Dancing about Geometry
Some people have magical feet. The music starts and they move with such an incredible grace and fluidity. I saw this older couple last night dancing to the Radio King Orchestra. She looked as if she had just put down her oxygen tank and he didn't look too much better off, but when the trumpet sounded- they were 20 if they were a day. Her feet moved in patterns I couldn't trace and he kept right up, a smile on both their faces.

Good dancers are exciting to watch. And while my grandma would tell you that it isn't like it used to be, good dancers are good dancers. The footwork isn't the same, but the gyrating, pulsating, or break-dancing can still be a joy to watch.

I'm convinced that the real key to good dancing is the smile. Great dancing takes moves and footwork, but good dancing- the fun kind- just takes a smile backed by confidence. I offer music videos as my evidence. In many music videos there is the lead singer/dancer supported by 8 or so back-up dancers. When 9 people do the same move, it becomes a legitmate dance move. Argue with me if you want, and I'll point you to the Macarena.

You don't have 8 back-up dancers? That's why you need the smile. If you're having a good time with your dance move and it isn't hurting anybody else, I say "good show." It's fun to watch people having a good time. It's fun to watch good dancing. Transitive property. To the beat ya'll!

Chewable and fruit-flavored
As you may or may not know, I am 26 years old. I am not the oldest person I know. I am not the oldest person I work with. I am not even the oldest one in my group of friends, which I am now going to lovingly dub "Dave and The District 9". It won't stick, but I had a point. It just wasn't particularly sharp. It's around here somewhere. Under the couch, buried in the dust between the keys- AHA! There it is- I have become an annoying 26. I have become "It'll-get-better" guy.

"It'll-get-better" guy knows what you're going through. He went through it once too, and he's proof that you will survive. Look at him, he's happy, well-adjusted, and he buys fancy cheese for pleasure, for pleasure. He is too young to be persnickety and too old to be reckless. And he dispenses cliched wisdom like it's candy. Stay away from him, for his good, for your good, for the good of everyone that needs to figure it out on their own.

Heed my warning. (There he goes again. jerk.)

If I had to choose an album title to sum things up right now, I'd have to go with Feeling Strangely Fine. I've always liked that album and that title. It's got a funny melancholy about it. I like that.

Mama-Me-a: An Evolution in Pizza
In the beginning, my mom made the pizza. She spread the tomato paste, which reminds me of a great joke- How do you fix a tomato? Tomato paste! Yes, so, my mom spread the tomato paste and sprinkled the cheese and plopped the pepporoni and then put the whole thing in the oven.

Then, the "Noid" arrived. The Noid may have been a symptom of some disease, or a result of stress, but we were avoiding the Noid and our pizzas were arriving in 30 minutes or less. Even as a fifth-grader, I knew this was PROGRESS.

Many years passed and evolution was slow, but pizza started to replace commands. Instead of "Go to Point A for Special Meeting or face consequences", it became "Special Meeting- Come for the pizza." Momma, did not raise no fool and I went. Free pizza kept me in college.

When the free pizza fountains started to dry up, Pappa then entered the scene. That's Pappa John, please. Pappa John and the occasional Gumby he rode in came right to my door. And they had sticks. And some people felt this was progress. This is where I got confused. But since pizza and I were so intertwined by now, I ate when Pappa delivered.

Then instead of getting the sticks, I'd moved to the sticks and I must turn to my grocer's freezer where I find-- pizza. It gets the job done.

I move out of the sticks and into the Big City where I eventually stumble upon a yuppie grocery store. Rather than pepporni or sausage, these crazy yuppies have pinenuts and Feta cheese on their pizza. I, without even realizing my transformation, pick up this yuppie pizza and consume it.

It's all very symbolic. And when I start making my own pizza for my children, I will have completed the circle, the circle of Pizza; the circle of Life.

Smatterings
*My virgin Lemoncello may not have been as ethereal or sexy as Cosmo's, but it tasted both lemon-y and cello-y.

*Eve. She that keeps the hand towel shall go by Eve. I like it.

*My arch rival from the 5k finished ahead of me by 14 minutes this morning.

*I have not lost faith in humanity. Humanity owes it all to Matt.

*With earplugs, the world is a muted place. The world with earplugs is pretty much like now.

*Is actually the new like? Like, Bill says so, actually.

*IDIOT! Napoleon Dynamite, played by John Heder, does some of the best teen angst I've ever seen on the big screen. And he is unencumbered by plot. But we skipped the extra scene. dang.

WhattayameanHALF?
Patience and humility are not my strongest suits. A half-marathon requires both. I watched hundreds of people run away from me from the get-go this morning. Does a marathon take twice the patience and humility? That's going to be a long day.

My favorite part of the half-marathon was the last 5k.
I know what to do with a 5k. I just didn't know what to do with the first 10 miles.

They Might Be Giants, but I was too hungry to find out.

Reason #499 that it'll never work
I know this is not Barry Bonds territory, or even Steve Balboni territory, but somehow 500 posts seems like a big deal. And, well, it kind of has me freaked out. So, I'm trying to play it cool. This is what I do when I get freaked out. I fake it, like everything is better than good, that way you won't know that I'm all jiggly on the inside.

Five Hundred times I have plopped down. Five zero zero times I have spilled my guts to strangers, to friends, to everybody crazy enough to listen. Everybody. And for what? So Daimon can share his memories of Pee Wee Herman? So Clare and I can battle it out over Delaware? So Marilyn can cajole me into making good choices?

Well, yea. A little bit. See, there's a connectivity aspect to this whole blogging world. All of sudden, I'm cyberspace neighbors with all these cool people. People that are super neat, but people who wouldn't otherwise share their lives with me due to something silly like geography or social boundary or just plain shyness.

But there's more than that. There's a therapeutic aspect, a here-I-am-now-try-and-stop-me aspect. There's something good about getting it all down, or some of it down, for the world to see. It's not a "get it all down for I am historic with a silent h", instead it's a look at how alike we are/aren't. Look at how special that makes us.

And of course there's the it's good for the writer bit. It's good for the writer. I mean 498 posts ago I was barely spitting out a sentence and now at half une mille (is my French right? It sounded bigger that way.) I ramble on and on and on. You can't win 'em all, but I'm happy you've stopped in.

Don't forget to stretch before you return for more exercises in the foolery, dave or otherwise.

You get what you pay for
Seriously. Could my unnamed wire-frame mannequin startle me any more?

Confession
I need to tell you something and I'm not sure how to say it. I'm worried that I've started to come off as a little, shall we say, pathetic, of late. I don't want to sound desperate, even if I am. Not that I'm saying I am. I'm just saying. I mean there was that date with tchoukball and the whole running is my love thing, and now this...

I know. I should just come out and say it. It'd be easier on everyone, but what do I say exactly?

I mean, my towel rack has boobs seems a bit on the vague side. Maybe even past vague and well into creepy.

And besides it might not be my towel rack for long. It's just, well, my house is pretty small, and there may not be a lot of other options; and we really do need a towel rack. What I'm trying to say, and I'm doing a really poor job, and you can't blame me exactly because if I don't word it just so, I start to sound a little like Hannibal Lecter. And now that I've gone and said Hannibal Lecter, you're thinking about him and instead of seeing Anthony Hopkins you're starting to see me. So now you think I'm a cannibal, which is totally unfortunate, because I sooo don't eat people. Not at all. I don't even bite. very often.

What I mean is; well, I should start from the beginning. I was riding by this dumpster when I saw her, well not her, I mean really she's an it, you know? And it's not like I stopped then. I just thought "wow" she, I mean it, THAT would be kind of cool to have, especially for free. And trash is generally free. I mean sure it has social consequences, but for the taking, it's free. But I rode on. I rode 10 miles and on my way back, I drove by for another look. I mean if it was gone, then of course I wouldn't need it, fate would've intervened; all the cosmic forces conspiring and stuff, and it was still there.

I left her, it, I meant IT, by the dumpster and went home. And immediately told the housemate what I had found. So he agreed to go check it out and convince me whether taking someone else's trash was worthwhile. He's good like that. That's the sort of thing I trust him to know.

When he saw the wire frame mannequin, he said unequivocally, "I can't talk you out of that."

So it's a towel rack. A towel rack that needs a name. And a better looking blouse.

It don't mean a thing. If it ain't got that swing
I went to an arts festival up the road. Let me tell you about art:

-Digital photography can be art. Me on a a fake motorcycle with a fake Route 66 backdrop- the artiest of art.

-Singing bass- art? or annoying commercial toy? One= the latter. A Volvo covered in singing bass and dancing lobster including an extendable conductor and a lead singing bass with a big mic seems more like art to me. Think "The Little Mermaid" meets the most famous of box cars.

-I stopped by a writing booth.
Guy behind booth: "Interested in more information?"
Me: "yea."
GBB: "What do you write?"
Me: "Uh. Short stories?" Question mark was very likely present, even if the Mexican family standing nearby didn't seem to hear it.

-I stood near Scotty Morris. I was too chicken to speak with him. Scotty Morris is art... if art is swing...for nothing says swing to me like my favorite Swing Band, Big Bad VooDoo Daddy. Zig Zaggity Woop WOOP indeed.

-Speaking of swing, did the rest of the twenty-somethings burn out on swing? Nearly everyone was either 8 years younger than me or 16 years older.

If someone says Pee-Wee Herman, scream real loud
Remember when Pee-Wee said, "If you love it so much, why don't you marry it? huhhuhHUHHAH"

At least I am able to resist tying the knot.

Maybe we can be friends?
I've heard that the third date can be the turning point. Past the first-date jitters, but not to the land of couple-dom, it's often make or break time. Which I can only imagine is all well and good, but not when the date is with a game called Tchoukball.

Briefly, tchoukball is a non-agressive, non-contact team sport with an ideal of creating a harmonious society. It's played with a palm-able ball thrown at nets stationed at ends of a court. Scoring takes place for both teams on both ends. The object is to throw the ball off the net and have it bounce on the ground outside the semi-circle forbidden zone surrouding either net.

Any game with a forbidden zone has my attention. For three of the last five Friday nights, I have been playing tchoukball. On our first date, we hit it off. I was all giggles at learning a new game. It didn't hurt that my relationships with Ultimate and running made the somewhat counter-intuitive tchoukball, a little more intuitive. Within minutes, I was told that I resembled one of the older players of tchoukball. I'd tell you the name, but you wouldn't recognize it and I can't pronounce it. It was probably my skinny frame topped by a buzz and a beard, but I was moving relatively well for a first-timer. After the "feedback" time, a post-game ritual that invovles thanking one another and talking about what we enjoyed and learned, I said goodnight to tchoukball with smile and a promise of another date.

Date two didn't go nearly as well. We had played the 7 v. 7 or 9 v. 9 game with just 10 players the previous week; this time we had 6. The jitters of discovery were gone on this Friday. Instead I had the frustration of a sport that I understood, but couldn't play well. I had come with an agressive attitude, and that attitude had no outlet in a game like tchoukball. I left frustrated and unsatisfied.

Chalking it up to circumstance, I decided to give tchoukball another chance. I wanted to capture those smiles of that first night.

Last night I went to play tchoukball. I had been told repeatedly that if I would play three times then things would really start to click. Things had gone so smoothly on the first night; I scoffed at that idea, but I found out that the wily veterans might just be right. Last night, I played my best game of tchoukball. The net seemed bigger and my throws more accurate. The strange movements went from odd to nearly natural. It was an enjoyable experience, until "the talk." Of course a game doesn't care where the relationship is going. A game doesn't care whether the relationship is nearly over or about to crank it up a notch. It's a game. It doesn't have feelings. I thought it important to point that out both because of the amount of anthropomorphism that this blog supports and because this metaphor starts to break down. So, really at this point tchoukball isn't asking where the relationship is going, but instead Pierre, the coach, the closest thing in my mind to the living embodiment of the game, is asking me about my thoughts on the game.

I've been dreading this conversation since the beginning. I had hoped it would come much later, but it came sooner. I had no choice but to be honest. So when the loaded question, "What do you think of this game?" was thrown at me, I answered. "I like the game. It's amusing. It's got good people. It's heart is in the right place, but I don't think it has enough running for me." The disappointment was obvious, but what could I do?

I don't think this means there will be no more dates, but it changes things. I'm sorry tchoukball, but I just don't think you're right for me. Maybe we can just be friends.

What kind of man am I?
Why, the kind who buys flowers, for his house. And then uses the arguably tacky green plastic pitcher as a vase.
The kind who writes prompt thank-you notes. The kind who sees romantic comedies alone. The kind who reads "Shopgirl" and likes it all, except thinks maybe the end was rushed. The kind who tears out drink recipes from his Cosmo because Virgin Raspberry Lemonicello looks and sounds splendid. The kind who reads Bitch and then suddenly finds himself very concerned about his favorite Slayer episode and what exactly that says about his support of a patriarchal society. The kind that likes to run for a long time, until his lungs hurt. The kind that likes to write when it comes easily to him. That kind that would rather be busy than not. The kind who wants to take road trips and have grand plans, but often doesn't quite get to it. The kind who goes in spurts, in books, in movies, in interests. The kind who owns a banjo and has worn a skirt. The kind who can't think of a thing to say when you ask.

NOT THE GLUE FACTORY
I still feel like I'm teetering on the edge of injury. Not only might each pound of the pavement hurt, but I trot slowly, tediously. I'm bored by my pace, bored by recovery. My owner is nervous. The jockey is off the whip almost completely.

Still, the grazing has been especially sweet of late.

This one goes out to the one I love
Can’t remember when we met. It had to be soon after I could walk. I don’t remember it though. I don’t remember much until middle school. Middle school was when I realized that there was something special. It wasn’t particularly discernible, but a few times in gym class things just sort of clicked.

Then I remember the summer before high school, we had that little fling. Twenty minutes here, twenty minutes there. I was still wearing black canvas Chuck Taylor’s then. I didn’t know what I was doing, but something about it seemed right.
Freshman year was more of the same. I moved to the Pegasus. I don’t remember a lot. I just know that it felt good. It worked. It was special and mine. It got a bit more challenging the latter part of that year. Nothing had changed, but my expectations. I began to see the possibilities. I knew there was more for me.

So we spent the summer together, bounding along. And when school rolled around, we’d hit our stride. The rest of high school together is mostly a blur. We had our tough times-bronchitis, disappointing finishes, fallen, graduated, and worst of all, uncommitted teammates. They were no match for the good times. The pounding, stress-relieving, eye-catching, headline-grabbing, record-chasing, friend-making good times. This was the time. The greatest coach I’d ever had. Fine, fine teammates. And motivation. I wanted it- so much. And we were in it together. We were one. And even when they could touch us, we were untouchable. Even when there were doubts, I had running to fall back on. It wasn’t everything, but it was a good way to spend six days a week.

And college came. Like so many great loves, distance was a strain. Up from 42 miles, we jumped to 50, to 60, with plans to go beyond. Everything went minorly wrong. If it wasn’t my left knee it was my right hip, or pick an ankle. As soon as one thing healed something else went wrong. I met good guys. Solid guys. And guys who could throw a beer can under the wheel of a speeding car. Guys, I’ll never forget. But running was too much. It couldn’t be my all. There were women everywhere, and Fine Arts, and so much more than I’d ever seen before.

Bitterly, angrily after the X-rays and the MRI said “Ain’t nothing wrong that we can see” I called it quits. It was the toughest decision I’d ever made. Who was I without running? I was no one. I called it quits.

Sort of. There were still longing glances, stolen moments, even the occasional weekend getaway. There were still friends to be made on the path. There were still miles that satisfied something inside me. I wasn’t no one. And “quits” was such a strong word. Sometimes I dreamed of a comeback, but I’d made the right decision.

Running didn’t leave, we just saw each other less. Any sport I played, I counted on my love to keep me in it. Usually, and increasingly, she has not failed.

At the end of school, I really discovered Ultimate. Beautiful, beautiful Ultimate- with all the running and the teammates, a flying disc, and all the good stuff, but fresh and new. Running was pushed to the background. Something I did for Ultimate. No longer the primary point, maybe not even secondary.

I had moved on, changed by my love of course, but moved on to something new.

Until recently.

Recently, my friend Matt, he the purveyor of grand ideas, brought the Marathon to my attention. The marathon- that grandest of grand running events. The one the high-school runners talked about. The one that changed the lives of Oprah and Puffy. The one that I always said, “Someday. When I’m ready...”
26 years old. 26.2 miles. It all seemed very reasonable. I was ready. I am ready.

So I returned to my love. I returned hesitantly, but soon the fire was rekindled. All the power, all the beauty, all the running was back in my life. I was changed, but still an impatient lover. Maybe I pounded too hard. Maybe I pushed too much. Maybe I need to learn my limits. For despite, the older, wiser, “bedhead-less” me, the distance again has driven a wedge between us. The marathon is a different kind of run, but I thought... It’s still a run. It’s still a part of me. So I thought...

And then about 2 weeks ago, I felt a sharp pain in my knee. It was mile 6 of 8 on the track. I was too tough, or perhaps too foolish to stop. I finished all 8 and was cooling down, when the pain reduced me to a limp. “OW!” I cried out with all the pain of a scorned lover.

For two weeks after, I didn't run. My enthusiasm has left me. Every step is painful again, and not always in the physical sense. We’re back in that middle-land. That place where dreams can go either way, or perhaps be adjusted.

The marathon is still 15 weeks away. I seem to be recovering. I can attack more slowly this time. Maybe that was a lesson. Maybe this time as I rekindle the fire, I let it burn a little lower, a little slower. This time I put some of that patience to good use.

I want this. I want to be a marathoner, for while I am not “no one” without the label of runner- I AM A RUNNER.

Just so you don't think Cosmo has given me a one track mind

Body as Billboard is freakin' cool. It's got to be; the slogan is "Advertise for shit that matters."

You might not want to check it out if you're at work, or a conservative.

Awkward? Nooo. That wasn't awkward.
1.Person I've never met before: "I hear you're a Keira Knightley fan, how was it?"
Me: "The Cosmo article?"
PINMB gives me a quizzical look: "King Arthur?"
Me: "ohhh."

2. Person I met once, 11 months ago: "You haven't changed a bit."
Me: "What!?"

3.Same person later in the evening announces to the room:"That Dave and I, we're compadres in the dating scene."
Someone else: "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

You want inspiration?
In Cosmo the fantastically fantastic Kiera Knightley says that a guy came up to her in the airport and said, "I'm sorry, but can I kiss you?" And she let him.
She let him!!

Anything is possible.
Dreams do come true.

And yes, I have been known to read Cosmo. Now, I am also fully prepared for mind-blowing sex, what's it to you?

Street journey
Just say the words and I'm ready to pack up and hit the highways. I don't care where we go as long as you go with me and we can be back in time for work.

You be the guy going to Austin and I'll be the guy that doesn't cheat, you know, "because it's your dog." Ok. Maybe not him.

You be Thelma. I'll be Louise. We'll leave out the cliff.

We'll need the essentials:
Beef Jerky
Hot Tamales
Tunes
a camera
Gumby or other rubber doll
and if possible a map and a tank of gas.
Perhaps also sunglasses.

It's midnight. We're 250 miles from Chicago. Or something.

HIT IT!

An unfinished list of things to smile about
a certain blue actress, unread books, rediscovered tunes, spontaneity, remembering her face and smile even if it's the smile with a hint of regret because it's good to see her smile, trips home, direct flights, air conditioning, Camelbaks, making music, words in especially neat combinations, that same actresses's lips, funny people both intentionally and unintentionally, cherries, start-up carbonated juice companies who purport to care, knees on the mend, it's not the end of the world, big blue backpacks, photographic evidence, friends, rain, laughter, phone messages from unknown women, party invitations, a good pen, volunteer opportunities that make sense, co-ed naked runs, memories, cousins that think you're "da bomb" except when you use phrases like "da bomb", flowers, that part of the neck hidden by long hair, earlobes, time zones, incomplete theories, the mockery that can only come from closeness, brother-in-laws who talk a big table tennis game and then subsequently get destroyed by my lil' sister, babies, dancing, the kissing scenes in King Arthur, kissing scenes that invovle me, shiny happy people, figuring out something for yourself, free T-shirts,

symbolism shymbolism
I just changed my wallpaper to a photo of the Grand Canyon. Every time I boot up I feel like I'm going to fall in.

The cold greeting of the big city
The bearded man in his worn brown safari hat and his big blue backpack doesn't quite seem to fit here in the land of mass transit and masses of people. Or does he fit here? Because everybody fits here, when nobody wants to notice.

His steps are shortened but no less purposeful. Do those around him see tourist or local or do they see anything at all?

He sees them. They are black, white, brown, from here, and from out of town. They look worn, and ragged, maybe they'll look better in the morning.

They won't.

It's a land of high heels and pin stripes, but it's a land of tired averted eyes. Sometimes one might smile, sing or cry out, but then they get daggers from the crowd. Who dares invade the solitude of the public commute? Is it a crazy man? Or a bag lady? It's no one and no one cares.

Don't dare mention her painted toenails, or his shock-suspension system. What music throbs from inside the headphones? And where did she get those flared-pink pants? Avert your eyes, in case they see. Avert your eyes. Don't look at me. Or the bearded man in his worn brown safari hat and big blue backpack.

Welcome home to the city, boy. No one cares.

The residue is gone from my childhood home
THE PAST- Only a trip home (the one that put up with me for the better part of 16 years, not 9 months) can have such a dateline. This has to be said now, because this time next week "my room" could be dark blue. And that just might change everything. (How many times in my life did I long for something other than beige? How many?!)

The nutcrackers will be in a box. The medals, from every single high school track and cross country race will no longer greet me when I enter. If Demi Moore is still behind the door in her Groucho Marx moustache and glasses, she will come down. The picture of the yearbook staff lying in the driveway on a couch as our advisor "Hank" shouts from his car will go in the box with the "Mr. Cambia" sash and the Winter Park ID badge. It's all coming down. If I knew where to put it, I'm sure that would be ok.

How can that be ok? Because the residue from my childhood home is gone. Sure, there are memories that only home can conjure up, but this trip is different.

Look at the little arbor day tree that came home in a paper towel and used to be such a pain to mow around. It's now 15 feet tall. The lawn itself; a symbol of the outlet of teenage-interpreted parental oppression has changed as well. I can sweep up grass clippings without a curse, and even enjoy it. Up in my room, there used to be bunk beds. Bunk beds that converted into forts, into ships, and into the occasional "love-den". I stress occasional, because there is nothing like shooting baskets in the driveway to remind me of all the bouncing basketball time spent on the opposite sex. So much hasn't changed. I just don't have a basketball goal anymore. That goal got me through some melodramatically suburban tough times. When Alisa broke my poor freshman heart and when Cassie somehow resisted my charms, and resisted my charms, and by golly, resisted my charms, until finally she resisted my charms and I ended up at the prom with Erica. Young, beautiful, and foolish could probably describe either of us; regardless it sent me back to the driveway. College didn't stop the therapy of the basketball goal. More shots on the visits home through Karyn, and Lucy, and Kim; through Dori and Dori and Dori... You'd think I'd be a decent basketball player by now. It's tough to pull into the garage and not have a bit of that angst settle on you.

The scenery around here will always remind me of so many good times, and a few bad ones, but the residue is gone. When I sit on the bleachers and stare down at my high school track, I don't feel the pressures or the joys that I used to feel. I remember them, but they no longer hang in the air. It's a relief. Between the humidity and the residue, it tended to make coming home a bit too taxing. Finally, it'll just be the humidity.

"Living my life to the limit, and I love it"
The eve of two dash six without the dash is drawing to a close. How does one of such advanced car renting age celebrate the passing of another year? Only the finest, my friends, only the finest-- If I were he, and I am, I would enlist the help of fancy cheese (FANCY CHEESE!), sparkling juice from the likes of izze with those sharply dressed bottles, and j-lo. For who and what could be realer? Ask yourselves that. No, I'm serious, ask yourselves that.

Are you finished asking?

"Baby, don't go."

but I can do the touching and the sheepish grinning
My problem with salsa dancing is in the hips. I've got it all except the hips; and the steps. My problem is the hips and the steps. Oh, and the overthinking. I've got it all except the hips, the steps, and the overthinking. SALSA!

Inantimate objects write back
Dear David,
WHAT are you doing? We're old. We're tired. We don't remember how to work this hard. You left us alone for a while and frankly at first we were lonely, but now we like it. Please go back to using us minimally, if at all. We don't like being taxed. We like to live out our last years as quietly as possible. You don't see us trying to mess with you in your old age, do you?

Please understand, our little hearts can't take this much excitement. If we were alive, we might die.

Sincerely,
Knee and iMac

P.S. Secretly we hate all the attention you give to your Camelback and that damn GameCube. We are launching a passive agressive strike on both items. Watch your backs. All three of you.