Power up kids
We lost power here last night and I had the opportunity to break out the candles. I couldn't remember how to play Cribbage and I couldn't crack the code that was the rules. From there it cascaded down and I realized that I really couldn't do much of anything and when the electricity is on, I don't anyway. Would the Amish be kings if the electricity stayed down? What would we do when our battery-operated goodies died down and we were left to our thoughts and other people? I think it'd get ugly in a hurry. The milk situation alone would cause some serious problems. I decided two things last night

1. I need more canned goods.
2. A little less talk and a little more action.

That ought to do the trick. And also some more DVDs to dull the world as it comes back to light.

Very interesting

-The subscription solicitation for Skiing magazine and the solicitation for Powder arrived on the same freaking freaking freaking hot day in July. Both came from Tampa Florida. Conspiracy? Seems likely.

-There is a man at my office. Everyday I see this man. Most days I see this man two times. Some days I see this man two times in the copy room and then other times too. This man always smiles. He always says hi. I always say hi back to him. This has gone on for quite some time. Today as I got off the empty elevator on our floor, he made moves to get on. I threw my hands up blocking the door and said, "Wait. What's your name?"

He probably thinks I'm crazy. At least now he knows that crazy has a name.

I swear

1. I get more Evites from women I don't know...
2. I've had showers that weren't as wet as my walk home.
heat. wave.

Marketing is fun

The DVD box of some movie that starts with an M said, "the extended footnote to Sideways."

Because everybody loves long footnotes?

Sexy jobs
I couldn't find the Post story that turned me on to boat jumpers, so I had to google it. I have the print version in my room if you want to see it. Limited time only. If you aren't planning a stop to my room in the near future, check out the propaganda. Ignore the fact that they're young and that they make $6.50/hour and think about how cool it is to jump to the dock, sprint to the mailbox, and then jump back onto the boat. The Post article had one particularly appealing paragraph, "Sweating and red-faced, she leaped four feet from the pier, grabbed a rail and just managed to catch the stern. Her Nikes slipped, and her body thumped loudly against the side of the boat."

So. Cool.

With obsession comes pain
Last weekend was the first weekend I'd played Ultimate in almost 2 months. I was nervous. Nervous that I might have lost more than a step and nervous that I would crumple to the ground with another injury. It passed as I did. It faded as I soared through the air.

"What is your vertical?" William, our elder statesman, a short man with gray hair and a love for the hammer asked me after I ripped a disc out of the sky.

"That was it," I laughed. "I can't go any higher."

****

I spent this week daydreaming. I was flying. I was diving. Even when the disc was bouncing off my outstretched hand, it was still magic. Maybe I had lost a step, but the renewed wonder and the seed of a thought that I might regain it were enough to keep me smiling at work.

I spent this week reading. I read about Ultimate. I read about coaching and how that applies to Ultimate. I want to test my theories. I want to grab a team and I want to go go GO. I spent a lot of moments jittery, excited, nervous, because I want to play some more.

But I've had to wait. I've had to wait for my sore muscles to forgive me. I've had to wait for a game. I've spent the last month relatively at ease with my decision to take a break. I've been riding and running, and even swimming with renewed vigor. This week, this week I've been a mess. I want more. I want to play. I want to improve. I'm frustrated that I can't channel that energy into the game, but I know from experience in a land called Ohio that there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. Ultimate 4 to 6 days a week and nothing else leaves me unhappier than this waiting.

I've got to find balance. I've got to find books that aren't about Ultimate. I've got to find thoughts that aren't about flying. I've got to funnel this energy somewhere else, so that when I'm a little down I can turn to those excited moments, but when I'm up, it doesn't have to be from an Ultimate high.

Never mind.

Reason #67 to like this town
6:15ish on a Friday night. The exercising was undone. The evening plans uncrystallized. Scouring the movie section I spotted Happy Endings and decided it was time for doing and crystallizing. I grabbed a spare shirt, some water, and my bike. Doing my best Lance Armstrong impression I sprinted on over to the movie theater across town or at least on the "other side of the tracks." I pulled up panting with minutes to spare, bought my ticket, changed my shirt and enjoyed a dark comedy with some lighter amusing silent-movie-esque narration. While I attended to an aged and darker Lisa Kudrow, a scene-stealing Maggie Gyllenhaal, and a decent Tom Arnold, night came 'round.

What would a boy and his bike do?

Take the Metro. It was slower than the ride, but there was less panting. Nice.

I just wanted to test this photo posting thing to see how it worked. Then I decided that wasn't enough, that it needed to mean something.

So. Revel in that.

Tying the week together
So Potter pushed me up against the edge, but couldn't bring the rain. With the McCrush still lingering I turned to The Notebook to finish the job. I was sensing another failure about two-thirds of the way through the movie, and McAdams was fine, but not Wedding Crashers fine, if you know what I mean and I think you do. So I was a little bummed because it looked to be another long and grumpy night, propped up by an ok movie and the smile I've grown to admire in less than 3 days, when suddenly the floodgates opened. I don't know what happened next, but I was trying to fold laundry, and instead I ended up blowing my nose in the stuff and it hasn't been like this since The Family Man. Weird howls cropped up toward the end and I had to go check out my own pink puffiness in the mirror and then I couldn't help but laugh.

After that I went and practiced my pulls. I seem to be hovering at about 60 yards. I think I need to polish the guns. Or get a (better) grip.

Pleased as punch-

It's over
I feel a bit like I've broken up with my girlfriend. I didn't eat that much. I'm going to go to bed soon. Thanks for another, J.K.

I found one line to be particularly applicable to everyday life- "It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the death and walking into the arena with your head held high."

the tendency to make two people a microcosm

The world sheds its pods and cracks open its Potter.

Infatuation Update
Rachel McAdams, Claire/John's (Owen Wilson's) love interest in Wedding Crashers. Put her on the list as a brunette.

Who has the list anyway?

Never mind. You can find it in the morning. Good night.

Who are you?
And what have you done with the "'usual" Dave? I'm not sure I recognize this guy in the dead-sexy jeans. I didn't recognize him yesterday in his hipster Charlie and the Chocolate Factory t-shirt, which did in fact smell like chocolate. Oh I wasn't kidding. He had a quiet unfamiliar confidence as he sipped Heineken in a dive. He seemed more himself behind a pane of glass watching passerbys, but then that whole run outside and have people smell his shirt seemed a bit more flagrant than we're used to. Blame her. She's an influence.

Who is this guy, spending cheese, winking at the world like he's in on a secret? Windows rolled down, cruising on the highway, he reached up afraid that his hair would be mussed by the wind. Hair? There's not enough there to get mussed, son. Flashbacks to another time? Forward? or back? He's jamming to every song because it moves him. Disco? Oldies? Pop-Trans? They all need a thigh-slapping rhythm section. I saw him get out his iron today and when it refused to heat up, he wore his shirt anyway. Oh, yea. That's still our guy.

Phew.

Hi. Do you want to smell my shirt?

Sometimes I read the Style section
The headline for a story about Paul Feig's new book Superstud made me smile. It's a Nerd. It's in Pain. It's Superstud. Go back and read that aloud if you didn't get it. I missed it at first. Lois Lane, Clark Kent- there you go. The headline was pleasing, but the book sounds dumb.

They caught Borf. This town is having a rough year for secrets. First Deep Throat and now Borf. Oh, Borf. Who's going to hate Bush now? Who's going to deface property? Who's going to cause confusion and add mystery to the likes of mailboxes and street signs? I never understood you, but I just might miss you.

In a flurry of movies, I saw War of the Worlds which is pretty solid, so long as you don't think too hard about the aliens and don't mind abrupt endings. I saw Fantastic Four and it was better than The Hullk, which isn't saying much. It would have made a fine TV movie. Do they still make those? They left lots of room for a sequel, so I guess that's good for "The Commish", the guy that isn't Jonny Knoxville, the Fly's stunt double, and the really hot scientist chick who never says anything that even approaches smart but provides the sexual tension, the plot, and a reason for cool futuristic fiber suits.

Carry on about your business now.

All you need is
exercise. Ok. I just got back from a bike ride and on a scale from 1 to 10, with 1 being the lowest and 10 being the highest, that was an awesome. I followed a trail I've taken once before which lead me past a little faux-French chain bistro. I'd done that before, but then I plummeted down to the river where I was cruising by my old marathon training grounds. That turned into the non-Metro accessible part of town, I wiggled a round a bit, dodged some taxi-cabs, waved to the Bushies, buzzed the WA monument, , wiggled some more, zipped past my employer's joint, and then stop and go for the next 6 miles home. I consumed way too much bus exhaust which was slightly hazardous to my health, but otherwise it was a great ride. I sailed right home minutes before total darkness. Sweet! With a little tweaking I may even have found a route to commute to work, not an efficient route, but possibly a partially pleasant one.

Going to Montreal in a Hybrid and other tales from the road not taken
There's this whole big world that I haven't explored and for some stupid reason I just can't quite get going. I've got the vacation days. I've got a list of potential destinations a mile long, and yet nothing. The only way I end up somewhere is if I can manage to squeeze in someone else into whatever location I pick (or is picked for me as the case may be.) If there's no work, I can take a vacation if 1) someone else wants to go along or will be at the "final" destination. 2) Someone else is there and it's on my list. 3)Someone (see a pattern here) invites me. The only truly solo vacation I've managed in the last few years was to the Grand Canyon at the tail end of a work trip. It was great, but I struggled with the planning quite a bit. That's the real problem. I am paralyzed by the planning. The quick and easy solution to that problem would seem to be the tour group, but I think I've grown up with a bias against tour groups. Tour groups are for people who can't figure out what they should do. I don't want to admit to that and pay for the tour too. Humbling and expensive are just not my style.

I read somewhere that one of the cool things about traveling alone is that you can strike up a conversation just by asking to have your picture taken. Somehow that doesn't have me flying out the door with my camera in one hand and my swimsuit in the other.

I'm off to nowhere. I'll send postcards.

Highlight of a really good day
It's unfair to say that I made a beautiful girl laugh, because then you'll only think of her physical characteristics. Her big brown photographable eyes and her flowing curly reddish-brown hair, of now unknown length. It's unfair to say that her laugh rushed me back to late nights in a lounge in a hall on a campus in the middle of Missouri, because then you'll focus on the past. The picture of her legs and arms twisted into uncomfortable-looking comfort in ill-fitting yet endearing clothes as she talked animatedly from a tabletop. This laugh didn't happen in the past. It may have been a product of the past, the way that mango juice is a product of clouds; vital sure, but not directly connected.

I can't describe the laugh because it instantly filled me with joy. It wouldn't be right to say it was full or throaty or genuine. I can't tell the joke because it wasn't memorable in the ways of talking muffins or pickles on motorcycles.

I could tell you about the rest of my day and that might give you some measure of the laugh's magnitude. Work was fast and rewarding and my day was filled with praise. Dinner was simple and delicious, dirty rice and leftover hamburger helper. I shared my writing and a little of my soul with Kella and then I shared some smooth soft drinks with her too. There was a breeze blowing off a local fountain that cooled the otherwise hot humid evening. So often Kella has the ability to make me feel like my wisdom isn't temporary, like just maybe I've figured something out and she's kind enough to help me with the parts still unfigured. Somehow our meandering conversation took me back to a shirt, the sexiest shirt I have ever known. It was a blue cowboy shirt, more blue than cowboy. It had tiny white blurry checks, not paisley, and cowboy shirt snaps. Its owner once told me it was a sexy shirt and there is no faster way to make me a non-believer than to tell me something, but when she put it on I was a goner. I almost cried just thinking about it. My knees are getting weak at this very moment. The shirt like the laugh had an indescribable quality about it. That's a good day, and a great laugh. The laugh meant "you can be funny." It meant, "I can be happy."

I can be funny. You can be happy. Laughs are joyous occasions.

Hungry, Hungry Atlantic
With my uncorrected vision, it's nearly impossible to compete in the car-ride favorite ABC game. When a disc is thrown I see a white blur, not unlike a stack of 4 discs. With each revolution the stack shrinks until at about 2 meters from my body the disc becomes a single, spinning, catchable piece of plastic. That works just fine for discs thrown flat, but not so well for those that leave at severe angles. I can't see the angle until it's too late. I can't see facial expressions. I can't see whether people are watching me or turned and facing the other direction entirely. I can't help with street signs at all.

As frustrating as all that has been today, the worst part about losing my glasses in the fairly boneheaded swimming-in-the-ocean-with-my glasses-on move was that fact that I was no longer able to fall in love with every girl in a bikini from 40 paces. I had to move closer.

Did I say the worst thing?

Miles away
Nerves. Somehow I can escape my thoughts now and then, but my stomach is tingling. It knows what's coming. It's trying to tell my legs. It's trying to tell my feet. I'm trying to settle it, but since I left work, the stomach has giggled in nervous anticipation.

It's a mile. The first in years. I'm boldly predicting 4:46. Results later. I'm off to eat a PBJ and drink some more water to fill what I cannot settle. Stay tuned.

Results
There is some level of tragedy in knowing your body so well. It doesn't leave a lot of room for surprises. 4:46 turned out to be a bit bold. I was on pace through 2 laps and just a tad slow through 3, but I had no kick for the last lap and ended up running 4:51. I'm relatively pleased. It's been a humbling few years now. It was a little sad to be starting the last turn while the crowd cheered on the finishers. It's a lot more fun up front, but I knew from the get-go that I didn't belong in the front. I ran my race and I battled as much as I could with those around me. It was a solid steady effort and nothing to be ashamed of. I'm quite proud of myself for hopping into the fast heat. I hemmed and hawed because there was a heat for people planning to run between 4:50 and 5:20. I had a hunch I was going to be flirting with 4:50, but I decided that the faster group would push me. I'm glad I stood firm because the previous group had a 5:06 victor. It would've been a hollow victory. Instead I got a somewhat meaningful third-to-last-place finish.

I'm pleased, really I am. The back of the pack is still an unfamiliar place for me and not one I necessarily want to live in. The positives:
*solid steady effort
*no unusual pains
*a time/ I did it.
*that was one happy hour. Watching track meets, even (or especially) just miles is a cool thing. I kind of liked being around runners.
*it was a real mile- 1609 meters.

DT seeks lmb 4 bpc
I was perusing some online personal ads last night in an effort to once again talk myself out of trying to define myself in a little box because that's so very frightening even though this whole share my every other thought with the world doesn't seem to bother me much. I may also have been perusing out of curiosity. It happens. Lots of the women seeking men seemed to want the same thing. If there is an island of tall HOT HOT HOT guys, they should definitely get Internet access and visit craigslist because there are a lot of women who would be happy to go pic for pic with them. In the slightly more accepting category, my favorite ad said it would be cool if you were hot, but nerds are even better, but not those blogger-types.

Really? There's a classification of nerds that now includes bloggers? Where exactly on the nerd spectrum does this fall? I wonder if personal bloggers are nerdier than issue bloggers. And does anyone have a spare nerd spectrum? I seem to have lost mine when I was throwing out my T-square. Thanks.



Do Topia seeks like minded blogger for blog post comments.

I'm a terrible vegetarian
because I eat meat.

There have been a number of discussions around me (at least two and two is definitely a number) recently that invovled the lack of clarity surrounding certain words. Things aren't so black and white, there are often shades of gray, and on the right stations David Gray. And while quadrapalegic didn't quite involve the full paralysis that I interpreted and deaf might not be the right word for someone that still hears sound, "make a $@#$%# decision, I don't care what it is," seems pretty clear.

Too bad I'm too chicken substitute to say that.

Can I get an oh my gawd for the way I rock my iPod?

So two fine readers, or psychics as the case may be, were kind enough to relieve me of some of the late-June terror with an iTunes gift certificate. I had free reign in the iTuniverse and a new fear of picking good songs. Subjective it may be, but still no easy task. Jessica Simpson was an easy choice with her new cover of "These Boots Are Made for Walking" made for the upcoming Dukes of Hazzard flick. I enjoy lyrical imagery as much as the next guy and this song manages at least one killer line- "Can I get a handclap? For the way I work my back." The rest of it is just good clean fun, er, at least fun. I abandoned the Spice Girls for a little "Free Fallin'" with Tom Petty, some Dashboard Confessional, Iron & Wine per recommendation and Gorrillaz per some comment I picked up in some blog somewhere. I also picked up "Hate to Say I Told You So" by The Hives, and "The Comeback" by the Shout Out Louds complete with racing noises to kick off the song. Then I went crazy and bought a Bowling for Soup album.

This is fun. And when I say "picked up" I guess I really meant clicked on some buttons.

The short and short of it. A 4 star weekend
*Ribs. Ribs. Ribs. frisbee. cake. Woo.

*I spent my birthday with a stranger and one of my closest friends. Somewhere in the afternoon I was infatuated with the stranger. It's in the eyes and the smile and the energy. It's in 31 gram boxes of Hot Tamales. It's in genie pants. It's in a handbag the size of a daschund filled with mints and gum. It's in the skin of neck and the shoulders. It's in any gesture of kindness to me. It's in the quiet. It's in the graceful movement of a green glitter shoe. Nine hours later, I'd settled down. I love my friend, but there were moments where I desperately wanted to make him disappear. I'm glad I didn't. Then we wouldn't have been able to chase each other round and round a fountain or laugh about our miscommunications or walk home and call it a great day. It's in our history. It's in B-A-N-A-N-A-S. It's in his charm. It's in his stories. It's in the disc. It's in the willingness to join me for a track workout, but most of all it's in something I can't explain at all.

*I had brunch at a little hobbit's place. I had dinner at Big Wong's. There's a joke in there somewhere.

*I hear the fireworks. I feel the independence. Happy 4th!