Hurray for fake holidays!
After I accepted my card, some breakfast grub, and a lovely gift, I decided that maybe I'm not so administrative anymore. I offered to give back the gift, but it didn't fly. Happy AP Day, yo.
Next up, No Pants Day! is May 6. Speaking of not flying, I don't think this one will fly at work either. I want to be a rebel, but I also want to continue being an overpaid-non-administrative-wizard of whatever it is I do. So my options are use my personal holiday, which would be fun, or celebrate after work. I think the latter is probably the ticket. Who is up for some pantsless fun the evening of Friday, May 6? Maybe we could go pantsless bowling or to see a pantsless movie. Or we could just ran pantsless up and down busy streets. I'm up for a goodly quantity of pantslessness if you are.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Seeking balance?
Try beer and a Nicholas Sparks novel.
If a greatest occurs and nobody cares, how great is it?
The hunt for a successful greatest ended this past Sunday. The reaction wasn't that stellar. I guess I'll have to do it better next time.
Tuesday is too close to Monday
It's moving in the right direction though.
Vanity
is filling up your camera's memory card with shots of yourself. It's not full.
What makes an administrative professional?
I'm just asking whether or not I get to celebrate tomorrow.
Try beer and a Nicholas Sparks novel.
If a greatest occurs and nobody cares, how great is it?
The hunt for a successful greatest ended this past Sunday. The reaction wasn't that stellar. I guess I'll have to do it better next time.
Tuesday is too close to Monday
It's moving in the right direction though.
Vanity
is filling up your camera's memory card with shots of yourself. It's not full.
What makes an administrative professional?
I'm just asking whether or not I get to celebrate tomorrow.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Especially not in slow motion or with an extreme close-up
Do you ever picture Keira bending over to one side to throw a perfect flick? Or laying out to make a sweet grab? Do you ever picture her running through the streets, the pinks and greys of the morning sky painted above her bouncing hair? Do you ever picture her curled up in an Ikea chair, her legs hidden beneath an afghan while she quietly reads and sips her tea? No? No. Me either.
Do you ever picture Keira bending over to one side to throw a perfect flick? Or laying out to make a sweet grab? Do you ever picture her running through the streets, the pinks and greys of the morning sky painted above her bouncing hair? Do you ever picture her curled up in an Ikea chair, her legs hidden beneath an afghan while she quietly reads and sips her tea? No? No. Me either.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
The drink of my life
The thing about sports movies, like say, The Game of Their Lives is that when I'm through watching them I like to do things in slow motion and play passionate orchestral music in my head.
I. will. now. walk. to. the. kitchen. Remove a glass. from the cabinet. Hold it high. like a trophy. (the music in my head crescendos). I will pour. the water. Raise the glass. in triumph. again. And take. a satisfying drink.
The music will continue. If you're lucky, you'll get a montage of the previous scene. Removing glass. Drinking water. Raising glass!
AHHHHHHHHHH.
The movie of the game of their lives
The movie was decent. Kind of generic. They started in on the inspirational music waaaay too early for my tastes. The soccer games were fun. I'm pumped up and ready to go play something. That's all I really wanted. It wasn't "Rudy". Grown men will not likely be crying. Unless they get something in their eye, of course.
The thing about sports movies, like say, The Game of Their Lives is that when I'm through watching them I like to do things in slow motion and play passionate orchestral music in my head.
I. will. now. walk. to. the. kitchen. Remove a glass. from the cabinet. Hold it high. like a trophy. (the music in my head crescendos). I will pour. the water. Raise the glass. in triumph. again. And take. a satisfying drink.
The music will continue. If you're lucky, you'll get a montage of the previous scene. Removing glass. Drinking water. Raising glass!
AHHHHHHHHHH.
The movie of the game of their lives
The movie was decent. Kind of generic. They started in on the inspirational music waaaay too early for my tastes. The soccer games were fun. I'm pumped up and ready to go play something. That's all I really wanted. It wasn't "Rudy". Grown men will not likely be crying. Unless they get something in their eye, of course.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Some sort of emotional fender-bender
It started yesterday when I nearly cried during a preview for an Ashton Kutcher/Amanda Peet movie. Maybe it started before that, when I was thinking about my 85th birthday party. I planned a bike ride with my family and neighbors in my groovy living community. No flying cars for us, it was back to basics on a beautiful sunny day in 2063. Then I was forced to imagine it without my family and I realized that optimism is a lot easier from 58 years away.
Today it’s this.(Thanks, Rob.) I feel like I’ve lost another little piece of my past. It feels a little selfish for me to whine about the death of a man I never spoke with. It is. a little selfish. But I’m going to do it anyway, because there are times when I feel like little pieces are just chipping away from my life all the time. Memories get fuzzier. Yesteryear gets grander, today is not quite so golden. There’s no one to blame but me. Five years from now this will be the time of my life, or else I’ll be on the cusp of something really big. Why not now? Let go of the pizza places of the past and their eccentric parking attendants. Embrace the Potbelly of today. There are crazy guys all over this city and if I want one, I’m sure I could go out and find one. I didn’t want one when I was in C-town, why do I miss him now? With no offense intended to his memory or his family, what am I really losing? What have I really lost? A tiny piece of the human embodiment of a memory of a place that I didn’t even frequent all that much when you consider how ridiculously close I lived to it. Yet, I’m sad, like I’ve lost something important to me. It’s worse than “lost,” it’s losing. It’s this slippery slope of memory and I can’t control it. It’s tumbling away.
There are days that I make new memories. Days that I make new friends, but the intensity of the past isn’t there. The intensity of the past wasn’t at school either. The intensity of the past is always past. So why does it seem to linger so much in my present?
This 85th birthday. Living communities are the wave of the next 50 years. It’s what we’re lacking, isn’t it? That community? Those people who were like family even though they don’t share your blood. Small towns will rise again. People will seek connection instead of refuge. Or they won’t and they’ll sit around and pontificate to the emptiness of the Internet and remember the wonders of long ago. They’ll remember a time no one quite remembers and dream of a time they can’t quite forget.
It started yesterday when I nearly cried during a preview for an Ashton Kutcher/Amanda Peet movie. Maybe it started before that, when I was thinking about my 85th birthday party. I planned a bike ride with my family and neighbors in my groovy living community. No flying cars for us, it was back to basics on a beautiful sunny day in 2063. Then I was forced to imagine it without my family and I realized that optimism is a lot easier from 58 years away.
Today it’s this.(Thanks, Rob.) I feel like I’ve lost another little piece of my past. It feels a little selfish for me to whine about the death of a man I never spoke with. It is. a little selfish. But I’m going to do it anyway, because there are times when I feel like little pieces are just chipping away from my life all the time. Memories get fuzzier. Yesteryear gets grander, today is not quite so golden. There’s no one to blame but me. Five years from now this will be the time of my life, or else I’ll be on the cusp of something really big. Why not now? Let go of the pizza places of the past and their eccentric parking attendants. Embrace the Potbelly of today. There are crazy guys all over this city and if I want one, I’m sure I could go out and find one. I didn’t want one when I was in C-town, why do I miss him now? With no offense intended to his memory or his family, what am I really losing? What have I really lost? A tiny piece of the human embodiment of a memory of a place that I didn’t even frequent all that much when you consider how ridiculously close I lived to it. Yet, I’m sad, like I’ve lost something important to me. It’s worse than “lost,” it’s losing. It’s this slippery slope of memory and I can’t control it. It’s tumbling away.
There are days that I make new memories. Days that I make new friends, but the intensity of the past isn’t there. The intensity of the past wasn’t at school either. The intensity of the past is always past. So why does it seem to linger so much in my present?
This 85th birthday. Living communities are the wave of the next 50 years. It’s what we’re lacking, isn’t it? That community? Those people who were like family even though they don’t share your blood. Small towns will rise again. People will seek connection instead of refuge. Or they won’t and they’ll sit around and pontificate to the emptiness of the Internet and remember the wonders of long ago. They’ll remember a time no one quite remembers and dream of a time they can’t quite forget.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Some stuff that desperately needs to be told to the Internets
1. Fever Pitch, the movie, based on the Hornby book, with the twist. That one. The real twist is it's pretty good. I want to be in love. I want to watch baseball. I want to move to Boston last year.
2. The KTBD (Kate to be determined) is an Erin. It's all so clear to me now.
3. The twin. She knows her peoples. Henceforth, when she tells me to go hang out with someone, I'm not wasting six months first.
4. This will come as no surprise but "The Twenty" at some theaters which is 20 minutes of commercials is like three cellphones on my annoyance rating system.
5. The annoyance rating system (ars) is something I created while typing number four, but I'm thinking that it starts at one cell phone and ends at five strangers on cell phones poking you with burning sticks. There's also stuff in between.
6. The ars may need some tweaking.
1. Fever Pitch, the movie, based on the Hornby book, with the twist. That one. The real twist is it's pretty good. I want to be in love. I want to watch baseball. I want to move to Boston last year.
2. The KTBD (Kate to be determined) is an Erin. It's all so clear to me now.
3. The twin. She knows her peoples. Henceforth, when she tells me to go hang out with someone, I'm not wasting six months first.
4. This will come as no surprise but "The Twenty" at some theaters which is 20 minutes of commercials is like three cellphones on my annoyance rating system.
5. The annoyance rating system (ars) is something I created while typing number four, but I'm thinking that it starts at one cell phone and ends at five strangers on cell phones poking you with burning sticks. There's also stuff in between.
6. The ars may need some tweaking.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Cool
Record-setting decathalons in Columbia, MO.
Not so cool?
Besides being not healthy, now coffee is increasing commute time. It's The Starbucks Effect. Wonder what the black cup thinks of that...
Record-setting decathalons in Columbia, MO.
Not so cool?
Besides being not healthy, now coffee is increasing commute time. It's The Starbucks Effect. Wonder what the black cup thinks of that...
International House of STFU
Two chocolate milks is at least one too many, especially out. The corporates put too much sauce in their milk. Next time I’m getting me 1 order of milk, 1 order of chocolate milk, and 1 extra glass. That’s just plum smart. And another thing, swedish pancakes not made by Al Johnson (or using the Al Johnson mix) are like really thin pieces of ass covered with lingonberries. Lingonberries!?! It’s like it’s not even a fruit in those other countries that make up the I’m Hopped up on Pancakes establishment. It’s just fruit flavored or something whack like that. This is not Wisconsin and IHOP can suck it. And lingonberry butter is a bad idea. It combined the tastes of bad berries with the tastes of bad butter. Nobody puked, but they don’t sell the stuff in stores for a reason.
Two chocolate milks is at least one too many, especially out. The corporates put too much sauce in their milk. Next time I’m getting me 1 order of milk, 1 order of chocolate milk, and 1 extra glass. That’s just plum smart. And another thing, swedish pancakes not made by Al Johnson (or using the Al Johnson mix) are like really thin pieces of ass covered with lingonberries. Lingonberries!?! It’s like it’s not even a fruit in those other countries that make up the I’m Hopped up on Pancakes establishment. It’s just fruit flavored or something whack like that. This is not Wisconsin and IHOP can suck it. And lingonberry butter is a bad idea. It combined the tastes of bad berries with the tastes of bad butter. Nobody puked, but they don’t sell the stuff in stores for a reason.
Friday, April 15, 2005
I blame Ol' Roy: Continuing to reflect on "coaching"
I was watching some old running movies and listening to what the coaches were saying. It was "Go." It was "Catch that guy." It was "You can do it." By the time the race is in progress and similarly by the time the game is being played there's not much a coach can do. There are personnel decisions, but we'll ignore those for this reflection. Coaching takes place behind the scenes, in the preparation. When it's game time, coaches become cheerleaders. Less so in football, perhaps, but in the fluid sports, the only chance a coach gets to coach the whole team is during the breaks, timeouts, half-time, commercial. There they get to make adjustments, make recommendations, but they can't teach new skills and they can't reach a team that isn't listening. And that I decided is what really defines a coach. Is anybody listening? If they are- coach. If they're listening and they're talented- coach of the year. I don't mean to question the value of a coach- they teach, motivate, adjust. Coaches change people's lives, but a coach can't do any of that without players that respond. So, why do I blame Ol' Roy? Because the only time I hear about coaches are when they are out there in the big game. The coaching is nearly done by then. It's one last little push (perhaps a bigger push at the higher levels, but relative to all those months and years the coach has put in, it's little.) Pushing on...
I was watching some old running movies and listening to what the coaches were saying. It was "Go." It was "Catch that guy." It was "You can do it." By the time the race is in progress and similarly by the time the game is being played there's not much a coach can do. There are personnel decisions, but we'll ignore those for this reflection. Coaching takes place behind the scenes, in the preparation. When it's game time, coaches become cheerleaders. Less so in football, perhaps, but in the fluid sports, the only chance a coach gets to coach the whole team is during the breaks, timeouts, half-time, commercial. There they get to make adjustments, make recommendations, but they can't teach new skills and they can't reach a team that isn't listening. And that I decided is what really defines a coach. Is anybody listening? If they are- coach. If they're listening and they're talented- coach of the year. I don't mean to question the value of a coach- they teach, motivate, adjust. Coaches change people's lives, but a coach can't do any of that without players that respond. So, why do I blame Ol' Roy? Because the only time I hear about coaches are when they are out there in the big game. The coaching is nearly done by then. It's one last little push (perhaps a bigger push at the higher levels, but relative to all those months and years the coach has put in, it's little.) Pushing on...
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
The only stapler I've ever wanted to drag race
We got a new stapler in the office today. It's silver. The florescent lights reflect off it's shiny surfaces and it makes me want to staple faster'n lightning. It also makes me want some flame decals, a pretty lady dropping a scarf, and a malt, not necessarily in that order.
And for those of you not driving staplers
There are flags for crossing the street. I'm all for smarter pedestrians, cheap solutions, and sleek sexy staplers, not necessarily together.
We got a new stapler in the office today. It's silver. The florescent lights reflect off it's shiny surfaces and it makes me want to staple faster'n lightning. It also makes me want some flame decals, a pretty lady dropping a scarf, and a malt, not necessarily in that order.
And for those of you not driving staplers
There are flags for crossing the street. I'm all for smarter pedestrians, cheap solutions, and sleek sexy staplers, not necessarily together.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
On the outside looking in
I've spent roughly 21 hours outside over the last 5 days. I watched a lot of Ultimate over the weekend. I don't think I've watched that much since Nationals 2 years ago. It's usually hard for me to watch because I want to play, but this past weekend it was different. Maturity? perhaps. More likely vanity. It was a B-team tournament and not to say that there weren't a number of athletes who could have jumped over me, run past me, and thrown 10x as far, especially in my current state, but I was content to watch knowing that I had a funny thing called experience on my side. I'm an old man, but at least I don't prance around with my shirt off like some other team's coach.
Coach. There it is again. I've denied that term all along, but I seem to be slipping into that role. I'm trying to figure out how much you need to know to be a coach. I feel like there's a line I should have to cross or a test I should have to take to be a coach, but maybe it's not so much a matter of skill but a matter of commitment. I'm going to ask some coaches I know what they think. Maybe I crossed that line when I showed up to support the team for a whole weekend. Maybe I passed that test when I kept right on screaming until the last moment of Sunday. I'm not a Bobby Knight kinda coach, but if you've shared the field with me you know sometimes I like to add a little volume to my instruction/opinion/blatantly ridiculous statement. My two favorite hollers of support from this weekend:
1. Hard Defense. Smart Offense. Hippopotamus.
2. That was boring as hell. I love it!
The latter was in reference to my team (they also became my team over the weekend) making pass after pass down the field. It was always the easy pass and it took a while, but they scored and it was one of the most satisfying moments of my Ultimate career.
I've spent roughly 21 hours outside over the last 5 days. I watched a lot of Ultimate over the weekend. I don't think I've watched that much since Nationals 2 years ago. It's usually hard for me to watch because I want to play, but this past weekend it was different. Maturity? perhaps. More likely vanity. It was a B-team tournament and not to say that there weren't a number of athletes who could have jumped over me, run past me, and thrown 10x as far, especially in my current state, but I was content to watch knowing that I had a funny thing called experience on my side. I'm an old man, but at least I don't prance around with my shirt off like some other team's coach.
Coach. There it is again. I've denied that term all along, but I seem to be slipping into that role. I'm trying to figure out how much you need to know to be a coach. I feel like there's a line I should have to cross or a test I should have to take to be a coach, but maybe it's not so much a matter of skill but a matter of commitment. I'm going to ask some coaches I know what they think. Maybe I crossed that line when I showed up to support the team for a whole weekend. Maybe I passed that test when I kept right on screaming until the last moment of Sunday. I'm not a Bobby Knight kinda coach, but if you've shared the field with me you know sometimes I like to add a little volume to my instruction/opinion/blatantly ridiculous statement. My two favorite hollers of support from this weekend:
1. Hard Defense. Smart Offense. Hippopotamus.
2. That was boring as hell. I love it!
The latter was in reference to my team (they also became my team over the weekend) making pass after pass down the field. It was always the easy pass and it took a while, but they scored and it was one of the most satisfying moments of my Ultimate career.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Not again
I miss the days when you could look at a person speaking out of the side of her mouth, head cocked, looking at a place neither here nor there and think--"Hmm. Crazy person." Today, I'm forced to think, "Hmm. She might be sane. She might have an ear piece." It really muddies the waters of madness.
I miss the days when you could look at a person speaking out of the side of her mouth, head cocked, looking at a place neither here nor there and think--"Hmm. Crazy person." Today, I'm forced to think, "Hmm. She might be sane. She might have an ear piece." It really muddies the waters of madness.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
There’s lots of I
In Columbia, I’d started too late. In Kansas City and Ohio, I couldn’t stick around. In DC, I haven’t found one that I like or the ones that I do like are pretty laid back and have a revolving door of players. So, I’ve never really been able to grow with a team. Or have I? I spent this weekend watching a group of 10 or so goofy looking Ultimate players. Ultimate players are inherently goofy-looking, but this group takes the lack of intimidation to new levels. I’ve watched and hollered and “coached” several of them over the last two years and this weekend I realized that they’ve grown. They played their hearts out. They played the toughest defense and smartest offense I’ve ever seen them play. They did that, but I think my hollering may have helped.
I’m so proud of them.
In Columbia, I’d started too late. In Kansas City and Ohio, I couldn’t stick around. In DC, I haven’t found one that I like or the ones that I do like are pretty laid back and have a revolving door of players. So, I’ve never really been able to grow with a team. Or have I? I spent this weekend watching a group of 10 or so goofy looking Ultimate players. Ultimate players are inherently goofy-looking, but this group takes the lack of intimidation to new levels. I’ve watched and hollered and “coached” several of them over the last two years and this weekend I realized that they’ve grown. They played their hearts out. They played the toughest defense and smartest offense I’ve ever seen them play. They did that, but I think my hollering may have helped.
I’m so proud of them.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Brief news (NOT news about underwear)
This week has afforded me the opportunity to read a lot of newspapers, mostly USA Today, the Washington Post, Express, and the Examiner. For the most part this means I've read a lot of comics, a lot of advice columns, and a lot of headlines that I then immediately forgot. I did realize that I've missed the feel of the news. The Internet just doesn't quite go as well with breakfast as the morning paper. My favorite stories this week provided to you without links or even reference for that matter:
1. The pope inspired this retired journalist to convert to Catholicism.
2. Parity in basketball in both the men's and women's game. Since the men's game is in an overall decline due to the exodus to the NBA and the women's game is improving I'm hoping for the story about the men vs. the women. I think the Harvard president should write it.
3. The incredible story of the Baylor Bears and their determined coach. Spurned assistant coach leaves alma mater, builds losing program with savvy scouting and determination. Champions. Much rejoicing. It's a good story. So good that I think I read some version of it at least 6 times.
4. It doesn't take an Ivy league degree to be a CEO anymore. There is hope for all of us, or at least the next Trump-ette.
My least favorite story:
Camilla and Charles
The most embarrassing realization:
There's a war going on and I ignore it almost completely.
This week has afforded me the opportunity to read a lot of newspapers, mostly USA Today, the Washington Post, Express, and the Examiner. For the most part this means I've read a lot of comics, a lot of advice columns, and a lot of headlines that I then immediately forgot. I did realize that I've missed the feel of the news. The Internet just doesn't quite go as well with breakfast as the morning paper. My favorite stories this week provided to you without links or even reference for that matter:
1. The pope inspired this retired journalist to convert to Catholicism.
2. Parity in basketball in both the men's and women's game. Since the men's game is in an overall decline due to the exodus to the NBA and the women's game is improving I'm hoping for the story about the men vs. the women. I think the Harvard president should write it.
3. The incredible story of the Baylor Bears and their determined coach. Spurned assistant coach leaves alma mater, builds losing program with savvy scouting and determination. Champions. Much rejoicing. It's a good story. So good that I think I read some version of it at least 6 times.
4. It doesn't take an Ivy league degree to be a CEO anymore. There is hope for all of us, or at least the next Trump-ette.
My least favorite story:
Camilla and Charles
The most embarrassing realization:
There's a war going on and I ignore it almost completely.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Dear John
With the sort of desperation that can only come from too many lemonades and the potential for long rides on short trains with no bathrooms, he slipped into a port-a-potty that seemed built for him. Perhaps not him exactly, because it wasn't particularly well lit and since the sun had set this caused a particular darkness when the door was closed, but it was so messy anyway that he was sure that poor aim would probably go unnoticed. The port-a-potty of his prayers was located in a bit of an alley between the yuppie grocer and a movie rental establishment. As he relieved himself in the darkness he heard the clack-clack-clack of several pairs of high heels making their way past. The thing about high heels is that they almost never travel alone. Usually a woman takes up residence above them. Not looking forward to emerging from this street toilet into the company of the opposite sex, he listened closely as the clack-clack-clack faded away and then pushed hurriedly on the door. It didn't budge. The plastic lock was stuck. He had wondered if shutting the door completely had been a mistake and now with renewed wonder he debated the potential embarrassment that would follow if he had to shout for help. The embarrassment looked to be so thorough and the plastic lock so weakened by repeated shaking that he was able to emerge from the alleyway loo violently, but unscathed. A quick scan of the area revealed that the people around him had not let him down with their collective and complete disinterest in both the man and the toilet. He slipped quietly away and out of third person.
With the sort of desperation that can only come from too many lemonades and the potential for long rides on short trains with no bathrooms, he slipped into a port-a-potty that seemed built for him. Perhaps not him exactly, because it wasn't particularly well lit and since the sun had set this caused a particular darkness when the door was closed, but it was so messy anyway that he was sure that poor aim would probably go unnoticed. The port-a-potty of his prayers was located in a bit of an alley between the yuppie grocer and a movie rental establishment. As he relieved himself in the darkness he heard the clack-clack-clack of several pairs of high heels making their way past. The thing about high heels is that they almost never travel alone. Usually a woman takes up residence above them. Not looking forward to emerging from this street toilet into the company of the opposite sex, he listened closely as the clack-clack-clack faded away and then pushed hurriedly on the door. It didn't budge. The plastic lock was stuck. He had wondered if shutting the door completely had been a mistake and now with renewed wonder he debated the potential embarrassment that would follow if he had to shout for help. The embarrassment looked to be so thorough and the plastic lock so weakened by repeated shaking that he was able to emerge from the alleyway loo violently, but unscathed. A quick scan of the area revealed that the people around him had not let him down with their collective and complete disinterest in both the man and the toilet. He slipped quietly away and out of third person.
Monday, April 04, 2005
It's make-believe
Yesterday, I either made up a picture or I made up Scott's presence on the canoe trip. A second look through the photos reveals no trace of Scott. It's plenty of people Scott has purported to like on more than one occasion, but the man himself is glaringly absent- like a vampire or a myth or a little of both.
It's magic
Public Transportation is magic. It makes me walk more than I otherwise would. I don't even like walking that much, but what's another mile when it's such a beautiful day? Over the weekend I visited two different art cinemas, the grocery store, the Moto Photo, a Lebanese restaurant, two major chain bookstores, an Apple store, and a paper store without ever going near my car. Magic!
Yesterday, I either made up a picture or I made up Scott's presence on the canoe trip. A second look through the photos reveals no trace of Scott. It's plenty of people Scott has purported to like on more than one occasion, but the man himself is glaringly absent- like a vampire or a myth or a little of both.
It's magic
Public Transportation is magic. It makes me walk more than I otherwise would. I don't even like walking that much, but what's another mile when it's such a beautiful day? Over the weekend I visited two different art cinemas, the grocery store, the Moto Photo, a Lebanese restaurant, two major chain bookstores, an Apple store, and a paper store without ever going near my car. Magic!
Sunday, April 03, 2005
I'll give you nostalgia
I was already feeling a little funny going to pick up what could be the last roll of film I ever have developed. It's a funny thing to think about. Rolls of film, having pictures developed, wondering where to store all those negatives, those are now dated concepts. The world is a changing place. There's no lag time between taking the picture and seeing what you've done. It's crazy.
Almost as crazy as taking in a roll of film that's been sitting around for at least 3 years. I knew one picture was on that roll, a picture of me and my mini-keg trophy. (For defensive disc prowess rather than whatever it is that mini-kegs usually bring to mind.) I assumed the rest would be from the Ultimate tournament. They weren't. They're from a canoe trip. Twin was there. And a Kate to be identified later. Justin, Scott, Rob, Chrissy, Chris, Dori, Laura, Paul-- they were all there too. So was an unidentifiable leg. It was the start of their senior year, or junior in some cases. They look so young. I look so young. So beardless, so haired. These are the pictures from a transition period. The time between school and ski lift operator. There are only 7 and had I developed that roll of film 3 years ago, it probably would have slid straight into an album without much thought, but right now it seems very special. It arrives in another transition period. Maybe this time it's from rolls of film to digital, or maybe it's something else. Either way, it's nice to see my friends.
I was already feeling a little funny going to pick up what could be the last roll of film I ever have developed. It's a funny thing to think about. Rolls of film, having pictures developed, wondering where to store all those negatives, those are now dated concepts. The world is a changing place. There's no lag time between taking the picture and seeing what you've done. It's crazy.
Almost as crazy as taking in a roll of film that's been sitting around for at least 3 years. I knew one picture was on that roll, a picture of me and my mini-keg trophy. (For defensive disc prowess rather than whatever it is that mini-kegs usually bring to mind.) I assumed the rest would be from the Ultimate tournament. They weren't. They're from a canoe trip. Twin was there. And a Kate to be identified later. Justin, Scott, Rob, Chrissy, Chris, Dori, Laura, Paul-- they were all there too. So was an unidentifiable leg. It was the start of their senior year, or junior in some cases. They look so young. I look so young. So beardless, so haired. These are the pictures from a transition period. The time between school and ski lift operator. There are only 7 and had I developed that roll of film 3 years ago, it probably would have slid straight into an album without much thought, but right now it seems very special. It arrives in another transition period. Maybe this time it's from rolls of film to digital, or maybe it's something else. Either way, it's nice to see my friends.
Woody and another decade
There's something special about watching Woody Allen movies in old theaters, or at least theaters that look old. I think it's the music and the simple white on black credits. It just makes me feel like movies are still special and Woody understands that. I don't love his movies, but I think he understands the experience. He makes me feel a little less guilty about spending $8.50, because he gets it. He gets the "going to the pictures for entertainment" feel that isn't all about SELL. SELL. SELL. I appreciate that, but then of course I would, because it reminds me of a time that I wasn't born in. I'm a sucker for someone else's nostalgia.
There's something special about watching Woody Allen movies in old theaters, or at least theaters that look old. I think it's the music and the simple white on black credits. It just makes me feel like movies are still special and Woody understands that. I don't love his movies, but I think he understands the experience. He makes me feel a little less guilty about spending $8.50, because he gets it. He gets the "going to the pictures for entertainment" feel that isn't all about SELL. SELL. SELL. I appreciate that, but then of course I would, because it reminds me of a time that I wasn't born in. I'm a sucker for someone else's nostalgia.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Fools, Fools,
we're all fools
Today at work I said, "Everyone is an idealist when it's someone else's work." I'm sure it's been said before and it doesn't even look that good in print, but it sounded really profound. I, uh, swear it.
Fools, Fools,
we're all fools
It's almost 7 pm on this Friday night and I'm feeling all jumpy. I want dinner, but instead I'm eating Tuxedos, everybody's favorite faux-Oreo, or is that fauxreo? Wow. I like that. fauxreo, FAUXreo, fauxREO, faux... I don't like it that much. I'm sure that has nothing to do with the jumpiness.
Fools, Fools,
we're all fools
I have no plan. I have no plan for tomorrow. I have no plan for tonight. I need to go to the bathroom. OOH. A PLAN!!!!
fools, fools...
we're all fools
Today at work I said, "Everyone is an idealist when it's someone else's work." I'm sure it's been said before and it doesn't even look that good in print, but it sounded really profound. I, uh, swear it.
Fools, Fools,
we're all fools
It's almost 7 pm on this Friday night and I'm feeling all jumpy. I want dinner, but instead I'm eating Tuxedos, everybody's favorite faux-Oreo, or is that fauxreo? Wow. I like that. fauxreo, FAUXreo, fauxREO, faux... I don't like it that much. I'm sure that has nothing to do with the jumpiness.
Fools, Fools,
we're all fools
I have no plan. I have no plan for tomorrow. I have no plan for tonight. I need to go to the bathroom. OOH. A PLAN!!!!
fools, fools...
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