Cleaning my toilet, cleaning my soul
I'm not quite sure what it says about me that I've taken my break-up mix and made it into my bathroom cleaning mix. Only good scrub-free things, I have to believe. With a nod to John's recent movie post, I'd like to write briefly about the mix I called, "Ouch".
1. Hello, Goodbye by Sean Watkins- I love that the entire relationship takes place in a brief conversation; it's a great way to capture that possibility of new beginnings and that reality of missed opportunities.
2. Bubbly by Colbie Caillat- I heard this one was tearing a hole in the myspace-time continuum. My favorite part, other than the lolling tune, is the ripple effect that the song's subject has on the singer's body. A good nose crinkle can be a real kick.
3. Five Minutes to Midnight by Boys Like Girls- I just like the fairy tale meets New Year's Eve effect going on here. The music makes me want to grab Cinderella and rush home so we don't turn into gourds. Before the clock strikes twelve, we'll need to share one of those kisses that are more full of potential than anything else.
4. Mad World by Alex Parks- This is a sadder eerier version of Mad World than I've heard. There's an emptiness and a vastness that made it seem appropriate for this mix.
5. I Ain't Been Myself in Years by Yonder Mountain Boys- This to me is really the weak link on the CD. The title seemed right, but the song doesn't ache or bounce or feel the way I thought it did when I first added it.
6. All the Way Down by Glen Hansard- This song is heartbreak, but with the tiniest drop of optimism. The Once album is a better break-up mix than this one can even aspire to be.
7. Everything is All Right by Motion City Soundtrack- This song is just a little bit of a rockin' check-in to...um...make sure that, basically, everything is ok, or, at least all right. It's fun. It's airy. It's helping us all recover from being all the way down a moment ago.
8. Brick by Ben Fold's Five- We didn't last long being all right, so this one is pretty crushing. It's beautiful and it hurts.
9. Hey There Delilah by Plain White T's- This song is so full of optimism. I just don't see how this couple is going to make it. I love that. I'm not sure what kind of cynic that makes me, but there's got to be a place to be overflowing with hope and to be able to keep the mop of cynicism nearby. There's room in one man for both of these feelings and this song brings all of that out in me as I wail, "OOOOOh, it's what you do to me." It's cleansing.
10. Come Around by Rhett Miller- Sadness, nostalgia, begging, and the well-sung question, "Am I gonna be lonely for the rest of my life?" Bathroom cleaners everywhere know what I'm talking about.
11. Why does it always rain on me? by Travis- We've reached the feeling sorry for ourselves portion of the mix. Travis does it wonderfully in this song.
12. Screaming Infidelities by Dashboard Confessional- Dude, it's emo. Emo belongs on a mix like this. Also, it's pretty awesome the way he uses "making out" in two totally different contexts.
13. Hotel Fire by Hem- This song is beautiful. I think I remember hearing that it was about divorce and even if it isn't, it's just filled with the sort of sad destruction and still-burning flames of a break-up. This is my favorite band for a reason.
14. It Just Is by Rilo Kiley- Even acceptance doesn't feel good. Rilo knows it. She's not afraid to remind anybody.
15. I Am Trying to Break Your Heart by Wilco- This is a standard for me on this type of mix. It's sort of a childish taking of responsibility put together in a vacant lonely tone. It gets stuck in my head for days.
16. Just Like Heaven by Goldfinger- Nothing says get back on the horse like a punk cover. Also, air guitar has healing powers.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
My mom is my Valentine
A large brown-papered box arrived at my house over a week ago. Even without the "Happy Valentine's Day" sticker, I knew what it was for. I don't get large boxes as often as some people might think. It was early because my mom wouldn't be home to send it as today approached. I know folks who would send a gift late or even a few who have stopped giving their twenty-something children Valentines. Please do not doubt their love. My mom just happens to have at least two qualities that make early Valentine's Day presents into reality. She's very organized and she celebrates holidays enthusiastically. I can't be certain, mostly because I've never asked, but I think holidays might be my mom's race day. She has pins, and wreaths, and flags, and outfits for almost every major holiday. She launches all-out holiday attacks on the senses and she gives generously, especially when she finds something special while shopping.
I admit that I considered very little of this while the box gathered dust in my room. I wasn't displeased to receive a large box in the mail, but I'm mostly past the days where a box can ignite the child-like curiosity that I once knew. Years ago, or last week, I might have groaned at the thought of the material goods that my mother had chosen for me, but I think she's recently heeded my groans and began to focus her efforts again on the things that I need, eschewing the singing, dancing heart-shaped doo-hickeys. She's more adaptable than I've probably given her credit for. The skills she's taught me or I've absorbed through genetics probably also deserve more credit. My coworkers think that I'm organized. I've been reluctant to agree because I hold myself to the gold standard of organization- my mom. My calendar is not as complete, my desk not as clean, but I know where things are and I think a lot of that comes from her. The rest comes from Google Desktop search, but it didn't send me a Valentine, so no tributes there.
Beyond organization, there are other pieces of me that I can fairly easily attribute to my mother- a desire to please, an inner drive, an appreciation of family, and a fondness for holidays like today. Last night, as midnight approached, I decided I could no longer wait to find out the contents of the large box. The kid in me still exerts some pull. I peeled back the brown paper to find a bright shiny red box with a red and gold heart on top. It was so bright and surprising that I had to set it aside and smile. I readied myself to bed and waited for Valentine's Day to arrive. The Valentines used to arrive at breakfast, but while respect for tradition comes partly from Mom, sometimes patience runs out. At 12:08, I tore off the shiny red wrapping paper, ripped through the packing tape to find the closest thing I can think of to a hug. They were warm, in a room-temperature sort of way, fuzzy new bath towels. I don't think I've had new bath towels since college. I'd say I don't even want to talk about how excited they made me, but I think I just did.
Happy Valentine's Day. Here's to hugs, real or packaged.
A large brown-papered box arrived at my house over a week ago. Even without the "Happy Valentine's Day" sticker, I knew what it was for. I don't get large boxes as often as some people might think. It was early because my mom wouldn't be home to send it as today approached. I know folks who would send a gift late or even a few who have stopped giving their twenty-something children Valentines. Please do not doubt their love. My mom just happens to have at least two qualities that make early Valentine's Day presents into reality. She's very organized and she celebrates holidays enthusiastically. I can't be certain, mostly because I've never asked, but I think holidays might be my mom's race day. She has pins, and wreaths, and flags, and outfits for almost every major holiday. She launches all-out holiday attacks on the senses and she gives generously, especially when she finds something special while shopping.
I admit that I considered very little of this while the box gathered dust in my room. I wasn't displeased to receive a large box in the mail, but I'm mostly past the days where a box can ignite the child-like curiosity that I once knew. Years ago, or last week, I might have groaned at the thought of the material goods that my mother had chosen for me, but I think she's recently heeded my groans and began to focus her efforts again on the things that I need, eschewing the singing, dancing heart-shaped doo-hickeys. She's more adaptable than I've probably given her credit for. The skills she's taught me or I've absorbed through genetics probably also deserve more credit. My coworkers think that I'm organized. I've been reluctant to agree because I hold myself to the gold standard of organization- my mom. My calendar is not as complete, my desk not as clean, but I know where things are and I think a lot of that comes from her. The rest comes from Google Desktop search, but it didn't send me a Valentine, so no tributes there.
Beyond organization, there are other pieces of me that I can fairly easily attribute to my mother- a desire to please, an inner drive, an appreciation of family, and a fondness for holidays like today. Last night, as midnight approached, I decided I could no longer wait to find out the contents of the large box. The kid in me still exerts some pull. I peeled back the brown paper to find a bright shiny red box with a red and gold heart on top. It was so bright and surprising that I had to set it aside and smile. I readied myself to bed and waited for Valentine's Day to arrive. The Valentines used to arrive at breakfast, but while respect for tradition comes partly from Mom, sometimes patience runs out. At 12:08, I tore off the shiny red wrapping paper, ripped through the packing tape to find the closest thing I can think of to a hug. They were warm, in a room-temperature sort of way, fuzzy new bath towels. I don't think I've had new bath towels since college. I'd say I don't even want to talk about how excited they made me, but I think I just did.
Happy Valentine's Day. Here's to hugs, real or packaged.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
2008 pieces of mail
It seems like just this time last year we started hearing from various candidates about their intentions to run for president. There was a barrage of media, and commercials, and phone calls, and now 360 some-odd days later, we finally get to vote... in the primaries. Aren't these people governors and senators? Don't they have actual jobs to do? How do they have so much time to run for office?
With those questions in mind, I turn to my mailbox, the most overstuffed political consultant I know. Almost every day, I get something new touting the incredible nature/policy/lack-of-other-candidateness of yet another candidate. I've reached a breaking point. I don't want any more junk mail. I'm thinking of becoming a one-issue voter. My issue? Junk mail. I'm going to start voting for the candidates that don't fill my mailbox, don't call me at dinner, and don't fill in "Tivo" time. It's time for the quiet ones to rise to prominence. I fear that this will help the incumbents, but it will also help the write-ins. That's good news for Donald Duck.
It seems like just this time last year we started hearing from various candidates about their intentions to run for president. There was a barrage of media, and commercials, and phone calls, and now 360 some-odd days later, we finally get to vote... in the primaries. Aren't these people governors and senators? Don't they have actual jobs to do? How do they have so much time to run for office?
With those questions in mind, I turn to my mailbox, the most overstuffed political consultant I know. Almost every day, I get something new touting the incredible nature/policy/lack-of-other-candidateness of yet another candidate. I've reached a breaking point. I don't want any more junk mail. I'm thinking of becoming a one-issue voter. My issue? Junk mail. I'm going to start voting for the candidates that don't fill my mailbox, don't call me at dinner, and don't fill in "Tivo" time. It's time for the quiet ones to rise to prominence. I fear that this will help the incumbents, but it will also help the write-ins. That's good news for Donald Duck.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Just another love note to running; not epic poetry
There was a light frost on the ground that gave the brown grass a grayer tint and confused the boundary between sod and sky. The air was crisp and held breath up for closer examination. The sun lurked beneath a thin layer of clouds, but even in the ticks before the 8 o'clock hour, evidence of February warmth began to peek through.
My friend and I were about to embark on a 5-mile race on a country road in Maryland. I don't have a lot of friends who would wake up on any day looking for a race. I consider this another reason to be thankful for this one. I knew from our run on Thursday that he has a spring in his step that doesn't seem to match his age. My stride feels weary, but he bounds. Just before we made our way to the starting line of the race, I assured him that if he felt up to it he should run on ahead of me. I don't often make such assurances, but I consider it a mark of maturity that I made this one. He knew my goal was once again to break 30 minutes and improve on the performance of 2 weeks ago. We ran together slightly off the lead pack for a little over three quarters of a mile. Then my friend bounded. I watched him pull away almost instantly. He crossed the mile around 5:43. I crossed 10 seconds later in 5:53. Sighing to myself, I considered how this race was beginning just like the last one.
Singing John Denver's song "Country Road", or at least two lines of it, country road, take me home, I made my way up the hills of mile 2, as my friend pulled further away. I could see him cross the second mile right on pace at about 12 minutes. I, on the other hand, had slowed to something around 12:22. I briefly thought of my 4 and a half hours of sleep the night before, the fruity but stout Belgian beer I had enjoyed and hopefully flushed from my system, and the insane barking of the otherwise charming lead singer of Sunny Day in Glasgow. I am not the runner I once was. He would have gone to bed early. With the turn on the out and back course looming, I banished the thoughts, waved to my friend and crossed the halfway point at 15:30.
Downhill started then. It was pleasant in a pounding sort of way. The country road now was taking me home, or at least in the right direction. I don't really recall what my time was at mile 3, though speculation and extrapolation leads me think that it was right about 18:30. I'd sort of lost contact with my friend and thoughts of him were momentarily shelved. I had more immediate goals, like overtaking the man in front of me and moving this race along. Gaining on a man in black, I was startled when out of the corner of my eye I saw a large black and brown dog headed in the direction of the course. With a burst of speed from sheer terror, I sped past my aim exclaiming, "That's motivation!" as the dog turned to parallel our route along what I can only assume was an electric fence. That burst of energy and the downhill nature of the course allowed the gap between my friend, his current running group, and me to shrink noticeably. As I ripped through a 5:25ish mile, cruising now at 23:52 with just a mile left, I began to have visions of meeting my goal and overtaking my friend.
No slouch was he, as he was able to find his way out of the group he had been with, and let them crumble behind him. I passed them as well, gaining slightly, but realizing that there was still a large challenge left before me. As the gap closed a little more, I began to feel the distance I'd made up so quickly down the hill after mile 3. Then I began to feel the upward slope toward the finish that seem to be the sadistic trademark of the race planners of this particular club. It was nothing like two weeks ago, though my mind did pause to remind me of that. Still, I asked my legs for more, but they were not particularly interested. I'd closed to within 10 yards or so when I spied the finish. With 200 meters to go, my kick was almost non-existent and it was matched (easily? He politely won't say.) by my friend. He finished in 29:28 and I in 29:36. We ran together for something like 6 minutes, but in the true spirit of competition, I believe we pushed each other the whole way. I look forward to another opportunity for personal records, for friendship, for competition.
There was a light frost on the ground that gave the brown grass a grayer tint and confused the boundary between sod and sky. The air was crisp and held breath up for closer examination. The sun lurked beneath a thin layer of clouds, but even in the ticks before the 8 o'clock hour, evidence of February warmth began to peek through.
My friend and I were about to embark on a 5-mile race on a country road in Maryland. I don't have a lot of friends who would wake up on any day looking for a race. I consider this another reason to be thankful for this one. I knew from our run on Thursday that he has a spring in his step that doesn't seem to match his age. My stride feels weary, but he bounds. Just before we made our way to the starting line of the race, I assured him that if he felt up to it he should run on ahead of me. I don't often make such assurances, but I consider it a mark of maturity that I made this one. He knew my goal was once again to break 30 minutes and improve on the performance of 2 weeks ago. We ran together slightly off the lead pack for a little over three quarters of a mile. Then my friend bounded. I watched him pull away almost instantly. He crossed the mile around 5:43. I crossed 10 seconds later in 5:53. Sighing to myself, I considered how this race was beginning just like the last one.
Singing John Denver's song "Country Road", or at least two lines of it, country road, take me home, I made my way up the hills of mile 2, as my friend pulled further away. I could see him cross the second mile right on pace at about 12 minutes. I, on the other hand, had slowed to something around 12:22. I briefly thought of my 4 and a half hours of sleep the night before, the fruity but stout Belgian beer I had enjoyed and hopefully flushed from my system, and the insane barking of the otherwise charming lead singer of Sunny Day in Glasgow. I am not the runner I once was. He would have gone to bed early. With the turn on the out and back course looming, I banished the thoughts, waved to my friend and crossed the halfway point at 15:30.
Downhill started then. It was pleasant in a pounding sort of way. The country road now was taking me home, or at least in the right direction. I don't really recall what my time was at mile 3, though speculation and extrapolation leads me think that it was right about 18:30. I'd sort of lost contact with my friend and thoughts of him were momentarily shelved. I had more immediate goals, like overtaking the man in front of me and moving this race along. Gaining on a man in black, I was startled when out of the corner of my eye I saw a large black and brown dog headed in the direction of the course. With a burst of speed from sheer terror, I sped past my aim exclaiming, "That's motivation!" as the dog turned to parallel our route along what I can only assume was an electric fence. That burst of energy and the downhill nature of the course allowed the gap between my friend, his current running group, and me to shrink noticeably. As I ripped through a 5:25ish mile, cruising now at 23:52 with just a mile left, I began to have visions of meeting my goal and overtaking my friend.
No slouch was he, as he was able to find his way out of the group he had been with, and let them crumble behind him. I passed them as well, gaining slightly, but realizing that there was still a large challenge left before me. As the gap closed a little more, I began to feel the distance I'd made up so quickly down the hill after mile 3. Then I began to feel the upward slope toward the finish that seem to be the sadistic trademark of the race planners of this particular club. It was nothing like two weeks ago, though my mind did pause to remind me of that. Still, I asked my legs for more, but they were not particularly interested. I'd closed to within 10 yards or so when I spied the finish. With 200 meters to go, my kick was almost non-existent and it was matched (easily? He politely won't say.) by my friend. He finished in 29:28 and I in 29:36. We ran together for something like 6 minutes, but in the true spirit of competition, I believe we pushed each other the whole way. I look forward to another opportunity for personal records, for friendship, for competition.
Go to the fridge during the game
There are 4 Super Bowl ads that I feel the need to mention and react to in some way, mostly negatively, which may say something about me. They are also all liquids which may say even more; like I was thirsty.
1. SoBe LifeWater- these ads were kind of dumb. I don't really know what to make of LifeWater (if that's what it was even called.) I guess I'll drink it if I want to dance with lizards. Isn't that why I have Geico insurance or is that just for the talking?
2. Gatorade- This ad broke my heart and not in a "aw, we were so close to making things work" sort of way, but in a "Gatorade, WTF?" I get that they were falling in the babies, animals, sex syllabus of selling, but Gatorade is one of those products that has the potential to make me want to get up off the couch and be somebody. Maybe they are searching for a new market that includes dogs? I'm uninspired, disappointed, and reconsidering LifeWater and the lizards.
3. Coke- This ad containing parade floats chasing Coke was intriguing and kind of fun to watch, but I'm at a loss as to what to do with the end. Charlie Brown ends up with the highly sought after bottle of cola. Doesn't this go against the very thing we love about Charlie Brown? Is this a slap in the face to the memory of Schulz? Charlie Brown is the lovable everyman who doesn't kick the field goal, doesn't win the game, doesn't get the red-headed girl, so how does he end up with the Coke? I need more back-story or I need someone else to end up with the Coke. Good Grief.
4. Amp- I guess this is my winner. When the winner involves a large man attaching jumper cables to his nipples, this was a year when the game outplayed the ads. I don't want to downplay this one completely. It was horrifyingly appealing to watch and about an energy drink, so right on target in my mind.
There are 4 Super Bowl ads that I feel the need to mention and react to in some way, mostly negatively, which may say something about me. They are also all liquids which may say even more; like I was thirsty.
1. SoBe LifeWater- these ads were kind of dumb. I don't really know what to make of LifeWater (if that's what it was even called.) I guess I'll drink it if I want to dance with lizards. Isn't that why I have Geico insurance or is that just for the talking?
2. Gatorade- This ad broke my heart and not in a "aw, we were so close to making things work" sort of way, but in a "Gatorade, WTF?" I get that they were falling in the babies, animals, sex syllabus of selling, but Gatorade is one of those products that has the potential to make me want to get up off the couch and be somebody. Maybe they are searching for a new market that includes dogs? I'm uninspired, disappointed, and reconsidering LifeWater and the lizards.
3. Coke- This ad containing parade floats chasing Coke was intriguing and kind of fun to watch, but I'm at a loss as to what to do with the end. Charlie Brown ends up with the highly sought after bottle of cola. Doesn't this go against the very thing we love about Charlie Brown? Is this a slap in the face to the memory of Schulz? Charlie Brown is the lovable everyman who doesn't kick the field goal, doesn't win the game, doesn't get the red-headed girl, so how does he end up with the Coke? I need more back-story or I need someone else to end up with the Coke. Good Grief.
4. Amp- I guess this is my winner. When the winner involves a large man attaching jumper cables to his nipples, this was a year when the game outplayed the ads. I don't want to downplay this one completely. It was horrifyingly appealing to watch and about an energy drink, so right on target in my mind.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Go back in time and get the Lemonade!
I stopped my feet from bouncing so I could reach up into the sky and wave my fingers around vigorously, a bit like I was conducting an orchestra of hummingbirds. This and the seizure-like bobs of a 1:15 AM madman are the apparent results of an iced coffee some hours ago. It started innocently enough with an order of lemonade. Feet pound on a non-existent bass drum. Hand seizures now violently direct traffic to the right The waitress, a sensible looking woman of low to mid twenty decried her establishment's lemonade with some remark about its unappealing fountain nature.
"Too sweet?" I asked. As my arms and my brain spin in opposite directions I am unable to recall her answer. Her look spoke volumes. She I point angrily channeling Lewis Black had a disdain for the lemonade which I took seriously. Not wanting the carbonated beverages of the Coca-Cola empire, I instead decided that an iced coffee with my 9 PM dinner would be wise. AN ICED COFFEE. I get some caffeine, but in no way have a tolerance wrists like pinwheels; bouncing has made its way up my spine.
Now I pay the price. I could've had gesticulating wildlya piss-poor glass of lemonade and been out by 11:30, instead masticating the air and punctuating my point with a powerful jab downward I chose poorly. Very poorly. Sleep does not just elude my grasp. I can barely recall the nature of sleep. Instead I want to grab my banjo, which hasn't been played in some months, and pick a tune. Wait. Wait. I've got one. How about "Lemon, Lemon, pick the Lemonade, you ridiculous little man from 5 hours ago."
It's not that well known.
I stopped my feet from bouncing so I could reach up into the sky and wave my fingers around vigorously, a bit like I was conducting an orchestra of hummingbirds. This and the seizure-like bobs of a 1:15 AM madman are the apparent results of an iced coffee some hours ago. It started innocently enough with an order of lemonade. Feet pound on a non-existent bass drum. Hand seizures now violently direct traffic to the right The waitress, a sensible looking woman of low to mid twenty decried her establishment's lemonade with some remark about its unappealing fountain nature.
"Too sweet?" I asked. As my arms and my brain spin in opposite directions I am unable to recall her answer. Her look spoke volumes. She I point angrily channeling Lewis Black had a disdain for the lemonade which I took seriously. Not wanting the carbonated beverages of the Coca-Cola empire, I instead decided that an iced coffee with my 9 PM dinner would be wise. AN ICED COFFEE. I get some caffeine, but in no way have a tolerance wrists like pinwheels; bouncing has made its way up my spine.
Now I pay the price. I could've had gesticulating wildlya piss-poor glass of lemonade and been out by 11:30, instead masticating the air and punctuating my point with a powerful jab downward I chose poorly. Very poorly. Sleep does not just elude my grasp. I can barely recall the nature of sleep. Instead I want to grab my banjo, which hasn't been played in some months, and pick a tune. Wait. Wait. I've got one. How about "Lemon, Lemon, pick the Lemonade, you ridiculous little man from 5 hours ago."
It's not that well known.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Like the substitute mailman,
I kind of deliver. The gym was quite a challenge today. The gym is down in the basement of my building, but I managed to make three trips before successfully entering. I don't even remember what I forgot on my first trip; I then proceeded to forget my shoes, which required a hike back up the stairs and then my ID. After that, it was smooth sailing through 30 minutes of stationary bike and two sets of something or other before the fire alarm went off. My self-preservation instinct kicks in when the fire alarm starts going. There are some that will dilly and others that will dally, but among my coworkers I tend to be one of the first people out the door. Today, I took a calculated risk, considered my future as a charcoal briquette and gathered my stuff from the locker room before darting outside. I did encounter a naked man who asked, "Should I go out like this?" I said, "yes", but didn't stick around to see whether he followed my advice. Unlike my workout, I survived intact. Like my workout, I made my way home half-dressed and sweaty.
My dentist and my mom think my smile is great
I picked my dentist for two reasons- he's close and he's open after traditional business hours. I did not pick him because of his day job- prison dentist. I am not kidding. He's a little rough, but claims to be gentle on the paying customers like me. He thinks my teeth are amazing, but I always try to remember his baseline. If that's not enough to create the curious dental experience, his receptionist seems greatly disappointed when my cleaning does not result in money-making procedures like root canals and fillings. I don't know what to say except that as odd and off-putting as this experience continues to be, it's still better than my doctor's visits where I feel like the doc just doesn't care. Go Health Care! Go US of A!
I kind of deliver. The gym was quite a challenge today. The gym is down in the basement of my building, but I managed to make three trips before successfully entering. I don't even remember what I forgot on my first trip; I then proceeded to forget my shoes, which required a hike back up the stairs and then my ID. After that, it was smooth sailing through 30 minutes of stationary bike and two sets of something or other before the fire alarm went off. My self-preservation instinct kicks in when the fire alarm starts going. There are some that will dilly and others that will dally, but among my coworkers I tend to be one of the first people out the door. Today, I took a calculated risk, considered my future as a charcoal briquette and gathered my stuff from the locker room before darting outside. I did encounter a naked man who asked, "Should I go out like this?" I said, "yes", but didn't stick around to see whether he followed my advice. Unlike my workout, I survived intact. Like my workout, I made my way home half-dressed and sweaty.
My dentist and my mom think my smile is great
I picked my dentist for two reasons- he's close and he's open after traditional business hours. I did not pick him because of his day job- prison dentist. I am not kidding. He's a little rough, but claims to be gentle on the paying customers like me. He thinks my teeth are amazing, but I always try to remember his baseline. If that's not enough to create the curious dental experience, his receptionist seems greatly disappointed when my cleaning does not result in money-making procedures like root canals and fillings. I don't know what to say except that as odd and off-putting as this experience continues to be, it's still better than my doctor's visits where I feel like the doc just doesn't care. Go Health Care! Go US of A!
Monday, January 28, 2008
The Great Debate
I took the easy road yesterday. I turned to movie reviews and imdb. The post I really wanted to write, the post that I'm still not sure I can get out was about the debate that raged inside of me.
What could cause my insides to roil on a Sunday afternoon? I had a movie to choose. Should I see 27 dresses or Atonement? It seems that a person like me could distill such a decision down to its most attractive...er...simplest parts and make this merely a question of Heigl vs. Knightley. Alas, a decision such as this turned out to be far more complicated.
I didn't know much about either movie, but by the few things I did know it appeared that 27 dresses was the cotton candy and Atonement was the apple, likely sans caramel coating. I sensed that even though Keira would be up there in big screen glory, I might have to work at it. I might have to be sad or upset or actually care. The more I thought about this, the more I realized that all I really wanted was to be entertained with little to no effort. I sensed that Katherine could deliver. Still, I struggled with my decision. I was about to spend $10.25 on a movie that I didn't really want to care much about. What was I saying with my dollars and cents? Please, Hollywood, make cotton candy because I don't want to be bothered. I want cheap thrills and easy laughs. I don't really want to think or feel, I just want you to kill a couple of hours and tie it up with a nice lavender bow for me. If I make this decision, how many heterosexual males just like me will make the same decision? Ok, wrong question, but how many times do we choose easy over more challenging? How many times is that right? And if we keep doing it will the more challenging options disappear? Will we lose the ones that force us to examine ourselves or the world in a different way? I don't even know if Atonement manages that or if that's what it means to be art.
Sheesh. No wonder I went to see 27 dresses. By the time I was done pontificating about which movie to go to, I was too tired to think any more. Or more likely, my primary solace in my decision is that I figure eventually Keira will woo me to the theater. I'm probably going to work, just not on Sunday.
I took the easy road yesterday. I turned to movie reviews and imdb. The post I really wanted to write, the post that I'm still not sure I can get out was about the debate that raged inside of me.
What could cause my insides to roil on a Sunday afternoon? I had a movie to choose. Should I see 27 dresses or Atonement? It seems that a person like me could distill such a decision down to its most attractive...er...simplest parts and make this merely a question of Heigl vs. Knightley. Alas, a decision such as this turned out to be far more complicated.
I didn't know much about either movie, but by the few things I did know it appeared that 27 dresses was the cotton candy and Atonement was the apple, likely sans caramel coating. I sensed that even though Keira would be up there in big screen glory, I might have to work at it. I might have to be sad or upset or actually care. The more I thought about this, the more I realized that all I really wanted was to be entertained with little to no effort. I sensed that Katherine could deliver. Still, I struggled with my decision. I was about to spend $10.25 on a movie that I didn't really want to care much about. What was I saying with my dollars and cents? Please, Hollywood, make cotton candy because I don't want to be bothered. I want cheap thrills and easy laughs. I don't really want to think or feel, I just want you to kill a couple of hours and tie it up with a nice lavender bow for me. If I make this decision, how many heterosexual males just like me will make the same decision? Ok, wrong question, but how many times do we choose easy over more challenging? How many times is that right? And if we keep doing it will the more challenging options disappear? Will we lose the ones that force us to examine ourselves or the world in a different way? I don't even know if Atonement manages that or if that's what it means to be art.
Sheesh. No wonder I went to see 27 dresses. By the time I was done pontificating about which movie to go to, I was too tired to think any more. Or more likely, my primary solace in my decision is that I figure eventually Keira will woo me to the theater. I'm probably going to work, just not on Sunday.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
27 dresses meets or exceeds low expectations
There is something about the romantic comedy that keeps me coming back for more. I don't think I've been particularly pleased with one since Notting Hill. What was that, 1995? Imdb.com says 1999 actually, so the drought is not as long as I suspected.
There have been a few during that time that I had high hopes for- Serendipity, Music and Lyrics to name two and at least one, Once that doesn't really fall in the same genre, but was pretty special. For the most part, this genre is a parade of cliches. 27 dresses marches on to the beat of the same drummer, but Katherine Heigl is just lovely enough to make things ok.
I think the something that keeps me coming back is the happy ending. When the happy ending doesn't do it for me anymore, I think that's when it's time to start worrying.
Additionally, further research indicates that in June, The Time Traveler's Wife starring Rachel McAdams (!) will hit theaters. There will be high expectations when one of my favorite books turns into a movie starring one of my favorite actresses, but it's about time for this drought to end.
There is something about the romantic comedy that keeps me coming back for more. I don't think I've been particularly pleased with one since Notting Hill. What was that, 1995? Imdb.com says 1999 actually, so the drought is not as long as I suspected.
There have been a few during that time that I had high hopes for- Serendipity, Music and Lyrics to name two and at least one, Once that doesn't really fall in the same genre, but was pretty special. For the most part, this genre is a parade of cliches. 27 dresses marches on to the beat of the same drummer, but Katherine Heigl is just lovely enough to make things ok.
I think the something that keeps me coming back is the happy ending. When the happy ending doesn't do it for me anymore, I think that's when it's time to start worrying.
Additionally, further research indicates that in June, The Time Traveler's Wife starring Rachel McAdams (!) will hit theaters. There will be high expectations when one of my favorite books turns into a movie starring one of my favorite actresses, but it's about time for this drought to end.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Ah! The cinema!
Every so often a movie comes along that makes me want to grab someone's hand and go running through the streets.
Spirit of the Marathon is that movie. I could sense a closeness in the crowd immediately; it was the kind of vibe that usually surfaces at highly anticipated comic book movies, the difference here was that these were my people. The crowd was full of runners. Most of them may not have had the joys of a pre-movie run like my fine friends and me, but I could sense that most had been bitten by the running bug now and again.
I don't know what this movie would be like for the non-runner, but it gave me chills. It's put together so well and it helped me recall almost all of the trials and the triumphs of my marathon experience in 2004. On top of that pleasure, it manages to illuminate some other amazing stories including the elite marathoners. It's well shot providing both footage that gives some perspective to the vastness of the experience of tens of thousands of crazy people all pushing toward a goal as well as that individualized in the training and in the race perspective of the singular struggle.
It's awesome. I'm not sure I could get much more excited about a documentary unless it was about me. Maybe not even then because that might be both awkward and egomaniacal.
Every so often a movie comes along that makes me want to grab someone's hand and go running through the streets.
Spirit of the Marathon is that movie. I could sense a closeness in the crowd immediately; it was the kind of vibe that usually surfaces at highly anticipated comic book movies, the difference here was that these were my people. The crowd was full of runners. Most of them may not have had the joys of a pre-movie run like my fine friends and me, but I could sense that most had been bitten by the running bug now and again.
I don't know what this movie would be like for the non-runner, but it gave me chills. It's put together so well and it helped me recall almost all of the trials and the triumphs of my marathon experience in 2004. On top of that pleasure, it manages to illuminate some other amazing stories including the elite marathoners. It's well shot providing both footage that gives some perspective to the vastness of the experience of tens of thousands of crazy people all pushing toward a goal as well as that individualized in the training and in the race perspective of the singular struggle.
It's awesome. I'm not sure I could get much more excited about a documentary unless it was about me. Maybe not even then because that might be both awkward and egomaniacal.
Monday, January 21, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
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."
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."
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
"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..."
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..."
Sunday, January 13, 2008
"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...
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...
Thursday, January 10, 2008
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."
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."
Monday, January 07, 2008
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.)
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.)
Saturday, January 05, 2008
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.
- 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.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
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.
-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.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
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!
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!
Monday, December 31, 2007
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
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
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.
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.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
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
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
Sunday, November 18, 2007
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!
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!
Sunday, November 04, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
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...
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...
Sunday, October 28, 2007
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 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.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
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!
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!
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, October 19, 2007
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'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.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
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?
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?
Monday, October 01, 2007
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?.
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?.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
"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.
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.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
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?
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?
Friday, August 24, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, August 13, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, August 06, 2007
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
(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
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
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.
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.
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