Clouds:Sweat if Sky:Shirt
There forming around on my torso was Jabba the Hut. He was on the move as two X-wing fighters were barreling toward him.

Best of, in the year of the Dave
The year of the Dave got off to a slow start, but finished with flair. Here's some best of from the year (and a secret hope that the year of the Dave can be extended).
Best book Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
Best wedding My sister's.
Best date/near date I'm mormon. I don't drink
Best impression Reuben as Napoleon Dynamite
Best life-altering experience running a marathon
Best album Eveningland
Best concert Hem
Best trip Grand Canyon
Best restaurant Mandalay Bay --Burmese
Best advice Ignore unsolicited advice
Best new pants Dockers Khaki
Best TV to DVD obsession In a close battle, I'm going with Sports Night
Best holiday I didn't celebrate NO PANTS DAY! (May 6, 2005)
Best holiday I did celebrate Turkey & Red Hot Jell-o Christmas
Best drink Not the "4th of July"
Best moving moment "Box Springs in the Sky"
Best show O
Best letter A
Best multi-purpose phrase teeny-tiny puppies
Best ability to end a list before it annoys me Someone else

Those mm's should have the doppler effect when you read 'em
I thought about jumping into some stranger's arms after I had deplaned. I mean, golly, it's been almost twelve hours since I wasn't excited to see someone. I decided against it, choosing instead to rub up against some strangers in the Metro. I'm kidding. I had too much luggage to be able to rub up against anyone with any hope of satisfaction. Ah Public Transportation, I missed you, pookie, yes I did; YES I DID... mm.mmm.mm..mmm...

Fortunately I don't have to go cold turkey on the human contact, er at least the contact, because I have returned to a mountain of holiday greetings; I just received a wonderful email from an old roommate. And now! And now, I'm going to head to the living room, carefully stepping over the gigantic post-Christmas mess I have created and say hello to my dear friend Jennifer. I've got two Alias episodes waiting to welcome me home. mm.mmm.mm.mmm.mm.mmmmmmmmm...

Giggles for Christmas
She loved cats.
While she loved bees.
She loved make-up.
Or so it seems.
As the paper fell from the gifts
peals of laughter, followed shouts
of glee.
The love of friendship
swirled through the room
lighting cheeks in ways
semi-mimosas never could.
Teeth shone brightly
smiles and knowing looks
danced amongst four friends.
Strange men watched silently.
He didn't smile. His focus on the big screen.
I couldn't help it. I was a fly on the couch
petting the dog
While the joy of the season
filled me in ways
cocktail weiners never could.

of on-screen crushes
I'd be happy to watch her read a book or speak to a bank teller, so I was certain to enjoy Princess of Thieves starring Keira Knightley. It was an awful Disney movie. I think the swords were made of tin-foil-covered cardboard. She smiled. She spoke. I think the swords were made of the finest metal and formed by the finest smiths. It was bad. She is not.

of college chums
I realize it is not all a blog-related phenomena, but I have to give some credit to the ease with which I fell back in with the friends I've already seen. It's like I went out to DUD to use up some points one night and when I got back everyone had nice looking apartments and real jobs. They'd grown up, but by some miracle not away.

of rollers
I wonder if trapeeze artists train on rollers. It's been a long time since riding a bike and being six inches off the ground have scared me so much. It's like an exercise bike only it requires so much more focus. It's like riding a bike, only without all of that pesky travel. I only fell off three times. 'Look ma, no hands' was not happening.

Here I come
Kansas City, strip steak-
Midwest cattle fed with Midwest grain
Welcome to the Heartland
Yum.
Everything is so far apart.
So suburban,
not less than,
well except in size and number.
Ann Taylor Loft
more prevalent than God
if you believe that sort of thing.
The shrine to me
is in boxes.
I'm out. Blue's in.
And I don't mind.

Patience is my TiVo
Why fight commercials now, when the DVD-makers will do it all for you later? Anything worth watching is going to show up in a pretty little box if you just wait. Then again, if you (the royal you, the American TV viewing public you) weren't watching now, I suppose I couldn't watch 2 years later. So thanks.

The Thesis statement
Thinking and a Meghan Daum book have transported me to the conclusion that I'm lacking thesises? thesi? thesis statements. Thesis statements were all the rage in grades 5-12. I remember writing down a thesis statement on a notecard and turning that into the teacher. After she had revised it and it no longer contained any words that my thesis had included except for the articles, I could begin research. The theory behind the thesis statment is not unlike the theory behind nuclear power. Oh, it'll go all right, but without direction, who knows where it'll go and who knows what three-eyed beast we'll end up with.

Thesis statements are writing's Zoloft. Words will be off in a corner, all anti-social and lost in their own thoughts, struggling with meaning and then thesis statements will swoop in and suddenly the words get it together. They start communicating again. They're socializing. They're getting on with other words. They form sentences and then complete thoughts and suddenly they're the life of the party. At least until the agitation, constipation, and/or decreased libido kicks in. In that case, it's time to turn to writing's Viagra, the outline, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

The thesis statement has been missing from my writing for too long. (Sounds like a thesis statement, yes?) With no teachers around for revision, this will have to be satisfactory. Satisfactory is an interesting word. It's one part Satis and one part factory. What is a satis? And why does it need a factory? Could I use the factory at night to produce thesis statements? It's possible, but not necessarily supportive of my thesis statement. And if I remember college english which I took in high school, support of the thesis statement is the next step.

What am I trying to say here? I think that's the point and also pointed, like a knife. Only not one of those with a serrated edge, one of the pointy ones.

Which leads me to the conclusion that I may need thesis statements in my writing. Where was that factory?

SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY- It's blog-riffic!
or One and one half hours?!
I hit up party #3 just now. That's the third party in as many days. This was a neighborhood party and I was invited to crash by my estimated 80-something delightful neighbor, Yelpa. I had done the RSVP bit saying, "I wasn't invited, but Yelpa told me to RSVP. If this is entirely inappropriate, please let me know." The hosts didn't call back, and so tonight I planned to walk next door to pick up my neighbor and stroll to the party.

After an exciting finish to The Cutting Edge, I hopped in the shower to get cleaned up. (It was a day's worth of dirt rather than the drama of the classic '92 film.) As I hopped out, I heard Yelpa's distinctive voice in my living room. Thankfully, I had packed pants and a shirt on this trip to the shower. I waved hello as I headed to my room. After a quick change into clean clothes I emerged ready to head to the neighborhood party. Yelpa introduced herself to me and I shook her hand and said, "I'm David. You know me." I'm still not sure what that was about.

We walked a block and entered a house full of the neighborhood. There were a number of faces I've seen behind rakes or at the store, and a number of faces I'd never seen before. Yelpa bounced around the room greeting everyone by name and then saying, "This is my date."
I got some funny looks, but everyone was very polite. I made small talk, which as I'm inept at small talk often involves me trying desperately to not come off like an awkward psycho. This is usually accomplished with a slight lean in, an awkward smile and the occassional head nod. Maybe accomplished isn't the right word...

After the 900th time explaining where the carriage house was, and what a carriage house was or that we had met at the block party some time ago, I was starting to wear out. I'd mingled quite a bit by my standards. I probably met 15 people and held semi-awkward conversations with 6 or so. Quite successful. Except for when I almost made an old man cry. Yep, I'm a smooth talker all right. He didn't cry. He didn't look to be the type to cry, but I'm pretty sure I saw tears in his eyes. Maybe asking him how he spent his time these days wasn't the best ice breaker. I apologized profusely and he waved it off. I think he was happy to have the attention, but I felt bad. As parents started to pack up children to shuttle them off to bed, I started to look at the wristwatch in my mind.

Yelpa offered that we could leave anytime. I told her that the kids were leaving, so we should leave. She agreed. I walked her home, that is to say one driveway past my home, and then headed in to my cute little carriage house all full of holiday cheer. (The feeling, not the drink). As I entered Reuben looked at me shocked. It was as if I'd caught him eating cookies past his bedtime. Then I saw the clock. It read 7:32. I'd been gone less than 2 hours. I swear it had felt like 3 hours or at least 2 and a half. It was only one and half hours. "ONE AND A HALF HOURS!" I howled. No wonder Reuben looked shocked.

Now I'm feeling self-conscious
And when I feel self-conscious I like to get what I like to call, ironical, and possibly, if you're lucky stand-offish. If you're not lucky, I understand a shift in your thinking might take care of that.

Am I really going to turn this into a vehicle to comment on my own blogging personality? Isn't that a bit too self-aware? Isn't that a bit too annoying? That's right, I'm doing it again. What are you going to do about it?
I think I'll try and distract you before you can slug me.

Here I wrote this poem for you in sixty seconds based on the word "quick". Oneword.com, still cool after all this time.

Jack you so nimble
why don't you jump it
Come on jack
everybody doing it man
the fire burning
and I'm churning
come on jackie boy
be fast dawg
be smoove
be all kung fu, hi-ya
in your face
be jack man
be jack
be quick
Jack b quick!

I chickened out
I thought last night's post was going to be a more open, honest, in the moment post. I thought alcohol, sleep deprivation, and a sappy movie were the grease, but I can see now that I chickened out. Inhibitions are strong in this one. I realize this is vague, but I'm told that readers of this thing are no stranger to that. I'm glad I chickened out. It's a different story by the light of day. Not that what I felt wasn't real, just that what I felt passed as quickly as it came. I've watched too many movies and TV shows where a look or a fleeting feeling are enough to justify the insanity of taking a head long dive into something foolish- be it love, jealousy, rage. I've made those mistakes before, and I'm willing to bet I'll make them again, but sometimes things are what they are. It's not all about getting carried away to a land where emotions rule and I am but a humble servant. Sometimes it's about reigning that in, settling down, and letting the alcohol, sleep deprivation and sappy movies take you to a logical conclusion, which when I'm lucky rolls by in a scripted, The End.

I've got your love to keep me warm
Let me preface this post by saying that I just saw White Christmas, it's 3 AM and there is a 100% chance that Irish liquer was in my hot chocolate.

I always get nervous when my friends meet, even if they know each other. If they aren't used to hanging out, my palms get a little sweaty. It probably dates back to the days when there were fisticuffs over the Apple IIe joystick. So when things are nice and smooth and fun, I am relieved. Tonight, last night? what night is it? was fun.

In a not entirely unrelated note, I want to get dressed up and go out. Maybe I'll wear some ties to work this week.

Cleaning Naugahyde
This month continues to be legendary for its lack of excitement quotient. I've had to turn to human soap operas and rumor mills to squeeze anything even resembling entertainment out of December. I've taken three naps in fewer days. I've been to the dentist twice and subsequently eaten meals that only half my mouth could taste. At least it was different halves. I went to the doctor, a sleepy old man in a white coat, who only managed to confirm my suspicions that my leg would not need to be amputated. I tried to get an oil change, but I'm pretty sure I ended up paying twenty dollars to not have my car stolen. I suppose that's a good investment, but it does nothing for the engine; nothing except keep the engine off the block. I don't know what has been worse the rain or the lack of cold. Decembers should be cold. It's in the constitution. It should be. It'd make more sense than that other amendment "they" are proposing. It's not though, not cold, and not in the constitution, yet. If I'm going to be unentertained, I would at least like to be frickin' freezing while I do it. Nothing says I can accept boredom like trying to get the circulation back in my extremities. Instead it rains. It's like a giant slobbering dog is standing over the city. Go on boy, GIT! And take the first part of December with you.

95 years is a lot of living
My grandma turns 95 tomorrow. Her vocabulary is pretty limited now, since she had a stroke a few years ago. It's hard to tell how much she knows and how much she cares anymore. I don't think of her as often as I should; it's hard to do from far away when communication can really only go one way. That's an excuse, I know. I've only been around for about a quarter of her life, but here are some things I remember.

When I was little, she used to give me a back rub before I went to sleep. I remember being in the dark, grandma's chilly wrinkled hands dancing on my skin. I remember the pocket flashlight that was by the phone, the phone with its own archway. I remember the night lights and the way grandma's house could never be scary. I remember when she used to holler "shut the door" when my sister and I barged in or out or both.

At Christmas time, Grandma and Grandpa would always show up in an Oldsmobile brimming with already-wrapped gifts. There was nothing like unpacking that car. One year when they gave me stilts, I was completely convinced that it was lumber for my dad and only said "David" on the tag to throw him off the track.

My grandma was usually older than my friends' grandmas, but that didn't stop her from much. She was untouchable at those amusement park guess-your-age games. Within 3 years? Those guessers were lucky to be within 30.

We used to have the best doughnuts for breakfast and Braunschweiger for lunch. For dessert, nobody, probably not even the grocery store, had more cookie choices.

Grandma loved a good game of Uno with the grandkids, but her game was really Bridge. I never played Bridge with her. I wish I had.

Right after she moved closer to my parents when she could no longer handle a house, I remember spending the night in the empty house. Everything grandma was still in place, but she was so obviously gone. There weren't even cookies.

I did find some love letters. I sat on the carpeted stairs and I read how much my grandpa missed grandma. They were hundreds of miles apart for several more months. He didn't know that they'd soon be together for more than 60 years.

I can't go on
I'm frustrated at how fuzzy the memories are.
I'm disappointed in myself that I don't think about her more.
I hope her birthday is happy.
I'm looking forward to seeing her during Christmas.

Tom Robbins Interlude
Here's my favorite passage from the recently completed Even Cowgirls Get the Blues:

"Happily, your author is not under contract to any of the muses who supply reputable writers, and thus he has access to a considerable variety of sentences to spread and stretch from margin to margin as he relates the stories of our Thumbelina, of the ranch a douche bag built and--O my children, cock your ears to this! --of the clockworks and its Chink. For example:

This sentence is made of lead (and a sentence of lead gives a reader an entirely different sensation from one made of magnesium.) This sentence is made of yak wool. This sentence is made from the blood of the poet. This sentence was made in Japan. This sentence glows in the dark. This sentence was born with a caul. This sentence has a crush on Norman Mailer. This sentence is a wino and doesn't care who knows it. Like many italic sentences, this one has Mafia connections. This sentence is a double Cancer with Pisces rising. This sentence lost its mind searching for the perfect paragraph. This sentence refuses to be diagramed. This sentence ran off with an adverb clause. This sentence is 100 percent organic: it will not retain a facisimile of freshness like those sentences of Homer, Shakespeare, Goethe et al., which are loaded with preservatives. This sentence leaks. This sentence doesn't look Jewish... This sentence has accepted Jesus Christ as its personal savior. This sentence once spit in a book reviewer's eye. This sentence can do the funky chicken. This sentence has seen too much and forgotten too little. This sentence is called "Speedoo" but its real name is Mr. Earl. This sentence may be pregnant, it missed its period This sentence suffered a split infinitive-- and survived. If this sentence had been a snake you'd have bitten it. This sentence went to jail with Clifford Irving. This sentence went to Woodstock. And this little sentence went wee wee wee all the way home. This sentence is proud to be a part of the team here at Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. This sentence is rather confounded by the whole damn thing."

If you haven't read this book, beware it is nothing like this passage and exactly like this passage. If you have, then you know what I mean.

Someone has a sense of humor
I saw a bus that had been in a wreck. The display was flashing "000 Buzzard Point."

It's the thought that counts
Real Simple readers will recognize this bracelet. I'm tempted to buy it, but I don't think I'm really at the bracelet-giving stage with anyone right now.

Don't try to convince me that we're at the bracelet-giving stage, please.
I think I'd know something like that. (If we are at the bracelet-giving stage and it's obvious that I don't know, please send me a bracelet and a self-addressed stamped envelope.)

Who's running this show?
When I went to high school, I ran cross country to get ready for basketball. I quit basketball after a day because it wasn't running.

When I went to college I had to live in some po-dunk residence hall clear on the other side of campus. I left three years later a bonafide FARCer from a hall that defined my college experience.

I was never going to wear khaki pants. I wear them almost every day. They're better than sweat pants.

I never liked walking because it was too slow. My daily stroll to and from the Metro relaxes and relieves me.

Some two years ago I started a temporary job in a city I didn't mean to live in. For a moment, it feels a lot like home.

Friends are good.
If you don't have any, you should make some.

Don't use clay.

The Apple Pie is probably enhanced too
Baseball is a disappointment. I don't even like it anymore but the news of steriod use still saddens me. I gave up sometime during the last strike. Baseball had its priorities in the wrong place and I guess now that the players and owners have agreed on money, they moved onto drugs. This is big, like a steriod-induced homerun. I'd like to think maybe it's just the big names doing this, the ones we've heard about in the news, but if the stars are enhanced, how are the other guys to keep up? I'm afraid to ask.

What am I supposed to think? The feats of inhuman strength we've witnessed in the last 5 years, turn out to be more than sportswriters prose; they actually might be amazing feats of drugs. I don't want to go to a ballpark to cheer on drugs. I want to watch human struggle played out on the field. I want to watch men and women who have worked and struggled to be at the top of their game competing against others at the top of theirs. I want to leave thinking that if I just worked hard enough, went to the gym, trained all the time, I too could hit monstrous homeruns or run like the wind. Notice there is no step in that dream that involves taking drugs. The top of the game, maybe the best ever are not titles that drug users should have. Don't these people remember the egg frying in the pan? They don't get to be the best, because somehow somewhere they thought that cheating was ok. It isn't. If it is, then that old adage is wrong, which I've suspected but am NOT ok with it. (Cheaters never prosper). And just to prove it, we're probably going to see Bonds get a slap on the wrist and another gajillion dollars to play next year.

America's pasttime is on drugs. Arrest it. Throw it in jail. Protect our children. Save America. Restore my faith in old adages.

Thanks giving, again? This is worse than the Oscars

In October and November, I’ve come to realize that even the huge, deeply personal tasks go a heck of a lot better when someone is by your side. You all remember October, it was 26.2 miles. And you’ll remember I couldn’t have done it without Matt and my cheering section. Well November, as you may have heard, was 50,000 words. The cheering section returned for NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month. There are a lot of people who I should thank who have inspired me all along the way well before this November. For your sake, I'm going to stick to the people who were my security blankets and my sustenance over the last four weeks. To these people I’d like to give a special thank you.

Laura T. gave me a start by challenging me to write a “rebellious short story.”

Kella, who always makes me believe in me, had the guts to announce her entry into NaNoWriMo. She made me realize that starting was possible.

My parents struggled with the idea of quantity, asking, “Why not just write quality instead?”, but cheered me on the whole way.

My Aunt, Uncle, and Cousin Abby gave me space to work and put up with constant word count updates.

Reuben. The guy once pulled up a chair and listened to me read the first 6,000 words. That’s incredible.

Clare. Clare. Clare. After 600 words I wanted to start over and she told me I didn’t have time. Later when I wanted to quit, she said all the right things. She was the reason I could write 1,000 words before going to bed. She was the reason I could wake up before my alarm and write some more. She was the reason I pushed through the tough spots, the bad spots and the blocked spots. I survived the month of November, that storied love cycle month of mine, only by falling in love with Clare’s characters and carving out a special spot in my heart for her. So read her fine work The Partisan. Then if your eyes haven’t fallen out from staring at the screen, you can read Possibly Strongly Opposed.