accomplishment. I could feel the admiring stares of the underdressed as I lugged my now lighter backpack up the final yards. Putting the enormous pit behind me, I began focusing on the only pit that would be my reward- the pit toilet. With a final high five from the boy scouts that tormented my elders, I made it to the bathroom and to the top of the canyon. I felt more triumph than I'd anticipated and more pride when my family joined me. There was a twinkle inside matched only by my rhinestones. Immediately, I began to wonder what was next and what look I would need to cultivate to cross that off my list.

Go to bed

-October road has mastered the close-up are they? or aren't they? "falling in love" shot. Tonight's episode featured at least 4 instances. The punky perky pizza delivery girl look pretty much sealed my fate- I will continue to watch this show. It's a little booky, sometimes to the point of forcing literary references, but it feels like the show has its heart in the right place... maybe too much heart.

-Put this on the list of calls that I'd prefer not to receive from the cops, "Sir, we found your pants...and your wallet on campus. Call me back at 555-555-5555."

- I've been thinking about cutting my toothbrush down, but I'm hoping I can handle the weight of a full-length brush.

Advice columnist domino in age-awareness explosion

Dear Amy,
I'm 30-years old, never married....

This was how one young man began his letter to an advice columnist. I may have read the rest of the column, but this is the only line I remember. My brain immediately began racing- how many 30-year old men or nearly 30-year old men did I know that had never been married? Bazillions! was my first reaction. Granted, I live in a transient land where men and women come and go, which was suggested by the word transient, rather than stay and grow roots, but has the world gone mad?

As I arrived home, plopped my keys on the Star Trek-insignia-shaped table, and pilfered my mail, I noticed a "Save The Date" card. This wasn't one of those fancy-schmancy wedding cards. No, no, this was the announcement of an impending high school reunion. In theory, I have always wanted to attend my high school reunion out of "curiosity." In practice, I now realize that attendance is much more daunting than I previously anticipated. Why? myspace.com, that's why. Without the Internet, I may have been able to prod and pluck a few pesky memories from my mind about high school, but with visual aids strange feelings of both inadequacy and superiority have come flooding back. For some strange reason, I am unable to look at my high school classmates and not make some sort of comparison- my god man, you call that a beard? LET ME SHOW YOU A BEARD. Or on the flip side, how is it possible that in ten years you have only gained hotness? Isn't there a law of physics that prevents that sort of continual hotness upswing?*

Beard and hotness issues aside, perhaps the most daunting piece of all is acknowledging that 10 years have passed since I left high school. Somehow, I feel the need to account for those 10 years. I suppose 4 of them can pretty well be summed up in the 300 pages of blog postsings here. It's mundane and vague, but life has those moments. Then I can fire up the juicer and squeeze out a mention of college, ski lift operations, and the never-ending drum that beats a tune on a plastic disc. That covers another 5 years. I must have a missing year, wait, no, most of that was spent with a plastic disc. I guess that covers a big chunk of it. Throw in some travel, a little heartbreak, some really great friends, the on-going but lackadaisical search for meaning in running, novels, and life and we're getting pretty close. Not so bad.

Perhaps though, the tough part isn't acknowledging what has transpired in the last 10 years, but in what hasn't. So tough, that I can't bring myself to do it right now.



*Not all of my comparisons are quite so superficial, but give me a break, all the girls have private profiles and it's easier to compare looks than actually dig up memories and try to compare those with all the valuable information in a myspace quote.

All the best stories go untold

The weekend by the numbers:

4 wins
3 losses
25 hours of driving
1 successful and 1 unsuccessful comeback
11 players
3.5 second winds

A history lesson of the vague

Someone somewhere once said to beware of today. Somebody else somewhere else said that if we don't learn history we are doomed to repeat it.

I think those somebodies might have been on to something.

I'm off to make like Sherman, but with less actual burning.

The world is not black and white.
I know because I am constantly reminded of the gray.

In fifth grade, for somebody, I learned about opportunity cost. I'm quite sure there was a hypothetical example. This example allowed that I could either buy a walkman or a baseball glove, but not both. I had to weigh my options and consider how I was going to spend my money. If I picked the walkman, the baseball glove was the cost. If I picked the glove, no radio. I remember being intrigued by this concept. Learning economics at such an age seemed kind of cool and grown-up. Decision-making, big words, walkmans, and gloves- for someone who had just entered the double digits, this was pretty revolutionary stuff.

I had no idea that opportunity cost would be the governing principle of my existence. If I had, I think I would have been a little more reluctant to choose a hypothetical tape deck with headphones.

Exercise the darkness inside

Sometimes, when it's cold and a bunch of hot bodies gather to sweat and pant and stuff in Gold's Gym, the windows fog up. If the panters, and sweaters, and stuffers create enough of the exercise fog to cover the windows, then when I walk by I see only shadows bouncing up and down to some unheard rhythmn.

It's a little like a glimpse into an alternate universe. An alternate universe where the opaque people only bounce up and down and never seem to get anywhere at all.

They have ponytails in the alternate universe, so it can't be all bad.

I'm so tired of you and the words you keep spewing on the screen that I read like a dog lapping up toilet water. Why do you do this?

Please go outside and play.

I don't care if it's cold.

From high to low

It's curious that highs and lows very rarely average out. Last Saturday, I was on Ultimate Cloud 9. Today, a storm has blown through and the wind carried my Ultimate-related joy away with it. Wind makes Ultimate a curious game; a lot less beautiful and a lot more blooper-ful. Add in my own recent battles with sickness and that's some sense of how far down I've tumbled from 9.

If I may be so bold as to compare Ultimate to knitting, which thanks to the Internets I find myself doing more often than I thought possible, I'm starting to wonder if I have too many projects going at once. I think I'm getting a little tangled up in what other people want and I am struggling to remember what I want. It's easy to pick up the needles, and it seems that the knitting is fairly straight forward once you've got the knack, but the trick I think is to actually choose the right yarn and turn that yarn into something useful or beautiful or at least accomplished. I've been knitting mittens with the same basic yarn for about four years now. Recently I have found myself with a whole lot of new yarn and ideas for all kinds of projects. I can't knit them all even if I knit furiously for the next 6 months, so sometime soon I need to pick a yarn and a project and knit something I can be proud of. It's ok if that's not mittens; it's ok if it is.

I don't know if it matters, but I'm also starting to worry that I'm about to pass my knitting prime.

Variations on not yet dying

Sick leaves. They aren't the ones falling from the tree. No. No. Those are already dead. Poetic as they may be set to music from 1963. Poetic like a plastic bag dancing in the wind or so the Americans would have us believe.

Sick leave. Spending days in and out of sleep, I recall a time when this is what I did. It kind of makes me want to go back to work just so they won't make me go to that place when I had nothing to do with my day except wait for the next one. It also seems like a good opportunity to reflect on the value of health and how easy it is to overlook that on a day-to-day basis. I think I'll drink some orange juice to that. This also provides an opportunity to reflect on all the other important things in my life, but then I realize that I don't feel that great and I'd rather curl up and go back to bed, but not before I make a joke.

Stick leaves. I'll miss that little stick.

Intersection of sickness and speed

In a strange twist of fate, today I found 4 willing partners for a track workout and then I had to bail out when I couldn't overcome the sickness swirling inside of me. Despite wheezing, vomiting, and a lot of complaining, they claim there'll be an encore next week. I plan to be ready for it.

Winter league isn't cold. That's the weather.

Moments before the celebration had been more individualized; like passengers mulling around baggage claim in the pre-bag wait. Rarely do we document those moments that are neither journey nor destination, but this one sticks out in my memory.

The bundled-up young woman who usually arrived at winter league games with only the space between her upper lip and her eyebrows exposed was looking up at me warmly. Her smile was big and bright like the snowflakes that would fall on the following day. "I'm so happy," she told me in words that matched her expression. "I was starting to wonder if I'd ever win the close ones." My smile and my thoughts echoed hers. If facial expressions could hug, I think ours did.

Then answering some unspoken call the team came together to form a circle as we tried to hold onto what we'd just nabbed. Arms draped over shoulders in an unbroken chain. These were the same faces that had endured mini strategy sessions and soothing pep talks. Faces splattered with mud and freeze-dried perspiration looked on in appreciation. Now was the moment to take it in and enjoy the company of teammates. Now was the time to take stock in what it meant to be a team.

Blurring the lines between truth, TV, and the Internets

I have a new favorite reality Internet show mockumentary thingy. It's called Intramural Glory. It's a show about an average basketball team trying to defend their championship title. It has a tendency to go over the top at times, but for anybody competing in sports at less than the highest level it has some truly geniune moments. The constant struggle for "glory" balanced by the struggle to keep things in perspective is a relevant theme for me. Even in some of the silly moments it captures a very real sense of motivation. One man keeps playing because he wants to prove to his professional-athlete sister that he too can have success in sports. Another is just trying to impress his wife.

It's The Office on a basketball court, without the budget or the talent.

The people that change things

I've run into some very interesting people lately. I met a red-headed bundle of energy. I met a couple planning to live off-the-grid. I met a house full of people that truly lived together- sharing food, a car, and ideals. I met a woman that works three jobs while applying to college. Many of these people flit in and out of my thoughts, but it's the person I didn't meet that I can't get out of my head. According to the neighborly scouting reports, this person I didn't meet wakes up early every morning and runs 8 miles. She's not training for anything in particular, she just wakes up and runs. They tell me this with a mixture of awe and confusion.

Every morning, when I don't get up, I think about this woman. I think about the dedication that it takes to get up and do something like this. She gets up everyday and faces the world. She doesn't stumble into it. She takes off, catapults; she puts the best part of her day first. I have to take the first two hours of my day to convince myself that living is still a worthwhile pursuit.

I have to imagine she goes to bed early enough to run the next morning. I spend my evenings desperately searching for one last thing that will give my day some meaning which often results in bed times that stretch ever closer to her runs. I wonder how she manages. I wonder about the recent darkness and the snow. Surely she wakes up some days with dread, but by now this must be routine. I don't know if I can copy her or even tear a little scrap of paper out of her notebook, but I get the feeling that I should.

Phew. I'm not completely dead inside

It snowed. It wasn't New York snow where they have 12 feet; it was more like this sleet that stuck and covered the ground in two inches of grainy icy whiteness. There was a time when any amount of snow or snow-like substance was enough to send me bounding off of chairs and dancing with licorice whips. That time has apparently passed. I could not even muster the energy to go sledding yesterday. I was concerned that this indicated that the darkness inside of me had fully consumed my soul, but today I found out it had not. Then you knew that because I kind of killed the suspense in bold up above, didn't I?

The snow has been covered in a layer of ice. It's preserved snow. It's slippery. Tonight, I found myself skating around on a preserved section. I didn't fall through. I smiled. Maybe even let out a small "woo-hoo." I believe this indicates that the darkness inside of me has not fully consumed my soul.

This is not the polar plunge
or I AM ALIVE

I took the less-famous cousin of the polar plunge a moment ago. It was the "Frickin' Freezin' run to the video store." I made the run in shorts and a t-shirt. My hands and legs are pink. There are sleeting/snow particles clinging to my beard.

I've got to think it had a similar effect. Less fanfare. No pictures. Same joie-de-vivre without the aqua.

I'm cold. I'm allowed to mix languages.

An excuse to recall high school dancing

JA, or Junior Assembly was one of those experiences that sort of happened to me and I continue to thank the graphic designer in charge of my layout. It was a dinner-dance club of some sort. I've never been sure how I got in. I just know that I didn't get in until some else dropped out. I was second tier when it came to whatever criteria was used for judging. I don't remember if I was fazed by this or not. I just remember that during my senior year of high school I was in. So I dressed up and went. At every event, boys and girls had to circle the room like sharks and find a dance partner to write in a slot on a dance card. The proverbial dance card was a reality at JA. Ten horrifying slots and two breaks loomed before us each and every event. Dance cards. They were tiny tests of confidence and fate. They were terrifying and life-altering. Sure they had to be filled and yes this did involve talking or at least gesturing to ten members of the opposite sex, no small feat for most high school boys, but they would then later lead to touching ten members of the opposite sex. This was all the terrifying part.

The life-altering part was dancing to consecutive songs. There was no leaving the dance floor. No "sitting this one out." There was just dancing and partner swapping. It didn't matter if I couldn't find the beat. It didn't matter if I was starting to sweat. A few of my friends were near, happy to laugh, and my partner for the song was not going to suddenly up and leave, because she was in the same boat. The non-stop dancing boat. So we danced. We tried out new moves. And old moves. And strange combinations of the two. We danced slow and fast. But we danced. And danced. We smiled. We laughed.

Somewhere down the dance card, it occurred to me that dancing was fun, even in groups. Perhaps especially in groups. I realized self-conciousness could be washed away in a sea of bouncing bodies. Enthusiasm could replace dancing skill. And so life altered. Dancing was no longer something to tolerate. It was fun. In my kitchen all by myself and in ballrooms, I could dance if I wanted to. If needed, I could leave my friends behind. I knew though, that if I didn't dance, well, I don't think I would have gone to seven weddings last year.

My favorite Super Bowl ad succumbed to mental health problems

The GM robot so concerned about quality that he committed suicide in a dream was poignant, funny, well-done, and apparently offensive.

Boo.

If this commercial trivialized suicide, didn't the Doritos commercial trivialize car crashes, the Emerald Nuts commercial trivialize Robert Goulet, and the Bud ads trivialize everything?

Yes. Commercials are 30-seconds long and have one basic goal- YOU, BUY STUFF. That's TRIVIAL! Get over it.

Save us. Get rich.

It's time to save the world, take home the $25 million dollar booty, and make Gore pleased as punch.

http://www.virginearth.com/

Soap in bars and other items bordering on extinction

I think it's time for me to retire. I've done the whole work force thing pretty much to its logical conclusion. I mean I still have a job which pretty much makes me a success in the eyes of...well...everyone. I know I could go on and get a corner office or an office with a window or a corner office with a window on a much higher floor, but basically I don't see the point. I have reached the pinnacle, the upper eschelon, the climax of my career and I did it in just under four years (if you don't count those first two). Now it's time to graduate to bigger and better things- like whittling.

I might whittle somethin' out of soap, 'cept I'm starting to suspect that bars of soap are nearing extinction. Now, I don't have access to all the showers in the world, or even all the showers on my block, but all the showers I do have access to have nearly phased out the bar of soap in favor of what I suspect is really just repackaged shampoo. This is great news if you hold shampoo stock, but kind of a bummer if you had high hopes for feeling Ivory fresh. I know a guy who knows a guy who sells black market soap, but it's not cheap. And it doesn't come with instructions. This is where I admit the alarming and deeply personal fact that I could really use instructions with my soap. However, I'm not in the mood to alarm anyone, except for the soap people. Other than Dove, I don't even see any soap ads these days. When was the last time I was glad that I used Dial? And when was the last time that my soap sprung leaks and sprayed the Irish countryside with clean? Why, I'm not sure Dove makes bars of soap anymore, their product looks more like milk, a slightly thin vanilla milkshake. Those models aren't real! They bathe in milkshakes! Who does that? Real women don't bathe in milkshakes. I met a real woman once and at best she bathed in water discolored by rusted pipes. Milkshakes. Preposterous!

In conclusion, bars of soap and I are both losing steam. If only one of us will survive, my money is on me, but then my money isn't clean.

Alvin, Sufjan, and Theodore

Monday was the night my morning-wait paid off. Dressed to the seven-point-threes, we joined other freebie-seeking Kennedy Center goers for a little Alvin Ailey dance action.

I don't really understand dance. I have this problem with many of the visual arts. With music, if it gets my toe tapping- it's art. With food, if it sets my tongue wagging- it's art (or probably salty licorice fish). With prose, if it stirs an emotion or captures a moment- it's art. But with the visual stuff, I am often unsure of what exactly I am supposed to see. I mean I get paintings, at least I get the ones that resemble what they portend. Dance though...I had a whole theory going for this evening's dance numbers having to do with nature. There was a sunrise and some growing crops, a jellyfish, and some sunflowers. Then there were men in tuxedos (not the cookies) and my nature theory kind of lost steam.

From there, Sufjan rejects made their way to one of the halls to watch Sufjan live in the next room on TV. This experience threw me for a loop. I've never been a great concert-goer anyway. I find a lot of music seems to lose something when I can't sing along in my own piercing falsetto and/or flail my arms about wildly in what monkeys and I call "dancing." Now multiply that by sitting in front of a big TV and it equals something else. Somehow Sufjan made the experience powerful. I enjoyed watching people react to his music even as it was piped in to us. I searched throughout the show for some sort of comparable experience. The closest I came up with was the event of buying a new record, before downloads and the full musical immersion that life has become; I mean actual records where people got together with their friends and sat down and really listened. It required a certain level of respect and resolve to sit quietly and focus mainly on the music. It ocurred to me that there are so few times I take the time to do that. It was kind of moving. So maybe it was more like being in a giant mini-van rockin' out to Sufjan. A giant mini-van with 60 foot curtains, 5 people I knew and about one hundred I didn't all staring straight ahead at the road as played by Sufjan and members of the National Symphony Orchestra. Or maybe it was most like a movie without a plot and the lights turned up, a theater of reaction, where the visual is secondary, and everybody already has a favorite piece of the story.

Ways to know that life is full

The Safeway signage looks bright and new.

Ways to know it's not as full as you thought

The produce still looks "skeezy".

The problem with choices

There are times when it's easy. Like crunchy vs. creamy. One tastes like peanut butter should and one sticks to the roof of your mouth and causes serious mastication issues.

Then there are times when it's much more difficult. Now that I have two fully functional bikes, I'm not sure what to do. Do I ride the road bike, the sleek narrow-tired wonder that's zipped through roads for me for the last 12 years? Or do I choose the month-new shiny white mountain bike with it's thick tires and bouncy front suspension?

It doesn't matter to anyone else. There are some routes where this choice would be easy, a long flat road surrounded by wheat fields- road bike; a rocky trail with a creek to cross and some mud puddles- mountain bike. I'm neither in the woods nor the wheat fields. I'm looking at a mostly road route with some non-paved trail for two large (3 mile) stretches. I know the road bike can hack it, because my dark blue birthday present from long ago has done it before.

The debate in my head is mostly one of comfort. Since I'll be carrying a backpack on my ride the big gears of my road bike might let me power through the road sections and get me to my destination quicker. Yet, the two non-paved trail sections were a major contributing factor in my desire to have a mountain bike at all. How nice it will feel to bounce through them without feeling as if my bike and my back might simultaneously break.

I'm really just delaying my ride because I'm afraid that I'll freeze.

Update: Choosy moms (and me) choose mountain.

In tune with an appliance

I woke up at 4 AM this morning and ran the dishwasher. I then went back to bed and slept almost to the minute of the last gasp of dishwashing effort. I'm trying to determine what caused this reaction. The dishwasher was full, but it was no fuller than when I went to bed at 11 PM. As far as I can remember, I have never left dreamland to vacuum or dust. I've never cleaned the refrigerator in my sleep. Most days I can barely react to the alarm and yet last night, I needed to wash the dishes. Needed makes it sound more like a compulsion than it really was. I ran the dishwasher. I wasn't compelled any more than I'm compelled at any other time. I just did it. I ran the dishwasher at 4 AM. It really opens up the potential for me to polish off a number of other tasks if I'm prone to taking a few minutes between a bathroom break and returning to sleep.

Making my bed at 3 AM is probably out...

EFFINGHAM!

Prior to January 4, I had never heard of Sufjan Stevens (actual pronunciation unknown). That evening,Kella mentioned that he had written her theme song. I often appreciate Kella's musical tastes, but I wasn't in a hunting mood and so that was the end of Sufjan and me. Except that a week or so later his album Come on Fell the Illinoise! was delivered to me via Clare-mail.

She said, "Here. Listen to this and get excited."
I said, "Ok. Why?"
"Because they're giving away free tickets on Saturday, January 27 and I need you to go pick them up."
"Oh. Ok." I'm enthusiastic like that.

I listened to Mr. Stevens many times. He does whip out the banjo on numerous tracks which I like. Plus his music is layered and kind of beautiful, but I couldn't find anything that truly hooked me. I kept listening and some of the tunes stuck in my brain for a little while, but I wasn't really excited and I kind of forgot about what day I was supposed to go pick up tickets.

Then, Wednesday night I was out with a friend and we were talking about various hobbies. He said he liked music and that he and his roommate were headed out early Saturday morning to get tickets for, and he said this hesitantly, "Sufjan?" I howled, "Stevens!" as if other Sufjans were giving away tickets on that same Saturday. After some discussion I found out that Sufjan's project is to have an album for all of the 50 states. This strikes me as awesome in a number of ways.

1. I thought Come on Feel the Illinoise! was oddly obsessed with all things Illinois. This helps clear that up.
2. I'm impressed by the sheer magnitude of such a creative undertaking.
3. Since it seems he's started with the places he knows, Michigan and Illinois, I imagine he is going to have to travel to really try to capture other states in an album. Combining travel, creativity, and music is just exponentially cooler than each of those things individually.

My friend is headed out to line up and wait for tickets at 5:30 in the morning. He convinces me that I need not wake up so early. He'll call me and let me know of my chances at 7 AM. This sounds like a good plan to me. He calls and says he thinks if I join them, my chances are pretty good. They are about 600th in line and there should be around 2,400 tickets. I eat breakfast and scurry off. I have on about 5 layers of clothing, plus all the paraphernalia I need to play Ultimate in the afternoon. I arrive at about 8 AM to something like this-

(not my photo)

Faithful readers recall that I still have resisted the temptations of the mobile phone. I now have to find my friends in this line that wiggles all around a courtyard. I look for a while and mostly give up. I head for the back of the line. The sky is pale blue and the air is crisp. The sun is shining and I'm surrounded by I'd say at least 1,000 Sufjan fans. The line isn't moving, except to continue to grow longer. The doors don't open for another hour. Friendly conversations abound. Discussions of our chances are the frequent topic along with laments of our lack of commitment to not have joined the campers who set up shop and spent the night. We consider various line-cutting methods and also express our appreciation for the overall neatness of this crowd. We begin to accept our fate as ticketless, but cling to enough hope that we don't leave the line. One of my fellow late-line joiners allows me use of his phone. I call and get no answer. I decide that if I hold up my disc, perhaps my friends will see it and come get me. I hold it up, occasionally waving it around until my arms tire. It's dubbed my bat signal, but it seems to have failed.

Tents are quickly put away and the long line begins to move. One exuberant usher takes the place of metal poles and velvet ropes by excitedly keeping the line tight, trying to wake us up and to keep us moving in the right direction. He does his job well, though the rumblings at the beginning of the line take nearly 10 minutes to reach us in the back. I make another failed phone call and spend much longer with my disc waving in the air. I look like a Disc Hall of Fame tour guide without any tourists. I get quizzical looks and then finally someone in another wiggle of the line asks, "What's with the Frisbee?"
I explain the missing friends and the bat signal and he says, "Oh." I take that to mean that there is some sense in my actions. This provides much less relief than I would have hoped. My phone-loaner decides that he's had enough and wishes us well. He sees no hope here.

The line moves on. We've moved through the first set of wiggles and into the second set. Someone starts handing out blue slips of paper. One of my line buddies, says "It probably says 'There's no chance in hell you'll get tickets.'" We receive our blue slips and realize that the Kennedy Center doesn't use the word hell, but instead uses words like sufficient. As in "a sufficient number of people are ahead of you..." My line buddy loudly announces, "It does say 'there's no chance in hell!'" Someone else exclaims, "It's like a pink slip, in blue." We all stand quietly contemplating. Still, no one moves to leave. I bail before the others around me. I've really lacked commitment in this whole process.

I'm wandering past the corner of the Kennedy Center trying to figure out what I'm going to do with my day, when some guy out of line hollers to those in line, "What time did you get here?" The guy in line answers, "about 5." Grunts from out of the line again reinforce the lack of commitment that I feel. I admire those with such commitment and realize that my friends who arrived at 5:30 are probably not too far behind. I decide I'll wait at the corner where the line snakes into the home stretch and try to find them. I don't wait long and I sidle up and exchange hellos.

As we entered the home stretch, I don't know whether the burning eyes from those behind us were in my imagination or not, but I began to feel warmer and not in a good way. As all these new found friends chatted along, I grew silent as we got ever closer to the doors. If I got tickets and the person behind me did not, I would have to give them away. I wondered if I should even be in the line at all. I started to think that I should leave the line. I wondered how many tickets after mine they would have to give away before I would feel ok about cutting. I tried to convince myself that this moment was one of those advantages that fell under the heading "knowing the right people." Still, I did not feel good. A loud voice rang out possibly shouting "No more tickets." The line rumbled and then rumbled again as "false alarm" was announced. We kept moving and my guilt kept growing. I hadn't said a word or looked at anyone in several minutes. How would I feel if someone had cut this late in the game? Would it have been different if I had found my friends at 8 AM when the line still wasn't moving? Maybe, but I hadn't. Was this how I wanted to live my life? Was this who I wanted to be? The line seemed to be inching along now. I think people could almost taste the tickets, although I'm sure they tasted like any common cardboard. My inner debate raged on and then the real announcement came. "No more tickets. We gave away the last tickets." This was repeated by several ushers with varying degrees of harshness and understanding.

I felt for those around me, but I breathed a sigh of relief. The crowd, quite disappointed, dissapated. At least partly.

Perhaps line forming is addictive, because we went inside and joined a few other Sufjan rejects along with a completely different demographic to wait another hour for Alvin Ailey tickets. This would be our lovely parting gift.

An attempt to improve song lyrics by sheer force of ego

"Fill these spaces up with Daves" - Azure Ray
"The David sleeps alone tonight" -Postal Service
"Everyone knows I'm in
over my Dave
over my Dave" -Fray
"Tonight we're the Dave and the rhythm" -Iron & Wine
"If I fall you're going down with Dave" -Dixie Chicks
"A long time ago, we used to be Dave" -Dandy Warhols
"Slicing up eyeballs, I want you to know" -Pixies (Turns out that one doesn't need me.)
"Steady as Dave Goes"-The Raconteurs
"There Dave goes. There Dave goes again. Racing through my brain" -Sixpence None the Richer
"I'm thinking about my Davebell, when you gonna ring it? When you gonna ring it?" -The White Stripes
"Baby you're all that I want. When you're lying here in my arms. I find it hard to believe. We're on Dave's blog.

We're on Dave's blog! baum baum batam" -DJ Sammy & Yanou featuring Do "...It isn't too hard to see we're on Dave's blog. OHHO!"

CAPITAL LETTERS DO IT BIGGER

IN EVERY BLOGGER'S LIFE THERE COMES A TIME WHEN HE/SHE/IT MUST LOOK INSIDE HIMSELF/HERSELF/ITSELF AND ASK "HAVE I SAID ALL THERE IS TO SAY?" THIS QUESTION IS OFTEN FOLLOWED BY THE DEEPER AND SLIGHTLY MORE INTROSPECTIVE, "CAN THERE REALLY BE LIMITS TO MY VANITY?"

FOR SOME OF US, THESE QUESTIONS GET POSED ON A DAILY BASIS. ME, I RAN OUT OF STUFF TO SAY IN 2004. NOW I JUST REMINISCE ABOUT THOSE DAYS. SOMETIMES I DO IT IN CAPITAL LETTERS, BECAUSE AS WE ALL KNOW CAPITAL LETTERS ARE THE WRITTEN EQUIVALENT OF SHOUTING. AND NOTHING SAYS WORTHWHILE COMMUNICATION LIKE SHOUTING. ASK ANY GOD-FEARING END-OF-THE-WORLD SIDEWALK PROPHESIER, SHOUTING IS THE ONLY WAY TO REACH PEOPLE. SHOUTING AND SANDWICH BOARDS. SINCE THE BEGINNING OF TIME SHOUTING AND SANDWICH BOARDS HAVE CARRIED THE MESSAGES THAT REALLY MATTER, "THE END IS NEAR" "GOD HATES FILL-IN-THE-BLANK" "THE END IS NEAR BECAUSE GOD HATES FILL-IN-THE-BLANK"

MAYBE FILL-IN THE BLANK DOESN'T LIKE GOD THAT MUCH AND FOR THAT MATTER WHEN IS NEAR? NOBODY (20/20 AND MR. STOSSEL I'M LOOKING AT YOUS) EVER LOOKS AT THE PROPAGANDA MACHINE THAT PRODUCES SANDWICH BOARDS. WHEN'S THE LAST TIME WE SAW A GOOD EXPOSE ON A SIDEWALK PROPHET? HAVE THEY MOVED TO THE INTERNET? GIVEN UP ENTIRELY? GONE STRAIGHT TO XM SATELLITE RADIO? IT'S ABOUT TIME WE HEAR ABOUT IT. AND ALSO TIME TO GIVE THE OL' CAPS LOCK KEY A WHACK. That's better.

Shouting, like blogging loses it's appeal if we are allowed to go on too long. At least that's what I HEAR, when I still can.

Confessions of a Wizards fan

I moved here during Jordan's reign. That's Michael Jordan for those under 5 and those with a propensity to ignore everything advertising and basketball related since oh, say 1990. By the time Jordan became a Wizard, I think Jordan was more of a witness-the-flashes-and-remember-the-greatness kind of basketball player. I say "I think" for two reasons. 1. I didn't actually witness the flashes because tickets were sold out and I never developed a love for Jordan, respect eventually, but never love. 2. The team continued to not do much. Even as a casual observer I could see that the Wizards were bottom-dwellers and except for the ignored soccer team the whole professional DC sports world seemed to live in a bit of a losing streak.

Part management, Jordan left on not very good terms and his legacy was a first round draft pick out of high school, a center named Kwame Brown. Perhaps a legacy that Jordan didn't want since Kwame Brown was DC sports. I don't know the man. I'm not a basketball scout, but everything I read painted him as lazy I-made-it-this-far-so-I-must-be-special non-producing DC sports dud. Harsh? Exhibit A: Jaromir Jagr? Right? Exhibit B: Shawn Springs, Redskins fans? Exhibit C: The new face of MLS, Adu? Yes. It's a familiar tune around here.

In 2004, I started following the Wizards just a little bit. A guard named Arenas, a guard named Hughes, and a forward named Jamison were making some noise and drowning out the whiny notes sung by Brown. While putting up gaudy point numbers they were nicknamed "The Big Three" and took the Wizards to the playoffs for the first time since, well, they stopped being Bullets and started being Wizards.

Before the start of last season, the Wizards unloaded Brown and picked up Caron Butler and Chucky Atkins. I was relieved to get rid of Brown and I barely cared for the Wizards. I can't imagine what the real fans felt. Heck, I just wanted local sportswriter Michael Wilbon to have something else to write about. Unfortunately, one third of that big three, Larry Hughes also left the Wizards. Sports fan purgatory, two steps forward and two steps back...

Or was it? Turns out this Caron Butler fellow had a little fire in him. Caron filled Hughes' shoes and a new "Big Three" was born. This trio of Arenas, Butler, and Jamison were the highest scoring trio in the league and the Wizards again made an appearance in the playoffs. I had an early preview of the postseason matchup and I found out in person that this team belonged to Gilbert Arenas. He commanded the floor and his teammates with confidence. I watched as he and the Wizards defeated Lebron James, the so-called heir-apparent to Jordan and one of the most graceful players I have ever seen, and the Cleveland Cavaliers. I was probably already hooked before I spent 50 smackers on a ticket, but after seeing the Wizards beat the Cavs it was really over. The Wizards and Cavaliers met again in the first round of the playoffs. The series went six games, and although defense isn't the Wizards strong suit, they made quite a show of it, especially on LeBron in the early stages.

I also learned a bit about the quirks of one Gilbert Arenas. Turns out the man has a chip on his shoulder. I have a soft spot for a player with a chip, even if he has to manufacture it. He felt he was snubbed in the All-Star voting, so he vowed to pick up his play and I think he did. Same story with Team USA over the summer. It's not just the chip though, I don't really know the stories well, but I get the feeling that Arenas is odd. He sometimes goes by "Agent Zero," I've heard he says "Hibachi" when he shoots (cause his shot is on fire), and he once took a shower at half-time with his uniform still on. Hey. Whatever works.

The Wizards made a few more moves this off-season, but brought back most of the core from last year, including the new big three. This year, I can't stay away. The Wizards have been a little streaky, but they've also been awesome. Gilbert and the big three are putting up monster numbers, Caron has scored in double digits in every game. The whole team is diving after loose balls and knocking down big teams. It's been fun. Arenas has hit some ridiculous shots, even Kobe Bryant said he had "no conscience". Kobe Bryant said that? Not even Carlos Mencia could have come up with that zinger... Agent Zero put up 60 points that night. He's hit several game winners with defenders right in his face. Then, when I was watching the other night with the clock winding down, the Knicks double-teamed Gilbert so he couldn't beat them. Gilbert passed to Jamison, Jamison made a move and passed to Stevenson. Stevenson looked to shoot and then passed to Caron who slammed home the victory.

I don't think I've been more excited about professional sports since George Brett hit .390 (What?! I was two!). This team has got some swagger. They look like they're having fun and like each other. The arena changed names from MCI to Verizon, so maybe it has something to do with cell phone reception, because my peripheral knowledge of the hockey team says they're alive and kicking too and they play in the same joint.

This isn't Washington sports. This is cool.

The little pills...

It is uncanny how much of my pain occurs in the month before my pain reliever expires. Hardly touch the stuff for years and then as that expiration date looms BAM! pain city and I'm the mayor, or at least a non-voting council member.

Hippies, use front entrance

Yesterday, I had my first zipcar experience. Zipcar is a form of car sharing, but it is not like slugging. I wasn't on the side of the road hitching from designated slots, nor did I have any direct contact with other humans as a result of my sharing. No. My arrangements were all made online without talking to a soul. There are rules, but they are less about direct human interaction. It wasn't slugging, and it wasn't hitchhiking.

I did a little hitchhiking a few years ago. It was something that I needed to do. I know the world is a big scary place, but sometimes it's not. I admit I wasn't hitching across the country or even particularly far down the road, but I was on my way and my thumb was my ticket there. That ride wasn't exhilarating. A non-descript station wagon and a couple that seemed nice enough picked me up. They looked like maybe they made their own clothes or sometimes ate cold beans from a tin can. They were nice. We didn't talk much.

It wasn't like that. It was more like being a valet and driving off in a really clean car and returning it before the owners came out of the casino. I never did that, but it was like that. Or like my hitchhiking experience if I replace the couple with nobody and replace the station wagon with a Scion.

Cars are located in designated spots around the city. I made a reservation for one nearby. I decided my adventure would last no more than 2.5 hours, at which time I would return the car to the same spot. The automated service confirmed my intentions and even emailed me a reminder message, so I wouldn't forget to drive.

I didn't forget and found a little silver Scion parked where it claimed to be. I pulled out my card and scanned the windshield. The car unlocked and I climbed in. I fiddled with the XM radio and adjusted the seat. Within minutes, I didn't feel much. I was driving. Driving was a lot like I remembered. I've kept my mind sharp over the last two weeks, but it turns out driving hasn't changed all that much, even in a shared car. Traffic does not disappear. The street lights don't all turn green. I actually found the car sharing to be a less mind-altering experience than using an in-car navigation system. I was still driving, most of the dials were in the same place, and so were the pedals. For the most part there were a few knuckleheads on the road and as always an astounding number of people. Although, there were advertisements all over the car, I saw no indication that anyone cared. As best I could tell, everyone remained as self-absorbed as they had before. Including me.

My trip was not eventful, which is really how it should be. I had moments when I worried that I'd forget what kind of car I was driving, but that's not really a fear relegated to car sharers. I experienced a sadness when my radio stations were not preset and I couldn't even remember what station I used to listen to. The dismount wasn't perfect. There's something very odd about driving half a mile to park the car. The half mile walk back home was not trouble, but it's quite different from just shutting all the car doors or closing up the garage. As I trotted home, pride washed over me, because I knew that at that very moment someone else could be picking up the car to make a trip of their own. Even though I spoke with no one it made me feel a little closer to the city to know that we're driving the same car.

Global warming, Martin Luther King conspire to kill boy

Temperatures bordering on hot combined with three day weekends have led one young man to overdose on "Winter" Ultimate. Weathermen had promised rain and expected respite, but weathermen SUCK! I can't believe that's even a profession. It's got to be the easiest job ever. You don't ever have to be right. Without rain, I had no choice but to go out and enjoy the global warmed winter before hot becomes way too hot. Every time this body thought it was about to stop and rest, maybe even return to the office and sit still, it ended up out and chasing after another disc. Today, it even unsuspectingly walked into sprinting drills.

My body is the only thing ready for this weekend to end.

Cuteness Level = Orange
This has got to be worth 2,000 words. Easy.

Song

Why do you love songs that sound like they should be filled with verbs and gerunds?
Pianos and violins and voices all chiming in a rising, falling din.
Din, din, din, din, din, dinning
Trains coming coming coming coming coming coming coming.
Alarms ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing.
flowing by in an undercurrent of sadness.
ringing ringing ringing coming coming coming ringing floating
drifting drifting drifting drifting drifting so... far... away...
Bum ba bum
Dinning, din din din din dinner
Dining and whining and the slow dance of four left feet.
Twirl slowly, awkwardly, wistfully; adverbs dragging a scratchy voice through singing.
Punctuated by a crescendo of hope or pain. The same? Hope or pain. Hope or pain.
Emotion rising and falling and falling and falling and fading
to silence.

The pink-coated clouds of yet another dawn

He’s at it again. The changing. Every time I turn around something is different. After 4 years of something, I start to expect it’s going to be the same. The same! Unchanging. Consistent. When a man finds a groove... his groove... the groove... certain expectations abound. They abounded here. And now the very branches of my foundation are shaking. The tree is crumbling.
It started in his room. Or maybe that office. It started somewhere and it grew. It grew like the hair on his head, only faster and darker like the hair on his chin.

Next thing I knew change seemed to be the order of the day. Where were the signs I asked him. Where?

Signs? he mouthed.

“SIGNS!” I screamed. “All the important things are on signs,” I said with a red face.

He nodded knowingly and then said, “Signs are out. The Internet is in.”

Falling to the floor and curling up in a fetal position, I spewed air from inside. Deflated and alone, I whispered, “I don’t think I’m ready.”

He patted my head affectionately, stroked his straggly beard and said, “No one ever is.”

My fellow bloggers,
Do you ever fear that if you don't write it down in this little box then it won't have counted? That it hasn't counted yet, until you've recounted it and at least one person has commented on it? Do you fear that? Or worse that if it doesn't end up here, you won't remember it? In seven days it will be gone because it will have left this very screen. In just three days it will take a full scroll to reach it. Why, the big things will have less impact on your existence than the minutiae you were willing to discuss. That's my new fear in this new year. I have inflated the importance of the minutiae to the point that it has started to block out the really important things. Actually, it's to the point where I begin to wonder what the important things are. Is it a story? an experience? a quirky little phrase that makes my English jiggle? I've lost my picture of the really important things. Or are the really important things in the minutiae? Is life an impressionist painting and every dot is important to the big fuzzy whole? I hope I'm not too busy blogging to figure it out. Maybe the key is just remembering to look at the big picture and trying to see a bit in all of those dots.

Right. Or maybe it's just chattering on to anyone willing to listen... making the same dots over and over and over again like any common crazy.

Wheels of fortune

I knew there would be challenges. I just didn't think they would come so quickly.

Way back in November, one Mr. Briguy posted about An Inconvenient Truth. He said "see this movie" and he said it in all caps. I know Briguy, and he doesn't raise his letters unless he really means it. And don't even get me started on the extra-emphasis-inducing punctuation. He ended his post with one of my favorite quotes, "You must be the change you want to see in the world."

I am susceptible to suggestion, I admit it. And so I could have rushed out to rent An Inconvenient Truth, but this was more than a nudge toward Hollywood Video. This was a push down the path of putting down Lucille. She served me well, the old girl. Without the fullness of my convinctions, I could only manage to reveal bits and pieces of my struggle. I knew what was right, but there's so much of America wrapped up in car ownership. It's freedom, it's power, it's status, and in so many places it's a way of life. The only way out. The only way in. The only way to the store and school and anywhere. But this is not one of those places. I have an opportunity to be the change I want to see in the world and I am taking it.

It took most of December to find a satisfactory way to let go of the little red Saturn that took me on dates, took me to the middles of nowheres to play Ultimate, took me back and forth on the highway and brought me here. She wasn't well, but she wasn't dead. Earlier this week, they took Lucille away.

Everyday when I come home and turn the corner to walk down my drive I am a little startled to find her gone. I never drove her to the store, but my walk to the store somehow seems longer.

I was not completely unprepared for her disappearance. I orchestrated it, of course. I also signed up for zipcar almost a month ago. Their quick and easy rentals at locations all around should ease my struggle. As I rang in the new year, I hit the bike shops and soon bought myself a new bike, something that I can bounce off the curbs a little harder and turn to the trails with less fear of a flat tire. Bikes are good.

How good? Today was my first real test. Today I had to take public transportation and the new bike to my Sunday pick-up game. This is one of the two places I drive, now drove, on a regular basis. The Metro was farther away than I anticipated, partly due to a cruel joke- a sprawling parking lot. I made it to the game before it started and quickly forgot how I had arrived. I forgot until the darkness and the rain began to fall together. Wet and cold I made the journey home. What used to take 15 minutes now takes an hour.

I eventually watched An Inconvenient Truth and I'd like to echo Briguy and say, see this movie. There are those that don't agree with the conclusions and those that criticize the simplicity of the science. Maybe Al's wrong and maybe we'll be fine. If we're not, I'll be wondering if I could have done more. I think my grandkids might wonder the same thing.

The room is not enough

As my first act of the 2-Bond year I was allowed to watch Rudy in realer-than-real, widescreen, high-def magical Spectra-Vision. "You're five foot nothin', one hundred and nothin', and you have barely a speck of athletic ability. And you hung in there with the best college football players in the land for two years. And you're gonna walk outta here with a degree from the University of Notre Dame. In this life, you don't have to prove nothin' to nobody but yourself. Am I making myself clear?"

That inspiration, that tenacity is going to carry me through the year, but the transition from six to seven is nothing more than a calendar page flop. Therplunk. New Year. It's not a new piece of clay. It's not a blank canvas. It comes with everything that was there yesterday.

Let's turn to the real live metaphor. I rearranged my room, but I still own everything* that was there before my desk turned to the east. I still have to find somewhere to put all this stuff. I still have to find some way to tame my laundry. These are manageable pieces of the metaphor, but they don't go down with a turn of a desk and they don't go down with the flop of a calendar.


*I have T-shirts older than high school kids and I can't part with them, but things are going to change. Watch carefully. It's glacial.