in Stability
I'm at a strange point right now, where it suddenly seems as if much of the world is hurtling past me while I stand on a little island that isn't moving at all. Instead of being jealous of all the little pieces spinning off on adventures, I'm a little sad. How did I get this stability? And how can I make room on my little slab of planet for those whizzing by? Then I wonder, do the intergalactic space travelers really want to stop on my slab anyway?
I'm not saying I don't ever want to veer wildly off course again, but for a second I get to catch my breath and have the semblance of a spot. The only thing missing is you. I'm not even saying you have to stay long, but it'd be nice if some time you could catch your breath and I could catch mine at the same time in the same spot.
Monday, August 30, 2004
Saturday, August 28, 2004
Just honored to be there?
This column about Marion Jones almost made me cry. It's the part of the Olympics that 95% of the Olympians experience and yet losing is so rarely the story. Losing is such an ugly word here. Human struggle might be better? Or failure to win? It's still losing and I have no doubt it still stings for a long time.
This column about Marion Jones almost made me cry. It's the part of the Olympics that 95% of the Olympians experience and yet losing is so rarely the story. Losing is such an ugly word here. Human struggle might be better? Or failure to win? It's still losing and I have no doubt it still stings for a long time.
Thursday, August 26, 2004
The worst kind of wonderful
Work is stressing me out. My legs have felt like lead weights all week. I'm not sleeping well. My posture is terrible and it's making my lower back hurt. Strangely enough, I'm in a good mood. I credit the marathon. The positive feeling training for a goal is bringing to me is just cascading across and through everything I do. You're probably sick of hearing it, but it's the worst kind of wonderful.
Or is it the best kind?
Work is stressing me out. My legs have felt like lead weights all week. I'm not sleeping well. My posture is terrible and it's making my lower back hurt. Strangely enough, I'm in a good mood. I credit the marathon. The positive feeling training for a goal is bringing to me is just cascading across and through everything I do. You're probably sick of hearing it, but it's the worst kind of wonderful.
Or is it the best kind?
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Nice shoes
I'm serious people, "a marathon will change your life."
I know it's trite. I know you've heard it before, but now hear it from me. Physical benefits aside, marathons are great conversation fodder. It seems everybody has run a marathon, thought about running a marathon, or at least convinced themselves that they will never run a marathon. Tonight alone-
1. Guy at shoe store- chatted me up about the upcoming Marine Corps Marathon.
2-7. Went to a party, everyone who had a conversation with me asked about the marathon. Those that had run before told me their thoughts. Those who hadn't wished me well. The ones who had, we were like best buds. We could have traded running stories, training stories, the whole bit, for ages. It's like I've joined this club and the entrance fee was the guts to go for a dream. Kinda makes me wonder how many other clubs like that are out there.
I'm not saying my conversation didn't die out, but it hung in there a lot longer than it usually does. Isn't a marathon all about ENDURANCE, anyway?
I'm serious people, "a marathon will change your life."
I know it's trite. I know you've heard it before, but now hear it from me. Physical benefits aside, marathons are great conversation fodder. It seems everybody has run a marathon, thought about running a marathon, or at least convinced themselves that they will never run a marathon. Tonight alone-
1. Guy at shoe store- chatted me up about the upcoming Marine Corps Marathon.
2-7. Went to a party, everyone who had a conversation with me asked about the marathon. Those that had run before told me their thoughts. Those who hadn't wished me well. The ones who had, we were like best buds. We could have traded running stories, training stories, the whole bit, for ages. It's like I've joined this club and the entrance fee was the guts to go for a dream. Kinda makes me wonder how many other clubs like that are out there.
I'm not saying my conversation didn't die out, but it hung in there a lot longer than it usually does. Isn't a marathon all about ENDURANCE, anyway?
Olympic uncoverage
I am reminded of a Belle and Sebastian song, Stars of Track and Field, in no small part because I bought the album today. The song says something to the effect of "Stars of Track and Field are beautiful people."
They are, and not just the ones in FHM and Playboy either. I can't believe how many people have said the women's marathon made them cry. The sweep in the 400m was, to steal the vernacular of some rapper, like WHOA. We're only halfway through the week. I'm a bit biased, but I still say, Michael who?
I am reminded of a Belle and Sebastian song, Stars of Track and Field, in no small part because I bought the album today. The song says something to the effect of "Stars of Track and Field are beautiful people."
They are, and not just the ones in FHM and Playboy either. I can't believe how many people have said the women's marathon made them cry. The sweep in the 400m was, to steal the vernacular of some rapper, like WHOA. We're only halfway through the week. I'm a bit biased, but I still say, Michael who?
Monday, August 23, 2004
The Long and Short of it
The Long
Libations in the year ‘04:
1. Three quarters of one beer with a name like Molten Cider Ale or Bear Barley Beer consumed, late June. The name intrigued me at the time, but the taste was pure beer and quickly caught up.
2. Two margaritas poured and consumed at Chez Smith, mid-July. I remember feeling especially warm and pretty.
3. Just a smidge of Finney’s, an Irish liquer, a Bailey’s knock-off, downed with opening ceremonies- a fine chaser to the shrimp and buffalo wings.
Actual verbal contact with unknowns of the opposite sex in ‘04:
1. One tough compliment, circa February, to the CVS girl.
2. A brief conversation with a runner in June following repeated eye-contact.
3. An even briefer caveman-esque conversation with two women in line at King’s Dominion. “Me run. You run? MYUNG”
That’s three drinks and four women in eight months. What you might ask, as I now ask myself, would compel me to ask a woman, “Would you like to go out for drinks?”
I found myself alone in downtown Salt Lake City. When she served me Gelatto, she’d asked if I was from around here. I wasn’t, but suddenly wanted to be. I wandered around mixing my raspberry and chocolate treats in thought. The two flavors went well together and my courage began to grow with each bite. I finished my Italian ice cream and boldly returned to her. She helped the last of the customers after closing time with a smile while I loitered. I loitered with all of the UN-creepiness I could muster. As the last customer left, I stepped toward the counter.
“Back for more?” she asked.
“I couldn’t eat another bite,” I shyly told her, “but I’m in town on business with the AARP. The old folks have gone to bed and I’m not ready to. I was hoping maybe you’d want to show me around.”
“Uh,” she said with the slightest smile and possible discomfort, “there’s not a lot to see.”
I could tell my chances were melting like the rainbow of gelatto between us, so I pulled out the terribly trite but infinitely useful, “Maybe we could go out for drinks?” When I say infinitely useful here, I really mean not so useful.
“I’m Mormon. So I don’t drink.”
At this point I’m backtracking, but not giving up, “I don’t drink much either. I just...”
This tale should be over now, we’ve reached the punchline after all, but somewhere in there it seems a corner has been turned.
I’m stumped when she says, “I’m really into the Olympics. Maybe we could go somewhere to watch.”
“That’d be great,” I say with a shocked grin.
We chitchat a bit while she closes up shop. Katie and David going to watch the Olympics. Already I’m trying to get some conversational questions ready for emergencies. How do I ask about being Mormon?
She counts the money in the cash register and I grow quiet not wanting to break her concentration. I start to fret that I’ve already let the silence lapse into the land of the creepy.
“I need to call home, before we go,” she tells me. Katie continues to close in the back room while on the phone. The phone call goes on for a while. I successfully don’t hear either side as I stand propped against the door trying to take the advice of many a yearbook by staying cool.
Maybe I wasn’t cool. As Katie locks the door, it’s one of those with the locks at the tip top and the very bottom, she says to me, “It’s not that I don’t trust you or think...well I live with my Grandma and I don’t think she’d be happy if I went out after work with someone she didn’t know.”
“I understand,” I tell her trying to conceal disappointment inside complete understanding, I hated the world for it, but I understood.
“Come back Saturday for Gelatto. I work then.”
“I’ll be gone.” And this little scene will be the highlight of my trip. Thanks Katie, for the best rejection I’ve had in a long time.
The short
Boy meets girl.
Boy asks girl out for drinks.
Girl says, “I’m Mormon. I don’t drink.”
Boy, oh boy.
The Long
Libations in the year ‘04:
1. Three quarters of one beer with a name like Molten Cider Ale or Bear Barley Beer consumed, late June. The name intrigued me at the time, but the taste was pure beer and quickly caught up.
2. Two margaritas poured and consumed at Chez Smith, mid-July. I remember feeling especially warm and pretty.
3. Just a smidge of Finney’s, an Irish liquer, a Bailey’s knock-off, downed with opening ceremonies- a fine chaser to the shrimp and buffalo wings.
Actual verbal contact with unknowns of the opposite sex in ‘04:
1. One tough compliment, circa February, to the CVS girl.
2. A brief conversation with a runner in June following repeated eye-contact.
3. An even briefer caveman-esque conversation with two women in line at King’s Dominion. “Me run. You run? MYUNG”
That’s three drinks and four women in eight months. What you might ask, as I now ask myself, would compel me to ask a woman, “Would you like to go out for drinks?”
I found myself alone in downtown Salt Lake City. When she served me Gelatto, she’d asked if I was from around here. I wasn’t, but suddenly wanted to be. I wandered around mixing my raspberry and chocolate treats in thought. The two flavors went well together and my courage began to grow with each bite. I finished my Italian ice cream and boldly returned to her. She helped the last of the customers after closing time with a smile while I loitered. I loitered with all of the UN-creepiness I could muster. As the last customer left, I stepped toward the counter.
“Back for more?” she asked.
“I couldn’t eat another bite,” I shyly told her, “but I’m in town on business with the AARP. The old folks have gone to bed and I’m not ready to. I was hoping maybe you’d want to show me around.”
“Uh,” she said with the slightest smile and possible discomfort, “there’s not a lot to see.”
I could tell my chances were melting like the rainbow of gelatto between us, so I pulled out the terribly trite but infinitely useful, “Maybe we could go out for drinks?” When I say infinitely useful here, I really mean not so useful.
“I’m Mormon. So I don’t drink.”
At this point I’m backtracking, but not giving up, “I don’t drink much either. I just...”
This tale should be over now, we’ve reached the punchline after all, but somewhere in there it seems a corner has been turned.
I’m stumped when she says, “I’m really into the Olympics. Maybe we could go somewhere to watch.”
“That’d be great,” I say with a shocked grin.
We chitchat a bit while she closes up shop. Katie and David going to watch the Olympics. Already I’m trying to get some conversational questions ready for emergencies. How do I ask about being Mormon?
She counts the money in the cash register and I grow quiet not wanting to break her concentration. I start to fret that I’ve already let the silence lapse into the land of the creepy.
“I need to call home, before we go,” she tells me. Katie continues to close in the back room while on the phone. The phone call goes on for a while. I successfully don’t hear either side as I stand propped against the door trying to take the advice of many a yearbook by staying cool.
Maybe I wasn’t cool. As Katie locks the door, it’s one of those with the locks at the tip top and the very bottom, she says to me, “It’s not that I don’t trust you or think...well I live with my Grandma and I don’t think she’d be happy if I went out after work with someone she didn’t know.”
“I understand,” I tell her trying to conceal disappointment inside complete understanding, I hated the world for it, but I understood.
“Come back Saturday for Gelatto. I work then.”
“I’ll be gone.” And this little scene will be the highlight of my trip. Thanks Katie, for the best rejection I’ve had in a long time.
The short
Boy meets girl.
Boy asks girl out for drinks.
Girl says, “I’m Mormon. I don’t drink.”
Boy, oh boy.
All of this. Could be yours
Like a white trash space alien, I bopped along on a cross training bike ride to the latest mix, "Good grooves to Celebrate Good Yrs". My giant black earmuff headphones were stretched to their limit over my shiny white bicycle helmet. With one ear in the muff and the other blowing in the wind, I pedaled a nearby trail. The headphone wire wound around me three times forming a loosely knotted black sash. Also adorning my midsection, a 1985 Sanyo walkman hung from the chest strap of my new CamelBak. The maroon and silver of my high-priced canteen could only complement the faded dirty yellow of my Class of 2004 Fall Welcome shirt, complete with chocolate stain on the sleeve.
To protect the innocent, my navy wee-bit-too-short shorts were haphazardly thrown on over my black Meet the Parents "Keep the snake in its cage" boxers. Speaking of snakes, the handlebar tape on my bike started to unravel and fluttered like a flatworm in the wind before I carelessly reattached it to the bars it had unwittingly tried to escape.
Twice during the ride I had to reach down and flip my tape over. Each time I managed to eject the tape and get it running again without stopping. I rewarded myself with extra big sips from the CamelBak.
No animals were harmed on this ride, except maybe those Queer Eye for the Straight Guys.
Like a white trash space alien, I bopped along on a cross training bike ride to the latest mix, "Good grooves to Celebrate Good Yrs". My giant black earmuff headphones were stretched to their limit over my shiny white bicycle helmet. With one ear in the muff and the other blowing in the wind, I pedaled a nearby trail. The headphone wire wound around me three times forming a loosely knotted black sash. Also adorning my midsection, a 1985 Sanyo walkman hung from the chest strap of my new CamelBak. The maroon and silver of my high-priced canteen could only complement the faded dirty yellow of my Class of 2004 Fall Welcome shirt, complete with chocolate stain on the sleeve.
To protect the innocent, my navy wee-bit-too-short shorts were haphazardly thrown on over my black Meet the Parents "Keep the snake in its cage" boxers. Speaking of snakes, the handlebar tape on my bike started to unravel and fluttered like a flatworm in the wind before I carelessly reattached it to the bars it had unwittingly tried to escape.
Twice during the ride I had to reach down and flip my tape over. Each time I managed to eject the tape and get it running again without stopping. I rewarded myself with extra big sips from the CamelBak.
No animals were harmed on this ride, except maybe those Queer Eye for the Straight Guys.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
The side effects of running
Running, the kind I've undertaken the last two weeks trotting farther than I ever have before, produces a special sort of delirium that I have to imagine is not unlike drunkenness. It also produces some other interesting side effects. Such as:
*the ability to devour a whole can of cream corn as a side dish and still be hungry
*sore nipples
*a deep penetrating hatred of shoes
*stair-induced grunts
*chafed thighs
*a twisted sort of self-satisfaction
*AND SO MUCH MORE!
Running, the kind I've undertaken the last two weeks trotting farther than I ever have before, produces a special sort of delirium that I have to imagine is not unlike drunkenness. It also produces some other interesting side effects. Such as:
*the ability to devour a whole can of cream corn as a side dish and still be hungry
*sore nipples
*a deep penetrating hatred of shoes
*stair-induced grunts
*chafed thighs
*a twisted sort of self-satisfaction
*AND SO MUCH MORE!
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
I'm going to the Olympics
if I had a time machine. I heard I might get to see a flame burning. Does anybody know if the torch-bearers lit all the old flames as they made their way to Greece? Other than that, my only hope is that Alberto Tomba or Picabo Street is still hanging around Olympic village just waiting for me. Would I even recognize them if they weren't on skis or skin tight clothes?
if I had a time machine. I heard I might get to see a flame burning. Does anybody know if the torch-bearers lit all the old flames as they made their way to Greece? Other than that, my only hope is that Alberto Tomba or Picabo Street is still hanging around Olympic village just waiting for me. Would I even recognize them if they weren't on skis or skin tight clothes?
Monday, August 16, 2004
Buncha jerks
I just realized I'm ticked off. I can't remember who I'm upset with at this moment; that's probably better. Why? Some company offered Michael Phelps, 19-year old swimming phenom, a million dollars (or some not insignificant sum of money) if he won all 8 gold medals. Nothing wrong with that, right? It adds a little of the betting man's excitement to the game? It means that if the stars align and Phelps rocks, then he'll get a nice payoff on all his hard work, no? Both true, but what's it really do? It puts some company's name out there associated with Phelps, associated with the Olympics, at virtually no cost. The chances that Phelps was going to get all 8 were slim. I don't know what it's like to be on top of my game in international competition, but I have trouble beating my dad at HORSE 8 times in a row. So Phelps had his work cut out for him. The company, however, was virtually guaranteed free PR. Phelps is a huge story. America loves its champions, we love our GRAND champions even more. Phelps is a story, large sum of money is a story, BAM! Company X is popping up in news stories all over the place. Maybe they were his sponsor, but that only matters a little bit.
When Phelps won bronze in the relay, and remember, he and his teammates won bronze rather than lost gold, Phelps had lost a chance to break Spitz's record. That he'd lost. And he'd lost a million dollars. "Hi. I'm 19 and I need the added pressure of losing a million dollars on my shoulders. Thanks for your support."
Phelps, as far as I can tell has handled this like a true champion. He was thrilled with the first gold. He was all smiles. He'd met his goal. Anything else was just going to be icing on his Olympic cake. The pictures show him congratulating his rival, "The Thorpedo" on a victory. He's got more swimming to do and I hope he does it well. I hope his medals weigh him down on the plane ride home. I hope that everybody forgets Company X like I have. Buncha jerks.
I just realized I'm ticked off. I can't remember who I'm upset with at this moment; that's probably better. Why? Some company offered Michael Phelps, 19-year old swimming phenom, a million dollars (or some not insignificant sum of money) if he won all 8 gold medals. Nothing wrong with that, right? It adds a little of the betting man's excitement to the game? It means that if the stars align and Phelps rocks, then he'll get a nice payoff on all his hard work, no? Both true, but what's it really do? It puts some company's name out there associated with Phelps, associated with the Olympics, at virtually no cost. The chances that Phelps was going to get all 8 were slim. I don't know what it's like to be on top of my game in international competition, but I have trouble beating my dad at HORSE 8 times in a row. So Phelps had his work cut out for him. The company, however, was virtually guaranteed free PR. Phelps is a huge story. America loves its champions, we love our GRAND champions even more. Phelps is a story, large sum of money is a story, BAM! Company X is popping up in news stories all over the place. Maybe they were his sponsor, but that only matters a little bit.
When Phelps won bronze in the relay, and remember, he and his teammates won bronze rather than lost gold, Phelps had lost a chance to break Spitz's record. That he'd lost. And he'd lost a million dollars. "Hi. I'm 19 and I need the added pressure of losing a million dollars on my shoulders. Thanks for your support."
Phelps, as far as I can tell has handled this like a true champion. He was thrilled with the first gold. He was all smiles. He'd met his goal. Anything else was just going to be icing on his Olympic cake. The pictures show him congratulating his rival, "The Thorpedo" on a victory. He's got more swimming to do and I hope he does it well. I hope his medals weigh him down on the plane ride home. I hope that everybody forgets Company X like I have. Buncha jerks.
Sunday, August 15, 2004
Oh really?
I was starting to worry that this little blog was turning me into a caricature of myself.
After reading about the Washingtienne, and this quote in particular: "As for herself, she tries to look on the bright side. "I was only blogging for, what, less than two weeks?" she says. "Some people with blogs are never going to get famous, and they've been doing it for, like, over a year. I feel bad for them." I realized that (insert tongue in cheek) I have a lot of work to do.
I was starting to worry that this little blog was turning me into a caricature of myself.
After reading about the Washingtienne, and this quote in particular: "As for herself, she tries to look on the bright side. "I was only blogging for, what, less than two weeks?" she says. "Some people with blogs are never going to get famous, and they've been doing it for, like, over a year. I feel bad for them." I realized that (insert tongue in cheek) I have a lot of work to do.
Friday, August 13, 2004
Me are confident
"Wake me up, before you go go(or girl depending on your lyricist)," bounced around my head. I had to wonder where George Michael had come from. I was running along half asleep and then WHAM! there he was singing 80's skating party tunes in my noggin'. My noggin' was growing increasingly wet from the downpour, but this really wasn't something that I could blame on the rain. I belted out a few bars, but then I lost my nerve. I had the strangest feeling that the rhythm was gonna get me, so I surged. The rain drops kept falling on my head, but for some reason I'd lost the beat. I turned to my fellow runners and politely asked, "Have you got the beat?"
In unison they responded, "We've got the beat. We've got the beat. We got it! Yea!" That was a bit much for me, so I told them I'd had a swell time, but that I really needed to beat it. I took a quick left turn, I would've gone right but I thought I'd seen a bad moon. Anyway, I soon found myself alone. There didn't seem to be anyone around. I thought, "I think I'm alone now." I wasn't sure where I was going, not sure where I had been, I just knew that I was running against the wind, oh and also, singing in the rain.
"Wake me up, before you go go(or girl depending on your lyricist)," bounced around my head. I had to wonder where George Michael had come from. I was running along half asleep and then WHAM! there he was singing 80's skating party tunes in my noggin'. My noggin' was growing increasingly wet from the downpour, but this really wasn't something that I could blame on the rain. I belted out a few bars, but then I lost my nerve. I had the strangest feeling that the rhythm was gonna get me, so I surged. The rain drops kept falling on my head, but for some reason I'd lost the beat. I turned to my fellow runners and politely asked, "Have you got the beat?"
In unison they responded, "We've got the beat. We've got the beat. We got it! Yea!" That was a bit much for me, so I told them I'd had a swell time, but that I really needed to beat it. I took a quick left turn, I would've gone right but I thought I'd seen a bad moon. Anyway, I soon found myself alone. There didn't seem to be anyone around. I thought, "I think I'm alone now." I wasn't sure where I was going, not sure where I had been, I just knew that I was running against the wind, oh and also, singing in the rain.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
That useless post didn't make any sense, let me try again
Leading a fairly solitary life, at least on a day-to-day sort of basis, and working a job that doesn't have that much supervision may render me ill-equipped to deal with surprise attacks of peer pressure. From the outsider's perspective I probably don't seem like the type to give into peer pressure, but lately I've felt very susceptible to forces not in my control. (Some might argue that's all the forces, but I'll deal with them later. in a dark alley.)
Today at work I was in a situation where a private document was out of my hands and being shared with coworkers before I was able to register what happened. I'm not exactly at fault because if the document wasn't for other eyes, I probably shouldn't have had it in my hands, but the speed at which things moved from my hands to action was dizzying. I don't recall jumping in to slow things down either.
Which leads me to two points that I cannot quite relate to this story or to each other. The first is that everybody has an agenda. Major companies, you, me, we all do things for a reason. Sometimes the reason is habit, sometimes it is underhanded and manipulative, and sometimes it is what we feel is in "everyones'" best interest. Why are some agendas so much easier to accept? Why is it easier to let a nosey coworker whisk you away on a journey you shouldn't have taken than it is to let the nosey government do the same? Is it purely a matter of size and scope? Is it the fear of vast number of agendas at work in a government or a corporation (as a whole) as opposed to an individual? Or is there something I'm missing?
The second point is about peer pressure. I think I pose as unsusceptible to peer pressure. (I think a lot of people do.) I'm starting to think that posing as such, is a reaction to a pretty high susceptibility to the power of suggestion. Yet, by posing as unsusceptible to the very thing that I'm afraid I'm susceptible to seems to make me unsusceptible to it, right? So do I win? Is this like dressing for success? Or have I lost? Instead of thinking things through, I react counter to the suggestion, once again rendering something (this post) useless?
Leading a fairly solitary life, at least on a day-to-day sort of basis, and working a job that doesn't have that much supervision may render me ill-equipped to deal with surprise attacks of peer pressure. From the outsider's perspective I probably don't seem like the type to give into peer pressure, but lately I've felt very susceptible to forces not in my control. (Some might argue that's all the forces, but I'll deal with them later. in a dark alley.)
Today at work I was in a situation where a private document was out of my hands and being shared with coworkers before I was able to register what happened. I'm not exactly at fault because if the document wasn't for other eyes, I probably shouldn't have had it in my hands, but the speed at which things moved from my hands to action was dizzying. I don't recall jumping in to slow things down either.
Which leads me to two points that I cannot quite relate to this story or to each other. The first is that everybody has an agenda. Major companies, you, me, we all do things for a reason. Sometimes the reason is habit, sometimes it is underhanded and manipulative, and sometimes it is what we feel is in "everyones'" best interest. Why are some agendas so much easier to accept? Why is it easier to let a nosey coworker whisk you away on a journey you shouldn't have taken than it is to let the nosey government do the same? Is it purely a matter of size and scope? Is it the fear of vast number of agendas at work in a government or a corporation (as a whole) as opposed to an individual? Or is there something I'm missing?
The second point is about peer pressure. I think I pose as unsusceptible to peer pressure. (I think a lot of people do.) I'm starting to think that posing as such, is a reaction to a pretty high susceptibility to the power of suggestion. Yet, by posing as unsusceptible to the very thing that I'm afraid I'm susceptible to seems to make me unsusceptible to it, right? So do I win? Is this like dressing for success? Or have I lost? Instead of thinking things through, I react counter to the suggestion, once again rendering something (this post) useless?
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
I don't want your MTV
I think having no TV reception makes me want less.
It may also contribute to my desire to shower more. Or that could be dirtiness.
Is Tuesday the new Sunday?
Tuesday night is a great opportunity to catch up on my email and letter-writing, but I don't have enough good stuff to say.
I think having no TV reception makes me want less.
It may also contribute to my desire to shower more. Or that could be dirtiness.
Is Tuesday the new Sunday?
Tuesday night is a great opportunity to catch up on my email and letter-writing, but I don't have enough good stuff to say.
Monday, August 09, 2004
Maturity-Immaturity
This past weekend, I joined seven of my dear friends for a day of amusement at Paramount King's Dominion. At least one didn't like heights, and probably all of us have been known to "lovingly" disagree on more than one occasion. Recipe for disaster? No sir, not today. Following the example of "Positive Girl," we had fab-o-lous summer fun. As far as I know, everyone had a coaster buddy whenever they needed one, we got to ride nearly everything we wanted to, and we ate dinner moments before anyone was so hungry they might do something foolish. Amazing, and amusing.
Again
There are moments in life that serve as markers for the dawning of a new age. The first backpack, the first drive-thru window, the first hand-hold, the first sleepover, the first time chocolate milk is made in the mouth.
The first time chocolate milk is made in the mouth? Yes. One part milk unswallowed. The head tilts back as the chocolate pours into the open mouth, the shallow puddle of milk awaiting its arrival. A little of the chocolate may reach a taste bud and delight it; the sign to stop the syrup and close the mouth. Proceed to high pressured in-mouth swishing. Use the tongue to collect any leftover chocolate before a second round of high pressure swishing. Then let the nectar of the cow gods and the cocoa beans slowly wash away the years of of building cynicism. Emerge renewed. Yessss.
This past weekend, I joined seven of my dear friends for a day of amusement at Paramount King's Dominion. At least one didn't like heights, and probably all of us have been known to "lovingly" disagree on more than one occasion. Recipe for disaster? No sir, not today. Following the example of "Positive Girl," we had fab-o-lous summer fun. As far as I know, everyone had a coaster buddy whenever they needed one, we got to ride nearly everything we wanted to, and we ate dinner moments before anyone was so hungry they might do something foolish. Amazing, and amusing.
Again
There are moments in life that serve as markers for the dawning of a new age. The first backpack, the first drive-thru window, the first hand-hold, the first sleepover, the first time chocolate milk is made in the mouth.
The first time chocolate milk is made in the mouth? Yes. One part milk unswallowed. The head tilts back as the chocolate pours into the open mouth, the shallow puddle of milk awaiting its arrival. A little of the chocolate may reach a taste bud and delight it; the sign to stop the syrup and close the mouth. Proceed to high pressured in-mouth swishing. Use the tongue to collect any leftover chocolate before a second round of high pressure swishing. Then let the nectar of the cow gods and the cocoa beans slowly wash away the years of of building cynicism. Emerge renewed. Yessss.
Saturday, August 07, 2004
Friday, August 06, 2004
Mid-20
Time travel back to Aug. 6, 1994
Dave has gone to visit David.
'94 David has just finished a run in Happy Rock park. He's soaked in sweat, but relatively happy with the start of another Cross Country season.
'04 Dave can't help but admire his big beautiful curly hair. It's so big. It's so messy.
'94 David notices balding, oddly-familiar looking man staring at him.
'04: Hey. I'm you 10 years from now.
'94: Yea?!
What's it like?
'04: It's a different kind of lonely.
'94: But I turn out ok? I mean you look ok...except for the hair.
'04: You've got 8 or so more years with that, grow it big man. The Wall will rise.
'94: The Wall?
'04: You'll find out soon enough.
'94: What am I like?
'04: Never an easy question... A glimpse 10 years from now- you'll (we'll?) be sitting at your Macintosh computer writing. You'll sip water off your back, cause you're thirsty from a run. You're training for a marathon. You're waiting for some friends you've had for a while to go out for dinner or something.
'94: I can see it.
'94: Where am I?
'04: It's more fun if you don't know.
'94: Huh.
'04: I got to go.
'94: See you in 10.
'04: Right on, kid.
Time travel back to Aug. 6, 1994
Dave has gone to visit David.
'94 David has just finished a run in Happy Rock park. He's soaked in sweat, but relatively happy with the start of another Cross Country season.
'04 Dave can't help but admire his big beautiful curly hair. It's so big. It's so messy.
'94 David notices balding, oddly-familiar looking man staring at him.
'04: Hey. I'm you 10 years from now.
'94: Yea?!
What's it like?
'04: It's a different kind of lonely.
'94: But I turn out ok? I mean you look ok...except for the hair.
'04: You've got 8 or so more years with that, grow it big man. The Wall will rise.
'94: The Wall?
'04: You'll find out soon enough.
'94: What am I like?
'04: Never an easy question... A glimpse 10 years from now- you'll (we'll?) be sitting at your Macintosh computer writing. You'll sip water off your back, cause you're thirsty from a run. You're training for a marathon. You're waiting for some friends you've had for a while to go out for dinner or something.
'94: I can see it.
'94: Where am I?
'04: It's more fun if you don't know.
'94: Huh.
'04: I got to go.
'94: See you in 10.
'04: Right on, kid.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Davefoolery in the kitchen
The key ingredient of any dish is sex, or am I getting my adages mixed up? Just in case, I have been known to cook topless. It not only bumps up the culinary sex appeal, but it makes cooking a high risk activity, I daresay extreme.
The dish for this evening was SPAM Denver biscuit souffle. Rather than bore you with the ingredients, I’ve decided to dedicate this space to a short quiz.
Which was most disgusting?
a)when the SPAM pus splattered on my bare chest as I removed it from the can?
b)when my keen kitchen-sense decided separating an egg would be a task that should take place in my left hand?
c)picturing me cooking topless?
I hope you have vivid imaginations.
The key ingredient of any dish is sex, or am I getting my adages mixed up? Just in case, I have been known to cook topless. It not only bumps up the culinary sex appeal, but it makes cooking a high risk activity, I daresay extreme.
The dish for this evening was SPAM Denver biscuit souffle. Rather than bore you with the ingredients, I’ve decided to dedicate this space to a short quiz.
Which was most disgusting?
a)when the SPAM pus splattered on my bare chest as I removed it from the can?
b)when my keen kitchen-sense decided separating an egg would be a task that should take place in my left hand?
c)picturing me cooking topless?
I hope you have vivid imaginations.
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