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!
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Neither Bond nor Belushi: more details
In the glow of 75-watt exposed bulbs, nursing a Shiner Bock, surrounded by a lot of small-ish men and a few younger women, I partied. College parties, like unfinished basements, have a certain ethos, or so I've been led to believe. This one seemed nearly perfect in its way. I stood and watched beer pong, flip cup, and the slightly awkward chatter of a crowd that could not have seen ET in theaters. A younger me would have been extremely uncomfortable here, even among friends, but this version manages slight discomfort with bouts of actual conversation and enjoyment. I still cling to the familiar, but at least acknowledge the unknown and even push through some of it, partying until the morning, by the strictest definition of the word.
If my Friday was a glimpse into a past I usually avoided or never really had, my Saturday was a glimpse into a future of the same. In the mood-lit dimness of a salon-like home, I sipped Glenfiddich and bumped elbows with elegant women and tuxedo-clad men. Between bites of hummus, I made small talk, or at least made small attempts at small talk with lawyers, a travel writer, and those more experienced on the small-talk circuit. There was less room for clinging to the familiar, and the sweeping wooden steps left me nowhere to hide. After two hours of the finer things, I had to take leave.
In the glow of 75-watt exposed bulbs, nursing a Shiner Bock, surrounded by a lot of small-ish men and a few younger women, I partied. College parties, like unfinished basements, have a certain ethos, or so I've been led to believe. This one seemed nearly perfect in its way. I stood and watched beer pong, flip cup, and the slightly awkward chatter of a crowd that could not have seen ET in theaters. A younger me would have been extremely uncomfortable here, even among friends, but this version manages slight discomfort with bouts of actual conversation and enjoyment. I still cling to the familiar, but at least acknowledge the unknown and even push through some of it, partying until the morning, by the strictest definition of the word.
If my Friday was a glimpse into a past I usually avoided or never really had, my Saturday was a glimpse into a future of the same. In the mood-lit dimness of a salon-like home, I sipped Glenfiddich and bumped elbows with elegant women and tuxedo-clad men. Between bites of hummus, I made small talk, or at least made small attempts at small talk with lawyers, a travel writer, and those more experienced on the small-talk circuit. There was less room for clinging to the familiar, and the sweeping wooden steps left me nowhere to hide. After two hours of the finer things, I had to take leave.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Metaphors for life- donations accepted
I got lost today on my ride home and it was the highlight of my day. I saw Superman, a bunch of bugs, and some princesses trick-or-treating at the embassies in the daylight. I wonder if the Swiss embassy gives chocolate. Then I stumbled on the National Cathedral. The sky was still very blue and I had to stop and stare in awe. The Cathedral was huge and beautiful. Some very well kept green grass added a nice green foreground too.
From there, I made my way through several neighborhoods I'd never seen and began to wonder about how lost I really was. I had some sense that I was South and West of my home, but I wasn't sure where I'd reconnect to roads I knew. Running into some potential harbingers of death- the eight foot spider, the giant hanging ghost, the grim reaper himself, I worried a little for my safety. The sun began to set and the temperature dropped with it. Pulling down my sleeves and pushing a little harder on the pedals I came up behind a man in car. He was staring at his map. I tried to stare over his shoulder, but that didn't work. He saw me and looked at me awkwardly, so I did the only logical thing- I yelled, "Where do we go?" and rode off. Fortunately, the next block over was familiar territory and the giant spider, the hanging ghost, and the grim reaper have to wait a little longer.
I got lost today on my ride home and it was the highlight of my day. I saw Superman, a bunch of bugs, and some princesses trick-or-treating at the embassies in the daylight. I wonder if the Swiss embassy gives chocolate. Then I stumbled on the National Cathedral. The sky was still very blue and I had to stop and stare in awe. The Cathedral was huge and beautiful. Some very well kept green grass added a nice green foreground too.
From there, I made my way through several neighborhoods I'd never seen and began to wonder about how lost I really was. I had some sense that I was South and West of my home, but I wasn't sure where I'd reconnect to roads I knew. Running into some potential harbingers of death- the eight foot spider, the giant hanging ghost, the grim reaper himself, I worried a little for my safety. The sun began to set and the temperature dropped with it. Pulling down my sleeves and pushing a little harder on the pedals I came up behind a man in car. He was staring at his map. I tried to stare over his shoulder, but that didn't work. He saw me and looked at me awkwardly, so I did the only logical thing- I yelled, "Where do we go?" and rode off. Fortunately, the next block over was familiar territory and the giant spider, the hanging ghost, and the grim reaper have to wait a little longer.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Pressure from the third grade
In a scrapbook somewhere, probably buried in a toy box in another city, there is a picture of a robot. Next to the picture of this robot on parade is a quote, "Give me a box and I can be anything." The robot is me dressed in foil-covered boxes with knobs and dials and silver bendable tubing for arms and legs. The quote is mine; I had just finished a whirlwind year in the box-making business. For Halloween the previous year, I had my greatest triumph- I was a dryer. In a green-painted box with a second green box fashioned for knobs and dials, I tricked and treated my way through the dryer door, Bounce and laundry stuck to the inside. That same year, I entered a hat contest with what was billed at that time as the "third largest hat in the world." Resting on my shoulders precariously, the Empire state building, including a small plastic gorilla, towered above the other hats in the contest. The tower was painted brown and little yellow scraps of paper were haphazardly-placed windows. The hat didn't win, but I was still quite proud of it. Then came the robot. Even looking back I can see where my box optimism sprang from.
Now, several years later, the pressure from that statement haunts me. I get boxes in the office all of the time. They almost never transform me, nor I them. Tomorrow, Halloween arrives. Last year as a paradigm shift and then a frosted shredded wheat, I may have used up too much cleverness in one year. I've considered trotting out my Hawaiian shirt and being a tourist or unleashing my pleather pants to be a pleather-pants wearer, but I can't quite find the enthusiasm. I am unable to live up to the standards set by a third grade me.
That guy was a stellar tetherball player too. Man. I think I've lost that too...
In a scrapbook somewhere, probably buried in a toy box in another city, there is a picture of a robot. Next to the picture of this robot on parade is a quote, "Give me a box and I can be anything." The robot is me dressed in foil-covered boxes with knobs and dials and silver bendable tubing for arms and legs. The quote is mine; I had just finished a whirlwind year in the box-making business. For Halloween the previous year, I had my greatest triumph- I was a dryer. In a green-painted box with a second green box fashioned for knobs and dials, I tricked and treated my way through the dryer door, Bounce and laundry stuck to the inside. That same year, I entered a hat contest with what was billed at that time as the "third largest hat in the world." Resting on my shoulders precariously, the Empire state building, including a small plastic gorilla, towered above the other hats in the contest. The tower was painted brown and little yellow scraps of paper were haphazardly-placed windows. The hat didn't win, but I was still quite proud of it. Then came the robot. Even looking back I can see where my box optimism sprang from.
Now, several years later, the pressure from that statement haunts me. I get boxes in the office all of the time. They almost never transform me, nor I them. Tomorrow, Halloween arrives. Last year as a paradigm shift and then a frosted shredded wheat, I may have used up too much cleverness in one year. I've considered trotting out my Hawaiian shirt and being a tourist or unleashing my pleather pants to be a pleather-pants wearer, but I can't quite find the enthusiasm. I am unable to live up to the standards set by a third grade me.
That guy was a stellar tetherball player too. Man. I think I've lost that too...
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Fallin' hard
The rain was neither cat nor dog, but it was wet. I don't like umbrellas and prefer rain gear, usually in blue. The hitch in my plan almost always comes in a pair. I have rain pants, but never remember to wear them. My royal blue raincoat, excellent as it may be, can barely contain me and my backpack. I wander the streets, sans umbrella, hump-backed as my pants grow increasingly moist. I like the rain pounding down on me. It makes me feel dramatic and alive; I fight nature head on with only a raincoat to protect me. Faces in the city turn down or are blocked by the window waterfalls. This is my fight alone and I think I'm winning.
The foilage was matted to the trail. Soggy reds, oranges, and browns covered the path as my wheels spun quickly past. The creek was roaring from the previous night's storm. My legs churned and I pressed on down to the district. Somewhere between tan knee-high suede and short gray tweed summer turned to autumn. I followed.
Sipping pumpkin spice on the sunny part of art gallery steps, thousands of runners streamed through my view. A sea of singlets were nearing the halfway point for hours. I didn't move, but found myself lost in past, present, and future. I was buoyed by smiles, children cheering for dad, strangers cheering for strangers, and a quiet comfortable morning that could only lead to afternoon.
The rain was neither cat nor dog, but it was wet. I don't like umbrellas and prefer rain gear, usually in blue. The hitch in my plan almost always comes in a pair. I have rain pants, but never remember to wear them. My royal blue raincoat, excellent as it may be, can barely contain me and my backpack. I wander the streets, sans umbrella, hump-backed as my pants grow increasingly moist. I like the rain pounding down on me. It makes me feel dramatic and alive; I fight nature head on with only a raincoat to protect me. Faces in the city turn down or are blocked by the window waterfalls. This is my fight alone and I think I'm winning.
The foilage was matted to the trail. Soggy reds, oranges, and browns covered the path as my wheels spun quickly past. The creek was roaring from the previous night's storm. My legs churned and I pressed on down to the district. Somewhere between tan knee-high suede and short gray tweed summer turned to autumn. I followed.
Sipping pumpkin spice on the sunny part of art gallery steps, thousands of runners streamed through my view. A sea of singlets were nearing the halfway point for hours. I didn't move, but found myself lost in past, present, and future. I was buoyed by smiles, children cheering for dad, strangers cheering for strangers, and a quiet comfortable morning that could only lead to afternoon.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
The state of my Internet address
Fellow Internet inhabitants,
We are all presidents in a land with none, which is why I choose to address you so. I have shown up on your rss feed, you happened to stop by, you have no idea why you've come, and I share your automation, good fortune, dumb luck. Thank you for coming this October, I promise to keep this relatively short. How short? Let's just say if I had written out this speech and placed it in my left breast-pocket, an assassination attempt using only steel-tipped darts would probably do me in. Not to fear though, my secret service personnel have been put on high alert to watch for excellent dart marksmen. My personnel are very thorough and have spent weeks leading up to this evening studying darts at establishments far and wide. They have also sampled some of the finest in October-flavored beer. Very thorough indeed.
My point, the plastic tipped dart which compels me to write today, is on the state of the Internet. It appears that porn continues to drive the Internet bus, but I will leave that portion untouched here today. I want to focus my discussion of the Internet in a way that the Internet seems to appreciate. I want to focus the discussion on me and the way the Internet is meeting my needs. Obviously, my abiltity to share in this very space is telling about one important part of the Internet. This continues to be my bulletin board for the thoughts and conversations that I'm not sure anybody even wants to listen to; or if "thoughts and conversations" strikes too intellectual of a tone, this is at least the space where my half-formed word combinations can go to rest comfortably in the knowledge that they are at least available for someone's consumption. I've had exciting moments here, but the babble seems more one-sided of late. My interest in me tends to outstrip others' interest in me. I understand that since you unlikely have a self to focus on. But, this has left me still searching for that social, or at least *favorite word of the month* parasocial connection.
Before I address that though, I would like to point those still listening to the upcoming National Novel Writing Month at nanowrimo.org. It's babbling with a goal and a story, so maybe a step up from blogs like this. It's also a great challenge.
Now, back to the parasocial universe that I inhabit. Facebook has sort of, kind of connected me with a number of people that I was sort of, kind of connected with before. It's pleasant enough finding out that people I like, but don't talk to that often like certain movies or songs and come from towns that I never thought to ask about, but it's also addictive and other than that sort of, kind of connection I'm not quite sure what it buys me. It does allow me another new way to use up my time and this time there are pictures.
Pictures are good, but I'm motivated by words. That's why goodreads.com is emerging as my favorite new place on the Internet. It's cozy, friendly, and fun. It's like a cute little coffee shop without the charming proprietor, the real people, the thick smell of fresh coffee, and the overpriced Internet connection. Well, that last one probably still exists. It does lack some of the tactile joys of a cute little coffee shop, but it makes up for that in its connection for readers. I believe I've touted the site in this space before, but I continue to see benefit. The site is keeping me reading. It's allowing me to get recommendations from my parasocial pals who probably wouldn't reach out otherwise. It's giving me a place to track my books, keep my reviews, and stay excited about reading. It's quickly moving to the top of my list of life-improving Internet addresses. Your blog is undoubtedly right up there in second place, don't worry.
And now for those who stayed and skimmed my every word, I give you a small piece of joy which comes not from the Internet, but instead a book I read. A joke book.
Question: What's the hardest part about hunting elephants?
Stop me if you've heard this one.
A: Carrying the decoys.
I KNOW!
Fellow Internet inhabitants,
We are all presidents in a land with none, which is why I choose to address you so. I have shown up on your rss feed, you happened to stop by, you have no idea why you've come, and I share your automation, good fortune, dumb luck. Thank you for coming this October, I promise to keep this relatively short. How short? Let's just say if I had written out this speech and placed it in my left breast-pocket, an assassination attempt using only steel-tipped darts would probably do me in. Not to fear though, my secret service personnel have been put on high alert to watch for excellent dart marksmen. My personnel are very thorough and have spent weeks leading up to this evening studying darts at establishments far and wide. They have also sampled some of the finest in October-flavored beer. Very thorough indeed.
My point, the plastic tipped dart which compels me to write today, is on the state of the Internet. It appears that porn continues to drive the Internet bus, but I will leave that portion untouched here today. I want to focus my discussion of the Internet in a way that the Internet seems to appreciate. I want to focus the discussion on me and the way the Internet is meeting my needs. Obviously, my abiltity to share in this very space is telling about one important part of the Internet. This continues to be my bulletin board for the thoughts and conversations that I'm not sure anybody even wants to listen to; or if "thoughts and conversations" strikes too intellectual of a tone, this is at least the space where my half-formed word combinations can go to rest comfortably in the knowledge that they are at least available for someone's consumption. I've had exciting moments here, but the babble seems more one-sided of late. My interest in me tends to outstrip others' interest in me. I understand that since you unlikely have a self to focus on. But, this has left me still searching for that social, or at least *favorite word of the month* parasocial connection.
Before I address that though, I would like to point those still listening to the upcoming National Novel Writing Month at nanowrimo.org. It's babbling with a goal and a story, so maybe a step up from blogs like this. It's also a great challenge.
Now, back to the parasocial universe that I inhabit. Facebook has sort of, kind of connected me with a number of people that I was sort of, kind of connected with before. It's pleasant enough finding out that people I like, but don't talk to that often like certain movies or songs and come from towns that I never thought to ask about, but it's also addictive and other than that sort of, kind of connection I'm not quite sure what it buys me. It does allow me another new way to use up my time and this time there are pictures.
Pictures are good, but I'm motivated by words. That's why goodreads.com is emerging as my favorite new place on the Internet. It's cozy, friendly, and fun. It's like a cute little coffee shop without the charming proprietor, the real people, the thick smell of fresh coffee, and the overpriced Internet connection. Well, that last one probably still exists. It does lack some of the tactile joys of a cute little coffee shop, but it makes up for that in its connection for readers. I believe I've touted the site in this space before, but I continue to see benefit. The site is keeping me reading. It's allowing me to get recommendations from my parasocial pals who probably wouldn't reach out otherwise. It's giving me a place to track my books, keep my reviews, and stay excited about reading. It's quickly moving to the top of my list of life-improving Internet addresses. Your blog is undoubtedly right up there in second place, don't worry.
And now for those who stayed and skimmed my every word, I give you a small piece of joy which comes not from the Internet, but instead a book I read. A joke book.
Question: What's the hardest part about hunting elephants?
Stop me if you've heard this one.
A: Carrying the decoys.
I KNOW!
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Burned by an icon
I'm spending an unreasonable amount of time with my iMac lately. Sometimes, he even lets me call him Mac. We watch TV together, read the paper, visit with our parasocial universe, organize movie rentals, and even check the weather. Yesterday, Mac told me that today would bring rain. I stopped listening to weathermen some time ago, but the icon showed rain and I believed it. It turns out that Mac is good for a lot of things, but predicting the weather isn't one of them. Maybe it's harder than I thought. It's a little amazing that the weather even matters; I mean by 2007 someone surely thought we'd be traveling in glass tubes, but the earth is not dead yet. It might be sick, but I'm holding out hope that we'll survive the melting. Today it didn't rain, not even a little bit.
Mr. iMac, sir, please fix your predictions and get started on those glass tubes just in case.
I'm spending an unreasonable amount of time with my iMac lately. Sometimes, he even lets me call him Mac. We watch TV together, read the paper, visit with our parasocial universe, organize movie rentals, and even check the weather. Yesterday, Mac told me that today would bring rain. I stopped listening to weathermen some time ago, but the icon showed rain and I believed it. It turns out that Mac is good for a lot of things, but predicting the weather isn't one of them. Maybe it's harder than I thought. It's a little amazing that the weather even matters; I mean by 2007 someone surely thought we'd be traveling in glass tubes, but the earth is not dead yet. It might be sick, but I'm holding out hope that we'll survive the melting. Today it didn't rain, not even a little bit.
Mr. iMac, sir, please fix your predictions and get started on those glass tubes just in case.
Friday, October 19, 2007
STUCKEY-ville
I'm in the mood for Ed. Mix up some of that Tom Cavanaugh goofiness, throw in some Carol Vescey angst, and a few wacky bowling alley lawyer high jinxing fun and man... that'd be swell. Will Ed and Carol get together? I mean he did kind of ride in on that white horse or as a knight, or man he was a little bit too much of a hopeless romantic. It was kind of sickening. I think I stopped watching before they cancelled that show.
I could go for some right now.
I'm in the mood for Ed. Mix up some of that Tom Cavanaugh goofiness, throw in some Carol Vescey angst, and a few wacky bowling alley lawyer high jinxing fun and man... that'd be swell. Will Ed and Carol get together? I mean he did kind of ride in on that white horse or as a knight, or man he was a little bit too much of a hopeless romantic. It was kind of sickening. I think I stopped watching before they cancelled that show.
I could go for some right now.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
I am a liar
Remember all those times that I said, "I just want to play Ultimate. It doesn't matter how or where." You probably don't because I tried not to let it consume you the way it has consumed me. Trust me though, I was saying it. Well, I lied. I played Ultimate today, the first time, other than a brief stint in July, and I don't just want to play Ultimate. I want to be good at Ultimate. It's a very different game when a cut or two sends me panting and when my body feels so fragile that a single cut might snap me into pieces.
I certainly wouldn't call today miserable by any stretch... there were some glorious moments where the disc stuck to my hand and my throws felt good, but for the most part I felt like an old man chasing the past.
I'm reading a book right now about Michael Jordan's final comeback, the one that was going on when I moved here. It talks about his flashes of brilliance, but it also talks about the struggles he went through physically and possibly emotionally as he was "de-throned." The writer is not terribly fond of Jordan or his motives. However, as Jordan's knees swell and younger players take him head on and win, I find my stomach churning and my eyes starting to water. Jordan was off for three years and came back at 38. I've been off for 6 months and I'm not 38. He did start a little more on top of his game than me though. I want to come back and be a good Ultimate player, but I can't decide what sacrifices I can make to do that. And deep down there's a little voice asking, "Is it Ultimate that I want or is it the competition and camraderie?" I don't like that voice right now, but he may be pushing me toward bike racing, or even triathalons if running can rejoin my sports vocabulary. It's just that Ultimate has been so good to me and it had helped me make a life for myself. Without it, I need to refigure me and so far that's been a struggle I'm not willing to tackle.
Remember all those times that I said, "I just want to play Ultimate. It doesn't matter how or where." You probably don't because I tried not to let it consume you the way it has consumed me. Trust me though, I was saying it. Well, I lied. I played Ultimate today, the first time, other than a brief stint in July, and I don't just want to play Ultimate. I want to be good at Ultimate. It's a very different game when a cut or two sends me panting and when my body feels so fragile that a single cut might snap me into pieces.
I certainly wouldn't call today miserable by any stretch... there were some glorious moments where the disc stuck to my hand and my throws felt good, but for the most part I felt like an old man chasing the past.
I'm reading a book right now about Michael Jordan's final comeback, the one that was going on when I moved here. It talks about his flashes of brilliance, but it also talks about the struggles he went through physically and possibly emotionally as he was "de-throned." The writer is not terribly fond of Jordan or his motives. However, as Jordan's knees swell and younger players take him head on and win, I find my stomach churning and my eyes starting to water. Jordan was off for three years and came back at 38. I've been off for 6 months and I'm not 38. He did start a little more on top of his game than me though. I want to come back and be a good Ultimate player, but I can't decide what sacrifices I can make to do that. And deep down there's a little voice asking, "Is it Ultimate that I want or is it the competition and camraderie?" I don't like that voice right now, but he may be pushing me toward bike racing, or even triathalons if running can rejoin my sports vocabulary. It's just that Ultimate has been so good to me and it had helped me make a life for myself. Without it, I need to refigure me and so far that's been a struggle I'm not willing to tackle.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Merriweather Pleasure, my donkey
I was in "Downtown Disney" recently taking in a little piece of the mouse-themed consumer mecca. It was Kid Vegas. Even the shops were set up like casinos with no clear paths to the exits. In the heart of this faux-downtown is a club district called "Pleasure Island." The name conjures up a few images, but sticking with a Disney theme, my mind immediately went to Pinocchio. In that cartoon, "Pleasure Island" was a haven for boy and boy-to-be debauchery. It's been years since I've seen the film and I could still feel the ugliness of that island that eventually turned the boys into donkeys. What a weird name for an adult club district in the middle of this family-friendly environment, I thought. Then, I began to doubt my less-than-perfect memory. Perhaps, I had the wrong island. Why would Disney name their club district after a place that manufactured donkeys? I started to ask around; no one I spoke with could remember Pinocchio well enough to confirm the island connection.
Wikipedia confirms the connection and then introduces a wrinkle more unsettling. The Disney PR folks have created what appears to be a false legend to explain the "Pleasure Island" club area moniker. They introduced a shipper named Merriweather Pleasure who was the island's owner and of course not a boy-into-donkey manufacturer. They obviously wanted to have their island keep its associations, but clean it up a bit. I didn't see any evidence of this fake legend on the island, but I wasn't really looking. I find this very disturbing. Disney surely researched this name and recognized that most people have forgotten their Pinocchio associations, but knew that a few of us would hang on to the horror. So, to take care of those of us scarred by that "Pleasure Island" they created this legend of a friendly shipper so we could go to their clubs safe in the knowledge that we weren't teetering on the brink of donkey-dom. Creepy.
I was in "Downtown Disney" recently taking in a little piece of the mouse-themed consumer mecca. It was Kid Vegas. Even the shops were set up like casinos with no clear paths to the exits. In the heart of this faux-downtown is a club district called "Pleasure Island." The name conjures up a few images, but sticking with a Disney theme, my mind immediately went to Pinocchio. In that cartoon, "Pleasure Island" was a haven for boy and boy-to-be debauchery. It's been years since I've seen the film and I could still feel the ugliness of that island that eventually turned the boys into donkeys. What a weird name for an adult club district in the middle of this family-friendly environment, I thought. Then, I began to doubt my less-than-perfect memory. Perhaps, I had the wrong island. Why would Disney name their club district after a place that manufactured donkeys? I started to ask around; no one I spoke with could remember Pinocchio well enough to confirm the island connection.
Wikipedia confirms the connection and then introduces a wrinkle more unsettling. The Disney PR folks have created what appears to be a false legend to explain the "Pleasure Island" club area moniker. They introduced a shipper named Merriweather Pleasure who was the island's owner and of course not a boy-into-donkey manufacturer. They obviously wanted to have their island keep its associations, but clean it up a bit. I didn't see any evidence of this fake legend on the island, but I wasn't really looking. I find this very disturbing. Disney surely researched this name and recognized that most people have forgotten their Pinocchio associations, but knew that a few of us would hang on to the horror. So, to take care of those of us scarred by that "Pleasure Island" they created this legend of a friendly shipper so we could go to their clubs safe in the knowledge that we weren't teetering on the brink of donkey-dom. Creepy.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Tiny pink hearts are all we need
Facebook has a tiny little icon of a pink heart separated by a squiggly line of space. There's a lot in the parasocial universe I haven't seen and don't understand, but that little icon made sense immediately- it's a broken heart. I'm sitting here trying to remember what it was to have a broken heart at 15. All I can really remember is that I couldn't eat for a few days. Would it have been easier to announce the heartbreak to everyone at once with just the click of a button? Or is there value in the play by play to every one of your friends? Hashing and re-hashing every detail, working it out in your own mind. Maybe that happens anyway. I suppose there's something pleasing in the way facebook would allow this communication to all of the peripheral friends; the ones that wouldn't get a first-hand account anyway. And yet, how much harder is reconciliation when all your friends have already read with their own eyes that it is done? There's very little opportunity for the "But I thought they were..."
I remember the break-up as a lonely time, early journal evidence calls the event "...traumatically dumped in Nov." There was an upperclassman named Bill. He had 5 pairs of jeans and ironed shirts for the week hung on the back of his door. He was a little dark with his slicked-back black hair and his cigarettes. I think he had a car. I was just a freshman, innocent, quiet, and fearful of authority. I was no match for Bill in the high school hierarchy. I struggled with this for a while. I kicked things. I ran until the ache in my lungs matched the ache in my chest. I fasted with emotional pain. Some of this I remember well, but most of it is a shadow of a feeling. It's an extrapolation backwards from pain inflicted since then. That wasn't my first rejection, but it was shocking in its swiftness.
The squiggly line compresses over time, eventually all but disappearing. Cliches fly out of mouths- "other fish in the sea" was my favorite. Time wears on and the events become less about her and more about how we deal. Does the little pink heart icon pulsate with new love? I haven't been around online long enough to find out, but whether the icon appears or not, tiny pink hearts will prevail.
Facebook has a tiny little icon of a pink heart separated by a squiggly line of space. There's a lot in the parasocial universe I haven't seen and don't understand, but that little icon made sense immediately- it's a broken heart. I'm sitting here trying to remember what it was to have a broken heart at 15. All I can really remember is that I couldn't eat for a few days. Would it have been easier to announce the heartbreak to everyone at once with just the click of a button? Or is there value in the play by play to every one of your friends? Hashing and re-hashing every detail, working it out in your own mind. Maybe that happens anyway. I suppose there's something pleasing in the way facebook would allow this communication to all of the peripheral friends; the ones that wouldn't get a first-hand account anyway. And yet, how much harder is reconciliation when all your friends have already read with their own eyes that it is done? There's very little opportunity for the "But I thought they were..."
I remember the break-up as a lonely time, early journal evidence calls the event "...traumatically dumped in Nov." There was an upperclassman named Bill. He had 5 pairs of jeans and ironed shirts for the week hung on the back of his door. He was a little dark with his slicked-back black hair and his cigarettes. I think he had a car. I was just a freshman, innocent, quiet, and fearful of authority. I was no match for Bill in the high school hierarchy. I struggled with this for a while. I kicked things. I ran until the ache in my lungs matched the ache in my chest. I fasted with emotional pain. Some of this I remember well, but most of it is a shadow of a feeling. It's an extrapolation backwards from pain inflicted since then. That wasn't my first rejection, but it was shocking in its swiftness.
The squiggly line compresses over time, eventually all but disappearing. Cliches fly out of mouths- "other fish in the sea" was my favorite. Time wears on and the events become less about her and more about how we deal. Does the little pink heart icon pulsate with new love? I haven't been around online long enough to find out, but whether the icon appears or not, tiny pink hearts will prevail.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
But, I just got out of college
I received a picture from a friend I haven't seen in a while. She looks fantastic, but she doesn't look like she did in college. I suppose she shouldn't by now, it's been a year and some change, a drawer full of change. She's been married, bought and sold a house, changed jobs, quit a band, joined a band, and certainly been through lots more that I'm not even remotely aware of. I don't know exactly how age shows up in people; it probably doesn't show up the same way in everybody, but she looks her age. She looks our age in this gorgeous, intelligent, grown-up sort of way. She looks the way I never thought we'd look.
I see myself in the mirror every day. Is this the way I look? I mean, obviously, you've got to take out her long hair and substitute my beard and she doesn't wear glasses, ok, ok, I mean do I look my age? Well, I've been told that when I trim my beard I look 10 years younger, which means when the beard is bountiful (and oh so rugged) I look well past my age. Wave to my age in the rearview mirror, kids. I'm trim now. I'm looking. The mirror says one thing, but my heart says another. Even with the (melodrama alert!) world-weary heart of late, I'm still a bit surprised when I don't get carded for the drinking. It's not an issue of being a regular customer either. I mean, if I were a campus I'd be a dry one. Which means that the vodka is hidden on the top shelf behind hair dryer?!? I'm not a campus, of course, but why does college feel so close?
I received a picture from a friend I haven't seen in a while. She looks fantastic, but she doesn't look like she did in college. I suppose she shouldn't by now, it's been a year and some change, a drawer full of change. She's been married, bought and sold a house, changed jobs, quit a band, joined a band, and certainly been through lots more that I'm not even remotely aware of. I don't know exactly how age shows up in people; it probably doesn't show up the same way in everybody, but she looks her age. She looks our age in this gorgeous, intelligent, grown-up sort of way. She looks the way I never thought we'd look.
I see myself in the mirror every day. Is this the way I look? I mean, obviously, you've got to take out her long hair and substitute my beard and she doesn't wear glasses, ok, ok, I mean do I look my age? Well, I've been told that when I trim my beard I look 10 years younger, which means when the beard is bountiful (and oh so rugged) I look well past my age. Wave to my age in the rearview mirror, kids. I'm trim now. I'm looking. The mirror says one thing, but my heart says another. Even with the (melodrama alert!) world-weary heart of late, I'm still a bit surprised when I don't get carded for the drinking. It's not an issue of being a regular customer either. I mean, if I were a campus I'd be a dry one. Which means that the vodka is hidden on the top shelf behind hair dryer?!? I'm not a campus, of course, but why does college feel so close?
Monday, October 01, 2007
Mind like a steel sieve
Somewhere, at some time, perhaps today in the newspaper, I read that happy people have trouble with contentment. For instance, if two people, say Paula and Paul met, had a whirlwind courtship full of flowers, hot tea, and cottton candy, and never fought they might run into trouble later on. (Not to mention the fact that they are clearly British circus florists and/or related to that ilk.) They would have their happy bar set so high, that day-to-day existence would be unable to live up to the original levels of happy. (As an aside, I'm not quite certain what the units of measurement for happy were, but I guarantee they were metric.) Thus, they would not be content. I believe the article went on to say that happy moments had less value as they were piled ever higher. I don't remember a lot more, but I think the article also suggested that these happy people were also likely to be most affected by a negative event.
For this reason, I have vowed to limit happy moments and will continue to push for conversion to the metric system. The Metric System: Units of happy easily divisible by 10.
It's for the collective good.
Update: Here it is. It's called Is Great Happiness Too Much of a Good Thing?.
Somewhere, at some time, perhaps today in the newspaper, I read that happy people have trouble with contentment. For instance, if two people, say Paula and Paul met, had a whirlwind courtship full of flowers, hot tea, and cottton candy, and never fought they might run into trouble later on. (Not to mention the fact that they are clearly British circus florists and/or related to that ilk.) They would have their happy bar set so high, that day-to-day existence would be unable to live up to the original levels of happy. (As an aside, I'm not quite certain what the units of measurement for happy were, but I guarantee they were metric.) Thus, they would not be content. I believe the article went on to say that happy moments had less value as they were piled ever higher. I don't remember a lot more, but I think the article also suggested that these happy people were also likely to be most affected by a negative event.
For this reason, I have vowed to limit happy moments and will continue to push for conversion to the metric system. The Metric System: Units of happy easily divisible by 10.
It's for the collective good.
Update: Here it is. It's called Is Great Happiness Too Much of a Good Thing?.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Searching for this season's woman of substance?
With Veronica Mars and the Gilmore Girls relegated to DVDs, it appears I'm searching for new tv women to fill a void. Tonight Bionic Woman faced off against Gossip Girl. On the surface, the edge would seem to go to the bionic one. She's strong and can leap from building to building, plus I have vague childhood memories of another bionic woman or maybe it was a six-million dollar man. There were definitely cool sound effects. The sound effects have gone away; there's no money in sound effects. The money is at the track, the soundtrack. I couldn't be bothered with more than a few minutes of the Bionic Woman at a time. It was dark. The lead was not very attractive and I have the sense that the show should have kept with the current trend of turning old tv shows into movies. It worked for Dukes of Hazzard. The Bionic one didn't really get a fair shake, as I was busy watching that girl from The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.
Pants connections to Alexis Bledel aside, there's something about this show that isn't quite horrible. Gossip Girl is narrated by Kristen Bell of Veronica Mars fame. Listening to Kristen Bell is not the same as watching her, but then watching a show by the creator of the O.C. is also not the same as watching a show by Rob Thomas. There's no sound effects in this one either, although we do get some class warfare, some high-schoolers trying to fit in and more than our fair share of forced (as in crammed down our throats) intrigue. Also, The Bravery made an appearance on the soundtrack which was fun. (Ooh. They're playing here on Halloween.) There were fewer drinks and sex this week than last, but the world isn't light, even if what's her face's hair is. Finally, the potential villain, if rich high school boys without twirlable mustaches can achieve villain status, was drinking a scotch. That's kind of a draw. Though I do wonder why CW shows tend to portray more scotch drinkers than any other network. Is that in their mission statement?
I'm not calling this one completely in favor of Gossip Girl yet, it is the CW after all, but I'd say Gossip is poised to take Bionic based on early returns.
With Veronica Mars and the Gilmore Girls relegated to DVDs, it appears I'm searching for new tv women to fill a void. Tonight Bionic Woman faced off against Gossip Girl. On the surface, the edge would seem to go to the bionic one. She's strong and can leap from building to building, plus I have vague childhood memories of another bionic woman or maybe it was a six-million dollar man. There were definitely cool sound effects. The sound effects have gone away; there's no money in sound effects. The money is at the track, the soundtrack. I couldn't be bothered with more than a few minutes of the Bionic Woman at a time. It was dark. The lead was not very attractive and I have the sense that the show should have kept with the current trend of turning old tv shows into movies. It worked for Dukes of Hazzard. The Bionic one didn't really get a fair shake, as I was busy watching that girl from The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.
Pants connections to Alexis Bledel aside, there's something about this show that isn't quite horrible. Gossip Girl is narrated by Kristen Bell of Veronica Mars fame. Listening to Kristen Bell is not the same as watching her, but then watching a show by the creator of the O.C. is also not the same as watching a show by Rob Thomas. There's no sound effects in this one either, although we do get some class warfare, some high-schoolers trying to fit in and more than our fair share of forced (as in crammed down our throats) intrigue. Also, The Bravery made an appearance on the soundtrack which was fun. (Ooh. They're playing here on Halloween.) There were fewer drinks and sex this week than last, but the world isn't light, even if what's her face's hair is. Finally, the potential villain, if rich high school boys without twirlable mustaches can achieve villain status, was drinking a scotch. That's kind of a draw. Though I do wonder why CW shows tend to portray more scotch drinkers than any other network. Is that in their mission statement?
I'm not calling this one completely in favor of Gossip Girl yet, it is the CW after all, but I'd say Gossip is poised to take Bionic based on early returns.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
Reality bites
I publicly admitted today that my 2007 Club Ultimate season was over. It's unclear whether it really began. I've been injured so long that my teammates probably wouldn't recognize me anyway. I haven't been on the field in months. I'd accepted personally some time ago that my comeback was not for this year, but I'd remained silent hoping for a miracle.
Every week, I get a little closer. I go whole days now without hurting. I sometimes have the urge to break into a run and I believe I could do it pain-free, at least for a little bit. I'm trying to heal completely so that when I do come back, I come back whole and ferociously. Many days both of those parts seem like pie-in-the-sky dreams. I've nearly adjusted to a life where playing Ultimate is not the centerpiece. Nearly adjusted may be a little strong, but I at least understand that it might be possible, if undesirable.
To admit this setback was sad for me and it makes my psoas twinge.
I publicly admitted today that my 2007 Club Ultimate season was over. It's unclear whether it really began. I've been injured so long that my teammates probably wouldn't recognize me anyway. I haven't been on the field in months. I'd accepted personally some time ago that my comeback was not for this year, but I'd remained silent hoping for a miracle.
Every week, I get a little closer. I go whole days now without hurting. I sometimes have the urge to break into a run and I believe I could do it pain-free, at least for a little bit. I'm trying to heal completely so that when I do come back, I come back whole and ferociously. Many days both of those parts seem like pie-in-the-sky dreams. I've nearly adjusted to a life where playing Ultimate is not the centerpiece. Nearly adjusted may be a little strong, but I at least understand that it might be possible, if undesirable.
To admit this setback was sad for me and it makes my psoas twinge.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Dear Big Brother
Here's the key to my house. Come on in. Ransack that. Here's the music I'm listening to, the books I'm reading, the thoughts I'm thinking, the friends I have (or at least the friends who also welcome you and yours and me). It's all here- where I went to school, what I had for breakfast, the amount of space between my toes.
That's right, I joined facebook. It's possible that I'm about to become a parasocial butterfly. I will flit all over the place without ever leaving the seat that I stole from my roommate. Am I ok with this? I don't know, but at least I get to see some photos and videos that I was missing. I'm also exploring a whole world that I was only vaguely aware was in existence. The kids these days are terrifying, but man they take a lot of pictures. I'm still having a bit of trouble with facebook. I feel a bit like the grandparent and the VCR. It just isn't as intuitive as I thought it would be for some reason. I'm sure I'll get it figured out, so that I can soon paste the remaining pieces of my soul online. In the meantime, I need to find a way to consolidate my online presence. It's getting too spread out. I can't remember which email addresses go where and who signs in to what selling place how. I need a computer just to track my computer use.
If I sound a little frantic, it's because I think I may have just gone to stuck my toe in the fountain of the Internet and I ended up falling in. My clothes are soaked. My unmentionables are wet (are there any unmentionables left?). I'm not exactly sure where the nearest towel is located, but I'm willing to extend a metaphor...
In conclusion, I'm going to steal a transition from Frankie Two Toes, and say that I had some free acupuncture on Sunday. It was trippy. That belongs in another post.
Good day, sirs. Enjoy my soul and all of its pieces.
Here's the key to my house. Come on in. Ransack that. Here's the music I'm listening to, the books I'm reading, the thoughts I'm thinking, the friends I have (or at least the friends who also welcome you and yours and me). It's all here- where I went to school, what I had for breakfast, the amount of space between my toes.
That's right, I joined facebook. It's possible that I'm about to become a parasocial butterfly. I will flit all over the place without ever leaving the seat that I stole from my roommate. Am I ok with this? I don't know, but at least I get to see some photos and videos that I was missing. I'm also exploring a whole world that I was only vaguely aware was in existence. The kids these days are terrifying, but man they take a lot of pictures. I'm still having a bit of trouble with facebook. I feel a bit like the grandparent and the VCR. It just isn't as intuitive as I thought it would be for some reason. I'm sure I'll get it figured out, so that I can soon paste the remaining pieces of my soul online. In the meantime, I need to find a way to consolidate my online presence. It's getting too spread out. I can't remember which email addresses go where and who signs in to what selling place how. I need a computer just to track my computer use.
If I sound a little frantic, it's because I think I may have just gone to stuck my toe in the fountain of the Internet and I ended up falling in. My clothes are soaked. My unmentionables are wet (are there any unmentionables left?). I'm not exactly sure where the nearest towel is located, but I'm willing to extend a metaphor...
In conclusion, I'm going to steal a transition from Frankie Two Toes, and say that I had some free acupuncture on Sunday. It was trippy. That belongs in another post.
Good day, sirs. Enjoy my soul and all of its pieces.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
"Parasocial" behavior and the potential for the anti- of such
The interesting and entertaining storyRules of Thumb: Love in the Age of Texting introduced me to the term parasocial, supposedly those who believe that constant virtual contact is more than just pretend intimacy. If I'm allowed to interpret recklessly and without the argument that immediately bubbles up regarding the gray areas between virtual and actual intimacy, I do believe I've been a bit anti-parasocial in the last few weeks. There's really no telling what effect that has had on either of us.
I'm only shedding this anti-parasocialism because the washingtonpost.com story overlaps with thoughts of my own from Friday night. I live in a very different world. I recognize many of my friends, or mostly Daimon and Alan, have been telling me this for some time. I noticed this difference acutely on a Metro ride Friday night. My friend and seatmate held an entire conversation, including making plans for when he got off the train in a series of text messages. He found out where to meet, when to meet, who would be there, and even extended an invitation to another friend in a matter of moments. I have never done that. If I'd been alone, I would have gone all the way home and then been annoyed to even have to consider returning to the Metro to prolong my evening.
A friendship with me now requires an almost unheard of and/or unremembered level of advanced planning and patience. If I'm late somewhere those meeting me will know strictly by my absence. If we don't agree on a place to meet or don't understand one another, the only way our paths will cross is by force of will and dumb luck. I see a certain amount of beauty in my built-in requirement for patience (not to mention a certain amount of irony), but knowing how prevalent technology is in everyone's pocket makes me see how my resistance could be considered slightly less than charming. Thanks to those that indulge me and to those who don't, GR2BR.
The interesting and entertaining storyRules of Thumb: Love in the Age of Texting introduced me to the term parasocial, supposedly those who believe that constant virtual contact is more than just pretend intimacy. If I'm allowed to interpret recklessly and without the argument that immediately bubbles up regarding the gray areas between virtual and actual intimacy, I do believe I've been a bit anti-parasocial in the last few weeks. There's really no telling what effect that has had on either of us.
I'm only shedding this anti-parasocialism because the washingtonpost.com story overlaps with thoughts of my own from Friday night. I live in a very different world. I recognize many of my friends, or mostly Daimon and Alan, have been telling me this for some time. I noticed this difference acutely on a Metro ride Friday night. My friend and seatmate held an entire conversation, including making plans for when he got off the train in a series of text messages. He found out where to meet, when to meet, who would be there, and even extended an invitation to another friend in a matter of moments. I have never done that. If I'd been alone, I would have gone all the way home and then been annoyed to even have to consider returning to the Metro to prolong my evening.
A friendship with me now requires an almost unheard of and/or unremembered level of advanced planning and patience. If I'm late somewhere those meeting me will know strictly by my absence. If we don't agree on a place to meet or don't understand one another, the only way our paths will cross is by force of will and dumb luck. I see a certain amount of beauty in my built-in requirement for patience (not to mention a certain amount of irony), but knowing how prevalent technology is in everyone's pocket makes me see how my resistance could be considered slightly less than charming. Thanks to those that indulge me and to those who don't, GR2BR.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
An error in judgment
I've gone and done it. I was searching for something to liven up my life. I'd recently enjoyed some Virgil's root beer. I was in that very aisle looking for something to drink. I considered some cream soda. I thought about some other root beers. I could have had a root beer showdown in my mouth, but I declined. I looked at the izze with their mod box design (is that mod?) and strange name. I do like that stylized flower/asterisk thingy they've got going on, but I've done izze before and enjoyed it. I was looking for liven, not retread. As I stood in the aisle and contemplated my options I spied Java pop. It's got bubbles on the label and promises of organic goodness. I'd enjoyed a Raspberry Mocha Frappuccino earlier in the day, so coffee was on my good side. I decided Vanilla Coffee soda was the way to liven.
Oh boy. I took a wrong turn near liven and ended up near Yucktown. It's organic all right. It tastes a little like liquid dirt mixed with liquid grass and a pinch of coffee bean and vanilla mixed right in. It's kind of not that good, like maybe my morning coffee waited all day to chill and then vomitted cream soda. Want a bottle?
I've gone and done it. I was searching for something to liven up my life. I'd recently enjoyed some Virgil's root beer. I was in that very aisle looking for something to drink. I considered some cream soda. I thought about some other root beers. I could have had a root beer showdown in my mouth, but I declined. I looked at the izze with their mod box design (is that mod?) and strange name. I do like that stylized flower/asterisk thingy they've got going on, but I've done izze before and enjoyed it. I was looking for liven, not retread. As I stood in the aisle and contemplated my options I spied Java pop. It's got bubbles on the label and promises of organic goodness. I'd enjoyed a Raspberry Mocha Frappuccino earlier in the day, so coffee was on my good side. I decided Vanilla Coffee soda was the way to liven.
Oh boy. I took a wrong turn near liven and ended up near Yucktown. It's organic all right. It tastes a little like liquid dirt mixed with liquid grass and a pinch of coffee bean and vanilla mixed right in. It's kind of not that good, like maybe my morning coffee waited all day to chill and then vomitted cream soda. Want a bottle?
Friday, August 24, 2007
The punchline to a really sad joke
How depressed are you?
I'm so depressed that yesterday I dressed the part. I was in a suit and sporting an old fedora and I just kept picturing myself in black and white. You know, because the Great Depression took place in black and white. The pictures prove it.
How sad?
Dear 25%,
Please read. It's worth it.
At least we aren't Orioles
The Rangers put up 30 runs against the Orioles in the first game of a doubleheader. Then they beat them again. I bet it was fun to be a Rangers fan on Thursday.
How depressed are you?
I'm so depressed that yesterday I dressed the part. I was in a suit and sporting an old fedora and I just kept picturing myself in black and white. You know, because the Great Depression took place in black and white. The pictures prove it.
How sad?
Dear 25%,
Please read. It's worth it.
At least we aren't Orioles
The Rangers put up 30 runs against the Orioles in the first game of a doubleheader. Then they beat them again. I bet it was fun to be a Rangers fan on Thursday.
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