Movies of 2007

My favorites were 8, 11, 19, 32, and 44.

1. Notes on a Scandal
2. Idiocracy
3. Music and Lyrics
4. The Namesake
5. Freedom Writers
6. Trust the Man
7. The Baxter
8. Hot Fuzz
9. Gridiron Gang
10. Half Nelson
11. Volver
12. The Weatherman
13. Knocked Up
14. John Tucker Must Die
15. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
16. Blood Diamond
17. Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End
18. Gray Matter
19. Once
20. Transformers
21. One Last Thing
22. The History Boys
23. You, Me, and Dupree
24. Invincible
25. Rattatouille
26. Breaking Away
27. Bourne Ultimatum
28. The Darwin Awards
29. Benchwarmers
30. Superbad
31. Blades of Glory
(And then Netflix came into my life)
32. The Good, The Bad, The Ugly
33. Enron
34. Pan's Labyrinth
35. Trekkies
36. Arsenic and Old Lace
37. Children of Heaven
38. How to Marry a Millionaire
39. Hairspray
40. Me and You and Everyone we know
41. Hot Rod
42. I am Legend
43. Imagine Me and You
44. Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story
45. Letters from Iwo Jima

Books read in 2007

My favorites were 3, 13, and 19.

1. Lone Surfer of Montana Kansas
2. A Prayer for Owen Meany (started in 2006)
3. The Perfect Mile
4. Deception Point
5. Stumbling on Happiness
6. Digital Fortress
7. Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common reader
8. The Namesake
9. The Audacity of Hope
10. Over the Edge: Death in the Grand Canyon
11. Everything Bad for you is Good
12. Reread: God of Small Things
13. Pistol: The Story of Pete Maravich
14. It's Not All About the Bike
15. Skinny Legs and All
16. Vagabonding
17. White Teeth
18. Harry Potter
19. Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell
20. A Thousand Splendid Suns
21. Sacred Hoops
22. Rant
23. I hope they serve beer in hell
24. When Nothing Else Matters: Michael Jordan's Last Comeback
25. Reread: The Time Traveler's Wife
26. Higher: A Historic Race to the Sky and the Making of a City
27. Run
28. You Suck: A Love Story

The Final Countdown (actually, probably the first of several)

3. Earlier this week, I ran out of useable food except for oatmeal and grits, which are pretty much fraternal twins. I could have gone to a grocery store, there are two within spitting distance, or at least walking distance, but the thought of having to pick out food was exhausting to me. Instead of visiting the store, I went on eating oatmeal and grits for three consecutive meals and at least one snack. In retrospect, this was kind of gross and probably why I didn't feel all that great. If Wilford Brimley had really been here I think he would have told me to snap out of it and pull myself together, but instead that Quaker guy and his fraternal twin smaller Quaker guy sat silently and watched me suffer.

2. It feels like finals week, but I don't think I've studied for the test. I am rather fearful that I'm about to fail the class. The thing I always liked about finals week was the quiet. It was like brain snow. Everyone became muted, beautiful (or at least natural, because what is more natural than unkempt bleary-eyed students?), and focused. The other great thing about finals week was the relief. I'm worried that without the test, I'm going to miss out on the relief.

1. The last few nights at about this time I've been watching reruns of The Office and I get this hunger. Last night it was for meatless ribs and tonight its for chocolate. The bad thing is that I don't think I'm actually hungry. Maybe I just miss the grits.

I have a new hobby!

I was going to call it baby-napping, but I'm afraid that has connotations too close to kidnapping and that's not my new hobby at all. No, this hobby involves me wandering around the house bouncing my little niece until her tiny eyes start to close as sleep overtakes her. From there I try to smoothly take a seated or fully reclined position in which I can fall into a similar sleep-like state. Together, we nap until one of us feels like crying or twitching. I'm not sure how she feels about it, but I kind of think it's one of the new great joys in life.

Biopicady?

Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story is a gem. At the very least its a small but valuable stone. It's better than the date bread I made myself for breakfast today. I know I have the Internet at my fingertips, but instead of doing any research I'm going to say that this film is the best in its genre- The Biopic Parody. It skewers Cash, The Beatles, The Beach Boys and others.

Jenna Fischer is a delightful June Carter/Darlene to the John C. Reilly as Johnny/Dewey character and their love story is comically beautiful. The songs are a hoot throughout the film. This is my favorite Judd Apatow film. How much expectations and the newly minted genre have to do with that is something to examine another night.

Socks off

I once smashed a door. My parents had a lamp that I knocked over and narrowly missed breaking. I've had some Nyquil before the previous dose ran its full course.

Obviously, I'm trying to say that the Rock 'n' Roll lifestyle is a familiar one. That's why when I had the opportunity to join The Babe Lincolns playing the video game "Rock Band" I jumped at the chance. Combining the finest elements of the early '80s battery-powered "Simon says" game with modern rock technology and off-key singing is a prescription for four-player bliss. I've heard that someone in the know has said the only similarity between "Rock Band" and the real thing is the bickering about who screwed up what. The Babe Lincolns were a genial band and struggled mightily together (some of us struggling more than others).

What I liked about "Rock Band" beyond its four player aspect, its allowance of varying skill level, and its rockin' songs, was the vibe. Even in fake rock, where the "playing" has little to nothing to do with musical ability, there's an energy in trying to keep up and accomplish something together that I haven't found in many other video games. It would be fair to say that I haven't looked very hard, but I think some of that energy may have come from trying to rock.

For all of our success, we kept pretty level heads. There was only one beer incident; the crowd wasn't too rowdy; best of all we stopped mid-set for some pumpkin pie.

Dear Blog,

I've had some time to think since we last talked. I said some things and you said no things. Things just got left in a place that I'm not very happy about.

You've been there for me for five years and that has really meant a lot to me. Due to the length of our relationship, I think I started to develop certain expectations. These expectations were as much about me as they were about you. It really isn't fair. You've been a consistent, almost machine-like, presence in my life. You ask for so little and give me so much in return. When I started to need more- stories, essays, stuff with a point, it wasn't fair for me to ask you to deliver it. You and I weren't about those things and besides most of my writing and its various shortcomings are my problems, not yours. I need to take some responsibility here.

I've given it some thought and I still want you in my life. I think there's room for both the present and the future in our relationship. We can work together and perhaps bring the world some of that vague mad-cap spew of words about everyday observations that they've grown accustomed to. What do you say?

I'd like to end my letter to you there, but I think that if we're going to avoid the expectation-creep from the past, there are a few more items that I should be honest about. In order to reach the conclusions of this letter, in order for me to accept that it was really our partnership that I missed, I did a little experimentation in the last month. It pains me to give you the sordid details, but it's a sacrifice I fear we must make for this to work.

First, I tried to use the status line in Facebook to communicate my feelings in just a few words. This was an empty attempt and it meant nothing to me. I'm sorry.

I also tried to tell people my observations. I must admit that I really wanted this one to work. It was ok, but my verbal abilities pale in comparison to those that you bring out in me. I also found my audience to be less receptive. This turn of events did bring some tears to my eyes, but it also brought me here.

Blog, can we re-join forces, just in time for Christmas? There are so many potentially witty thoughts for us to share. Please don't react immediately. Think about things and let me know how you feel. And Blog, if you decide that this just won't work out, that I finally said too much or not enough, understand that these five years have been very special to me and I hope you will find happiness wherever the Internet takes you.

Love,
David

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!

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.

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.

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...

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 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!

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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?

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?.