Taste memory
Before I get started I would just like to thank those in charge for having winter smell like winter, at least for a few days.

I purchased some chocolate chip Pop-tarts today and was reminded of my time as a liftie. To me, chocolate chip Pop-Tarts taste like ski lift shacks. This is not the best flavor, even for a toaster pastry. It's not that I dislike them, it's more like they remind me of overdose. Chocolate chip Pop-tarts were my drug of choice that spring, mostly because the price was right. I'm fairly certain that the year this particular model of tart came out someone with connections (though marginally impressive connections at best) secured a shipment of the tarts for general consumption. Consume, I did. Pop-tarts for elevensies, Pop-tarts for an afternoon snack, a pocketful of Pop-tarts for later. I was menace to my innards. My body has not completely erased that memory, so I will tread carefully with the remaining six in the box.

I suppose that I was trafficking in tastebud reflections today because besides the Pop-tarts that made it into my cart, I also considered a cylinder of the orange-flavored "do-it-yourself" cinnamon rolls. Orange cinnamon rolls taste like heartbreak to me. The pictures in my mind have grown blurry; I can only see snippets of a well-couched (at least in number) living room, a blocked-off fireplace, a tear-obscured face, and a plate of the cinnamon rolls sloppily coated in icing of heart wrenching orange. The cinnamon rolls would go fairly quickly. The heartbreak would linger for years. I put back the rolls and left with orange juice. I like to think it fights disease.

Measurements in pain or GAWRSH I like running
In my life, I would bet I have run races with a distance of 5 kilometers in the neighborhood of 50 times. When I enter a 5k, I cannot say how much this experience helps me, but after my first ever 5 mile race yesterday, I'm going to guess on the side of immensely. From the get-go, my mind was very focused on the nearly 2 mile difference between a 5k and a 5 miler. I tried to slow my pace so that I could better sustain my effort. My intent for every mile was 6 minutes, but the first came out more like 5:53. I was a little jumpy and 20 or so people were off to the races and I couldn't completely let them go. It isn't my nature. Plus, there was a woman up ahead and with a nod to feminists and the crop of female runners who could crush me, I still didn't really want to get beat by a woman.

With an internal monologue in full-on nag mode and my body already starting to complain, I crossed two miles in 12:10. The third mile clicked off in 6:01 and I was at 18:11. A 5k would've been over by now, but I was again reminded of my decision to join the country in eschewing the metric system. There was a group 30 or so seconds in front of me and a few stragglers off of that group. I set my sights to pick off the stragglers in the next couple of miles and see if I could pull my time down a bit. I held what I still believe to be an appropriate level of optimism mixed in with the realism coursing through my veins.

I picked off one pretty quickly and moved on to the next. Heading up a hill, I pulled even with another and tried to coax him to go after the last straggler with me. He wished me well, but would have none of it. This point was somewhere near mile 4 and the hills were picking up or I was being crushed down; either way I was really looking for the little orange sign with the 4 on it so I could gear up for the last mile. Mile 4 came in 24:23. I was tiring and the hills kept coming. I couldn't seem to close on the last straggler and then to make matters worse, a man I'd passed some time ago made his way into my peripheral vision. I wasn't entirely unhappy to see him, I had hopes that he could keep me going strong(ish). We descended a hill and were heading past a water stop. I took a rare grab for some aqua, not something I would do in a 5k, and had a gulp. This turned out to be less refreshing than I had hoped. Or perhaps it was the hill looming in front of me.

I climbed the hill and desperately tried to keep my new mate behind me. We neared the top of the hill and I could see that our left turn would take us up another hill. In this moment, the hills, the miles, the glass of water, and weariness proved too much for me and I could only watch the man pass me by. I was broken. He pulled away. As we got halfway up the next hill I had one last spurt to dig out, but it amounted to only a few pathetic surging steps of a weary man unaccustomed to such a distance. I finished in 30:45, good enough for 15th place and 9 seconds a mile off of my goal. The good news is I have a new personal record (PR) in the 5 mile distance. Most of me would like to say that I'm headed back to the 5k where I feel at home, but it turns out that next up on the calendar is my first shot to go after a new PR. The records, they are made for the breaking.

Relax, boy. It's a movie.
Juno is not a documentary about the Internet service provider. I found this and its mildly glossy treatment of teenage pregnancy to be shocking, or at the very least a bit discomfiting. However, by viewing this movie twice I am now able to say that I have taken my seat on the Juno bandwagon. Knowing that there would be some discomfiting moments, or perhaps more accurately just accepting that this was a movie and its depth on any subject was probably not going to send teenagers pouring into the streets to have babies just the way The Program didn't have teenagers pouring into the streets to get hit by cars... wait. Movies don't kill people. People kill people. New Academy slogan? Probably not. Regardless, my second viewing enabled me to really enjoy the textures, the soundtrack, and the love story in this film. I missed a lot of those in the first viewing by being disturbed by the premise and some of the sarcasm. The humor and the poignant seemingly throw-away lines were there in both viewings. And the details, save for some curious running-related decisions, were there and to my liking. Juno has the room of a 16-year old. It's crowded and messy and not Hollywood clean. She has junk and magazine cutouts and even a spotty hamburger phone for crying out loud. Although, have I lived in the east too long or don't all the kids have cell phones these days? It's nice to think that midwestern values like marginally workable hamburger phones might still be out there.

I liked this movie and I recommend it to the holdouts, but something about it prevents me from gushing. Something is keeping me from saying "Juno is totally boss." It's not just my judicious use of slang, either. "Honest to blog."

"It's your cousin, Marvin. Marvin BERRY!"
Lost in the shuffle of thousands of songs at my click-wheel is the inertia of choosing a 'till-now-forgotten CD and then allowing it to play through 22 tracks while weaving an audio portrait of now and then.

It's possible that in 10 years I will remember that I downloaded Kelly Clarkson's hit after returning from Wildwood, New Jersey in a car full of a smelly Steve, Karpo, and Cat who discovered that we took great satisfaction in joining Kelly in a rousing top-of-our lungs rendition of the CD-repeated "SINCE YOU BEEN GONE." I might remember that I found Rhett Miller wondering if he was going to be lonely for the rest of his life on pandora.com and then downloaded him when I started to identify. He joined a mix of painful yet hopeful musicians trying to cheer me. I already can't remember why I downloaded Bowling For Soup, but I suspect it had to do with either "1985", "Almost", or I really liked the name of the band. Maybe some things are more memorable than others.

Today, about 15 years from the original purchase, I found Chuck Berry's Greatest Hits. Poor Chuck hadn't seen the inside of a CD player in quite a few years. He came from a time when I could fit all of my CDs in a little grey 12-CD carrying case. He was probably part of my neighbor's BMG purchase, along with Bob Marley, and some early Green Day that I would inherit in those years between popularity stints. I'm sure I ended up with Chuck due to some combination of Oldies 95, the local oldies FM station, Back to The Future (making another appearance this month), and the low low price of $7.95. I was a teenage bargain hunter.

As I listened through the CD, I was struck by how similar the songs sounded to each other. I wondered if maybe that's why it hadn't made the airwaves in a while. There was a song about Delilah, and I wondered what it was about that name that seems to inspire. I searched for "Johnny B. Goode" and found "Maybellene". Why can't she be true? I remembered listening to "Sweet Little Sixteen" and thinking about the girls in my class and listening to "No Particular Place To Go" and wondering how many songs have been recorded about parking. Today, I listened at work and tried to convince myself that all of this wasn't "Too Much Monkey Business"; at least not for this "Brown Eyed Handsome Man".

"...You know that new sound you've been looking for? Well, listen to this..."

"We don't speak very good English, so we'll just sing."
New rule for 2008- I will attend any event that includes a Japanese tribute band.

I didn't even know I wanted to see The Silver Beats, a Japanese Beatles tribute band made famous by those English guys that sent your mom screaming to the record store, but there I was in a sold out club pressed up against friends and strangers anticipating the coming Asian invasion. I couldn't help a little squeal of delight when four mop-topped black-suited Japanese gentlemen launched into "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band."

Earlier in the evening, my friends and I had played a little game of "guess The Beatles' songs" we'd hear. We got a few of them, but were continually surprised and thrilled with the songs we'd missed. I'm not a Beatles afficianado by any means, so for my purposes the Beats were a thrill. I heard a few songs I'd never heard before, but mostly the crowd and I got to bop and sing along to familiar and lovable songs. At first, everywhere I looked people were smiling with that "Am I on Candid Camera?" grin, but the more we listened and twitched in time to the music, the more genuine the smiles became. (Other theories include: more beer.)

For the encore, The Silver Beats wrapped up with "Hey, Jude." Saying goodbye to new friends that hadn't even spoken, we were happy to sway and bray together in one of those pleasant moments of community.

Then we all pushed toward the exit and tried not to trample anyone; unless he was in the way.

Opening Act
Before seeing the aforementioned Japanese Fab Four, we heard a band with a name I never quite heard. It may have been something like 300 substitutes. I have theorized that they were all substitute teachers during the day. These guys were decked out in ties and untucked dress shirts. They reminded me a bit of Jim Halpert from The Office, even their pint-sized lead singer who jumped around with manic opening band energy, had that vibe. Their songs had Halpert-esque personality too. It was that mixture of confidence and down on their luck charm. All of their songs seemed to be about break-ups, pretty girls that wouldn't pay attention to them, and love gone awry. Basically, it was up my alley, and yet still pretty unremarkable. They were fun, but forgettable. At least they were until their final song. After all of the early angst, they finally managed to package it all together in a fun and honest tune with a chorus of, "Everybody (EVERYBODY!) has somebody to F$&# tonight, but me."

Maybe you had to hear it...

tales of a burrito genie

I wanted high-class urban Tex-Mex. I wanted opaque blue glass and top shelf tequila under low lights and guacamole made at my table. I didn't even need the tequila.

I was overruled.

I ended up in line for Chipotle take-out. Chipotle has its charms, including that Life is Burrito-ful jingle, but I wasn't in the mood for the entire contents of my meal to be wrapped and bagged. A little on the dejected side, I carried my burrito-ful brown paper bag on the Metro and headed home. The crumpled bag hung at my side helping me to balance as my other hand held the railing above. I adopted the classic vacant stare, vaguely aware of my surroundings, but mostly focusing on the disappointing meal I'd have at home. As I stood there, a few stops from mine, I half-heard a young man behind me recount his beer guzzling prowess. The beer had evidently left a unquenched hunger inside him. I knew this because he announced to his friends, "I wish I had a burrito." I was facing one way. He was facing the other.

It took me a moment, but slowly, like a tourist on the escalator, I realized what this young man had uttered. I glanced down at the disappointment crumpled in my hand, raised my arm, and shoved the package over the speaker's shoulder. He looked at me oddly. I smiled encouragingly. I can't know what he was thinking for certain, but he soon came around.

"Are you serious?" he asked.
"I don't want it." I said.
He accepted and a few minutes later hunger and a complete disregard for the law overtook him. I hated to see the law broken, but a hungry young man chowing down on a free burrito was a pleasing sight.

I smiled as my thoughts wandered to the dinner that now awaited me. With only a stop to go, I considered that the smell had influenced him, or by some slim chance he'd seen the bag in my hand, but still what kind of person asks for a burrito on a train with any expectation that they'll receive one? Pleased with my act, I prepared to leave when I heard, "I wish I had a million dollars."

That's Cap'n style to you
I got a new blue J. Crew vest for Christmas. I think it's awesome. It reminds me a little of the vest Marty McFly was wearing in Back to the Future. Today I wore the vest to work and nothing else. Well, at least no coat, because that's the kind of weather we're having here. I decided that I really didn't want to take the vest off, because, well Marty wore one in 1955 and 1985. If it's good enough for Marty as he traveled through time, it's good enough for me trying to get through a Monday.

I find my vest to be extremely hip. My coworkers didn't seem to agree. Finally when asked for the third time if I was cold, I replied, "No. I'm stylish."

I don't know a lot about style, but I think that it's one of those things that if you have to declare it, it might not be true.

Great Scott.

Nike: The Power of Advertising
I've recently watched a few "conversionals" regarding the Nike+. Conversionals appear to be conversation/testimonial/commercial/Internet thingys. Nike+ appears to be an iPod, a shoe, and some tracking information. At one point I was thinking that Nike+ might be a cool thing to have. It might be a nice motivator. It could help me keep track of how far or fast I was running. After watching a few conversionals, I've decided that I'm happy that Nike+ is creating new runners because I think running is a good thing, but I don't identify with these people. Nike advertising has generally been about striving toward something; "Just Do It" was about not making excuses and going after something. It left room for interpretation about what "It" was- Olympic gold or running around the block. These Nike+ conversionals seem to be about the way that Nike+ has turned the unmotivated into motivated. It's the ugly side of Just Do It. It says to me that Nike+ is the only thing keeping these people off the couch. I don't want people to know that a shoe and a pod are the only reasons I can think to run. I want them to think a fire burns inside of me. Forget them, I want to think a fire burns inside of me. I want to Just Do It, I don't want to just barely do it if the right music is playing.

This is branding! And for the time being, it has alienated this potential customer.

(Update: Ok. But the Need Motivation? commercial is pretty cool. Maybe I shouldn't make my decisions based on advertising.)

An incomplete caboodle

- I have work guilt. Today, I had to ask for help to order some cardboard boxes because that process has changed significantly in the last few years. When offered the opportunity to learn how to order the boxes, I rather aggressively declined. My response was something like, "I don't want to learn anything new because then you'll just make me do it." This is either standing up for myself or being a jerk. I haven't decided which, but I think I'm leaning toward the latter.

-The thing I like about my Raspberry Zing tea is that it leaves a little red mark at the bottom of the cup. I like to pretend these are lip prints left by my lover. I'm fairly certain this makes my lover a shriveled bag of tea.

-I went to a real gym today and discovered some things:
1. There's a certain charm to music videos that I had forgotten.
2. Gym owners can add windows, bright lights, and put the gym on the second floor up above the street, but there's a point in the workout when I still feel trapped in a dungeon.
3. I run faster when the little screen attached to my treadmill has women wrestling. I slowed down when they tagged their male partners. I had no idea WWE had coed wrestling or that wrestling was good treadmill viewing material.

Enjoying the movie Enchanted in a few easy steps

-Accept Disney propaganda. Only Disney could sell its soul, girl power, hyper-feminine dresses for little girls, and a hybrid of romance and reality without selling any of it at all.

-Don't watch Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story first. Dewey trained me to laugh at everything by telling me exactly what the jokes were as they were happening. Enchanted didn't do that. It left me wondering whether it was making fun of itself, Snow White, or me. I'm not sure even the writers were certain.

-Go with a laugher. This movie is much better with someone that giggles, chuckles, and even cheers in the event that a big song and dance number takes place.

Version 2008 is released

Last year had some nice moments and worthy achievements. I think I learned some important lessons, but I am quite pleased to toss the old calendars and break out some new ones.

Hello, January 1.

About a month ago, I entered a 5k race just to see how things would feel. I was anticipating the slowest race of my life, but I surprised myself a bit with a decent showing. At one point about halfway through the race I was running with the leaders and feeling pretty good about myself. There was a little course wiggle and I decided to go ahead and exert my dominance. This surge awakened the others around me and from that moment on I watched as the lead pack left me in the dust and my mid-race confidence turned into the aches and pains of six not-so-good training months. I managed to finish fourth with a time of 17:59. I was not displeased, but had to smirk at my foolish mid-race move.

Today, the first day of a new year, I raced again. It was a perfect day for a race. By start time I had shed my stocking cap and my running pants, opting only for shorts and a long underwear top older than some of my competitors. Just before the words "Go," the sun broke through the clouds and I could feel the heat absorbed in my shirt.

I soon found myself moving along with the top 10 or so runners. I pulled into about fifth place as we descended a hill. Up the hill I locked on to the fourth place runner and we began a very pleasant duel. He'd pass me, I'd pass him, we'd run side by side and slowly we creeped up on the second and third place runners. We crossed the mile in about 5:30. Then we overtook one of those ahead of us, and he fell back immediately, but the other was determined to fend us off. I could feel the effort he was exerting to stay in front of us. There's a beautiful mental dance that goes on within a race and this gentleman in second desperately wanted us to settle into his pace. I felt good, but recalling my experience from a month ago, I decided to give in a little and we became three. Our new partner stayed in it for a bit, but just could not quite find his comfort zone and he started to fall back as we made the second loop on the course. My other competitor stayed strong. I held off a little as we were going down the hill again and I tried not to push too hard back up, knowing that I still had a little over a mile to go. On the way up, I started to feel a little distance between us. We'd been in sight of the leader most of this time. He was way out there, but didn't seem out of reach. I felt good that I was even looking in his direction. I also was starting to tire.

As an aside, this time is the time when I both understand the recreational racers adoration of the iPod to block out the pain and the time when I wonder why anyone would want to be with any sound but his or her own thoughts. The internal conversation that goes on when the fun wears off is painfully glorious. I remember a few of my thoughts as I crested the hill and rounded a turn. The first was a gut check, and I used that very phrase. "It's gut check time." My guts were relatively intact. I can't tell for sure if I was making up any time on the leader, but I felt like I was gaining inches on my competitor behind me. He was now "out of touch," that comfortable place where a single move could vault him past me. His efforts would now have to be sustained to defeat me. I tried not to focus on him because I felt that if I could continue with strength I had him beat. So I focused forward, but my lungs, my legs, and my heart were aching. The finish line was coming. My chances to win were growing miniscule. I probably could have cruised in at this point, but 2007 (and races far older than that) would not allow it. "Don't let this race close out like your year. Do NOT sputter to a close. Finish with what you've got."

I didn't tap into all my resources, but I picked up the pace and finished strong in 17:25. We're off to a good start. Happy New Year!

Movies of 2007

My favorites were 8, 11, 19, 32, and 44.

1. Notes on a Scandal
2. Idiocracy
3. Music and Lyrics
4. The Namesake
5. Freedom Writers
6. Trust the Man
7. The Baxter
8. Hot Fuzz
9. Gridiron Gang
10. Half Nelson
11. Volver
12. The Weatherman
13. Knocked Up
14. John Tucker Must Die
15. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
16. Blood Diamond
17. Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End
18. Gray Matter
19. Once
20. Transformers
21. One Last Thing
22. The History Boys
23. You, Me, and Dupree
24. Invincible
25. Rattatouille
26. Breaking Away
27. Bourne Ultimatum
28. The Darwin Awards
29. Benchwarmers
30. Superbad
31. Blades of Glory
(And then Netflix came into my life)
32. The Good, The Bad, The Ugly
33. Enron
34. Pan's Labyrinth
35. Trekkies
36. Arsenic and Old Lace
37. Children of Heaven
38. How to Marry a Millionaire
39. Hairspray
40. Me and You and Everyone we know
41. Hot Rod
42. I am Legend
43. Imagine Me and You
44. Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story
45. Letters from Iwo Jima

Books read in 2007

My favorites were 3, 13, and 19.

1. Lone Surfer of Montana Kansas
2. A Prayer for Owen Meany (started in 2006)
3. The Perfect Mile
4. Deception Point
5. Stumbling on Happiness
6. Digital Fortress
7. Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common reader
8. The Namesake
9. The Audacity of Hope
10. Over the Edge: Death in the Grand Canyon
11. Everything Bad for you is Good
12. Reread: God of Small Things
13. Pistol: The Story of Pete Maravich
14. It's Not All About the Bike
15. Skinny Legs and All
16. Vagabonding
17. White Teeth
18. Harry Potter
19. Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell
20. A Thousand Splendid Suns
21. Sacred Hoops
22. Rant
23. I hope they serve beer in hell
24. When Nothing Else Matters: Michael Jordan's Last Comeback
25. Reread: The Time Traveler's Wife
26. Higher: A Historic Race to the Sky and the Making of a City
27. Run
28. You Suck: A Love Story

The Final Countdown (actually, probably the first of several)

3. Earlier this week, I ran out of useable food except for oatmeal and grits, which are pretty much fraternal twins. I could have gone to a grocery store, there are two within spitting distance, or at least walking distance, but the thought of having to pick out food was exhausting to me. Instead of visiting the store, I went on eating oatmeal and grits for three consecutive meals and at least one snack. In retrospect, this was kind of gross and probably why I didn't feel all that great. If Wilford Brimley had really been here I think he would have told me to snap out of it and pull myself together, but instead that Quaker guy and his fraternal twin smaller Quaker guy sat silently and watched me suffer.

2. It feels like finals week, but I don't think I've studied for the test. I am rather fearful that I'm about to fail the class. The thing I always liked about finals week was the quiet. It was like brain snow. Everyone became muted, beautiful (or at least natural, because what is more natural than unkempt bleary-eyed students?), and focused. The other great thing about finals week was the relief. I'm worried that without the test, I'm going to miss out on the relief.

1. The last few nights at about this time I've been watching reruns of The Office and I get this hunger. Last night it was for meatless ribs and tonight its for chocolate. The bad thing is that I don't think I'm actually hungry. Maybe I just miss the grits.

I have a new hobby!

I was going to call it baby-napping, but I'm afraid that has connotations too close to kidnapping and that's not my new hobby at all. No, this hobby involves me wandering around the house bouncing my little niece until her tiny eyes start to close as sleep overtakes her. From there I try to smoothly take a seated or fully reclined position in which I can fall into a similar sleep-like state. Together, we nap until one of us feels like crying or twitching. I'm not sure how she feels about it, but I kind of think it's one of the new great joys in life.

Biopicady?

Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story is a gem. At the very least its a small but valuable stone. It's better than the date bread I made myself for breakfast today. I know I have the Internet at my fingertips, but instead of doing any research I'm going to say that this film is the best in its genre- The Biopic Parody. It skewers Cash, The Beatles, The Beach Boys and others.

Jenna Fischer is a delightful June Carter/Darlene to the John C. Reilly as Johnny/Dewey character and their love story is comically beautiful. The songs are a hoot throughout the film. This is my favorite Judd Apatow film. How much expectations and the newly minted genre have to do with that is something to examine another night.

Socks off

I once smashed a door. My parents had a lamp that I knocked over and narrowly missed breaking. I've had some Nyquil before the previous dose ran its full course.

Obviously, I'm trying to say that the Rock 'n' Roll lifestyle is a familiar one. That's why when I had the opportunity to join The Babe Lincolns playing the video game "Rock Band" I jumped at the chance. Combining the finest elements of the early '80s battery-powered "Simon says" game with modern rock technology and off-key singing is a prescription for four-player bliss. I've heard that someone in the know has said the only similarity between "Rock Band" and the real thing is the bickering about who screwed up what. The Babe Lincolns were a genial band and struggled mightily together (some of us struggling more than others).

What I liked about "Rock Band" beyond its four player aspect, its allowance of varying skill level, and its rockin' songs, was the vibe. Even in fake rock, where the "playing" has little to nothing to do with musical ability, there's an energy in trying to keep up and accomplish something together that I haven't found in many other video games. It would be fair to say that I haven't looked very hard, but I think some of that energy may have come from trying to rock.

For all of our success, we kept pretty level heads. There was only one beer incident; the crowd wasn't too rowdy; best of all we stopped mid-set for some pumpkin pie.

Dear Blog,

I've had some time to think since we last talked. I said some things and you said no things. Things just got left in a place that I'm not very happy about.

You've been there for me for five years and that has really meant a lot to me. Due to the length of our relationship, I think I started to develop certain expectations. These expectations were as much about me as they were about you. It really isn't fair. You've been a consistent, almost machine-like, presence in my life. You ask for so little and give me so much in return. When I started to need more- stories, essays, stuff with a point, it wasn't fair for me to ask you to deliver it. You and I weren't about those things and besides most of my writing and its various shortcomings are my problems, not yours. I need to take some responsibility here.

I've given it some thought and I still want you in my life. I think there's room for both the present and the future in our relationship. We can work together and perhaps bring the world some of that vague mad-cap spew of words about everyday observations that they've grown accustomed to. What do you say?

I'd like to end my letter to you there, but I think that if we're going to avoid the expectation-creep from the past, there are a few more items that I should be honest about. In order to reach the conclusions of this letter, in order for me to accept that it was really our partnership that I missed, I did a little experimentation in the last month. It pains me to give you the sordid details, but it's a sacrifice I fear we must make for this to work.

First, I tried to use the status line in Facebook to communicate my feelings in just a few words. This was an empty attempt and it meant nothing to me. I'm sorry.

I also tried to tell people my observations. I must admit that I really wanted this one to work. It was ok, but my verbal abilities pale in comparison to those that you bring out in me. I also found my audience to be less receptive. This turn of events did bring some tears to my eyes, but it also brought me here.

Blog, can we re-join forces, just in time for Christmas? There are so many potentially witty thoughts for us to share. Please don't react immediately. Think about things and let me know how you feel. And Blog, if you decide that this just won't work out, that I finally said too much or not enough, understand that these five years have been very special to me and I hope you will find happiness wherever the Internet takes you.

Love,
David

It's my blog's party and I'll cry if I want to

Conical party hats are out, the pins for pin-the-tail on the donkey have been located, cake could be served- It's been 5 years of blogging action. After 1,120 posts I should know what I want to say and how I'm going to say it, but I don't. Years ago, my posts tended to be aphorisms plopped onto the screen. Now I tend to give those aphorisms more context, or at the very least a cushion of words to protect them from the uncaring outside world. I suppose that's progress.

In my 5 years, I have often excitedly, and at times less excitedly, tried to define why blogging was important to me. I feel like I've never been able to fully express it. Let me try again. One of the first reasons was the re-connection it gave me. There were a number of people, my friends, who I had lost contact with. Blogs put us back together; we became friends again, stopping for a moment to share some thought or frustration in the hallways of the Internet. It was important to re-establish this connection and has led me to laugh and worry and furrow my brow along with people that I care about and some I've never met. Blogs have led me to real-life visits, discussions, trips, accomplishments, and relationships. It's almost scary how much can be tied to these little boxes. That's the world I'm living in.

That world is moving on and it appears to me that blogs are getting left behind. More and more I find myself in different hallways of the Internet, often with the same people. Social networking sites are taking over the connection function and in my limited experience they do it quite well. I'm now connected and more aware of the comings and goings and birthdays of more people than I know what to do with. I'm also keeping up with reading habits of much of that same crowd. It's incredible and a little odd.

The second important aspect of blogging for me has been the writing. Perhaps in a gesture unfair to my readers, this blog has allowed me to spew my musings out into the world with very little attention to how satisfying or unsatisfying that experience might be. I have an internal editor, but I get the sense that he drinks a bit and doesn't always show up to work on time or at all. Even with an unreliable internal editor, the repetition of writing, an average of 18 times a month, was bound to change some things. One of those things has been my confidence and the other I've already mentioned is the structure of my thoughts.

The writing has slowed lately and the structure has been stuck. I want stories instead of descriptions. I want fully-formed opinions and ideas. The managing editor in my head is starting to crack down and it isn't always pleasant. Fortunately, the ombudsman has remained mostly silent.

What has been pleasant, despite the apparent newsroom in my skull, has been the opportunity to share the mundane and commonplace. I recognize that not everyone in my life wants to hear that I miss the TV show Ed or constantly hear about Ultimate, but this space has allowed me to share that information, sometimes even in a way that tickles me because I was able to mash up words in a pleasing way. This has benefitted my memory too. This function can't be underestimated. It makes me feel heard. However, I think that it has started to hold me back. I've allowed myself to be satisfied with getting the thought or description out there and let that be enough. It may be important to me, but it's no longer enough just to be heard. Somewhere, during the course of the last 5 years, I was able to make my observations into descriptions. I am now asking myself to make those descriptions into complete thoughts or opinions that are about more than just me. I think it may be the only way I can continue to justify blogging. If I can't do this, it may be time to take my writing elsewhere. That threatening-sounding sentence was for my benefit, not for my readers. I don't know yet how I want this next step to go. I may want to move toward fiction or my life may be able to generate the fodder I require. Time will tell if I can accomplish either or if this remains the right space to worry about it.

My party hat is drooping a bit. The ice cream has made my cake soggy and it appears that the donkey's tail has been pinned.

Sorry blog, grown-up birthday parties include reflection. Look a pony!

Neither Bond nor Belushi: more details

In the glow of 75-watt exposed bulbs, nursing a Shiner Bock, surrounded by a lot of small-ish men and a few younger women, I partied. College parties, like unfinished basements, have a certain ethos, or so I've been led to believe. This one seemed nearly perfect in its way. I stood and watched beer pong, flip cup, and the slightly awkward chatter of a crowd that could not have seen ET in theaters. A younger me would have been extremely uncomfortable here, even among friends, but this version manages slight discomfort with bouts of actual conversation and enjoyment. I still cling to the familiar, but at least acknowledge the unknown and even push through some of it, partying until the morning, by the strictest definition of the word.

If my Friday was a glimpse into a past I usually avoided or never really had, my Saturday was a glimpse into a future of the same. In the mood-lit dimness of a salon-like home, I sipped Glenfiddich and bumped elbows with elegant women and tuxedo-clad men. Between bites of hummus, I made small talk, or at least made small attempts at small talk with lawyers, a travel writer, and those more experienced on the small-talk circuit. There was less room for clinging to the familiar, and the sweeping wooden steps left me nowhere to hide. After two hours of the finer things, I had to take leave.

Metaphors for life- donations accepted

I got lost today on my ride home and it was the highlight of my day. I saw Superman, a bunch of bugs, and some princesses trick-or-treating at the embassies in the daylight. I wonder if the Swiss embassy gives chocolate. Then I stumbled on the National Cathedral. The sky was still very blue and I had to stop and stare in awe. The Cathedral was huge and beautiful. Some very well kept green grass added a nice green foreground too.

From there, I made my way through several neighborhoods I'd never seen and began to wonder about how lost I really was. I had some sense that I was South and West of my home, but I wasn't sure where I'd reconnect to roads I knew. Running into some potential harbingers of death- the eight foot spider, the giant hanging ghost, the grim reaper himself, I worried a little for my safety. The sun began to set and the temperature dropped with it. Pulling down my sleeves and pushing a little harder on the pedals I came up behind a man in car. He was staring at his map. I tried to stare over his shoulder, but that didn't work. He saw me and looked at me awkwardly, so I did the only logical thing- I yelled, "Where do we go?" and rode off. Fortunately, the next block over was familiar territory and the giant spider, the hanging ghost, and the grim reaper have to wait a little longer.

Pressure from the third grade

In a scrapbook somewhere, probably buried in a toy box in another city, there is a picture of a robot. Next to the picture of this robot on parade is a quote, "Give me a box and I can be anything." The robot is me dressed in foil-covered boxes with knobs and dials and silver bendable tubing for arms and legs. The quote is mine; I had just finished a whirlwind year in the box-making business. For Halloween the previous year, I had my greatest triumph- I was a dryer. In a green-painted box with a second green box fashioned for knobs and dials, I tricked and treated my way through the dryer door, Bounce and laundry stuck to the inside. That same year, I entered a hat contest with what was billed at that time as the "third largest hat in the world." Resting on my shoulders precariously, the Empire state building, including a small plastic gorilla, towered above the other hats in the contest. The tower was painted brown and little yellow scraps of paper were haphazardly-placed windows. The hat didn't win, but I was still quite proud of it. Then came the robot. Even looking back I can see where my box optimism sprang from.

Now, several years later, the pressure from that statement haunts me. I get boxes in the office all of the time. They almost never transform me, nor I them. Tomorrow, Halloween arrives. Last year as a paradigm shift and then a frosted shredded wheat, I may have used up too much cleverness in one year. I've considered trotting out my Hawaiian shirt and being a tourist or unleashing my pleather pants to be a pleather-pants wearer, but I can't quite find the enthusiasm. I am unable to live up to the standards set by a third grade me.

That guy was a stellar tetherball player too. Man. I think I've lost that too...

Fallin' hard

The rain was neither cat nor dog, but it was wet. I don't like umbrellas and prefer rain gear, usually in blue. The hitch in my plan almost always comes in a pair. I have rain pants, but never remember to wear them. My royal blue raincoat, excellent as it may be, can barely contain me and my backpack. I wander the streets, sans umbrella, hump-backed as my pants grow increasingly moist. I like the rain pounding down on me. It makes me feel dramatic and alive; I fight nature head on with only a raincoat to protect me. Faces in the city turn down or are blocked by the window waterfalls. This is my fight alone and I think I'm winning.

The foilage was matted to the trail. Soggy reds, oranges, and browns covered the path as my wheels spun quickly past. The creek was roaring from the previous night's storm. My legs churned and I pressed on down to the district. Somewhere between tan knee-high suede and short gray tweed summer turned to autumn. I followed.

Sipping pumpkin spice on the sunny part of art gallery steps, thousands of runners streamed through my view. A sea of singlets were nearing the halfway point for hours. I didn't move, but found myself lost in past, present, and future. I was buoyed by smiles, children cheering for dad, strangers cheering for strangers, and a quiet comfortable morning that could only lead to afternoon.

The state of my Internet address

Fellow Internet inhabitants,
We are all presidents in a land with none, which is why I choose to address you so. I have shown up on your rss feed, you happened to stop by, you have no idea why you've come, and I share your automation, good fortune, dumb luck. Thank you for coming this October, I promise to keep this relatively short. How short? Let's just say if I had written out this speech and placed it in my left breast-pocket, an assassination attempt using only steel-tipped darts would probably do me in. Not to fear though, my secret service personnel have been put on high alert to watch for excellent dart marksmen. My personnel are very thorough and have spent weeks leading up to this evening studying darts at establishments far and wide. They have also sampled some of the finest in October-flavored beer. Very thorough indeed.

My point, the plastic tipped dart which compels me to write today, is on the state of the Internet. It appears that porn continues to drive the Internet bus, but I will leave that portion untouched here today. I want to focus my discussion of the Internet in a way that the Internet seems to appreciate. I want to focus the discussion on me and the way the Internet is meeting my needs. Obviously, my abiltity to share in this very space is telling about one important part of the Internet. This continues to be my bulletin board for the thoughts and conversations that I'm not sure anybody even wants to listen to; or if "thoughts and conversations" strikes too intellectual of a tone, this is at least the space where my half-formed word combinations can go to rest comfortably in the knowledge that they are at least available for someone's consumption. I've had exciting moments here, but the babble seems more one-sided of late. My interest in me tends to outstrip others' interest in me. I understand that since you unlikely have a self to focus on. But, this has left me still searching for that social, or at least *favorite word of the month* parasocial connection.

Before I address that though, I would like to point those still listening to the upcoming National Novel Writing Month at nanowrimo.org. It's babbling with a goal and a story, so maybe a step up from blogs like this. It's also a great challenge.

Now, back to the parasocial universe that I inhabit. Facebook has sort of, kind of connected me with a number of people that I was sort of, kind of connected with before. It's pleasant enough finding out that people I like, but don't talk to that often like certain movies or songs and come from towns that I never thought to ask about, but it's also addictive and other than that sort of, kind of connection I'm not quite sure what it buys me. It does allow me another new way to use up my time and this time there are pictures.

Pictures are good, but I'm motivated by words. That's why goodreads.com is emerging as my favorite new place on the Internet. It's cozy, friendly, and fun. It's like a cute little coffee shop without the charming proprietor, the real people, the thick smell of fresh coffee, and the overpriced Internet connection. Well, that last one probably still exists. It does lack some of the tactile joys of a cute little coffee shop, but it makes up for that in its connection for readers. I believe I've touted the site in this space before, but I continue to see benefit. The site is keeping me reading. It's allowing me to get recommendations from my parasocial pals who probably wouldn't reach out otherwise. It's giving me a place to track my books, keep my reviews, and stay excited about reading. It's quickly moving to the top of my list of life-improving Internet addresses. Your blog is undoubtedly right up there in second place, don't worry.

And now for those who stayed and skimmed my every word, I give you a small piece of joy which comes not from the Internet, but instead a book I read. A joke book.

Question: What's the hardest part about hunting elephants?

Stop me if you've heard this one.

A: Carrying the decoys.

I KNOW!

Burned by an icon

I'm spending an unreasonable amount of time with my iMac lately. Sometimes, he even lets me call him Mac. We watch TV together, read the paper, visit with our parasocial universe, organize movie rentals, and even check the weather. Yesterday, Mac told me that today would bring rain. I stopped listening to weathermen some time ago, but the icon showed rain and I believed it. It turns out that Mac is good for a lot of things, but predicting the weather isn't one of them. Maybe it's harder than I thought. It's a little amazing that the weather even matters; I mean by 2007 someone surely thought we'd be traveling in glass tubes, but the earth is not dead yet. It might be sick, but I'm holding out hope that we'll survive the melting. Today it didn't rain, not even a little bit.

Mr. iMac, sir, please fix your predictions and get started on those glass tubes just in case.

STUCKEY-ville

I'm in the mood for Ed. Mix up some of that Tom Cavanaugh goofiness, throw in some Carol Vescey angst, and a few wacky bowling alley lawyer high jinxing fun and man... that'd be swell. Will Ed and Carol get together? I mean he did kind of ride in on that white horse or as a knight, or man he was a little bit too much of a hopeless romantic. It was kind of sickening. I think I stopped watching before they cancelled that show.

I could go for some right now.

I am a liar
Remember all those times that I said, "I just want to play Ultimate. It doesn't matter how or where." You probably don't because I tried not to let it consume you the way it has consumed me. Trust me though, I was saying it. Well, I lied. I played Ultimate today, the first time, other than a brief stint in July, and I don't just want to play Ultimate. I want to be good at Ultimate. It's a very different game when a cut or two sends me panting and when my body feels so fragile that a single cut might snap me into pieces.

I certainly wouldn't call today miserable by any stretch... there were some glorious moments where the disc stuck to my hand and my throws felt good, but for the most part I felt like an old man chasing the past.

I'm reading a book right now about Michael Jordan's final comeback, the one that was going on when I moved here. It talks about his flashes of brilliance, but it also talks about the struggles he went through physically and possibly emotionally as he was "de-throned." The writer is not terribly fond of Jordan or his motives. However, as Jordan's knees swell and younger players take him head on and win, I find my stomach churning and my eyes starting to water. Jordan was off for three years and came back at 38. I've been off for 6 months and I'm not 38. He did start a little more on top of his game than me though. I want to come back and be a good Ultimate player, but I can't decide what sacrifices I can make to do that. And deep down there's a little voice asking, "Is it Ultimate that I want or is it the competition and camraderie?" I don't like that voice right now, but he may be pushing me toward bike racing, or even triathalons if running can rejoin my sports vocabulary. It's just that Ultimate has been so good to me and it had helped me make a life for myself. Without it, I need to refigure me and so far that's been a struggle I'm not willing to tackle.

Merriweather Pleasure, my donkey
I was in "Downtown Disney" recently taking in a little piece of the mouse-themed consumer mecca. It was Kid Vegas. Even the shops were set up like casinos with no clear paths to the exits. In the heart of this faux-downtown is a club district called "Pleasure Island." The name conjures up a few images, but sticking with a Disney theme, my mind immediately went to Pinocchio. In that cartoon, "Pleasure Island" was a haven for boy and boy-to-be debauchery. It's been years since I've seen the film and I could still feel the ugliness of that island that eventually turned the boys into donkeys. What a weird name for an adult club district in the middle of this family-friendly environment, I thought. Then, I began to doubt my less-than-perfect memory. Perhaps, I had the wrong island. Why would Disney name their club district after a place that manufactured donkeys? I started to ask around; no one I spoke with could remember Pinocchio well enough to confirm the island connection.

Wikipedia confirms the connection and then introduces a wrinkle more unsettling. The Disney PR folks have created what appears to be a false legend to explain the "Pleasure Island" club area moniker. They introduced a shipper named Merriweather Pleasure who was the island's owner and of course not a boy-into-donkey manufacturer. They obviously wanted to have their island keep its associations, but clean it up a bit. I didn't see any evidence of this fake legend on the island, but I wasn't really looking. I find this very disturbing. Disney surely researched this name and recognized that most people have forgotten their Pinocchio associations, but knew that a few of us would hang on to the horror. So, to take care of those of us scarred by that "Pleasure Island" they created this legend of a friendly shipper so we could go to their clubs safe in the knowledge that we weren't teetering on the brink of donkey-dom. Creepy.

Tiny pink hearts are all we need

Facebook has a tiny little icon of a pink heart separated by a squiggly line of space. There's a lot in the parasocial universe I haven't seen and don't understand, but that little icon made sense immediately- it's a broken heart. I'm sitting here trying to remember what it was to have a broken heart at 15. All I can really remember is that I couldn't eat for a few days. Would it have been easier to announce the heartbreak to everyone at once with just the click of a button? Or is there value in the play by play to every one of your friends? Hashing and re-hashing every detail, working it out in your own mind. Maybe that happens anyway. I suppose there's something pleasing in the way facebook would allow this communication to all of the peripheral friends; the ones that wouldn't get a first-hand account anyway. And yet, how much harder is reconciliation when all your friends have already read with their own eyes that it is done? There's very little opportunity for the "But I thought they were..."

I remember the break-up as a lonely time, early journal evidence calls the event "...traumatically dumped in Nov." There was an upperclassman named Bill. He had 5 pairs of jeans and ironed shirts for the week hung on the back of his door. He was a little dark with his slicked-back black hair and his cigarettes. I think he had a car. I was just a freshman, innocent, quiet, and fearful of authority. I was no match for Bill in the high school hierarchy. I struggled with this for a while. I kicked things. I ran until the ache in my lungs matched the ache in my chest. I fasted with emotional pain. Some of this I remember well, but most of it is a shadow of a feeling. It's an extrapolation backwards from pain inflicted since then. That wasn't my first rejection, but it was shocking in its swiftness.

The squiggly line compresses over time, eventually all but disappearing. Cliches fly out of mouths- "other fish in the sea" was my favorite. Time wears on and the events become less about her and more about how we deal. Does the little pink heart icon pulsate with new love? I haven't been around online long enough to find out, but whether the icon appears or not, tiny pink hearts will prevail.

But, I just got out of college

I received a picture from a friend I haven't seen in a while. She looks fantastic, but she doesn't look like she did in college. I suppose she shouldn't by now, it's been a year and some change, a drawer full of change. She's been married, bought and sold a house, changed jobs, quit a band, joined a band, and certainly been through lots more that I'm not even remotely aware of. I don't know exactly how age shows up in people; it probably doesn't show up the same way in everybody, but she looks her age. She looks our age in this gorgeous, intelligent, grown-up sort of way. She looks the way I never thought we'd look.

I see myself in the mirror every day. Is this the way I look? I mean, obviously, you've got to take out her long hair and substitute my beard and she doesn't wear glasses, ok, ok, I mean do I look my age? Well, I've been told that when I trim my beard I look 10 years younger, which means when the beard is bountiful (and oh so rugged) I look well past my age. Wave to my age in the rearview mirror, kids. I'm trim now. I'm looking. The mirror says one thing, but my heart says another. Even with the (melodrama alert!) world-weary heart of late, I'm still a bit surprised when I don't get carded for the drinking. It's not an issue of being a regular customer either. I mean, if I were a campus I'd be a dry one. Which means that the vodka is hidden on the top shelf behind hair dryer?!? I'm not a campus, of course, but why does college feel so close?

Mind like a steel sieve

Somewhere, at some time, perhaps today in the newspaper, I read that happy people have trouble with contentment. For instance, if two people, say Paula and Paul met, had a whirlwind courtship full of flowers, hot tea, and cottton candy, and never fought they might run into trouble later on. (Not to mention the fact that they are clearly British circus florists and/or related to that ilk.) They would have their happy bar set so high, that day-to-day existence would be unable to live up to the original levels of happy. (As an aside, I'm not quite certain what the units of measurement for happy were, but I guarantee they were metric.) Thus, they would not be content. I believe the article went on to say that happy moments had less value as they were piled ever higher. I don't remember a lot more, but I think the article also suggested that these happy people were also likely to be most affected by a negative event.

For this reason, I have vowed to limit happy moments and will continue to push for conversion to the metric system. The Metric System: Units of happy easily divisible by 10.

It's for the collective good.

Update: Here it is. It's called Is Great Happiness Too Much of a Good Thing?.

Searching for this season's woman of substance?

With Veronica Mars and the Gilmore Girls relegated to DVDs, it appears I'm searching for new tv women to fill a void. Tonight Bionic Woman faced off against Gossip Girl. On the surface, the edge would seem to go to the bionic one. She's strong and can leap from building to building, plus I have vague childhood memories of another bionic woman or maybe it was a six-million dollar man. There were definitely cool sound effects. The sound effects have gone away; there's no money in sound effects. The money is at the track, the soundtrack. I couldn't be bothered with more than a few minutes of the Bionic Woman at a time. It was dark. The lead was not very attractive and I have the sense that the show should have kept with the current trend of turning old tv shows into movies. It worked for Dukes of Hazzard. The Bionic one didn't really get a fair shake, as I was busy watching that girl from The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

Pants connections to Alexis Bledel aside, there's something about this show that isn't quite horrible. Gossip Girl is narrated by Kristen Bell of Veronica Mars fame. Listening to Kristen Bell is not the same as watching her, but then watching a show by the creator of the O.C. is also not the same as watching a show by Rob Thomas. There's no sound effects in this one either, although we do get some class warfare, some high-schoolers trying to fit in and more than our fair share of forced (as in crammed down our throats) intrigue. Also, The Bravery made an appearance on the soundtrack which was fun. (Ooh. They're playing here on Halloween.) There were fewer drinks and sex this week than last, but the world isn't light, even if what's her face's hair is. Finally, the potential villain, if rich high school boys without twirlable mustaches can achieve villain status, was drinking a scotch. That's kind of a draw. Though I do wonder why CW shows tend to portray more scotch drinkers than any other network. Is that in their mission statement?

I'm not calling this one completely in favor of Gossip Girl yet, it is the CW after all, but I'd say Gossip is poised to take Bionic based on early returns.

Yes!
It appears that NBC's Journeyman will tackle the big questions in time travel, most importantly, if you travel back in time and end up making out with your super-hot ex-girlfriend is it cheating because at that time she was actually your girlfriend?

Tune in next week...

Reality bites
I publicly admitted today that my 2007 Club Ultimate season was over. It's unclear whether it really began. I've been injured so long that my teammates probably wouldn't recognize me anyway. I haven't been on the field in months. I'd accepted personally some time ago that my comeback was not for this year, but I'd remained silent hoping for a miracle.

Every week, I get a little closer. I go whole days now without hurting. I sometimes have the urge to break into a run and I believe I could do it pain-free, at least for a little bit. I'm trying to heal completely so that when I do come back, I come back whole and ferociously. Many days both of those parts seem like pie-in-the-sky dreams. I've nearly adjusted to a life where playing Ultimate is not the centerpiece. Nearly adjusted may be a little strong, but I at least understand that it might be possible, if undesirable.

To admit this setback was sad for me and it makes my psoas twinge.

Dear Big Brother

Here's the key to my house. Come on in. Ransack that. Here's the music I'm listening to, the books I'm reading, the thoughts I'm thinking, the friends I have (or at least the friends who also welcome you and yours and me). It's all here- where I went to school, what I had for breakfast, the amount of space between my toes.

That's right, I joined facebook. It's possible that I'm about to become a parasocial butterfly. I will flit all over the place without ever leaving the seat that I stole from my roommate. Am I ok with this? I don't know, but at least I get to see some photos and videos that I was missing. I'm also exploring a whole world that I was only vaguely aware was in existence. The kids these days are terrifying, but man they take a lot of pictures. I'm still having a bit of trouble with facebook. I feel a bit like the grandparent and the VCR. It just isn't as intuitive as I thought it would be for some reason. I'm sure I'll get it figured out, so that I can soon paste the remaining pieces of my soul online. In the meantime, I need to find a way to consolidate my online presence. It's getting too spread out. I can't remember which email addresses go where and who signs in to what selling place how. I need a computer just to track my computer use.

If I sound a little frantic, it's because I think I may have just gone to stuck my toe in the fountain of the Internet and I ended up falling in. My clothes are soaked. My unmentionables are wet (are there any unmentionables left?). I'm not exactly sure where the nearest towel is located, but I'm willing to extend a metaphor...

In conclusion, I'm going to steal a transition from Frankie Two Toes, and say that I had some free acupuncture on Sunday. It was trippy. That belongs in another post.

Good day, sirs. Enjoy my soul and all of its pieces.

"Parasocial" behavior and the potential for the anti- of such

The interesting and entertaining storyRules of Thumb: Love in the Age of Texting introduced me to the term parasocial, supposedly those who believe that constant virtual contact is more than just pretend intimacy. If I'm allowed to interpret recklessly and without the argument that immediately bubbles up regarding the gray areas between virtual and actual intimacy, I do believe I've been a bit anti-parasocial in the last few weeks. There's really no telling what effect that has had on either of us.

I'm only shedding this anti-parasocialism because the washingtonpost.com story overlaps with thoughts of my own from Friday night. I live in a very different world. I recognize many of my friends, or mostly Daimon and Alan, have been telling me this for some time. I noticed this difference acutely on a Metro ride Friday night. My friend and seatmate held an entire conversation, including making plans for when he got off the train in a series of text messages. He found out where to meet, when to meet, who would be there, and even extended an invitation to another friend in a matter of moments. I have never done that. If I'd been alone, I would have gone all the way home and then been annoyed to even have to consider returning to the Metro to prolong my evening.

A friendship with me now requires an almost unheard of and/or unremembered level of advanced planning and patience. If I'm late somewhere those meeting me will know strictly by my absence. If we don't agree on a place to meet or don't understand one another, the only way our paths will cross is by force of will and dumb luck. I see a certain amount of beauty in my built-in requirement for patience (not to mention a certain amount of irony), but knowing how prevalent technology is in everyone's pocket makes me see how my resistance could be considered slightly less than charming. Thanks to those that indulge me and to those who don't, GR2BR.

An error in judgment

I've gone and done it. I was searching for something to liven up my life. I'd recently enjoyed some Virgil's root beer. I was in that very aisle looking for something to drink. I considered some cream soda. I thought about some other root beers. I could have had a root beer showdown in my mouth, but I declined. I looked at the izze with their mod box design (is that mod?) and strange name. I do like that stylized flower/asterisk thingy they've got going on, but I've done izze before and enjoyed it. I was looking for liven, not retread. As I stood in the aisle and contemplated my options I spied Java pop. It's got bubbles on the label and promises of organic goodness. I'd enjoyed a Raspberry Mocha Frappuccino earlier in the day, so coffee was on my good side. I decided Vanilla Coffee soda was the way to liven.

Oh boy. I took a wrong turn near liven and ended up near Yucktown. It's organic all right. It tastes a little like liquid dirt mixed with liquid grass and a pinch of coffee bean and vanilla mixed right in. It's kind of not that good, like maybe my morning coffee waited all day to chill and then vomitted cream soda. Want a bottle?

The punchline to a really sad joke
How depressed are you?
I'm so depressed that yesterday I dressed the part. I was in a suit and sporting an old fedora and I just kept picturing myself in black and white. You know, because the Great Depression took place in black and white. The pictures prove it.

How sad?
Dear 25%,
Please read. It's worth it.

At least we aren't Orioles
The Rangers put up 30 runs against the Orioles in the first game of a doubleheader. Then they beat them again. I bet it was fun to be a Rangers fan on Thursday.

Just a block up from Rock Bottom Lane
or Oh. The Melodrama.

I'm searching for a house just a block from Rock Bottom Lane. If I play my cards right, it might be on the corner of Suck Ave. and Pull it Together Road. That house has a nice view in both directions. The house would need to have cable because I like to curl up in the fetal position and watch Hillary Duff in her modern day Cinderella. I'm looking to rent rather than buy because I've spent a large chunk of my money on the white stuff. We're talking Vanilla Bean ice cream. There's nothing like licking melted ice cream from a moustache. Actually, licking ice cream off of a small furry dog is probably pretty similar, but that sounds gross.

The place really only needs one room and a bathroom. I don't plan to do a lot of moving around. I could drag myself to a hot plate or the freezer every now and then. A small space for the in, a hole for the out. Other than that, I only need enough room to stretch out and dry my pit-stained t-shirts.

I'm bummed without Ultimate. My patience is all used up and there wasn't that much to begin with.

Fine. So it could be worse.

The competitive reader inside me

Goodreads.com makes me feel a bit like I'm in a summer reading program. It's the online version of "Dive into a sea of reading" where every book gets my chain a paper fish and every 10 books gets me a star, starfish that is. It's a place where I can walk in and compare myself to the other readers around.
My fish chain is longer than that kid's.
I bet she only reads short books.
Then seeing the scowl on my face, I can almost hear my mom remind me that reading is fun. It's just important to read, not how much I read.

Easy for you to say, Mom, you don't have a fish in the race.

The critic inside of me
Goodreads.com also lets me wield a five-star rating system like I'm a cross between AAA, Good Housekeeping, and J.D Power & Associates. My average rating is lower than all my friends. At first I thought I was a tough critic, but then I realized they didn't read A Polemic against Love or The Ballad of the Whisky Robber. Maybe I'm not so tough.

The online social networker inside of me
It's online making friends! This is the beginning of the end. Facebook and myspace are just a click away.

Please stop looking inside of me.
I'm actually very pleased with goodreads.com. I'm not sure why it doesn't sound that way.

Run to the store/ Dance in the aisle

For months that seemed much longer, I have been unable to run to the store. I haven't gone hungry. I still make just as many stops at my local grocery, but I have not been able to lift my legs and place them repeatedly and relatively rapidly along the sidewalks that lead to this place or any other. Saturday, that changed. The sun shone a little brighter. The trees whispered happy things in my ears. I moved quickly to the store, afraid to race there, but stretching out my legs just a little. The soreness that has plagued me lurked beneath the surface, but remained at bay.

My return trip brought a hint of tightness, and so the rejoicing was a quiet sort. A celebration of progress, hopes, and things yet to come.

I'm spent

Jen hasn't written back, but it's ok because I've been busy. Tuesday night I went to perform trivia at some bar. It's a good thing that trivia isn't like karaoke; this way people didn't have to hear me mess things up in a high-pitched squeal. Amongst my perspiration, the beer, and a fading memory, I was able to contribute at least 2 points to my team's 60-something. I think I cost us at least one. I probably netted zero. Maybe this is the reason I turned jock long ago. And after all these years of thinking it was an accident.

Last night I went to see the fightin' Orioles. They aren't that fightin', but it's ok because my ride was cheering for the Rhyme of the ancient Mariners. I'd barely settled into my seat, Boog's BBQ still on my breath, when the Mariners put one over the fence not 100 feet from where I sat. The center fielder probably should have tried to make a play on the ball since it cleared the wall by six inches. The right field fans expressed this sentiment to him in the most eloquent profanity-laden manner. The rest of the game is a bit of a blur. It was like 38 degrees on the good scale. That's hot. The Mariners won. The ballpark was well-made. Sturdy or so I'm led to believe. This is the point in my description where I have to decide if the emphasis is going to be on attempting comedy or attempting an honest description of the way I felt in the heat as I watched our nation's former pastime before we became angrier and more violent.

Apparently I chose political statment. I didn't even know that was an option.

Now, I launder.

Dear Jen
(of NBC's reality series Age of Love),

I know that you were trying to win the affections of a man 18 years your junior, not just any man either, the tennis star Mark Philapoulousasasas I won't spell his name, you know it. I just wanted to say that despite your covered-in-darkness massage (MASS-age according to the Aussie boy) and the on-air snogging that everyone in this show partook in, I thought you did a bang-up job. I can say this with some authority because I was able to watch all of the episodes of Age of Love. Some people might be ashamed of this fact, but when NBC pitted 40 vs. 20 I knew almost instantly that I was a fan of yours. Your hotness defied age and you seemed pretty cool too. And really, wasn't that the point of this whole experiement?

Sometimes, during the commercials I would picture our lives together. I pictured our 50th wedding anniversary. By then, I'd learned over and over again that age really didn't matter. Even at 98, your smile still melted my heart and you still looked great in motorcycle chaps. As I stood next to our cake, a tiny tear formed in my eye as our adopted Guatamalan daughter, Jane, 38, hugged her 75-year old step-brother. Or was she holding him up? Regardless, he and I had shared some good times, too. Those years where he lived with us are some that I'll cherish forever. I know you grew tired of our thirty-something antics, but we grew out of them as he entered his fifties and you and I were able to appreciate an empty nest. You always said that 70 was the new 50. Thank goodness for early retirement.

The commercials would end and I would be plunged back into reality tv, which as we all learned long ago is different than reality. It hurt me to see you with another man, but then I realized that you'd been with another man when I was born. That took away some of the heartache. It was hard to see the chemistry you shared with Mark, but when the credits roll, I just want you to be happy. If not with me, I hope you find it with someone, no matter his age. Good luck, Jen. Thank you for teaching me that hotness and coolness can come at any age at least with proper make-up and editing.

Ignore that last part. That's the heartache talking.

With (ageless) love,
Dave

The problem with syndication

It was just 30 minutes ago when young Rachel Green was getting her first real job. The world was hers for the taking. Happiness abounded. Then just like that, in the blink of a plotline, Rachel and Ross were on a break. U2 played loudly in the background. Hearts were breaking all across non high-definition television sets. The ups. The downs. It's almost too much for one man to weather.

I'll be brave.

Must look awesome

This story starts and ends in 'stache. When a weekend on the Jersey shore playing Ultimate began to take shape, my friend Alan made a call far and wide for the team to wear our finest in mustachery. For my friends this generally meant some form of facial sacrifice. It meant turning to 1970s cop shows, pre-industrial Japan, and Joe Dirt for inspiration. For me, it merely meant maintaining the prickly hair that I had cultivated over the past four years. As the weekend approached, pressure began to mount to turn my bearded look into one that emphasized the mustache. Knowing that my playing time would be limited I debated the merits of re-releasing my chin to the outside world. After some deliberation, I decided to free my face from a large portion of the hair that had taken up residence there. It proved not to be so simple. These follicles were like tiny roommates, tiny friends, tiny armed guards for my face. And there are many styles of mustache to choose from. With clippers in hand, I froze.

There's an art to facial hair and so to help make my decision I called on an artist. Matt had been there in the earliest days as I had struggled to connect the chin hairs with the upper lip hairs into pseudo-beatnick glory- the goatee. He'd been there when I'd come down from the mountains sporting six months of solid growth. I'd seen him transition from goatee to chin strap and back again. Our beards had grown together, although not in a weird blond hair twisting with brown kind of way, more like we'd both had facial hair at the same time. Now, I turned to him in my time of need. Where should I take this art, this mustache? I asked of him like a man who had gone to visit the Dalai Lama. Like a buddhist monk, his answer took the form of guidance and lead my heart and mind where it needed to be.

We reached the conclusion, and the journey took us to the fu manchu. It sounds like somewhere a monk might send me. Fu Manchu, just off the coast of the razor by way of clipper. The transformation was quick and save the buzzing of the clippers, silent. I did not wake up the next morning a changed man. I was still me, although my reflection looked quite a bit like a truck driver.

I took the essence of me with my truck driver face and headed to work where I promptly forgot the state of my face. My coworkers are very nice people and their remarks tended toward shock without rudeness. I appreciated it and was only reminded of my transformation when my fingers struck chin. My chin may be many things, but twirlable it is not.

Having survived a shortened workday, I prepared to unveil my new look to Alan and those that I would share my weekend with. Alan reacted with amusement and thrill. I felt my mission was accomplished. For the most part, although my look had changed, I felt the same. As the weekend wore on, some combination of boardwalk, deep-fried Oreos, and fu manchu worked like the sand in my shoe to free a little of the skeeviness inside of me. I could blame the mustache or New Jersey, but I have come to believe there's a little skeeve inside of each of us. With meditation and an outdoor shower, I was able to tame the skeevy beast within and return to mastery of myself and my fu manchu. The culmination of this mastery may have been in a diner just across the street from the oldest living oak. Uncle Rico, a samurai called Sunday Night Special, and me, your Thurman Munson look-alike, were halfway through dinner; The Platters were crooning on our tableside jukebox when we realized that each of us looked ridiculeautiful (that rare combination of ridiculous and beautiful) and our waitress had not reacted in the slightest. We had made our peace with the 'stache.

A day in the life of superstars and me

There are certain awesome moments in life. Moments that I don't just want blog about, but actually want to remember forever, or a reasonable approximation thereof. Today, I had such a moment. Today's moment, as many moments on this blog, is about a girl, a woman really. The moment is really a movement, or more accurately the economy of movement. The moment, the movement, involved me standing less than 30 feet from a tennis racket wielded by one of the winningest tennis players around, Martina Navratilova. I don't believe I'm one to get particularly star struck, that affliction which renders one a bit of a blubbering fool in front of the famous. I don't have opportunity to test this theory often, but I'd already stepped up to a microphone and asked Martina how she dealt with injury. Nerve-wracking certainly, but more so because I told a thousand people that my stomach hurt rather than the fact that one of them was a 20-time winner at Wimbledon. Martina seemed very affable and down-to-earth when she spoke.

The alluded to moment though struck me and made me into a blubbering fool. As I looked on, Ms. Navratilova volleyed soft faux-tennis balls with an amateur- a competitive amateur and coach, but an amateur none-the-less. Martina hit the ball as she talked about the importance of racket placement. Her racket moved almost impercectibly and at a perfect angle to return the faux-balls. The difference between how she used her racket and how the amatuer used hers was like the difference between a tornado and its eye. On a much smaller scale, but her racket head remained placed perfectly, whether it was behind her back, between her legs or as a simple forehand. There are hundreds and thousands who have observed Martina up close and on the court. They've seen this movement combined with the other skills that made her great, but I consider it an honor to have witnessed this tiny moment and these simple movements which she has undertaken probably millions of times.

I feel I have not done justice to the moment. So with a bit of a stretch let me contrast it to the time I nearly danced with Tina Turner.

It was lunch time and I was eating my smaller portion. I had just shared an hour with a champion and a thousand others, when the emcee had me put my hands together for Tina Turner. Many of us leapt from our seats and headed to the stage as hits like Proud Mary and Rollin' on the River were belted in our general direction. There was some girlish screaming, not from me of course. I am not a big Tina Turner fan, but the day suddenly seemed full of possibility. During an early song of the performance, I started to scrutinize Ms. Turner. She certainly sounded right, but her face didn't look quite right. Not being a big fan, I realized that her age and my poor memory might be causing doubt where it did not belong. As the song ended, the test occurred to me. I glanced down from her face to her legs. I don't know much about Tina Turner, but I know she's got some fantastic gams. This performer did not. Either this was an imposter or the famous legs had taken a turn for the worse. And by turn I mean they exited the highway of "Wow" at the Truckstop called "ughn". I returned to my seat and announced my opinion- not Tina. Those more prone to proclamations declared, "I know Tina and she is no Tina."

Despite these proclamations, the power of a crowd is mighty. Important people, people who should know, declared she was the real deal. The crowd remained around the stage and frankly, the imposter was giving a good performance. She brought a group of guys up on stage, one I was nearly pushed into, who took to shaking various things. This performer made an awkward statement about Ike which seemed like it was in bad taste for an impersonater... this brought back a few bits of doubt on the other side. Maybe it was her? Others were certain she was the real deal. One looked me in the eye and said, "her tone and pitch are right. Her movements are right and her eyes are right. It's her."

"But the legs?" I squealed, and he could not answer.

One perfect moment on a champion's racket, and one pretty good imposter with legs that betrayed her (or I heard rumors of him). Not a bad brush with the famous and nearly famous.

Points of order and beyond

Point the first: My new definition of success states that when a bike tire goes flat, success is being able to change bikes.

Remember where George Washington lived? I biked there on Saturday on a bit of a whim. Quite pleasant, really. The food court is a little overpriced, but I'm sure the money goes to a good cause, like making Washington's pockets even deeper. Come on, the man is on the dollar bill and even the rappers know it's all about him. Or was it Franklin? Regardless, the ride was a good one. Downhill both ways; or at least rolling enough to make me think that.

Point the second: Harry Potter fans are kind of kooky, but fun. Read about the second largest celebration in the statesat the Gig. I ducked out early because I like to support J.K.'s retirement from afar and read other people's books. To expand on that point secondhand underwear is no good, but secondhand Potter novels are excellent. I will not continue except to point you to this Washington Post article which has pointed me to some other interesting reading and made an excellent observation about how part of the charm of Potter may be in the sense of community. The writer didn't say it like that, instead phrasing it more that the appeal was in being in synch with the world due to mass media hysteria, but I think it further supports an idea that I keep coming back to-- people are seeking community. If that means standing in line for a book at midnight, that's not so bad. It just reinforces that there need to be more opportunities to meet that need.

Point the Monday: Desk jobs and poor posture may have contributed to my current injured state. It's hard to expect muscles to work when they just sit around all day. I'm not going to quit, but I'm going to try to improve my posture along with taking some other more agressive measures.

Point the Tuesday: I heard from a nutritionist today to "eat light and eat often." I've heard this before, but her presentation on how this translated into controlling glucose made more sense than anything I've ever heard about eating before. I want to follow her advice. I expect some challenges, but hopefully this can lead to a healthier me.

There's the points. Add it up. $5.79, please.

Profound moment of the day

I'd like this to become a regular feature, but I don't think it will.

I said, "I'm not like everybody else."

She said,"Nobody is."

Blasphemorophic

I think I get it. The appeal of the exercise-free existence. It's "extra" hours in the day. There's fewer sweaty shirts and shorts. I can go to a place and not spend the whole weekend teetering on the brink of exhaustion. I can eat Nachos in the middle of a Saturday and not worry about the cheese weighing me down or worse coming up. If I'm a little dehydrated, it doesn't affect the performance of my Metro ride.

I think I get it. I can even appreciate it.

P.S. I hate it.

A battle for the 50

It was vs.


It was a battle of wits. It was a battle of charm. Armed with my winsome personality and my learned ability to attract the greatest generation, I took on what some have called "the cutest baby EVER." It seemed like an impossible task. Look at those adorable little arms! We agreed to the terms. At the end of the weekend, the winner would be the hat wearer who had attracted the most people over 50. I agreed not to go out of my way to recruit so long as she agreed not to use words. At a coffee shop, she immediately jumped out to an early lead, but I was able to battle back, taking the lead by snagging a couple in a conversation about a strange gathering of birds on the surface of the lake. I had the advantage of mobility, but what the girl lacked in transport she more than made up in squeaky sounds. My lead was short-lived and a flock of elders apparently descended on her in a grocery store, putting her total out of my reach.

I accept defeat humbly. Hats off to my worthy opponent.

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.