In tune with an appliance
I woke up at 4 AM this morning and ran the dishwasher. I then went back to bed and slept almost to the minute of the last gasp of dishwashing effort. I'm trying to determine what caused this reaction. The dishwasher was full, but it was no fuller than when I went to bed at 11 PM. As far as I can remember, I have never left dreamland to vacuum or dust. I've never cleaned the refrigerator in my sleep. Most days I can barely react to the alarm and yet last night, I needed to wash the dishes. Needed makes it sound more like a compulsion than it really was. I ran the dishwasher. I wasn't compelled any more than I'm compelled at any other time. I just did it. I ran the dishwasher at 4 AM. It really opens up the potential for me to polish off a number of other tasks if I'm prone to taking a few minutes between a bathroom break and returning to sleep.
Making my bed at 3 AM is probably out...
Sunday, January 28, 2007
EFFINGHAM!
Prior to January 4, I had never heard of Sufjan Stevens (actual pronunciation unknown). That evening,Kella mentioned that he had written her theme song. I often appreciate Kella's musical tastes, but I wasn't in a hunting mood and so that was the end of Sufjan and me. Except that a week or so later his album Come on Fell the Illinoise! was delivered to me via Clare-mail.
She said, "Here. Listen to this and get excited."
I said, "Ok. Why?"
"Because they're giving away free tickets on Saturday, January 27 and I need you to go pick them up."
"Oh. Ok." I'm enthusiastic like that.
I listened to Mr. Stevens many times. He does whip out the banjo on numerous tracks which I like. Plus his music is layered and kind of beautiful, but I couldn't find anything that truly hooked me. I kept listening and some of the tunes stuck in my brain for a little while, but I wasn't really excited and I kind of forgot about what day I was supposed to go pick up tickets.
Then, Wednesday night I was out with a friend and we were talking about various hobbies. He said he liked music and that he and his roommate were headed out early Saturday morning to get tickets for, and he said this hesitantly, "Sufjan?" I howled, "Stevens!" as if other Sufjans were giving away tickets on that same Saturday. After some discussion I found out that Sufjan's project is to have an album for all of the 50 states. This strikes me as awesome in a number of ways.
1. I thought Come on Feel the Illinoise! was oddly obsessed with all things Illinois. This helps clear that up.
2. I'm impressed by the sheer magnitude of such a creative undertaking.
3. Since it seems he's started with the places he knows, Michigan and Illinois, I imagine he is going to have to travel to really try to capture other states in an album. Combining travel, creativity, and music is just exponentially cooler than each of those things individually.
My friend is headed out to line up and wait for tickets at 5:30 in the morning. He convinces me that I need not wake up so early. He'll call me and let me know of my chances at 7 AM. This sounds like a good plan to me. He calls and says he thinks if I join them, my chances are pretty good. They are about 600th in line and there should be around 2,400 tickets. I eat breakfast and scurry off. I have on about 5 layers of clothing, plus all the paraphernalia I need to play Ultimate in the afternoon. I arrive at about 8 AM to something like this-
(not my photo)
Faithful readers recall that I still have resisted the temptations of the mobile phone. I now have to find my friends in this line that wiggles all around a courtyard. I look for a while and mostly give up. I head for the back of the line. The sky is pale blue and the air is crisp. The sun is shining and I'm surrounded by I'd say at least 1,000 Sufjan fans. The line isn't moving, except to continue to grow longer. The doors don't open for another hour. Friendly conversations abound. Discussions of our chances are the frequent topic along with laments of our lack of commitment to not have joined the campers who set up shop and spent the night. We consider various line-cutting methods and also express our appreciation for the overall neatness of this crowd. We begin to accept our fate as ticketless, but cling to enough hope that we don't leave the line. One of my fellow late-line joiners allows me use of his phone. I call and get no answer. I decide that if I hold up my disc, perhaps my friends will see it and come get me. I hold it up, occasionally waving it around until my arms tire. It's dubbed my bat signal, but it seems to have failed.
Tents are quickly put away and the long line begins to move. One exuberant usher takes the place of metal poles and velvet ropes by excitedly keeping the line tight, trying to wake us up and to keep us moving in the right direction. He does his job well, though the rumblings at the beginning of the line take nearly 10 minutes to reach us in the back. I make another failed phone call and spend much longer with my disc waving in the air. I look like a Disc Hall of Fame tour guide without any tourists. I get quizzical looks and then finally someone in another wiggle of the line asks, "What's with the Frisbee?"
I explain the missing friends and the bat signal and he says, "Oh." I take that to mean that there is some sense in my actions. This provides much less relief than I would have hoped. My phone-loaner decides that he's had enough and wishes us well. He sees no hope here.
The line moves on. We've moved through the first set of wiggles and into the second set. Someone starts handing out blue slips of paper. One of my line buddies, says "It probably says 'There's no chance in hell you'll get tickets.'" We receive our blue slips and realize that the Kennedy Center doesn't use the word hell, but instead uses words like sufficient. As in "a sufficient number of people are ahead of you..." My line buddy loudly announces, "It does say 'there's no chance in hell!'" Someone else exclaims, "It's like a pink slip, in blue." We all stand quietly contemplating. Still, no one moves to leave. I bail before the others around me. I've really lacked commitment in this whole process.
I'm wandering past the corner of the Kennedy Center trying to figure out what I'm going to do with my day, when some guy out of line hollers to those in line, "What time did you get here?" The guy in line answers, "about 5." Grunts from out of the line again reinforce the lack of commitment that I feel. I admire those with such commitment and realize that my friends who arrived at 5:30 are probably not too far behind. I decide I'll wait at the corner where the line snakes into the home stretch and try to find them. I don't wait long and I sidle up and exchange hellos.
As we entered the home stretch, I don't know whether the burning eyes from those behind us were in my imagination or not, but I began to feel warmer and not in a good way. As all these new found friends chatted along, I grew silent as we got ever closer to the doors. If I got tickets and the person behind me did not, I would have to give them away. I wondered if I should even be in the line at all. I started to think that I should leave the line. I wondered how many tickets after mine they would have to give away before I would feel ok about cutting. I tried to convince myself that this moment was one of those advantages that fell under the heading "knowing the right people." Still, I did not feel good. A loud voice rang out possibly shouting "No more tickets." The line rumbled and then rumbled again as "false alarm" was announced. We kept moving and my guilt kept growing. I hadn't said a word or looked at anyone in several minutes. How would I feel if someone had cut this late in the game? Would it have been different if I had found my friends at 8 AM when the line still wasn't moving? Maybe, but I hadn't. Was this how I wanted to live my life? Was this who I wanted to be? The line seemed to be inching along now. I think people could almost taste the tickets, although I'm sure they tasted like any common cardboard. My inner debate raged on and then the real announcement came. "No more tickets. We gave away the last tickets." This was repeated by several ushers with varying degrees of harshness and understanding.
I felt for those around me, but I breathed a sigh of relief. The crowd, quite disappointed, dissapated. At least partly.
Perhaps line forming is addictive, because we went inside and joined a few other Sufjan rejects along with a completely different demographic to wait another hour for Alvin Ailey tickets. This would be our lovely parting gift.
Prior to January 4, I had never heard of Sufjan Stevens (actual pronunciation unknown). That evening,Kella mentioned that he had written her theme song. I often appreciate Kella's musical tastes, but I wasn't in a hunting mood and so that was the end of Sufjan and me. Except that a week or so later his album Come on Fell the Illinoise! was delivered to me via Clare-mail.
She said, "Here. Listen to this and get excited."
I said, "Ok. Why?"
"Because they're giving away free tickets on Saturday, January 27 and I need you to go pick them up."
"Oh. Ok." I'm enthusiastic like that.
I listened to Mr. Stevens many times. He does whip out the banjo on numerous tracks which I like. Plus his music is layered and kind of beautiful, but I couldn't find anything that truly hooked me. I kept listening and some of the tunes stuck in my brain for a little while, but I wasn't really excited and I kind of forgot about what day I was supposed to go pick up tickets.
Then, Wednesday night I was out with a friend and we were talking about various hobbies. He said he liked music and that he and his roommate were headed out early Saturday morning to get tickets for, and he said this hesitantly, "Sufjan?" I howled, "Stevens!" as if other Sufjans were giving away tickets on that same Saturday. After some discussion I found out that Sufjan's project is to have an album for all of the 50 states. This strikes me as awesome in a number of ways.
1. I thought Come on Feel the Illinoise! was oddly obsessed with all things Illinois. This helps clear that up.
2. I'm impressed by the sheer magnitude of such a creative undertaking.
3. Since it seems he's started with the places he knows, Michigan and Illinois, I imagine he is going to have to travel to really try to capture other states in an album. Combining travel, creativity, and music is just exponentially cooler than each of those things individually.
My friend is headed out to line up and wait for tickets at 5:30 in the morning. He convinces me that I need not wake up so early. He'll call me and let me know of my chances at 7 AM. This sounds like a good plan to me. He calls and says he thinks if I join them, my chances are pretty good. They are about 600th in line and there should be around 2,400 tickets. I eat breakfast and scurry off. I have on about 5 layers of clothing, plus all the paraphernalia I need to play Ultimate in the afternoon. I arrive at about 8 AM to something like this-
(not my photo)
Faithful readers recall that I still have resisted the temptations of the mobile phone. I now have to find my friends in this line that wiggles all around a courtyard. I look for a while and mostly give up. I head for the back of the line. The sky is pale blue and the air is crisp. The sun is shining and I'm surrounded by I'd say at least 1,000 Sufjan fans. The line isn't moving, except to continue to grow longer. The doors don't open for another hour. Friendly conversations abound. Discussions of our chances are the frequent topic along with laments of our lack of commitment to not have joined the campers who set up shop and spent the night. We consider various line-cutting methods and also express our appreciation for the overall neatness of this crowd. We begin to accept our fate as ticketless, but cling to enough hope that we don't leave the line. One of my fellow late-line joiners allows me use of his phone. I call and get no answer. I decide that if I hold up my disc, perhaps my friends will see it and come get me. I hold it up, occasionally waving it around until my arms tire. It's dubbed my bat signal, but it seems to have failed.
Tents are quickly put away and the long line begins to move. One exuberant usher takes the place of metal poles and velvet ropes by excitedly keeping the line tight, trying to wake us up and to keep us moving in the right direction. He does his job well, though the rumblings at the beginning of the line take nearly 10 minutes to reach us in the back. I make another failed phone call and spend much longer with my disc waving in the air. I look like a Disc Hall of Fame tour guide without any tourists. I get quizzical looks and then finally someone in another wiggle of the line asks, "What's with the Frisbee?"
I explain the missing friends and the bat signal and he says, "Oh." I take that to mean that there is some sense in my actions. This provides much less relief than I would have hoped. My phone-loaner decides that he's had enough and wishes us well. He sees no hope here.
The line moves on. We've moved through the first set of wiggles and into the second set. Someone starts handing out blue slips of paper. One of my line buddies, says "It probably says 'There's no chance in hell you'll get tickets.'" We receive our blue slips and realize that the Kennedy Center doesn't use the word hell, but instead uses words like sufficient. As in "a sufficient number of people are ahead of you..." My line buddy loudly announces, "It does say 'there's no chance in hell!'" Someone else exclaims, "It's like a pink slip, in blue." We all stand quietly contemplating. Still, no one moves to leave. I bail before the others around me. I've really lacked commitment in this whole process.
I'm wandering past the corner of the Kennedy Center trying to figure out what I'm going to do with my day, when some guy out of line hollers to those in line, "What time did you get here?" The guy in line answers, "about 5." Grunts from out of the line again reinforce the lack of commitment that I feel. I admire those with such commitment and realize that my friends who arrived at 5:30 are probably not too far behind. I decide I'll wait at the corner where the line snakes into the home stretch and try to find them. I don't wait long and I sidle up and exchange hellos.
As we entered the home stretch, I don't know whether the burning eyes from those behind us were in my imagination or not, but I began to feel warmer and not in a good way. As all these new found friends chatted along, I grew silent as we got ever closer to the doors. If I got tickets and the person behind me did not, I would have to give them away. I wondered if I should even be in the line at all. I started to think that I should leave the line. I wondered how many tickets after mine they would have to give away before I would feel ok about cutting. I tried to convince myself that this moment was one of those advantages that fell under the heading "knowing the right people." Still, I did not feel good. A loud voice rang out possibly shouting "No more tickets." The line rumbled and then rumbled again as "false alarm" was announced. We kept moving and my guilt kept growing. I hadn't said a word or looked at anyone in several minutes. How would I feel if someone had cut this late in the game? Would it have been different if I had found my friends at 8 AM when the line still wasn't moving? Maybe, but I hadn't. Was this how I wanted to live my life? Was this who I wanted to be? The line seemed to be inching along now. I think people could almost taste the tickets, although I'm sure they tasted like any common cardboard. My inner debate raged on and then the real announcement came. "No more tickets. We gave away the last tickets." This was repeated by several ushers with varying degrees of harshness and understanding.
I felt for those around me, but I breathed a sigh of relief. The crowd, quite disappointed, dissapated. At least partly.
Perhaps line forming is addictive, because we went inside and joined a few other Sufjan rejects along with a completely different demographic to wait another hour for Alvin Ailey tickets. This would be our lovely parting gift.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
An attempt to improve song lyrics by sheer force of ego
"Fill these spaces up with Daves" - Azure Ray
"The David sleeps alone tonight" -Postal Service
"Everyone knows I'm in
over my Dave
over my Dave" -Fray
"Tonight we're the Dave and the rhythm" -Iron & Wine
"If I fall you're going down with Dave" -Dixie Chicks
"A long time ago, we used to be Dave" -Dandy Warhols
"Slicing up eyeballs, I want you to know" -Pixies (Turns out that one doesn't need me.)
"Steady as Dave Goes"-The Raconteurs
"There Dave goes. There Dave goes again. Racing through my brain" -Sixpence None the Richer
"I'm thinking about my Davebell, when you gonna ring it? When you gonna ring it?" -The White Stripes
"Baby you're all that I want. When you're lying here in my arms. I find it hard to believe. We're on Dave's blog.
We're on Dave's blog! baum baum batam" -DJ Sammy & Yanou featuring Do "...It isn't too hard to see we're on Dave's blog. OHHO!"
"Fill these spaces up with Daves" - Azure Ray
"The David sleeps alone tonight" -Postal Service
"Everyone knows I'm in
over my Dave
over my Dave" -Fray
"Tonight we're the Dave and the rhythm" -Iron & Wine
"If I fall you're going down with Dave" -Dixie Chicks
"A long time ago, we used to be Dave" -Dandy Warhols
"Slicing up eyeballs, I want you to know" -Pixies (Turns out that one doesn't need me.)
"Steady as Dave Goes"-The Raconteurs
"There Dave goes. There Dave goes again. Racing through my brain" -Sixpence None the Richer
"I'm thinking about my Davebell, when you gonna ring it? When you gonna ring it?" -The White Stripes
"Baby you're all that I want. When you're lying here in my arms. I find it hard to believe. We're on Dave's blog.
We're on Dave's blog! baum baum batam" -DJ Sammy & Yanou featuring Do "...It isn't too hard to see we're on Dave's blog. OHHO!"
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
CAPITAL LETTERS DO IT BIGGER
IN EVERY BLOGGER'S LIFE THERE COMES A TIME WHEN HE/SHE/IT MUST LOOK INSIDE HIMSELF/HERSELF/ITSELF AND ASK "HAVE I SAID ALL THERE IS TO SAY?" THIS QUESTION IS OFTEN FOLLOWED BY THE DEEPER AND SLIGHTLY MORE INTROSPECTIVE, "CAN THERE REALLY BE LIMITS TO MY VANITY?"
FOR SOME OF US, THESE QUESTIONS GET POSED ON A DAILY BASIS. ME, I RAN OUT OF STUFF TO SAY IN 2004. NOW I JUST REMINISCE ABOUT THOSE DAYS. SOMETIMES I DO IT IN CAPITAL LETTERS, BECAUSE AS WE ALL KNOW CAPITAL LETTERS ARE THE WRITTEN EQUIVALENT OF SHOUTING. AND NOTHING SAYS WORTHWHILE COMMUNICATION LIKE SHOUTING. ASK ANY GOD-FEARING END-OF-THE-WORLD SIDEWALK PROPHESIER, SHOUTING IS THE ONLY WAY TO REACH PEOPLE. SHOUTING AND SANDWICH BOARDS. SINCE THE BEGINNING OF TIME SHOUTING AND SANDWICH BOARDS HAVE CARRIED THE MESSAGES THAT REALLY MATTER, "THE END IS NEAR" "GOD HATES FILL-IN-THE-BLANK" "THE END IS NEAR BECAUSE GOD HATES FILL-IN-THE-BLANK"
MAYBE FILL-IN THE BLANK DOESN'T LIKE GOD THAT MUCH AND FOR THAT MATTER WHEN IS NEAR? NOBODY (20/20 AND MR. STOSSEL I'M LOOKING AT YOUS) EVER LOOKS AT THE PROPAGANDA MACHINE THAT PRODUCES SANDWICH BOARDS. WHEN'S THE LAST TIME WE SAW A GOOD EXPOSE ON A SIDEWALK PROPHET? HAVE THEY MOVED TO THE INTERNET? GIVEN UP ENTIRELY? GONE STRAIGHT TO XM SATELLITE RADIO? IT'S ABOUT TIME WE HEAR ABOUT IT. AND ALSO TIME TO GIVE THE OL' CAPS LOCK KEY A WHACK. That's better.
Shouting, like blogging loses it's appeal if we are allowed to go on too long. At least that's what I HEAR, when I still can.
IN EVERY BLOGGER'S LIFE THERE COMES A TIME WHEN HE/SHE/IT MUST LOOK INSIDE HIMSELF/HERSELF/ITSELF AND ASK "HAVE I SAID ALL THERE IS TO SAY?" THIS QUESTION IS OFTEN FOLLOWED BY THE DEEPER AND SLIGHTLY MORE INTROSPECTIVE, "CAN THERE REALLY BE LIMITS TO MY VANITY?"
FOR SOME OF US, THESE QUESTIONS GET POSED ON A DAILY BASIS. ME, I RAN OUT OF STUFF TO SAY IN 2004. NOW I JUST REMINISCE ABOUT THOSE DAYS. SOMETIMES I DO IT IN CAPITAL LETTERS, BECAUSE AS WE ALL KNOW CAPITAL LETTERS ARE THE WRITTEN EQUIVALENT OF SHOUTING. AND NOTHING SAYS WORTHWHILE COMMUNICATION LIKE SHOUTING. ASK ANY GOD-FEARING END-OF-THE-WORLD SIDEWALK PROPHESIER, SHOUTING IS THE ONLY WAY TO REACH PEOPLE. SHOUTING AND SANDWICH BOARDS. SINCE THE BEGINNING OF TIME SHOUTING AND SANDWICH BOARDS HAVE CARRIED THE MESSAGES THAT REALLY MATTER, "THE END IS NEAR" "GOD HATES FILL-IN-THE-BLANK" "THE END IS NEAR BECAUSE GOD HATES FILL-IN-THE-BLANK"
MAYBE FILL-IN THE BLANK DOESN'T LIKE GOD THAT MUCH AND FOR THAT MATTER WHEN IS NEAR? NOBODY (20/20 AND MR. STOSSEL I'M LOOKING AT YOUS) EVER LOOKS AT THE PROPAGANDA MACHINE THAT PRODUCES SANDWICH BOARDS. WHEN'S THE LAST TIME WE SAW A GOOD EXPOSE ON A SIDEWALK PROPHET? HAVE THEY MOVED TO THE INTERNET? GIVEN UP ENTIRELY? GONE STRAIGHT TO XM SATELLITE RADIO? IT'S ABOUT TIME WE HEAR ABOUT IT. AND ALSO TIME TO GIVE THE OL' CAPS LOCK KEY A WHACK. That's better.
Shouting, like blogging loses it's appeal if we are allowed to go on too long. At least that's what I HEAR, when I still can.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Confessions of a Wizards fan
I moved here during Jordan's reign. That's Michael Jordan for those under 5 and those with a propensity to ignore everything advertising and basketball related since oh, say 1990. By the time Jordan became a Wizard, I think Jordan was more of a witness-the-flashes-and-remember-the-greatness kind of basketball player. I say "I think" for two reasons. 1. I didn't actually witness the flashes because tickets were sold out and I never developed a love for Jordan, respect eventually, but never love. 2. The team continued to not do much. Even as a casual observer I could see that the Wizards were bottom-dwellers and except for the ignored soccer team the whole professional DC sports world seemed to live in a bit of a losing streak.
Part management, Jordan left on not very good terms and his legacy was a first round draft pick out of high school, a center named Kwame Brown. Perhaps a legacy that Jordan didn't want since Kwame Brown was DC sports. I don't know the man. I'm not a basketball scout, but everything I read painted him as lazy I-made-it-this-far-so-I-must-be-special non-producing DC sports dud. Harsh? Exhibit A: Jaromir Jagr? Right? Exhibit B: Shawn Springs, Redskins fans? Exhibit C: The new face of MLS, Adu? Yes. It's a familiar tune around here.
In 2004, I started following the Wizards just a little bit. A guard named Arenas, a guard named Hughes, and a forward named Jamison were making some noise and drowning out the whiny notes sung by Brown. While putting up gaudy point numbers they were nicknamed "The Big Three" and took the Wizards to the playoffs for the first time since, well, they stopped being Bullets and started being Wizards.
Before the start of last season, the Wizards unloaded Brown and picked up Caron Butler and Chucky Atkins. I was relieved to get rid of Brown and I barely cared for the Wizards. I can't imagine what the real fans felt. Heck, I just wanted local sportswriter Michael Wilbon to have something else to write about. Unfortunately, one third of that big three, Larry Hughes also left the Wizards. Sports fan purgatory, two steps forward and two steps back...
Or was it? Turns out this Caron Butler fellow had a little fire in him. Caron filled Hughes' shoes and a new "Big Three" was born. This trio of Arenas, Butler, and Jamison were the highest scoring trio in the league and the Wizards again made an appearance in the playoffs. I had an early preview of the postseason matchup and I found out in person that this team belonged to Gilbert Arenas. He commanded the floor and his teammates with confidence. I watched as he and the Wizards defeated Lebron James, the so-called heir-apparent to Jordan and one of the most graceful players I have ever seen, and the Cleveland Cavaliers. I was probably already hooked before I spent 50 smackers on a ticket, but after seeing the Wizards beat the Cavs it was really over. The Wizards and Cavaliers met again in the first round of the playoffs. The series went six games, and although defense isn't the Wizards strong suit, they made quite a show of it, especially on LeBron in the early stages.
I also learned a bit about the quirks of one Gilbert Arenas. Turns out the man has a chip on his shoulder. I have a soft spot for a player with a chip, even if he has to manufacture it. He felt he was snubbed in the All-Star voting, so he vowed to pick up his play and I think he did. Same story with Team USA over the summer. It's not just the chip though, I don't really know the stories well, but I get the feeling that Arenas is odd. He sometimes goes by "Agent Zero," I've heard he says "Hibachi" when he shoots (cause his shot is on fire), and he once took a shower at half-time with his uniform still on. Hey. Whatever works.
The Wizards made a few more moves this off-season, but brought back most of the core from last year, including the new big three. This year, I can't stay away. The Wizards have been a little streaky, but they've also been awesome. Gilbert and the big three are putting up monster numbers, Caron has scored in double digits in every game. The whole team is diving after loose balls and knocking down big teams. It's been fun. Arenas has hit some ridiculous shots, even Kobe Bryant said he had "no conscience". Kobe Bryant said that? Not even Carlos Mencia could have come up with that zinger... Agent Zero put up 60 points that night. He's hit several game winners with defenders right in his face. Then, when I was watching the other night with the clock winding down, the Knicks double-teamed Gilbert so he couldn't beat them. Gilbert passed to Jamison, Jamison made a move and passed to Stevenson. Stevenson looked to shoot and then passed to Caron who slammed home the victory.
I don't think I've been more excited about professional sports since George Brett hit .390 (What?! I was two!). This team has got some swagger. They look like they're having fun and like each other. The arena changed names from MCI to Verizon, so maybe it has something to do with cell phone reception, because my peripheral knowledge of the hockey team says they're alive and kicking too and they play in the same joint.
This isn't Washington sports. This is cool.
I moved here during Jordan's reign. That's Michael Jordan for those under 5 and those with a propensity to ignore everything advertising and basketball related since oh, say 1990. By the time Jordan became a Wizard, I think Jordan was more of a witness-the-flashes-and-remember-the-greatness kind of basketball player. I say "I think" for two reasons. 1. I didn't actually witness the flashes because tickets were sold out and I never developed a love for Jordan, respect eventually, but never love. 2. The team continued to not do much. Even as a casual observer I could see that the Wizards were bottom-dwellers and except for the ignored soccer team the whole professional DC sports world seemed to live in a bit of a losing streak.
Part management, Jordan left on not very good terms and his legacy was a first round draft pick out of high school, a center named Kwame Brown. Perhaps a legacy that Jordan didn't want since Kwame Brown was DC sports. I don't know the man. I'm not a basketball scout, but everything I read painted him as lazy I-made-it-this-far-so-I-must-be-special non-producing DC sports dud. Harsh? Exhibit A: Jaromir Jagr? Right? Exhibit B: Shawn Springs, Redskins fans? Exhibit C: The new face of MLS, Adu? Yes. It's a familiar tune around here.
In 2004, I started following the Wizards just a little bit. A guard named Arenas, a guard named Hughes, and a forward named Jamison were making some noise and drowning out the whiny notes sung by Brown. While putting up gaudy point numbers they were nicknamed "The Big Three" and took the Wizards to the playoffs for the first time since, well, they stopped being Bullets and started being Wizards.
Before the start of last season, the Wizards unloaded Brown and picked up Caron Butler and Chucky Atkins. I was relieved to get rid of Brown and I barely cared for the Wizards. I can't imagine what the real fans felt. Heck, I just wanted local sportswriter Michael Wilbon to have something else to write about. Unfortunately, one third of that big three, Larry Hughes also left the Wizards. Sports fan purgatory, two steps forward and two steps back...
Or was it? Turns out this Caron Butler fellow had a little fire in him. Caron filled Hughes' shoes and a new "Big Three" was born. This trio of Arenas, Butler, and Jamison were the highest scoring trio in the league and the Wizards again made an appearance in the playoffs. I had an early preview of the postseason matchup and I found out in person that this team belonged to Gilbert Arenas. He commanded the floor and his teammates with confidence. I watched as he and the Wizards defeated Lebron James, the so-called heir-apparent to Jordan and one of the most graceful players I have ever seen, and the Cleveland Cavaliers. I was probably already hooked before I spent 50 smackers on a ticket, but after seeing the Wizards beat the Cavs it was really over. The Wizards and Cavaliers met again in the first round of the playoffs. The series went six games, and although defense isn't the Wizards strong suit, they made quite a show of it, especially on LeBron in the early stages.
I also learned a bit about the quirks of one Gilbert Arenas. Turns out the man has a chip on his shoulder. I have a soft spot for a player with a chip, even if he has to manufacture it. He felt he was snubbed in the All-Star voting, so he vowed to pick up his play and I think he did. Same story with Team USA over the summer. It's not just the chip though, I don't really know the stories well, but I get the feeling that Arenas is odd. He sometimes goes by "Agent Zero," I've heard he says "Hibachi" when he shoots (cause his shot is on fire), and he once took a shower at half-time with his uniform still on. Hey. Whatever works.
The Wizards made a few more moves this off-season, but brought back most of the core from last year, including the new big three. This year, I can't stay away. The Wizards have been a little streaky, but they've also been awesome. Gilbert and the big three are putting up monster numbers, Caron has scored in double digits in every game. The whole team is diving after loose balls and knocking down big teams. It's been fun. Arenas has hit some ridiculous shots, even Kobe Bryant said he had "no conscience". Kobe Bryant said that? Not even Carlos Mencia could have come up with that zinger... Agent Zero put up 60 points that night. He's hit several game winners with defenders right in his face. Then, when I was watching the other night with the clock winding down, the Knicks double-teamed Gilbert so he couldn't beat them. Gilbert passed to Jamison, Jamison made a move and passed to Stevenson. Stevenson looked to shoot and then passed to Caron who slammed home the victory.
I don't think I've been more excited about professional sports since George Brett hit .390 (What?! I was two!). This team has got some swagger. They look like they're having fun and like each other. The arena changed names from MCI to Verizon, so maybe it has something to do with cell phone reception, because my peripheral knowledge of the hockey team says they're alive and kicking too and they play in the same joint.
This isn't Washington sports. This is cool.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Hippies, use front entrance
Yesterday, I had my first zipcar experience. Zipcar is a form of car sharing, but it is not like slugging. I wasn't on the side of the road hitching from designated slots, nor did I have any direct contact with other humans as a result of my sharing. No. My arrangements were all made online without talking to a soul. There are rules, but they are less about direct human interaction. It wasn't slugging, and it wasn't hitchhiking.
I did a little hitchhiking a few years ago. It was something that I needed to do. I know the world is a big scary place, but sometimes it's not. I admit I wasn't hitching across the country or even particularly far down the road, but I was on my way and my thumb was my ticket there. That ride wasn't exhilarating. A non-descript station wagon and a couple that seemed nice enough picked me up. They looked like maybe they made their own clothes or sometimes ate cold beans from a tin can. They were nice. We didn't talk much.
It wasn't like that. It was more like being a valet and driving off in a really clean car and returning it before the owners came out of the casino. I never did that, but it was like that. Or like my hitchhiking experience if I replace the couple with nobody and replace the station wagon with a Scion.
Cars are located in designated spots around the city. I made a reservation for one nearby. I decided my adventure would last no more than 2.5 hours, at which time I would return the car to the same spot. The automated service confirmed my intentions and even emailed me a reminder message, so I wouldn't forget to drive.
I didn't forget and found a little silver Scion parked where it claimed to be. I pulled out my card and scanned the windshield. The car unlocked and I climbed in. I fiddled with the XM radio and adjusted the seat. Within minutes, I didn't feel much. I was driving. Driving was a lot like I remembered. I've kept my mind sharp over the last two weeks, but it turns out driving hasn't changed all that much, even in a shared car. Traffic does not disappear. The street lights don't all turn green. I actually found the car sharing to be a less mind-altering experience than using an in-car navigation system. I was still driving, most of the dials were in the same place, and so were the pedals. For the most part there were a few knuckleheads on the road and as always an astounding number of people. Although, there were advertisements all over the car, I saw no indication that anyone cared. As best I could tell, everyone remained as self-absorbed as they had before. Including me.
My trip was not eventful, which is really how it should be. I had moments when I worried that I'd forget what kind of car I was driving, but that's not really a fear relegated to car sharers. I experienced a sadness when my radio stations were not preset and I couldn't even remember what station I used to listen to. The dismount wasn't perfect. There's something very odd about driving half a mile to park the car. The half mile walk back home was not trouble, but it's quite different from just shutting all the car doors or closing up the garage. As I trotted home, pride washed over me, because I knew that at that very moment someone else could be picking up the car to make a trip of their own. Even though I spoke with no one it made me feel a little closer to the city to know that we're driving the same car.
Yesterday, I had my first zipcar experience. Zipcar is a form of car sharing, but it is not like slugging. I wasn't on the side of the road hitching from designated slots, nor did I have any direct contact with other humans as a result of my sharing. No. My arrangements were all made online without talking to a soul. There are rules, but they are less about direct human interaction. It wasn't slugging, and it wasn't hitchhiking.
I did a little hitchhiking a few years ago. It was something that I needed to do. I know the world is a big scary place, but sometimes it's not. I admit I wasn't hitching across the country or even particularly far down the road, but I was on my way and my thumb was my ticket there. That ride wasn't exhilarating. A non-descript station wagon and a couple that seemed nice enough picked me up. They looked like maybe they made their own clothes or sometimes ate cold beans from a tin can. They were nice. We didn't talk much.
It wasn't like that. It was more like being a valet and driving off in a really clean car and returning it before the owners came out of the casino. I never did that, but it was like that. Or like my hitchhiking experience if I replace the couple with nobody and replace the station wagon with a Scion.
Cars are located in designated spots around the city. I made a reservation for one nearby. I decided my adventure would last no more than 2.5 hours, at which time I would return the car to the same spot. The automated service confirmed my intentions and even emailed me a reminder message, so I wouldn't forget to drive.
I didn't forget and found a little silver Scion parked where it claimed to be. I pulled out my card and scanned the windshield. The car unlocked and I climbed in. I fiddled with the XM radio and adjusted the seat. Within minutes, I didn't feel much. I was driving. Driving was a lot like I remembered. I've kept my mind sharp over the last two weeks, but it turns out driving hasn't changed all that much, even in a shared car. Traffic does not disappear. The street lights don't all turn green. I actually found the car sharing to be a less mind-altering experience than using an in-car navigation system. I was still driving, most of the dials were in the same place, and so were the pedals. For the most part there were a few knuckleheads on the road and as always an astounding number of people. Although, there were advertisements all over the car, I saw no indication that anyone cared. As best I could tell, everyone remained as self-absorbed as they had before. Including me.
My trip was not eventful, which is really how it should be. I had moments when I worried that I'd forget what kind of car I was driving, but that's not really a fear relegated to car sharers. I experienced a sadness when my radio stations were not preset and I couldn't even remember what station I used to listen to. The dismount wasn't perfect. There's something very odd about driving half a mile to park the car. The half mile walk back home was not trouble, but it's quite different from just shutting all the car doors or closing up the garage. As I trotted home, pride washed over me, because I knew that at that very moment someone else could be picking up the car to make a trip of their own. Even though I spoke with no one it made me feel a little closer to the city to know that we're driving the same car.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Global warming, Martin Luther King conspire to kill boy
Temperatures bordering on hot combined with three day weekends have led one young man to overdose on "Winter" Ultimate. Weathermen had promised rain and expected respite, but weathermen SUCK! I can't believe that's even a profession. It's got to be the easiest job ever. You don't ever have to be right. Without rain, I had no choice but to go out and enjoy the global warmed winter before hot becomes way too hot. Every time this body thought it was about to stop and rest, maybe even return to the office and sit still, it ended up out and chasing after another disc. Today, it even unsuspectingly walked into sprinting drills.
My body is the only thing ready for this weekend to end.
Temperatures bordering on hot combined with three day weekends have led one young man to overdose on "Winter" Ultimate. Weathermen had promised rain and expected respite, but weathermen SUCK! I can't believe that's even a profession. It's got to be the easiest job ever. You don't ever have to be right. Without rain, I had no choice but to go out and enjoy the global warmed winter before hot becomes way too hot. Every time this body thought it was about to stop and rest, maybe even return to the office and sit still, it ended up out and chasing after another disc. Today, it even unsuspectingly walked into sprinting drills.
My body is the only thing ready for this weekend to end.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Song
Why do you love songs that sound like they should be filled with verbs and gerunds?
Pianos and violins and voices all chiming in a rising, falling din.
Din, din, din, din, din, dinning
Trains coming coming coming coming coming coming coming.
Alarms ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing.
flowing by in an undercurrent of sadness.
ringing ringing ringing coming coming coming ringing floating
drifting drifting drifting drifting drifting so... far... away...
Bum ba bum
Dinning, din din din din dinner
Dining and whining and the slow dance of four left feet.
Twirl slowly, awkwardly, wistfully; adverbs dragging a scratchy voice through singing.
Punctuated by a crescendo of hope or pain. The same? Hope or pain. Hope or pain.
Emotion rising and falling and falling and falling and fading
to silence.
Why do you love songs that sound like they should be filled with verbs and gerunds?
Pianos and violins and voices all chiming in a rising, falling din.
Din, din, din, din, din, dinning
Trains coming coming coming coming coming coming coming.
Alarms ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing.
flowing by in an undercurrent of sadness.
ringing ringing ringing coming coming coming ringing floating
drifting drifting drifting drifting drifting so... far... away...
Bum ba bum
Dinning, din din din din dinner
Dining and whining and the slow dance of four left feet.
Twirl slowly, awkwardly, wistfully; adverbs dragging a scratchy voice through singing.
Punctuated by a crescendo of hope or pain. The same? Hope or pain. Hope or pain.
Emotion rising and falling and falling and falling and fading
to silence.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
The pink-coated clouds of yet another dawn
He’s at it again. The changing. Every time I turn around something is different. After 4 years of something, I start to expect it’s going to be the same. The same! Unchanging. Consistent. When a man finds a groove... his groove... the groove... certain expectations abound. They abounded here. And now the very branches of my foundation are shaking. The tree is crumbling.
It started in his room. Or maybe that office. It started somewhere and it grew. It grew like the hair on his head, only faster and darker like the hair on his chin.
Next thing I knew change seemed to be the order of the day. Where were the signs I asked him. Where?
Signs? he mouthed.
“SIGNS!” I screamed. “All the important things are on signs,” I said with a red face.
He nodded knowingly and then said, “Signs are out. The Internet is in.”
Falling to the floor and curling up in a fetal position, I spewed air from inside. Deflated and alone, I whispered, “I don’t think I’m ready.”
He patted my head affectionately, stroked his straggly beard and said, “No one ever is.”
He’s at it again. The changing. Every time I turn around something is different. After 4 years of something, I start to expect it’s going to be the same. The same! Unchanging. Consistent. When a man finds a groove... his groove... the groove... certain expectations abound. They abounded here. And now the very branches of my foundation are shaking. The tree is crumbling.
It started in his room. Or maybe that office. It started somewhere and it grew. It grew like the hair on his head, only faster and darker like the hair on his chin.
Next thing I knew change seemed to be the order of the day. Where were the signs I asked him. Where?
Signs? he mouthed.
“SIGNS!” I screamed. “All the important things are on signs,” I said with a red face.
He nodded knowingly and then said, “Signs are out. The Internet is in.”
Falling to the floor and curling up in a fetal position, I spewed air from inside. Deflated and alone, I whispered, “I don’t think I’m ready.”
He patted my head affectionately, stroked his straggly beard and said, “No one ever is.”
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
My fellow bloggers,
Do you ever fear that if you don't write it down in this little box then it won't have counted? That it hasn't counted yet, until you've recounted it and at least one person has commented on it? Do you fear that? Or worse that if it doesn't end up here, you won't remember it? In seven days it will be gone because it will have left this very screen. In just three days it will take a full scroll to reach it. Why, the big things will have less impact on your existence than the minutiae you were willing to discuss. That's my new fear in this new year. I have inflated the importance of the minutiae to the point that it has started to block out the really important things. Actually, it's to the point where I begin to wonder what the important things are. Is it a story? an experience? a quirky little phrase that makes my English jiggle? I've lost my picture of the really important things. Or are the really important things in the minutiae? Is life an impressionist painting and every dot is important to the big fuzzy whole? I hope I'm not too busy blogging to figure it out. Maybe the key is just remembering to look at the big picture and trying to see a bit in all of those dots.
Right. Or maybe it's just chattering on to anyone willing to listen... making the same dots over and over and over again like any common crazy.
Do you ever fear that if you don't write it down in this little box then it won't have counted? That it hasn't counted yet, until you've recounted it and at least one person has commented on it? Do you fear that? Or worse that if it doesn't end up here, you won't remember it? In seven days it will be gone because it will have left this very screen. In just three days it will take a full scroll to reach it. Why, the big things will have less impact on your existence than the minutiae you were willing to discuss. That's my new fear in this new year. I have inflated the importance of the minutiae to the point that it has started to block out the really important things. Actually, it's to the point where I begin to wonder what the important things are. Is it a story? an experience? a quirky little phrase that makes my English jiggle? I've lost my picture of the really important things. Or are the really important things in the minutiae? Is life an impressionist painting and every dot is important to the big fuzzy whole? I hope I'm not too busy blogging to figure it out. Maybe the key is just remembering to look at the big picture and trying to see a bit in all of those dots.
Right. Or maybe it's just chattering on to anyone willing to listen... making the same dots over and over and over again like any common crazy.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Wheels of fortune
I knew there would be challenges. I just didn't think they would come so quickly.
Way back in November, one Mr. Briguy posted about An Inconvenient Truth. He said "see this movie" and he said it in all caps. I know Briguy, and he doesn't raise his letters unless he really means it. And don't even get me started on the extra-emphasis-inducing punctuation. He ended his post with one of my favorite quotes, "You must be the change you want to see in the world."
I am susceptible to suggestion, I admit it. And so I could have rushed out to rent An Inconvenient Truth, but this was more than a nudge toward Hollywood Video. This was a push down the path of putting down Lucille. She served me well, the old girl. Without the fullness of my convinctions, I could only manage to reveal bits and pieces of my struggle. I knew what was right, but there's so much of America wrapped up in car ownership. It's freedom, it's power, it's status, and in so many places it's a way of life. The only way out. The only way in. The only way to the store and school and anywhere. But this is not one of those places. I have an opportunity to be the change I want to see in the world and I am taking it.
It took most of December to find a satisfactory way to let go of the little red Saturn that took me on dates, took me to the middles of nowheres to play Ultimate, took me back and forth on the highway and brought me here. She wasn't well, but she wasn't dead. Earlier this week, they took Lucille away.
Everyday when I come home and turn the corner to walk down my drive I am a little startled to find her gone. I never drove her to the store, but my walk to the store somehow seems longer.
I was not completely unprepared for her disappearance. I orchestrated it, of course. I also signed up for zipcar almost a month ago. Their quick and easy rentals at locations all around should ease my struggle. As I rang in the new year, I hit the bike shops and soon bought myself a new bike, something that I can bounce off the curbs a little harder and turn to the trails with less fear of a flat tire. Bikes are good.
How good? Today was my first real test. Today I had to take public transportation and the new bike to my Sunday pick-up game. This is one of the two places I drive, now drove, on a regular basis. The Metro was farther away than I anticipated, partly due to a cruel joke- a sprawling parking lot. I made it to the game before it started and quickly forgot how I had arrived. I forgot until the darkness and the rain began to fall together. Wet and cold I made the journey home. What used to take 15 minutes now takes an hour.
I eventually watched An Inconvenient Truth and I'd like to echo Briguy and say, see this movie. There are those that don't agree with the conclusions and those that criticize the simplicity of the science. Maybe Al's wrong and maybe we'll be fine. If we're not, I'll be wondering if I could have done more. I think my grandkids might wonder the same thing.
I knew there would be challenges. I just didn't think they would come so quickly.
Way back in November, one Mr. Briguy posted about An Inconvenient Truth. He said "see this movie" and he said it in all caps. I know Briguy, and he doesn't raise his letters unless he really means it. And don't even get me started on the extra-emphasis-inducing punctuation. He ended his post with one of my favorite quotes, "You must be the change you want to see in the world."
I am susceptible to suggestion, I admit it. And so I could have rushed out to rent An Inconvenient Truth, but this was more than a nudge toward Hollywood Video. This was a push down the path of putting down Lucille. She served me well, the old girl. Without the fullness of my convinctions, I could only manage to reveal bits and pieces of my struggle. I knew what was right, but there's so much of America wrapped up in car ownership. It's freedom, it's power, it's status, and in so many places it's a way of life. The only way out. The only way in. The only way to the store and school and anywhere. But this is not one of those places. I have an opportunity to be the change I want to see in the world and I am taking it.
It took most of December to find a satisfactory way to let go of the little red Saturn that took me on dates, took me to the middles of nowheres to play Ultimate, took me back and forth on the highway and brought me here. She wasn't well, but she wasn't dead. Earlier this week, they took Lucille away.
Everyday when I come home and turn the corner to walk down my drive I am a little startled to find her gone. I never drove her to the store, but my walk to the store somehow seems longer.
I was not completely unprepared for her disappearance. I orchestrated it, of course. I also signed up for zipcar almost a month ago. Their quick and easy rentals at locations all around should ease my struggle. As I rang in the new year, I hit the bike shops and soon bought myself a new bike, something that I can bounce off the curbs a little harder and turn to the trails with less fear of a flat tire. Bikes are good.
How good? Today was my first real test. Today I had to take public transportation and the new bike to my Sunday pick-up game. This is one of the two places I drive, now drove, on a regular basis. The Metro was farther away than I anticipated, partly due to a cruel joke- a sprawling parking lot. I made it to the game before it started and quickly forgot how I had arrived. I forgot until the darkness and the rain began to fall together. Wet and cold I made the journey home. What used to take 15 minutes now takes an hour.
I eventually watched An Inconvenient Truth and I'd like to echo Briguy and say, see this movie. There are those that don't agree with the conclusions and those that criticize the simplicity of the science. Maybe Al's wrong and maybe we'll be fine. If we're not, I'll be wondering if I could have done more. I think my grandkids might wonder the same thing.
Monday, January 01, 2007
The room is not enough
As my first act of the 2-Bond year I was allowed to watch Rudy in realer-than-real, widescreen, high-def magical Spectra-Vision. "You're five foot nothin', one hundred and nothin', and you have barely a speck of athletic ability. And you hung in there with the best college football players in the land for two years. And you're gonna walk outta here with a degree from the University of Notre Dame. In this life, you don't have to prove nothin' to nobody but yourself. Am I making myself clear?"
That inspiration, that tenacity is going to carry me through the year, but the transition from six to seven is nothing more than a calendar page flop. Therplunk. New Year. It's not a new piece of clay. It's not a blank canvas. It comes with everything that was there yesterday.
Let's turn to the real live metaphor. I rearranged my room, but I still own everything* that was there before my desk turned to the east. I still have to find somewhere to put all this stuff. I still have to find some way to tame my laundry. These are manageable pieces of the metaphor, but they don't go down with a turn of a desk and they don't go down with the flop of a calendar.
*I have T-shirts older than high school kids and I can't part with them, but things are going to change. Watch carefully. It's glacial.
As my first act of the 2-Bond year I was allowed to watch Rudy in realer-than-real, widescreen, high-def magical Spectra-Vision. "You're five foot nothin', one hundred and nothin', and you have barely a speck of athletic ability. And you hung in there with the best college football players in the land for two years. And you're gonna walk outta here with a degree from the University of Notre Dame. In this life, you don't have to prove nothin' to nobody but yourself. Am I making myself clear?"
That inspiration, that tenacity is going to carry me through the year, but the transition from six to seven is nothing more than a calendar page flop. Therplunk. New Year. It's not a new piece of clay. It's not a blank canvas. It comes with everything that was there yesterday.
Let's turn to the real live metaphor. I rearranged my room, but I still own everything* that was there before my desk turned to the east. I still have to find somewhere to put all this stuff. I still have to find some way to tame my laundry. These are manageable pieces of the metaphor, but they don't go down with a turn of a desk and they don't go down with the flop of a calendar.
*I have T-shirts older than high school kids and I can't part with them, but things are going to change. Watch carefully. It's glacial.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)