Hey. It's 2005! I am now accepting challenges
Last year, some friends and I traded challenges. They ranged from the simple "read this book" to the more difficult "Get a new job."
I don't think anyone met all their challenges, but it was a nice way to feel a little sense of accomplishment*("net removed") and say, "Hey. I did something you thought I should do." I liked that. I'm not sure everyone felt the same way, which would explain why we haven't re-introduced the challenges this year, but I'm here to offer you even more blog interactivity. Readers, I am now accepting challenges. I'll be happy to keep you posted on my failures and successes.
Let me give you some examples from last year and my results just so you have a better idea of what I'm talking about and how you shouldn't get your hopes too high.
1. Challenge: Get drunk, do gay karaoke*(I'll spell it this way if I must.) Results: Karaoke* Revolution doesn't like my falsetto and I'm still on the wagon.
2. Challenge: Learn how to play "Rainbow Connection" on the banjo. Results: I haven't touched my banjo in at least 2 months, but I mean to.
3. Challenge: Make salsa; hike the AT, read A walk in the woods. Results: I looked up a lot of salsa recipes, hiked a section of the trail recently and read the book.
4. Challenge: Call brother-in-law; have 10-minute conversation. Results: 15 minutes, no sweat.
5. Challenge: Ultimate lessons for all. Results: I can't even get everyone outside.
6. Challenge: Go on a date. Results: Maybe. Maybe. Ok. I did it.
7. Challenge: Find seafood you actually like. Results: I like flounder, but not sushi, salmon, crab, or shrimp.
8. Challenge: Write a rebellious short story. Results: How about 50,000 words instead?
So that was last year's challenges. Who wants to shape my 2005?
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Friday, January 28, 2005
For the articles and the pictures
I don't usually read Esquire. I don't usually look at the pictures. Sometimes I flip through, find out the 10 things I need to know about women and then head right to Real Simple. That's the kind of man I am. Unless...
Unless, Scarlett is on the cover. Unless, she's looking at me all sexy saying in her husky voice "You will read. You will look at the pictures. You will start to melt and be short of breath."
Yes, Scarlett I will.
So I read and I look. I start to melt and be short of breath, when Scarlett's voice returns and says, "I think you should get out more and stop fantasizing about some 19-year old in a magazine."
But, but...
That Scarlett, she's so sage.
I don't usually read Esquire. I don't usually look at the pictures. Sometimes I flip through, find out the 10 things I need to know about women and then head right to Real Simple. That's the kind of man I am. Unless...
Unless, Scarlett is on the cover. Unless, she's looking at me all sexy saying in her husky voice "You will read. You will look at the pictures. You will start to melt and be short of breath."
Yes, Scarlett I will.
So I read and I look. I start to melt and be short of breath, when Scarlett's voice returns and says, "I think you should get out more and stop fantasizing about some 19-year old in a magazine."
But, but...
That Scarlett, she's so sage.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
So there.
We’d met before, sort of. That didn’t give me reason to spew an antagonistic chicken-grease kiss at her cheek in a field in Fayetteville, Arkansas. I’m not sure how I expected or wanted her to react since I’d be states away in just days. Maybe that’s why I slobbered in such grand fashion. It was a sloppy hello. It was a liquid-y see you later. Except I didn’t expect to.
It starts to get fuzzy after that. She infiltrated my home in Colorado on her Thanksgiving break. The cold winter of my acquaintance-filled existence suddenly found a bright and lively new face and voice to entertain and challenge me in ways I’d never considered. She managed to jumpstart the dying lump that my heart had become. Close to Valentine’s Day, she sent me a package. I was in the car headed to a day on the slopes after my roommate Bruno and I swung by the Post Office. I told him to go ahead and open it. He did and promptly pulled out a pair of plastic handcuffs that said, “Take me. I’m yours.” It was a joke, but there was no explaining that to Bruno. He wasn’t about to let me live that down.
It seemed with her that life became an insane road trip. I think she’s still on it. I got to ride along through more stops than I probably deserved. One of my favorites will always be Hays, Kansas.
It was the afternoon on the first day of a three day weekend and we were on the phone. I was in Colorado, she was in Missouri.
“I want to see you” one of us said.
“We could meet in Hays, Kansas,” someone replied. I can’t remember who said what anymore. “It’s a 6 hour drive for each of us.”
There was a pause. Perhaps an “Are you serious?” or two. And then, “I have to shower. I’ll call you back and decide after that.”
“Ok.”
A shower passed and we were back on the phone.
“Ok. Let’s go.”
“Really?”
“Yea. We’ll meet at the Arby’s in Hays.”
“You’re sure there’s an Arby’s?”
“Yep. Aren’t you?”
“I think so. Leave in thirty minutes.”
“All right. See you soon.”
“Drive safely.”
There was no back-up plan. It was just a matter of showing up at Arby’s in six hours and spending a day or two in Hays. Logic had not entered the terms of our friendship.
It wasn’t that trip, but somewhere later that I realized I couldn’t keep up. I always figured she knew she couldn’t stop yet, anyway. So now I get phone calls from the road that say things like “I’m with my friend Liz and she’s about to run a marathon. You two can talk about marathons. Call her at (###)###-####.” Because it’s her and no one else, I pick up the phone and call Liz. That’s just the way it works.
I never know what I’ll hear next. Sometimes I get a letter with a joke perfect for campers “Two muffins sat in an oven. One turned to the other and said, ‘Is it hot in here, or is it just me?’ The other screamed “AHHHH! A TALKING MUFFIN!” Sometimes it’s a postcard from the Northwest in code, or a bottlecap magnet that says “Clothing Optional Club”. Or a pumpkin pin without tire tracks. Sometimes the letter is filled with reminiscing, other times it’s about the new web she’s weaving. Ultimate, love, and life nearly always make an appearance.
It’s hard to believe I’ve only known her for a few years. And I’ve never known her to be in the same city, and rarely the same state as me. She lets me live vicariously through her. She’s got such guts, half the time I don’t know what she’s following, but I admire her for going after it, whatever it is. If anybody can track it down, it’s her. She’s going to be a writer, a nurse, a hairy-legged new-age hippy, a trailmaker, a heartbreaker, a wonderful mother, teacher, an artful student, a lifelong learner, a wanderer. She is one of the most fascinating people I know. And she makes me remember what it’s like to be a kid, what it’s like to be an old man (not that it takes much). When I forget, she reminds me what it’s like to think and feel. She challenges me to write and care and LIVE in all capital letters. Everybody needs people like that.
If you’re out in the world and you happen to see her, whether her hair is down to her butt or shaved all the way off, you might recognize her by her skirt, her smile, or her homemade Lady Danger Man Shirt. If you’re lucky, she’ll burp in your ear. If it’s Friday, tell my friend Amanda "Happy Birthday", will ya?
We’d met before, sort of. That didn’t give me reason to spew an antagonistic chicken-grease kiss at her cheek in a field in Fayetteville, Arkansas. I’m not sure how I expected or wanted her to react since I’d be states away in just days. Maybe that’s why I slobbered in such grand fashion. It was a sloppy hello. It was a liquid-y see you later. Except I didn’t expect to.
It starts to get fuzzy after that. She infiltrated my home in Colorado on her Thanksgiving break. The cold winter of my acquaintance-filled existence suddenly found a bright and lively new face and voice to entertain and challenge me in ways I’d never considered. She managed to jumpstart the dying lump that my heart had become. Close to Valentine’s Day, she sent me a package. I was in the car headed to a day on the slopes after my roommate Bruno and I swung by the Post Office. I told him to go ahead and open it. He did and promptly pulled out a pair of plastic handcuffs that said, “Take me. I’m yours.” It was a joke, but there was no explaining that to Bruno. He wasn’t about to let me live that down.
It seemed with her that life became an insane road trip. I think she’s still on it. I got to ride along through more stops than I probably deserved. One of my favorites will always be Hays, Kansas.
It was the afternoon on the first day of a three day weekend and we were on the phone. I was in Colorado, she was in Missouri.
“I want to see you” one of us said.
“We could meet in Hays, Kansas,” someone replied. I can’t remember who said what anymore. “It’s a 6 hour drive for each of us.”
There was a pause. Perhaps an “Are you serious?” or two. And then, “I have to shower. I’ll call you back and decide after that.”
“Ok.”
A shower passed and we were back on the phone.
“Ok. Let’s go.”
“Really?”
“Yea. We’ll meet at the Arby’s in Hays.”
“You’re sure there’s an Arby’s?”
“Yep. Aren’t you?”
“I think so. Leave in thirty minutes.”
“All right. See you soon.”
“Drive safely.”
There was no back-up plan. It was just a matter of showing up at Arby’s in six hours and spending a day or two in Hays. Logic had not entered the terms of our friendship.
It wasn’t that trip, but somewhere later that I realized I couldn’t keep up. I always figured she knew she couldn’t stop yet, anyway. So now I get phone calls from the road that say things like “I’m with my friend Liz and she’s about to run a marathon. You two can talk about marathons. Call her at (###)###-####.” Because it’s her and no one else, I pick up the phone and call Liz. That’s just the way it works.
I never know what I’ll hear next. Sometimes I get a letter with a joke perfect for campers “Two muffins sat in an oven. One turned to the other and said, ‘Is it hot in here, or is it just me?’ The other screamed “AHHHH! A TALKING MUFFIN!” Sometimes it’s a postcard from the Northwest in code, or a bottlecap magnet that says “Clothing Optional Club”. Or a pumpkin pin without tire tracks. Sometimes the letter is filled with reminiscing, other times it’s about the new web she’s weaving. Ultimate, love, and life nearly always make an appearance.
It’s hard to believe I’ve only known her for a few years. And I’ve never known her to be in the same city, and rarely the same state as me. She lets me live vicariously through her. She’s got such guts, half the time I don’t know what she’s following, but I admire her for going after it, whatever it is. If anybody can track it down, it’s her. She’s going to be a writer, a nurse, a hairy-legged new-age hippy, a trailmaker, a heartbreaker, a wonderful mother, teacher, an artful student, a lifelong learner, a wanderer. She is one of the most fascinating people I know. And she makes me remember what it’s like to be a kid, what it’s like to be an old man (not that it takes much). When I forget, she reminds me what it’s like to think and feel. She challenges me to write and care and LIVE in all capital letters. Everybody needs people like that.
If you’re out in the world and you happen to see her, whether her hair is down to her butt or shaved all the way off, you might recognize her by her skirt, her smile, or her homemade Lady Danger Man Shirt. If you’re lucky, she’ll burp in your ear. If it’s Friday, tell my friend Amanda "Happy Birthday", will ya?
I could get addicted to Physical Therapy. There's physical contact and special attention to the parts that ail me and talking about running and the possibility of massage and ultrasound and all kinds of good stuff.
I feel guilty that I seem to rent more DVDs than I buy books or CDs from the local chain bookstore. It's not my fault they have a split personality. It is my fault that I would rather consume and return than consume and own. Or is it?
I am seriously feeling the effects of PVD (Post-vacation Disorder) or PHS (Post-Holiday Stress) or some disease that relates to the extreme level of suckitude that results from being back to work on a regular basis.
I will probably feel better after dinner.
I feel guilty that I seem to rent more DVDs than I buy books or CDs from the local chain bookstore. It's not my fault they have a split personality. It is my fault that I would rather consume and return than consume and own. Or is it?
I am seriously feeling the effects of PVD (Post-vacation Disorder) or PHS (Post-Holiday Stress) or some disease that relates to the extreme level of suckitude that results from being back to work on a regular basis.
I will probably feel better after dinner.
Monday, January 24, 2005
Road Warriors*
*Those of you prone to post-event worry, or those of you considering road trips with me may want to skip this post. Let me direct you to some highlights or a hilarious prank.
Sticking it out, are you?
The snow had been blanketing the road and the now-invisible countryside? cityside? world, around us for several hours. I gripped the steering wheel, tense and excited. My passenger/DJ/navigator/new partner in crime/possible last person I'd see on earth, calmly sat as she spun patient relaxing tunes/took over as my eyes/believed in me/possibly prayed; only revealing her nervous jitters, like her southern accent, when speaking to her parents. The tell-tale yet coded sighs had gone silent. It was too dark and too far to my right to see if any of the now famous smile remained.
As the windshield shrank and the wipers collected ice, I shifted in my seat, hands still glued to the wheel, trying to keep sight of the white road below me. For a while I had the last of a wiper swath to look through, but the icy build-up on my blades soon took that from me too. I rolled down my window to attempt an Ace-Venture-style technique, but quickly found that my face wouldn't stand for the pelting snow. My head bobbed and danced as I looked for some way to continue down the road without discontinuing our lives. It was like watching TV without an antenna (and no cable), yet Clare,my favorite reality TV show critic, was now crucial to this actual reality. With poise, she began to direct my efforts through her windshield view.
We made our way slowly, likely traversing across the lanes, though rarely slipping, as my little Saturn outperformed SUVs. I rolled down the window to keep an eye on the concrete divide. I saw no sense in hitting that. A few times Clare waved me in the appropriate direction, until finally we were able to wind around and around and around the longest entrance ramp to a New Jersey Service Area. We wiped off the snow and cleared ice from the wiper blades. After answering a call of nature, we returned to the winter wollop already in progress and continued our slow push south on the turnpike. In minutes the windshield returned to its near useless state. Without a trace of external panic, Clare and I went through the same motions again. I clung to the steering wheel, slip-sliding as necessary and pushing on. I rolled my window up and down trying to catch a bigger glimpse of anything. We followed the dim lights of a snow plow and any other real or imagined glimmer of hope I could find. Clare again bravely dug in, leaned forward and managed to point and wave us to a hotel near the airport. Cars ahead struggled at the stop sign while the Sheraton sign shone like a beacon above. Even after waiting nervously for the cars in front of us to right themselves, my wonderful car plowed on and skidded to a stop outside our ridiculously overpriced new home in Newark.
Giddy with life, yet exhausted by a trying drive we collapsed into a fit of yoga, snow angels, handstands, room service with a side of twenty questions, giggles, and perhaps the greatest collaborative game with a clear winner of all time- Break the Bucket. Not yet available in stores!
*Those of you prone to post-event worry, or those of you considering road trips with me may want to skip this post. Let me direct you to some highlights or a hilarious prank.
Sticking it out, are you?
The snow had been blanketing the road and the now-invisible countryside? cityside? world, around us for several hours. I gripped the steering wheel, tense and excited. My passenger/DJ/navigator/new partner in crime/possible last person I'd see on earth, calmly sat as she spun patient relaxing tunes/took over as my eyes/believed in me/possibly prayed; only revealing her nervous jitters, like her southern accent, when speaking to her parents. The tell-tale yet coded sighs had gone silent. It was too dark and too far to my right to see if any of the now famous smile remained.
As the windshield shrank and the wipers collected ice, I shifted in my seat, hands still glued to the wheel, trying to keep sight of the white road below me. For a while I had the last of a wiper swath to look through, but the icy build-up on my blades soon took that from me too. I rolled down my window to attempt an Ace-Venture-style technique, but quickly found that my face wouldn't stand for the pelting snow. My head bobbed and danced as I looked for some way to continue down the road without discontinuing our lives. It was like watching TV without an antenna (and no cable), yet Clare,my favorite reality TV show critic, was now crucial to this actual reality. With poise, she began to direct my efforts through her windshield view.
We made our way slowly, likely traversing across the lanes, though rarely slipping, as my little Saturn outperformed SUVs. I rolled down the window to keep an eye on the concrete divide. I saw no sense in hitting that. A few times Clare waved me in the appropriate direction, until finally we were able to wind around and around and around the longest entrance ramp to a New Jersey Service Area. We wiped off the snow and cleared ice from the wiper blades. After answering a call of nature, we returned to the winter wollop already in progress and continued our slow push south on the turnpike. In minutes the windshield returned to its near useless state. Without a trace of external panic, Clare and I went through the same motions again. I clung to the steering wheel, slip-sliding as necessary and pushing on. I rolled my window up and down trying to catch a bigger glimpse of anything. We followed the dim lights of a snow plow and any other real or imagined glimmer of hope I could find. Clare again bravely dug in, leaned forward and managed to point and wave us to a hotel near the airport. Cars ahead struggled at the stop sign while the Sheraton sign shone like a beacon above. Even after waiting nervously for the cars in front of us to right themselves, my wonderful car plowed on and skidded to a stop outside our ridiculously overpriced new home in Newark.
Giddy with life, yet exhausted by a trying drive we collapsed into a fit of yoga, snow angels, handstands, room service with a side of twenty questions, giggles, and perhaps the greatest collaborative game with a clear winner of all time- Break the Bucket. Not yet available in stores!
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Four more years (gulp)
After the 10 inches in 45 minutes crawl en route to the pat-me-down tent, and after the Eagle scout b**** was unable to bully her way through the line thanks to a man more resolute than me, I finally got touched all over by a security agent who was slightly suspicious of my wallet and sandwich. He still managed to send me on my way with literally minutes to spare before that old judge swore in that presidential guy. I was too far away to see, although after about 10 minutes I think I figured out which speck in the distance must be speaking. I could hear just fine, but it still seems to me he pretty much said, "Freedom good. Tyranny bad." This is a message I generally support, even when spoken by a man that I generally don't. Despite my misgivings about this country's decision in November, I have to say that hearing a president speak with the capitol as the backdrop is a special experience. There's something pretty powerful about hearing words like freedom, liberty, and America echo around the mall. Several people called it a "once-in-a-lifetime experience". Seeing as this is the second inauguration for this guy and the third for this family and the fact that there seems to be one of these about every four years, I'm not sure I agree with that. Then again I don't agree with fur coats and I saw more of those today than I have ever seen before in my life. What do I know anyway?
After the 10 inches in 45 minutes crawl en route to the pat-me-down tent, and after the Eagle scout b**** was unable to bully her way through the line thanks to a man more resolute than me, I finally got touched all over by a security agent who was slightly suspicious of my wallet and sandwich. He still managed to send me on my way with literally minutes to spare before that old judge swore in that presidential guy. I was too far away to see, although after about 10 minutes I think I figured out which speck in the distance must be speaking. I could hear just fine, but it still seems to me he pretty much said, "Freedom good. Tyranny bad." This is a message I generally support, even when spoken by a man that I generally don't. Despite my misgivings about this country's decision in November, I have to say that hearing a president speak with the capitol as the backdrop is a special experience. There's something pretty powerful about hearing words like freedom, liberty, and America echo around the mall. Several people called it a "once-in-a-lifetime experience". Seeing as this is the second inauguration for this guy and the third for this family and the fact that there seems to be one of these about every four years, I'm not sure I agree with that. Then again I don't agree with fur coats and I saw more of those today than I have ever seen before in my life. What do I know anyway?
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Thanks Genie
I got what I wished for.
Freshman-year abs?
One thing at a time. It snowed. Which according to most of the "adult" world I inhabit is something akin to paying the utilities bill. I heard so many complaints today that I finally resorted to instructing people to move south if they didn't like it. I think a few were considering it. (I remember now why I so needed that stint in Winter Park working the chair lift.)
What part of your insides has to be dead to not like snow? It's so white and charming and peaceful and soft and fun.
In honor of today's snow I am going to list some of the great moments from my snowy (and icy) past.
*The out-of-my-door-into-the-snow-drift-and-straight-to-the-shower dive in Granby. Snow there was plentiful.
*The nighttime frozen lake Ultimate game. Glowing discs, glowing cones, glowing world.
*The neon green cowboy shirt WP snowboard run.
*The post-sledding dive into the bushes in CoMO.
*The bike out of FARC and down to the corner where I wiped out because of the ice, but then still had to make it to Hearnes for practice only to run/slide all the way there to find out that practice was cancelled. At least we got out of class.
*The day it iced and I could dive and slide across every driveway on the block. DIVE SLIDE RUN on the grass. DIVE SLIDE...repeat 10x.
*The Bill Carwin skiing experience complete with jam-packed Mustang, Psycopath Gully, and big waves of snow at every stop.
*Ski breaks.
*The aspens and the terrain park with Bruno at Steamboat.
*Bunches of ski runs on bunches of days spanning the course of my personal history.
*The year the spring in the backyard flooded and suddenly we had an icy toboggan run. Yea.
*Killer cul-de-sac snowball fights.
*The year of the 8 foot tall snowman.
*The Sectionals Cross Country snow.
There are more, but I'm stopping for you.
I got what I wished for.
Freshman-year abs?
One thing at a time. It snowed. Which according to most of the "adult" world I inhabit is something akin to paying the utilities bill. I heard so many complaints today that I finally resorted to instructing people to move south if they didn't like it. I think a few were considering it. (I remember now why I so needed that stint in Winter Park working the chair lift.)
What part of your insides has to be dead to not like snow? It's so white and charming and peaceful and soft and fun.
In honor of today's snow I am going to list some of the great moments from my snowy (and icy) past.
*The out-of-my-door-into-the-snow-drift-and-straight-to-the-shower dive in Granby. Snow there was plentiful.
*The nighttime frozen lake Ultimate game. Glowing discs, glowing cones, glowing world.
*The neon green cowboy shirt WP snowboard run.
*The post-sledding dive into the bushes in CoMO.
*The bike out of FARC and down to the corner where I wiped out because of the ice, but then still had to make it to Hearnes for practice only to run/slide all the way there to find out that practice was cancelled. At least we got out of class.
*The day it iced and I could dive and slide across every driveway on the block. DIVE SLIDE RUN on the grass. DIVE SLIDE...repeat 10x.
*The Bill Carwin skiing experience complete with jam-packed Mustang, Psycopath Gully, and big waves of snow at every stop.
*Ski breaks.
*The aspens and the terrain park with Bruno at Steamboat.
*Bunches of ski runs on bunches of days spanning the course of my personal history.
*The year the spring in the backyard flooded and suddenly we had an icy toboggan run. Yea.
*Killer cul-de-sac snowball fights.
*The year of the 8 foot tall snowman.
*The Sectionals Cross Country snow.
There are more, but I'm stopping for you.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Follow that bird
It's moustache-freezing cold. I'm not complaining, I am just stating for the record that sometimes I should check the temperature before I leave the house without my gloves. And speaking of the temperature, the Ultimate News (you too can get the Ultimate newsletter by being a UPA member) is full of HOT! HOT! HOT! pictures that make me want to play Ultimate.
Real.
Bad.
Instead I'm riding an exercise bike and making my big goal be the return of my freshman-year abs. I don't even know if that's possible. That might be like asking for the return of my freshman-year hair. Both seem like myths these days, but I decided that if I could choose the return of one or the other, I would pick the abs over the hair. Surprised? I was. I bet you didn't know I was this vain. It turns out there is a lot of time for vanity when you run out of things to read. I'm not exactly out, but I just finished The Effect of Living Backwards by Heidi Julavits. I think I bought it because the cover reminded me of The Time Traveler's Wife (Great book, I tell you again.) and because there was a Dave Eggers quote on the front. The thing is, I'm not really that fond of Dave Eggers anyway and this is no Time Traveler's Wife. It's some weird cockamammy hijacking story with psychology mixed in for reasons that I'm not entirely clear about. It wasn't awful or anything. It just wasn't that good. Maybe it would be better if I had a sister, no, that's not it, since I do have a sister. Maybe it'd be better if I was a sister and was incredibly manipulative. Yea. Whatever and Spanglish would've been better if I'd had kids. They can't all be Garden State can they you whiney little...
Anyway, it's better than The Rocking Chair Reader which has wonderful intentions but turns out to be a poor man's Chicken Soup for the Soul. It was also far more readable than The Seat of the Soul which could probably change my life if I would only let it. We know how those things go, don't we? (wink. wink.)
In conclusion, I do not need a Mac mini, but a cake would be nice.
Thank you for listening and for supporting Bartles&James. (Do you remember those guys? Are they still alive? Do they have jobs anymore?)
It's moustache-freezing cold. I'm not complaining, I am just stating for the record that sometimes I should check the temperature before I leave the house without my gloves. And speaking of the temperature, the Ultimate News (you too can get the Ultimate newsletter by being a UPA member) is full of HOT! HOT! HOT! pictures that make me want to play Ultimate.
Real.
Bad.
Instead I'm riding an exercise bike and making my big goal be the return of my freshman-year abs. I don't even know if that's possible. That might be like asking for the return of my freshman-year hair. Both seem like myths these days, but I decided that if I could choose the return of one or the other, I would pick the abs over the hair. Surprised? I was. I bet you didn't know I was this vain. It turns out there is a lot of time for vanity when you run out of things to read. I'm not exactly out, but I just finished The Effect of Living Backwards by Heidi Julavits. I think I bought it because the cover reminded me of The Time Traveler's Wife (Great book, I tell you again.) and because there was a Dave Eggers quote on the front. The thing is, I'm not really that fond of Dave Eggers anyway and this is no Time Traveler's Wife. It's some weird cockamammy hijacking story with psychology mixed in for reasons that I'm not entirely clear about. It wasn't awful or anything. It just wasn't that good. Maybe it would be better if I had a sister, no, that's not it, since I do have a sister. Maybe it'd be better if I was a sister and was incredibly manipulative. Yea. Whatever and Spanglish would've been better if I'd had kids. They can't all be Garden State can they you whiney little...
Anyway, it's better than The Rocking Chair Reader which has wonderful intentions but turns out to be a poor man's Chicken Soup for the Soul. It was also far more readable than The Seat of the Soul which could probably change my life if I would only let it. We know how those things go, don't we? (wink. wink.)
In conclusion, I do not need a Mac mini, but a cake would be nice.
Thank you for listening and for supporting Bartles&James. (Do you remember those guys? Are they still alive? Do they have jobs anymore?)
Sunday, January 16, 2005
Golden zzzzzz's
Anything can happen? Anything? Like a bunch of people can look really sleepy and make me give up watching after an hour. Thanks Golden Globes. What a treat. One thing I think should come from tonight is a new tagline for HBO. I can't quite remember who said it, but he called the cable station "Audacious, Provocative, and Essential". Cool.
In Average Company
I saw the latest S. Johannson flick today. It's average, really average. In Good Company is basically a two hour greeting card that says "Decent is good." Which is kind of nice, but Scarlett and Topher were just so very bland. Not that Scarlett didn't have one heart-melting full-screen smile. Dennis Quaid played well. He was above average, at least by Dennis Quaid standards.
And he's got to be fast
I also saw Hero. I am now greatly disappointed in my personal swordplay and calligraphy, and music for that matter. I guess they are all kind of related. Really, I've just been wasting the last ten years of my life anyway. I could've been perfecting at least one of those skills.
And what does Quentin Tarantino have to do with this film? His name is on the box. I think he just said, "Hey. Good movie. Put my name on it. Kill Bill fans will watch it." And the Hero people said, "Ok."
P.S. I nearly forgot the flakes
Tiny, white, nearly-invisible flakes falling from the sky. Big brothers, uncles, and cousins of these flakes could coat the world in a peaceful and charming white. These little guys will melt before they have much of a chance to coat anything. Still, they are snow and therefore rule.
Anything can happen? Anything? Like a bunch of people can look really sleepy and make me give up watching after an hour. Thanks Golden Globes. What a treat. One thing I think should come from tonight is a new tagline for HBO. I can't quite remember who said it, but he called the cable station "Audacious, Provocative, and Essential". Cool.
In Average Company
I saw the latest S. Johannson flick today. It's average, really average. In Good Company is basically a two hour greeting card that says "Decent is good." Which is kind of nice, but Scarlett and Topher were just so very bland. Not that Scarlett didn't have one heart-melting full-screen smile. Dennis Quaid played well. He was above average, at least by Dennis Quaid standards.
And he's got to be fast
I also saw Hero. I am now greatly disappointed in my personal swordplay and calligraphy, and music for that matter. I guess they are all kind of related. Really, I've just been wasting the last ten years of my life anyway. I could've been perfecting at least one of those skills.
And what does Quentin Tarantino have to do with this film? His name is on the box. I think he just said, "Hey. Good movie. Put my name on it. Kill Bill fans will watch it." And the Hero people said, "Ok."
P.S. I nearly forgot the flakes
Tiny, white, nearly-invisible flakes falling from the sky. Big brothers, uncles, and cousins of these flakes could coat the world in a peaceful and charming white. These little guys will melt before they have much of a chance to coat anything. Still, they are snow and therefore rule.
Saturday, January 15, 2005
I-70, AT, other unabbreviated items of interest
I-70 makes Lucille's heart titter
In my first drive of any significant distance in 2005, I passed by good old Interstate 70. For those of you that don't know, Interstate 70 has played a pretty big role in my life. I was born off of 70, visited my Grandparents off of 70, went to college off of 70, skied off of 70 in a series of spring breaks, and a couple years back traversed 70 in search of a spot to call home for more than 6 months. So when Lucille (that's my car) and I drove on 70 for a little bit today, I could tell that she wanted to go somewhere. She thought we were going to see the folks, or the arch, or the columns, or at least the truck stop in Concordia. Or maybe she thought we were finally going West again to go skiing. Heck, she's sat idle so much lately she probably would've taken Kansas happily. Sorry, Lucille, I said as I pulled off of the interstate. We'll get you back on the roads. Soon, Lucille, soon...
AT, where it's at?
I hiked the Appalachian Trail this morning. Yep. I was bored and I thought 2,189 miles, whatever, complete with two-handed "w" hand gesture. Ok. That's a lie. I hiked a teeny tiny section. What's 3.5 miles divided by 2,189? I'm not sure I'm ready for the AT. I had on a day pack and my back is still a little sore from my 8 mile hike. I was tired and hungry and I made up a song about fecal matter. The wackiest thing to me was that the sound of my own steps was driving me crazy. Not as crazy as the song about fecal matter sticking in my head, but that was much later in the hike. (The song was sticking in my head, not the actual fecal matter.) In less than 4 hours I drove myself crazy. What would I do in 3 months? I may have improved patience, but I'm not ready to be a hiker just yet.
Other items of interest without abbreviation will have to wait
They could include:
me and the movies
Jackie's is too cool for me
My continued quest to preserve the species
I-70 makes Lucille's heart titter
In my first drive of any significant distance in 2005, I passed by good old Interstate 70. For those of you that don't know, Interstate 70 has played a pretty big role in my life. I was born off of 70, visited my Grandparents off of 70, went to college off of 70, skied off of 70 in a series of spring breaks, and a couple years back traversed 70 in search of a spot to call home for more than 6 months. So when Lucille (that's my car) and I drove on 70 for a little bit today, I could tell that she wanted to go somewhere. She thought we were going to see the folks, or the arch, or the columns, or at least the truck stop in Concordia. Or maybe she thought we were finally going West again to go skiing. Heck, she's sat idle so much lately she probably would've taken Kansas happily. Sorry, Lucille, I said as I pulled off of the interstate. We'll get you back on the roads. Soon, Lucille, soon...
AT, where it's at?
I hiked the Appalachian Trail this morning. Yep. I was bored and I thought 2,189 miles, whatever, complete with two-handed "w" hand gesture. Ok. That's a lie. I hiked a teeny tiny section. What's 3.5 miles divided by 2,189? I'm not sure I'm ready for the AT. I had on a day pack and my back is still a little sore from my 8 mile hike. I was tired and hungry and I made up a song about fecal matter. The wackiest thing to me was that the sound of my own steps was driving me crazy. Not as crazy as the song about fecal matter sticking in my head, but that was much later in the hike. (The song was sticking in my head, not the actual fecal matter.) In less than 4 hours I drove myself crazy. What would I do in 3 months? I may have improved patience, but I'm not ready to be a hiker just yet.
Other items of interest without abbreviation will have to wait
They could include:
me and the movies
Jackie's is too cool for me
My continued quest to preserve the species
Friday, January 14, 2005
Somebody doesn't get it
So Triathelete Girl meets Triathelete Boy at a Triathalon. They live far far away, but schedule meetings around crazy long endurance events because they could be possibly, OH, are in love. Tri-Girl and Tri-Boy become Mr. and Mrs. Tri because they understand each other. I know all of this because The NY Times told me so.
As much as I desperately wanted to like this story, I didn't. I can't figure out if the writer didn't get it, the photographer didn't get it, Mr. and Mrs. Tri don't get it, or when it's all said and done I don't get it. Maybe you'll get it?
So Triathelete Girl meets Triathelete Boy at a Triathalon. They live far far away, but schedule meetings around crazy long endurance events because they could be possibly, OH, are in love. Tri-Girl and Tri-Boy become Mr. and Mrs. Tri because they understand each other. I know all of this because The NY Times told me so.
As much as I desperately wanted to like this story, I didn't. I can't figure out if the writer didn't get it, the photographer didn't get it, Mr. and Mrs. Tri don't get it, or when it's all said and done I don't get it. Maybe you'll get it?
Thursday, January 13, 2005
The day the music died
Well, not died so much, more like moved south. And it wasn't today so much as the other day. My favorite DC radio station went Central American, which is fine if you like that sort of thing. (And to be honest I have no idea if I like that sort of thing. I've got some Brazilian ditties on a CD my former roommate Gui gave me. It's in Porteguese, so I'm pretty sure it's not the same thing at all. That disc is ok though. Which should tell you nothing.) I'll admit that the now defunct station was known to play the same Killerz (?) song as another DC station at the same time on more than one occasion. And it really played the same playlist as the station winning out the alternative set, only with a few pieces of "new music" mixed in. (I don't know why new music needed quotes there. I'm pretty sure the music was actually new as far as musical newness goes.) So if we get right down to it, the biggest loss other than a piece of this town that was never mine anyway and a few new songs that I rarely heard, is that I can no longer easily scan between 99.1 and 99.5. Instead I have to jump from 99.5 all the way, that's right I said all the way to 101.1. It wears me out just thinking about it. It just got a whole lot harder to bounce between thug and modern rocker. You know it's bad when that happens, dawg.
Well, not died so much, more like moved south. And it wasn't today so much as the other day. My favorite DC radio station went Central American, which is fine if you like that sort of thing. (And to be honest I have no idea if I like that sort of thing. I've got some Brazilian ditties on a CD my former roommate Gui gave me. It's in Porteguese, so I'm pretty sure it's not the same thing at all. That disc is ok though. Which should tell you nothing.) I'll admit that the now defunct station was known to play the same Killerz (?) song as another DC station at the same time on more than one occasion. And it really played the same playlist as the station winning out the alternative set, only with a few pieces of "new music" mixed in. (I don't know why new music needed quotes there. I'm pretty sure the music was actually new as far as musical newness goes.) So if we get right down to it, the biggest loss other than a piece of this town that was never mine anyway and a few new songs that I rarely heard, is that I can no longer easily scan between 99.1 and 99.5. Instead I have to jump from 99.5 all the way, that's right I said all the way to 101.1. It wears me out just thinking about it. It just got a whole lot harder to bounce between thug and modern rocker. You know it's bad when that happens, dawg.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
That's so 26
I've never been very good at those interview questions that ask "Where do you see yourself in five years?" I don't see the future. I'm trying the present for size and I've got to say that the moment I had in the kitchen was, at least for me, so 26.
The moment: Somehow I've totally ruined Minute rice. I know. I thought it was impossible too. I've just finished crunching through a few soupy spoonfuls when I decide to just give up. I close my borrowed copy of "Seat of the Soul", the latest read about finding meaning. I stand up and walk over to the kitchen sink. I put the rice down and pick up the last of the soup. I scoop straight from the pot into my mouth using a spoon, thankyouverymuch. I tilt the pot for easy access. As I am slurping up the last of the soup, I look in the window and there I stand in a button-down work shirt, a draft blowing against my exposed legs. The counter tops were shining, no thanks to me and Mud Pie ice cream was waiting in the freezer.
Five years ago, if you'd asked me, I wouldn't have said that's where I'd be. But what can I say? That's where I am.
I've never been very good at those interview questions that ask "Where do you see yourself in five years?" I don't see the future. I'm trying the present for size and I've got to say that the moment I had in the kitchen was, at least for me, so 26.
The moment: Somehow I've totally ruined Minute rice. I know. I thought it was impossible too. I've just finished crunching through a few soupy spoonfuls when I decide to just give up. I close my borrowed copy of "Seat of the Soul", the latest read about finding meaning. I stand up and walk over to the kitchen sink. I put the rice down and pick up the last of the soup. I scoop straight from the pot into my mouth using a spoon, thankyouverymuch. I tilt the pot for easy access. As I am slurping up the last of the soup, I look in the window and there I stand in a button-down work shirt, a draft blowing against my exposed legs. The counter tops were shining, no thanks to me and Mud Pie ice cream was waiting in the freezer.
Five years ago, if you'd asked me, I wouldn't have said that's where I'd be. But what can I say? That's where I am.
Monday, January 10, 2005
I don't like the ending
Some time ago, we'll say spring twenty-oh-four, I ran into this little woman who had locked her purse-keys and all, in her trunk. She gave me her sad story and I bought it. She was very sweet and we walked all the way to the ATM where I proceeded to hand over way too much cash so she could get a cab ride home. Somewhere in all of our walking I started to realize that I was probably being had, but I couldn't fight the inertia of the situation. I still held onto the dim hope that she might not be a swindler. A few days went by and I didn't hear from her. I even called the number she gave me; it turned out to be a fax machine. At least it was a fax machine at the place she claimed to work I'd find out through some nifty research. No woman by that name, however, worked there. She won. I lost. I was pretty embarrassed.
Since then I haven't given money to anyone. People on fire saying "Give me a dollar to put out this fire!" get nothing more than a skeptical look from me. (Ok. I'm lying here. I think I gave a dollar to a guy who needed some money to ride the Metro, but I'm serious con men and beggars who might be reading this, I look away much faster now than I used to.)
The other day I was helping this blind man (that in no way relates to the story but it sure does make me sound good, doesn't it?) when I heard this woman announcing to people within earshot "I locked my keys in my trunk." As I walked by and saw her out of the corner of my eye she grumbled, "Doesn't anyone help anymore?" At that moment I realized that this woman is the same little woman who locked her keys in her trunk way back when. Suddenly a shot of adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I'm hoping the blind guy doesn't notice as I hurry him along, but I have to keep an eye on the old bag. I see her conversing with this younger woman and I dart back to break up any transaction that might be about to occur. I pull up short as I realize that the younger woman is not falling under the old bag's spell. Because of my positioning and their positioning and some other positioning, my presence sort of forces younger woman and old bag to get on the escalator. I'm two little steps behind a woman who swindled me and my heart is racing. I want to punch her. I want to tell her that she owes me money. I want to scream and yell and expose her. Only I can't. I certainly can't punch her. I can't prove she's a liar. The only thing I can see happening is that she starts screaming and all of a sudden we've got larger bearded guy "assualting" small well-off looking evil woman. Only the evil won't be so obvious to the general public. So when she turns to me and asks, "Did you want something?"
All I can muster is a very sweet,"No ma'am"
I'm sure that will keep her up late at night, her poor conscience filled with regret.
Some time ago, we'll say spring twenty-oh-four, I ran into this little woman who had locked her purse-keys and all, in her trunk. She gave me her sad story and I bought it. She was very sweet and we walked all the way to the ATM where I proceeded to hand over way too much cash so she could get a cab ride home. Somewhere in all of our walking I started to realize that I was probably being had, but I couldn't fight the inertia of the situation. I still held onto the dim hope that she might not be a swindler. A few days went by and I didn't hear from her. I even called the number she gave me; it turned out to be a fax machine. At least it was a fax machine at the place she claimed to work I'd find out through some nifty research. No woman by that name, however, worked there. She won. I lost. I was pretty embarrassed.
Since then I haven't given money to anyone. People on fire saying "Give me a dollar to put out this fire!" get nothing more than a skeptical look from me. (Ok. I'm lying here. I think I gave a dollar to a guy who needed some money to ride the Metro, but I'm serious con men and beggars who might be reading this, I look away much faster now than I used to.)
The other day I was helping this blind man (that in no way relates to the story but it sure does make me sound good, doesn't it?) when I heard this woman announcing to people within earshot "I locked my keys in my trunk." As I walked by and saw her out of the corner of my eye she grumbled, "Doesn't anyone help anymore?" At that moment I realized that this woman is the same little woman who locked her keys in her trunk way back when. Suddenly a shot of adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I'm hoping the blind guy doesn't notice as I hurry him along, but I have to keep an eye on the old bag. I see her conversing with this younger woman and I dart back to break up any transaction that might be about to occur. I pull up short as I realize that the younger woman is not falling under the old bag's spell. Because of my positioning and their positioning and some other positioning, my presence sort of forces younger woman and old bag to get on the escalator. I'm two little steps behind a woman who swindled me and my heart is racing. I want to punch her. I want to tell her that she owes me money. I want to scream and yell and expose her. Only I can't. I certainly can't punch her. I can't prove she's a liar. The only thing I can see happening is that she starts screaming and all of a sudden we've got larger bearded guy "assualting" small well-off looking evil woman. Only the evil won't be so obvious to the general public. So when she turns to me and asks, "Did you want something?"
All I can muster is a very sweet,"No ma'am"
I'm sure that will keep her up late at night, her poor conscience filled with regret.
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Saturday, January 08, 2005
Why don't I Keira?
It could be that the recent flirtations with Scarlett Johannsen (yes twin, I'm sorry. No. no, I'm not.) have affected me more than I realized. Perhaps, my love is fading. Or maybe I just don't understand why I would want to hear anyone make pointless remarks over scenes of their film, even Ms. Knightley.
Add DVD audio commentary to the things that I just don't understand and/or appreciate.
Why DSL WHY?
Please come back to me. Please stop with these trial separations. Please stop with the intermittent dropping in. I need you here. I need you stable. I need you on.
Have I mentioned my teeny tiny towel lately?
Yes. I thought I had. Still splendid. Still revealing and effective.
It could be that the recent flirtations with Scarlett Johannsen (yes twin, I'm sorry. No. no, I'm not.) have affected me more than I realized. Perhaps, my love is fading. Or maybe I just don't understand why I would want to hear anyone make pointless remarks over scenes of their film, even Ms. Knightley.
Add DVD audio commentary to the things that I just don't understand and/or appreciate.
Why DSL WHY?
Please come back to me. Please stop with these trial separations. Please stop with the intermittent dropping in. I need you here. I need you stable. I need you on.
Have I mentioned my teeny tiny towel lately?
Yes. I thought I had. Still splendid. Still revealing and effective.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Well that’s a FINE mess global warming has gotten us into
If you’re not going to make winter, then neither am I. I’ll wear shorts. I’ll drink lemonade. I’ll go for long walks and I won’t ask you to come with me. If you won’t bring me any of the white stuff, then this will just be the dark summer. That’s right. Winter is a distant memory. This is the dark summer. Remember the dark summer of 2005? I’ll ask my children. And they’ll say, “No. Silly. We weren’t born yet.” And I’ll say “show a little respect!” And then I’ll start to throw a shoe at them, but realize that would be mean and take a deep breath and say, “Well, the dark summer of 2005 was a miserable year.” Only I’ll say miserable like it had 8 syllables instead of 3 or however many it has. Like this: Mis se ra bu uh le. That way they’ll know it was bad.
“Why was it dark, Grandpa?” they’ll ask. “Was it a meterorite?” “Weren’t you just my father?” Time moves so quickly.
And then I’ll scream and say, “It’s dark because MA Nature says it’s dark, dagnabbit. And if you kids knew anything at all about history you’d know it was dark because it didn’t snow. And also because of the tilt of the earth's axis.” And then I’d fall asleep in my rocking chair. The great-grandkids would roll their eyes and say, “What’s snow?”
If you’re not going to make winter, then neither am I. I’ll wear shorts. I’ll drink lemonade. I’ll go for long walks and I won’t ask you to come with me. If you won’t bring me any of the white stuff, then this will just be the dark summer. That’s right. Winter is a distant memory. This is the dark summer. Remember the dark summer of 2005? I’ll ask my children. And they’ll say, “No. Silly. We weren’t born yet.” And I’ll say “show a little respect!” And then I’ll start to throw a shoe at them, but realize that would be mean and take a deep breath and say, “Well, the dark summer of 2005 was a miserable year.” Only I’ll say miserable like it had 8 syllables instead of 3 or however many it has. Like this: Mis se ra bu uh le. That way they’ll know it was bad.
“Why was it dark, Grandpa?” they’ll ask. “Was it a meterorite?” “Weren’t you just my father?” Time moves so quickly.
And then I’ll scream and say, “It’s dark because MA Nature says it’s dark, dagnabbit. And if you kids knew anything at all about history you’d know it was dark because it didn’t snow. And also because of the tilt of the earth's axis.” And then I’d fall asleep in my rocking chair. The great-grandkids would roll their eyes and say, “What’s snow?”
Monday, January 03, 2005
Sunday, January 02, 2005
The evil Internet demons are looking the other way
So I've got to be quick while the DSL is still working and while the static on my phone line takes a rest. This gives me the opportunity to tell you that classical music makes everything sound more important, including cutting tomatoes, which by the way is unbelievably more exciting with sharp knives. Know what else is exciting? Teeny tiny towels. I kid you not. I got this Aquis towel that doesn't even fit around my waist. That's not the exciting part. The exciting part is that it dried me off and probably could have dried you off too. It's this great microfiber and now that I think of it, why were you showering without a towel of your own?
So I've got to be quick while the DSL is still working and while the static on my phone line takes a rest. This gives me the opportunity to tell you that classical music makes everything sound more important, including cutting tomatoes, which by the way is unbelievably more exciting with sharp knives. Know what else is exciting? Teeny tiny towels. I kid you not. I got this Aquis towel that doesn't even fit around my waist. That's not the exciting part. The exciting part is that it dried me off and probably could have dried you off too. It's this great microfiber and now that I think of it, why were you showering without a towel of your own?
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