"Do I have to remind you the meaning of forgot?"
I went to Paris a few weeks ago. I tried to write a little about my day every night. I'm planning to share that here. Before I start I should probably introduce the major players in this drama. We have Alan: his camera was almost always on, his French grew by leaps and bounds and molded nicely with English, Spanish, and gibberish into some sort of Franglaisish, and his eyes were always peeled for scavenger hunt items. He was one half of the super cool couple that helped make this all possible. The other half was Megan: she was our French expert, always ready for a meal or some shuteye, and snapping a high number of photos clandestinely. I was the mild-mannered third wheel, knowing just enough French to be annoying, but pushing the pace just enough to be charming. Or so I like to believe. Jean-Claudius, the Connecticut college camel made many guest appearances, particularly in pictures, while Allen and Lauren proved wonderful when we lacked direction or nutella. Also look for appearances from the French activist in blue and the Franprix.
Paris journal Day one
I should be exhausted right now and I probably am, but I can't quite tell. The day has been eventful. We arrived 5:30 AM Paris time on very little sleep, despite my best hopes or intentions. We found Alan's sister's place with relative ease, the rolling suitcases clacking on cobblestones and threatening to wake up the whole of the Ile St. Louis. In the morning spit of Paris clouds, we then made our way to meet the landlord of the apartment I was renting for the week. By 9:30 AM, we realized he probably wasn't coming, so I called him (who knows how much that cost) and sorted out the difference between 9 AM and 9 PM. Ah, I hate to be a foolish American. We wandered around the area for an hour, finding some interesting sites, but mainly we all craved sleep. Finally, we got into the well-lit home of mine for the week and crashed. We could only sleep until 12:30 because we had plans to run at hash at 2 PM (1400). As we struggled from bed, the wisdom of this decision was called heavily into question, but months of planning would not be undone by our lack of sleep. After some wrestling with Metro farecards, we made our way to the hash meeting place to find no one. Worried and disappointed, we searched for possible hashers. Just as we were about to give up, we found them. They spoke English and were quite friendly.
We hashed with the oddities that come from a hash and the added oddities that come from an unfamiliar hash. Alan pointed out my exhaustion later noting that I took every possible opportunity to walk and rest. I survived the circle, consuming a touch over my usual two drinks, and pouring another drink or so onto my exposed noggin. This was all well and good, but the real story turned out to be the post hash festivities. They were truly grand. We were fed quite well, including warm chicken and rice. We had ample opportunity to mingle, including my chance to converse with a sweet French woman with a disarming smile. I conversed (in English) as long as my tired mind would allow. I was proud of my efforts on that front; after all my dad told me to talk to the French girls. The amazing part of the whole experience was how warm and real it made Paris seem. After the hash, we labored to stay awake for a few more hours to hopefully reduce the effects of jet-lag. It was a great first day of activity.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Pie: The great motivator
I race for many reasons, but few are as tangible as pie. Some days ago, near March 14 (3.14) I raced in a Pi race of 3.14 miles and the prize was pie. Engineers are nothing if not dedicated to a concept.
When I first arrived at the race, I found sleepy college students and I figured that the race would be cake. The beast relished the thought. Pie was my destiny and my destiny was pie. As the race got closer, fitter, trimmer, athletic-looking student bodies began to appear and I realized that the pie could not be cake. When the race began, I got off to a traditionally slower start and had to fight my way through some runners to position myself 5 yards back of the leaders. There was a likely pace runner who had every plan to leave us in the dust, but I trusted that as a race official he would give up his pie, so that left me and my two pie-vying rivals. A little over 5 minutes into the race, I picked off one of the runners, and set my sights on the other. We were moving quickly, but I had a pie or bust feeling coursing through me.
The course was two loops and I crossed the first loop in about 8:20. At that time, the pacesetter was not yet out of reach, and my pie-enemy was still nursing a 5 to 10 yard lead. He seemed comfortable, but was he hungry? By the next hill, I had closed the gap and passed him. If I could shake him, the pie was mine. My lead was short-lived and he quickly passed me back. I had some choices to make and most of them revolved around inner fortitude and pie. For some reason, I really wanted pie. I don't even like pie that much. On a list of my favorite desserts, pie is not even in the top 5. Oh, but today, I wanted that pie. I didn't let my competitor slip away. Instead, I again managed to overtake him and with less than half a mile to go, I began to lay claim to my pie. Then came the final hill. I struggled up it. I looked back to see my competition moving more fluidly. As we rounded the curve to the final flat 80 meters, he drew even with me. I wanted that pie, so I reached in and I began to kick. Pie was a medal. Pie was qualifying for the state meet. Pie was not being beat by that high school nemesis Pete Castor. The line couldn't come fast enough for me, but with pie representing so much, I was able to edge out my competitor and take home the pie in a time of 17:23.
The second lap had taken its toll on us both, but we finished with a flourish. I split my pie with my competitor. It was a gesture I never would have or could have made many years ago. The beast is awake- he likes pie, and he likes competition. Sometimes, he also likes sharing.
I race for many reasons, but few are as tangible as pie. Some days ago, near March 14 (3.14) I raced in a Pi race of 3.14 miles and the prize was pie. Engineers are nothing if not dedicated to a concept.
When I first arrived at the race, I found sleepy college students and I figured that the race would be cake. The beast relished the thought. Pie was my destiny and my destiny was pie. As the race got closer, fitter, trimmer, athletic-looking student bodies began to appear and I realized that the pie could not be cake. When the race began, I got off to a traditionally slower start and had to fight my way through some runners to position myself 5 yards back of the leaders. There was a likely pace runner who had every plan to leave us in the dust, but I trusted that as a race official he would give up his pie, so that left me and my two pie-vying rivals. A little over 5 minutes into the race, I picked off one of the runners, and set my sights on the other. We were moving quickly, but I had a pie or bust feeling coursing through me.
The course was two loops and I crossed the first loop in about 8:20. At that time, the pacesetter was not yet out of reach, and my pie-enemy was still nursing a 5 to 10 yard lead. He seemed comfortable, but was he hungry? By the next hill, I had closed the gap and passed him. If I could shake him, the pie was mine. My lead was short-lived and he quickly passed me back. I had some choices to make and most of them revolved around inner fortitude and pie. For some reason, I really wanted pie. I don't even like pie that much. On a list of my favorite desserts, pie is not even in the top 5. Oh, but today, I wanted that pie. I didn't let my competitor slip away. Instead, I again managed to overtake him and with less than half a mile to go, I began to lay claim to my pie. Then came the final hill. I struggled up it. I looked back to see my competition moving more fluidly. As we rounded the curve to the final flat 80 meters, he drew even with me. I wanted that pie, so I reached in and I began to kick. Pie was a medal. Pie was qualifying for the state meet. Pie was not being beat by that high school nemesis Pete Castor. The line couldn't come fast enough for me, but with pie representing so much, I was able to edge out my competitor and take home the pie in a time of 17:23.
The second lap had taken its toll on us both, but we finished with a flourish. I split my pie with my competitor. It was a gesture I never would have or could have made many years ago. The beast is awake- he likes pie, and he likes competition. Sometimes, he also likes sharing.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Hello competition, my old friend.
I joined the running group again this week and for the first time crossed paths with the group's "fast guy". There were three of us planning to run together on this evening. We started out slowly, but it wasn't long before we were moving at a pace that my training runs have not taken very often over the last few years. I struggled to keep up, surprised by the pace and trying not to get lost on the turns of an unfamiliar route. After willing my body through 15 minutes of pretty hard running, the other two started to slow and I was able to settle in more comfortably, at least in pace.
Inside of my head, a battle raged. "Crush them" growled the no-longer-sleeping beast of competitiveness.
"Now, beast, this is a friendly run and there is nothing to prove," explained the calmer voice in my head.
"They pushed the pace this far. Now is your chance to hurt them back," the beast growled. "They deserve crushing."
"Settle down. We're trying to make friends here. We can save the crushing for race day," said the calm voice. "Besides, we don't really know the route."
The beast would not go quietly, but eventually was subdued. I returned to struggling to keep up. I realized that the beast is too well rested and not well enough trained. This marks the beginning of an inclination to let the beast out more often.
I joined the running group again this week and for the first time crossed paths with the group's "fast guy". There were three of us planning to run together on this evening. We started out slowly, but it wasn't long before we were moving at a pace that my training runs have not taken very often over the last few years. I struggled to keep up, surprised by the pace and trying not to get lost on the turns of an unfamiliar route. After willing my body through 15 minutes of pretty hard running, the other two started to slow and I was able to settle in more comfortably, at least in pace.
Inside of my head, a battle raged. "Crush them" growled the no-longer-sleeping beast of competitiveness.
"Now, beast, this is a friendly run and there is nothing to prove," explained the calmer voice in my head.
"They pushed the pace this far. Now is your chance to hurt them back," the beast growled. "They deserve crushing."
"Settle down. We're trying to make friends here. We can save the crushing for race day," said the calm voice. "Besides, we don't really know the route."
The beast would not go quietly, but eventually was subdued. I returned to struggling to keep up. I realized that the beast is too well rested and not well enough trained. This marks the beginning of an inclination to let the beast out more often.
Monday, March 10, 2008
A lackluster race is still a good way to start the day
The lost hour, the return of darkness, the cocoon of sheets and blankets are all possible causes for my lack of Sunday morning enthusiasm. It was race day. Race day usually means jittery nerves and a joyous outlook on life, but this Sunday it primarily meant that my clock said 7:00 AM and my body felt 6:00 AM. I stumbled through a pre-sunshine grey, unable to even put in race day contacts, opting instead for the less competitive, less aerodynamic spectacles.
Outside it was cold, freezing even; the 70 degrees of last Tuesday forgotten under a black layer of thermal wear. The borrowed car couldn't heat fast enough and my teeth clacked. Spots of ice dotted the first section of the course, but a short warm up assuaged any fears that ice would be a constant concern. The trails were rolling and clear, gravity had taken water on an alternate route.
Runners gathered around the indoor registration tables, neither huddling together nor rushing out to the starting line. With the start time approaching, I shed one layer and headed back out into the cold with the masses. It wasn't warmth that greeted me, but I knew that I still had on too many clothes. Turning around, I fought back through the school of fish headed to the line and shed another layer. Down to shorts, a long sleeve shirt, and my Bad Habit jersey, nun poised for a fight, I donned my stocking cap and made my way to the starting line. As soon as I stepped out again a gust of wind called my decision into question, but the wind quieted as quickly as it had threatened my internal organs with the prospect of solidifying into a frozen mass.
After Go, I found myself jostling to position myself comfortably and avoid the ice patches. Within 200 meters, I was in third. At about 400 meters of this 5 km affair, the neck of the second place runner rose up. He glanced around uncomfortably and downshifted. I was in second and chasing a strong-looking leader. His pace was licking the heels of my discomfort, but we were already alone. My only choices seemed to be run alone or fight to stay on him. I chose the latter.
He pressed on through the mile at 5:32. As we climbed the hill, the recreational nature of my training whispered like wind through the leafless trees. I spent the next half mile or so clinging to an expanding gap between us. He never looked back. Alone in the trees, bobbing up and down the hills of a concrete path I ran on, my focus shifting back and forth from the hopes of a second wind to the fear of an epic collapse. My lungs filled with cold air and wouldn't expand the way I'd hoped. My legs chopped along up and down and up and down, but never quite found the smooth stride that can momentarily take the pain away. I crossed the 2-mile in 11:32 and carried on to the finish. It was the sun, the volunteer race officials, and me; even as I looped past runners on an earlier section of the course, I could only grimace and try not to clip them with what had begun to feel like flailing. I crested the final hill still in a competitive no man's land. With my head cocked I summoned a small surge to carry the boxing nun on my hip to a finish in 18:31.
The lost hour, the return of darkness, the cocoon of sheets and blankets are all possible causes for my lack of Sunday morning enthusiasm. It was race day. Race day usually means jittery nerves and a joyous outlook on life, but this Sunday it primarily meant that my clock said 7:00 AM and my body felt 6:00 AM. I stumbled through a pre-sunshine grey, unable to even put in race day contacts, opting instead for the less competitive, less aerodynamic spectacles.
Outside it was cold, freezing even; the 70 degrees of last Tuesday forgotten under a black layer of thermal wear. The borrowed car couldn't heat fast enough and my teeth clacked. Spots of ice dotted the first section of the course, but a short warm up assuaged any fears that ice would be a constant concern. The trails were rolling and clear, gravity had taken water on an alternate route.
Runners gathered around the indoor registration tables, neither huddling together nor rushing out to the starting line. With the start time approaching, I shed one layer and headed back out into the cold with the masses. It wasn't warmth that greeted me, but I knew that I still had on too many clothes. Turning around, I fought back through the school of fish headed to the line and shed another layer. Down to shorts, a long sleeve shirt, and my Bad Habit jersey, nun poised for a fight, I donned my stocking cap and made my way to the starting line. As soon as I stepped out again a gust of wind called my decision into question, but the wind quieted as quickly as it had threatened my internal organs with the prospect of solidifying into a frozen mass.
After Go, I found myself jostling to position myself comfortably and avoid the ice patches. Within 200 meters, I was in third. At about 400 meters of this 5 km affair, the neck of the second place runner rose up. He glanced around uncomfortably and downshifted. I was in second and chasing a strong-looking leader. His pace was licking the heels of my discomfort, but we were already alone. My only choices seemed to be run alone or fight to stay on him. I chose the latter.
He pressed on through the mile at 5:32. As we climbed the hill, the recreational nature of my training whispered like wind through the leafless trees. I spent the next half mile or so clinging to an expanding gap between us. He never looked back. Alone in the trees, bobbing up and down the hills of a concrete path I ran on, my focus shifting back and forth from the hopes of a second wind to the fear of an epic collapse. My lungs filled with cold air and wouldn't expand the way I'd hoped. My legs chopped along up and down and up and down, but never quite found the smooth stride that can momentarily take the pain away. I crossed the 2-mile in 11:32 and carried on to the finish. It was the sun, the volunteer race officials, and me; even as I looped past runners on an earlier section of the course, I could only grimace and try not to clip them with what had begun to feel like flailing. I crested the final hill still in a competitive no man's land. With my head cocked I summoned a small surge to carry the boxing nun on my hip to a finish in 18:31.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Rellena long day
Six hours and one Quesadilla later, I have returned home. In some circles the quest for decent Mexican food might be warranted. There are likely some secret Tex-Mex hideouts in the Southwest that even the Tex-Mexicans have only heard through rumors carried on salsa-flavored wind. Maybe there are pockets of culinary mastery in small towns just the other side of the Rio Grande. For those hideouts and pockets, a six hour outing might not be unheard of, might even be rewarded, but here in Maryland, a trip to Salisbury for Mexican food might be a tad foolish. The heart of Wicomico county may be many things to many people, but mecca of Mexican is likely not one of them.
It's fair to say that our intent was not to travel long distances only to eat the tortillas of our Mary-Mex brothers and sisters. In fact, I was there, like many places, to be involved with Ultimate. The heavens had other ideas and poured rain down upon us in a way less like sheets and more like down comforters. Heavy stuff. Taking a cue from Happiness gurus, I've decided to focus on the positive.
Let me start with lunch. Without lunch, breakfast and dinner are very far apart. Let me continue with the company that I kept. There's a field trip-esque quality that comes with traveling in packs. It's easy to overlook that joy, especially at a WaWa where it turns out that the pack is also the line for the toilet. We take our lines wherever we go. It's like we leave the fun part of amusement parks and just carry the annoying part around in vans. I'm working on the positive; I'm no guru yet. There was a warmth, in 'Tini's laugh, in the unveiling of the bent digit, in the high-powered and confusing lemon juice, that will get lost between rain drops and ticking clocks. I greatly enjoyed witnessing sugar roulette, which wasn't as deadly as it sounds. The sun breaking through the clouds and poking rich green farmland was something out of a painting and the winds something out of a movie, like maybe Twister. We didn't see flying cows, and sometimes what isn't there can be just as positive.
Six hours and one Quesadilla later, I have returned home. In some circles the quest for decent Mexican food might be warranted. There are likely some secret Tex-Mex hideouts in the Southwest that even the Tex-Mexicans have only heard through rumors carried on salsa-flavored wind. Maybe there are pockets of culinary mastery in small towns just the other side of the Rio Grande. For those hideouts and pockets, a six hour outing might not be unheard of, might even be rewarded, but here in Maryland, a trip to Salisbury for Mexican food might be a tad foolish. The heart of Wicomico county may be many things to many people, but mecca of Mexican is likely not one of them.
It's fair to say that our intent was not to travel long distances only to eat the tortillas of our Mary-Mex brothers and sisters. In fact, I was there, like many places, to be involved with Ultimate. The heavens had other ideas and poured rain down upon us in a way less like sheets and more like down comforters. Heavy stuff. Taking a cue from Happiness gurus, I've decided to focus on the positive.
Let me start with lunch. Without lunch, breakfast and dinner are very far apart. Let me continue with the company that I kept. There's a field trip-esque quality that comes with traveling in packs. It's easy to overlook that joy, especially at a WaWa where it turns out that the pack is also the line for the toilet. We take our lines wherever we go. It's like we leave the fun part of amusement parks and just carry the annoying part around in vans. I'm working on the positive; I'm no guru yet. There was a warmth, in 'Tini's laugh, in the unveiling of the bent digit, in the high-powered and confusing lemon juice, that will get lost between rain drops and ticking clocks. I greatly enjoyed witnessing sugar roulette, which wasn't as deadly as it sounds. The sun breaking through the clouds and poking rich green farmland was something out of a painting and the winds something out of a movie, like maybe Twister. We didn't see flying cows, and sometimes what isn't there can be just as positive.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
J-J-Jaded
I'm a little giddy tonight because I finally made it to the local running store's 7 PM Tuesday run. It was free. It was very pleasant. Still, I couldn't help thinking that it was a brilliant marketing ploy. Brilliant may be too strong of a word since only 5 of us who weren't already employees actually went on the run, but certainly a very fine marketing ploy. I now have good will toward the store. I'll probably buy my next shoes from that very spot. I'll be telling the local runners I know, "Hey, this store puts on a weekly run, you should come join it." Then they'll come and they'll shop at this store and it will snowball like DC snow, so only a little, but still very fine, I say. But, but, but...
Maybe it's not a ploy. How can I tell a ploy from just plain good intentions? What happens if a ploy and good intentions overlap almost completely? Is that big, bad, and scary? Or just awesome?
Let's check in with Aerosmith- My, my, baby blue... and I'm the one that jaded you.
Ah, it's Steven Tyler's fault. Or more likely it's at least bordering on awesome. If we're going to live in a consumer-driven society the place where good intentions and ploy overlap is the place I think I want to be.
I'm a little giddy tonight because I finally made it to the local running store's 7 PM Tuesday run. It was free. It was very pleasant. Still, I couldn't help thinking that it was a brilliant marketing ploy. Brilliant may be too strong of a word since only 5 of us who weren't already employees actually went on the run, but certainly a very fine marketing ploy. I now have good will toward the store. I'll probably buy my next shoes from that very spot. I'll be telling the local runners I know, "Hey, this store puts on a weekly run, you should come join it." Then they'll come and they'll shop at this store and it will snowball like DC snow, so only a little, but still very fine, I say. But, but, but...
Maybe it's not a ploy. How can I tell a ploy from just plain good intentions? What happens if a ploy and good intentions overlap almost completely? Is that big, bad, and scary? Or just awesome?
Let's check in with Aerosmith- My, my, baby blue... and I'm the one that jaded you.
Ah, it's Steven Tyler's fault. Or more likely it's at least bordering on awesome. If we're going to live in a consumer-driven society the place where good intentions and ploy overlap is the place I think I want to be.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Any other year and it'd be March
The post was going to write itself. Traveling on the down escalator to baggage claim, I was contemplating cell phones. My anti-cell mojo has taken a series of hits. I don't have the conviction that once splashed across the computer screen. I've grown weak and my reasons for maintaining disconnected start sounding nostalgic before they leave my throat. Recently, I encountered a test to my cell-free existence. I was trying to meet friends- an event in and of itself that has changed in my lifetime. I was to call from a payphone when I arrived at the predetermined Metro station. From there my friends would pick me up and drive me to the show. Payphones are getting scarce, but they can be found in the Metro without difficulty. I packed my 50 cents, the going rate for a local call these days, and grabbed an envelope and scrawled the number that needed to be called across the top. Metro whisked me to my destination and I strode to the phone. Popping my quarters in and dialing the number, I called for a ride. I heard a voice on the other end and said, "Hello." Several "hellos" volleyed back and forth with increasing intensity on my side and increasing question on the other side. My initial reaction was that my leg was being pulled, but I soon realized that like my convictions, the payphone was faltering. Finally, my friend said, "Dave, if that's you, we're on the way to the Metro."
I hung up, walked away and wondered if I should try the other phone. I didn't have 50 more cents. I searched my pockets several times for a stray dime, but came up empty. I stood a little bewildered wondering what I should do when the payphone started ringing. At first I was stunned, but then I jogged over and picked it up. "Hello," I exclaimed.
"It rang four times and stopped," she said.
I wanted to tell her why, but I could only stare at the phone and then hang up as the universe laughed at me. Taking solace in our first exchange I made my way out of the ground and hoped that I'd spot the car that would carry me on. I looked for other payphones, but found none. I considered asking a kind stranger for a phone call, but wasn't feeling too keen about that. How long should I wait on the corner before giving up and heading home? Fortunately, my wait didn't last long and the carriage appeared. My existence was quickly redeemed and I partially blocked out this event.
It must have simmered beneath the surface, because as the escalator descended I was formulating new arguments against a way of life I continue to resist. People don't have quiet moments anymore, I thought to myself. I'm going to be at baggage claim for the next half hour and then have a Metro ride home and not say a word to anyone. I will wait until I'm home to recount the tales from my trip. It sounds a little lonely when written that way, but it builds suspense and excitement. It allows me to collect my thoughts and appreciate the present. These people that would wait for their bags nearby, they'd all be chattering away, never reflecting, I was certain. How sad, I thought. What has the world come to?
The bags began churning out and I looked around and realized that almost no one had a phone jammed in his or her ear. A few flipped one open as they rolled luggage away, but most people were waiting quietly like me.
I don't know if it was the day of the week, or if I'm just too hard on my fellow man. Maybe we're not as bad off as I thought. However, we're still meeting at a predetermined time at a predetermined location because I can't call on the way, unless I have a few quarters and some good luck.
The post was going to write itself. Traveling on the down escalator to baggage claim, I was contemplating cell phones. My anti-cell mojo has taken a series of hits. I don't have the conviction that once splashed across the computer screen. I've grown weak and my reasons for maintaining disconnected start sounding nostalgic before they leave my throat. Recently, I encountered a test to my cell-free existence. I was trying to meet friends- an event in and of itself that has changed in my lifetime. I was to call from a payphone when I arrived at the predetermined Metro station. From there my friends would pick me up and drive me to the show. Payphones are getting scarce, but they can be found in the Metro without difficulty. I packed my 50 cents, the going rate for a local call these days, and grabbed an envelope and scrawled the number that needed to be called across the top. Metro whisked me to my destination and I strode to the phone. Popping my quarters in and dialing the number, I called for a ride. I heard a voice on the other end and said, "Hello." Several "hellos" volleyed back and forth with increasing intensity on my side and increasing question on the other side. My initial reaction was that my leg was being pulled, but I soon realized that like my convictions, the payphone was faltering. Finally, my friend said, "Dave, if that's you, we're on the way to the Metro."
I hung up, walked away and wondered if I should try the other phone. I didn't have 50 more cents. I searched my pockets several times for a stray dime, but came up empty. I stood a little bewildered wondering what I should do when the payphone started ringing. At first I was stunned, but then I jogged over and picked it up. "Hello," I exclaimed.
"It rang four times and stopped," she said.
I wanted to tell her why, but I could only stare at the phone and then hang up as the universe laughed at me. Taking solace in our first exchange I made my way out of the ground and hoped that I'd spot the car that would carry me on. I looked for other payphones, but found none. I considered asking a kind stranger for a phone call, but wasn't feeling too keen about that. How long should I wait on the corner before giving up and heading home? Fortunately, my wait didn't last long and the carriage appeared. My existence was quickly redeemed and I partially blocked out this event.
It must have simmered beneath the surface, because as the escalator descended I was formulating new arguments against a way of life I continue to resist. People don't have quiet moments anymore, I thought to myself. I'm going to be at baggage claim for the next half hour and then have a Metro ride home and not say a word to anyone. I will wait until I'm home to recount the tales from my trip. It sounds a little lonely when written that way, but it builds suspense and excitement. It allows me to collect my thoughts and appreciate the present. These people that would wait for their bags nearby, they'd all be chattering away, never reflecting, I was certain. How sad, I thought. What has the world come to?
The bags began churning out and I looked around and realized that almost no one had a phone jammed in his or her ear. A few flipped one open as they rolled luggage away, but most people were waiting quietly like me.
I don't know if it was the day of the week, or if I'm just too hard on my fellow man. Maybe we're not as bad off as I thought. However, we're still meeting at a predetermined time at a predetermined location because I can't call on the way, unless I have a few quarters and some good luck.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Oh! Take me to the movies
I finally saw Atonement and it was worth the wait. I really liked it. I thought it was shot well, told well, and other than Domino I don't ever mind watching Keira Knightley. I'd heard that the book ends in a very frustrating way; I haven't read it, but I suspect that in this particular case that same ending translates much better on screen. I'm putting my slightly bruised thumb up on this one. The bruise is not movie-related.
I also saw Definitely, Maybe. I avoided the V-day crowd on this one, but was very concerned that this would tread the same territory of the barely satisfying 27 dresses. I was wrong; the man once known as Van Wilder, starred in a well put-together romantic comedy. It's a little telling and a little sad that divorce now plays heavily in this type of movie, but this movie pulls it all off in a pretty charming way. I don't think this is top tier romantic comedy stuff, but it's definitely a few steps up from any that have come out in years. (As an aside, it occurs to me that perhaps the romantic comedy has changed less than I have which could account for my views on them. I'll consider it, maybe hit up netflix for a few test cases and see what I come up with.)
I finally saw Atonement and it was worth the wait. I really liked it. I thought it was shot well, told well, and other than Domino I don't ever mind watching Keira Knightley. I'd heard that the book ends in a very frustrating way; I haven't read it, but I suspect that in this particular case that same ending translates much better on screen. I'm putting my slightly bruised thumb up on this one. The bruise is not movie-related.
I also saw Definitely, Maybe. I avoided the V-day crowd on this one, but was very concerned that this would tread the same territory of the barely satisfying 27 dresses. I was wrong; the man once known as Van Wilder, starred in a well put-together romantic comedy. It's a little telling and a little sad that divorce now plays heavily in this type of movie, but this movie pulls it all off in a pretty charming way. I don't think this is top tier romantic comedy stuff, but it's definitely a few steps up from any that have come out in years. (As an aside, it occurs to me that perhaps the romantic comedy has changed less than I have which could account for my views on them. I'll consider it, maybe hit up netflix for a few test cases and see what I come up with.)
Friday, February 15, 2008
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.
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?.
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