From Eggers AHWOSG

"Are you sure you want to be telling me all this?"
...
"What am I giving you? I am giving you nothing. I am giving you things that God knows, everyone knows... I give you all these things...but you still know nothing. I tell you and it evaporates. I don't care- how could I care?"

From me BSWTFmate?

"You can't really know what I'm thinking because by the time I get it down on paper man, I've already moved on. So, like what you're reading is like so totally five minutes ago, man. You can't know me, because you can't keep up, man. I can't even keep up myself. 57 words per minute and still I can't keep up... I think we're all better off for it; man."

The rest of the story
I'm without Sports Night because I finished it and because they didn't make any more. I think that Jeremy and Natalie ended up together. Natalie took on production of CSC when Dana left. Dana and Casey never ended up together but they remain good friends. Neither married. Both are happy. Dan and Rebecca got married, but Dan went mad and joined a cult. Their two children are coping. The cast and crew are good wholesome family people that deserve their own show, but won't ever get it. That is their lot in life. Dave and the CVS girl never saw each other again. The CVS girl used her new found confidence to drive Delaware men wild. Dave used his new found confidence to prepare to meet his challenge- get a date in '04. He also used his "CVS girl" story whenever talk got dull. Reuben learned to play an electric ukelele. His band will go on to make the hardest rockin' uke music of all time. That is his lot in life.

Stringing along
Remember love seasons? I'm afraid that I may have funny stringed instrument seasons.

Last year around this time I started craving a banjo for no apparent reason.

This year I'm starting to feel that same way about ukeleles.

I'm not sure there's room enough in my life for two stringed instruments. I don't even play the banjo that often. Although maybe Reuben would like one. It's funny just to picture it.

What could be better than that?
Have you ever found yourself in that place? The one where you're thinking deep and philosophical thoughts like, "I wonder how Dave would spend 100 dollars at Borders on a rainy day in March."

Your deep philosophical inquiries can be quenched right HERE:

You are here by Wesley Gibson, The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield, The Best American Non required Reading short story collection, The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank, Bringing Down the House by Ben Mezrich, The Queen's Fool by Philippa Gregory, The latest issues of Bitch and Adbusters, and some groovy (or more appropriate 70's slang) stationery.

See Title
If Paul, a.k.a. P, a.k.a. P-diddy, a.k.a. DJ Usurp, would give me his address so I can send him his freakin' Valentine. I'm tired of having it on my desk.

See Title again
Pizza and Sports Night.

One more time
I got two of the coolest envelopes in the world today containing personal letters, and I got nothing from Citibank. AWESOME.

Now that Martha is convicted
I think I'm going to make a duct tape skirt.
Don't give me that look, it's doable.
What I need is something for the waistband. I'm also concerned that it will be too heavy and won't move properly. It's got to be the kind of skirt that's good for diving. Maybe I should call Louis Vutton. Or does he just make handbags?

Why? I hear my mother asking. Because I'm playing on a team called "The Duct Tape Experience", that's why. Oh, and also because duct tape pants would look ridiculous and probably chafe.

The disc doesn't lie
They have names like Hump, Spanky, Saw, and Hash. To them, I'm D.A. or The Prostituter. If I met them at a party, I'd probably try to find my way to the other side of the room. They call women "bitches". They travel with beer and less legal drugs. They swear like sailors and talk about fecal matter the way my friends talk about words. They're disgusting, childish, and I like them.

I wouldn't want to spend all my time with them, but I spent the better part of two days with them and I enjoyed it, a lot.

Spanky, Saw, Hash, and the rest are Ultimate players. They can do things with the disc that are beautiful to watch. They can make it fly. And they can rip it out of the sky. They pour their guts out onto the field, even if their guts are filled with alcohol.

Inside those cones and occasionally outside as well, we have entered a brotherhood. We trust each other. We won't let the other down. I'll be there streaking down the field when Spanky wants to let one fly. If Saw overthrows me, I'll come back and fight for a "D", trying to force a turnover, so that the brotherhood can live on and Hump can take another shot at it. It's teamwork and it isn't really interested in personality.

I fear I'm giving the impression that this brotherhood has reprehensible brethren. Things are never that black and white. Many of them have charisma like you wouldn't believe. Stuck between the swear words and the fecal matter are truly nice guys. When the whole team became engaged in an argument over whether one member of the team could be half-pirate and half-Indian. Someone loudly asked "Are you born a pirate or do you become one?"

I laughed hard. And it wasn't the only time. I can't tell you why Ultimate players love "Your mom*" jokes, nor can I tell you why they are so funny. But say anything; say, "I like pickles" and an Ultimate player will likely tell you that "Your mom likes pickles."

Whether your mom likes pickles or not isn't the issue, the issue is team. Spend two days with people pouring your heart out in pursuit of the same goal and I think you'll form a bond as well. The bond won't die when the weekend ends. Bonds are stronger than that, even with people you aren't sure you like.

*Moms, it's a joke, please don't take it personally.

An emotional tale
First I have to mention that the team I played with was not a particularly emotional team on the field. A few plays warranted a holler, or a high-five, but very little could make the entire team erupt into a roar.

Second, I have to mention that at the start of each game the team captains will often "flip" to decide things like jersey color, starting side of the field, etc. The flip involves each captain taking a disc and flipping it into the air while a predetermined teammate says "same" or "different". Will the discs land both face up, or one face up and one face down? The correct answer gets to choose the things like jersey color, starting side, etc.

Third, in the interest of full disclosure, I should probably mention that at least some of the beer had been consumed on the sidelines by this point in the day.

Late in the day on Saturday, our captain was flipping near the bleachers the team was seated on. As the discs careened to the ground the entire team watched in silence for a rare moment. One disc landed face up, the other hit the ground and started to roll. It wiggled and wobbled and rolled along the ground and the team seemed to suck in their collective breath as we waited for it to fall. It fell face up, seeming to buck physics in the process and we leapt to our feet in triumph and erupted in cheers. We would continue to wear dark jerseys. It was our finest hour.

An interview with me
Interviewer (Q) will be played by one of my alter egos. I'll play me, or one of me, or something.
Hold on to your hats.

Q: By now all our readers know that you like at least 4 things: group dynamics, blogs, Ultimate, and women. What we want to know is what's your type?

Dave: Blood type?

Q: No. Women.

D: Oh. Right. I don't really have a type.

Q: Really? What about the short-haired cutie?

D: I like short-haired cute women, but I wouldn't really call that my (air quotes) type.

Q: We'll ignore the air quotes, and say what about Natalie from Sports Night?

D: She's cute and she has short hair, but I don't see your point.

Q: Would it be safe to say that the last two women you were enamored with for longer than a week were short-haired cuties?

D: I suppose they had short hair, and of course they were cute, quite lovely actually, but...

Q: And the girl in CVS? How long was her hair?

D: It was on the shorter side.

Q: Do you see a pattern?

D: Perhaps, I see your pattern, but a "type"?

Q: All right then. How about your favorite TV show in college?

D: Ed?

Q: Carol Vescey- short hair- you see where I'm going?

D: A little bit.

Q: Ok then. Reese Witherspoon. Explain that.

D: She's a good actress?

Q: SHORT-HAIRED CUTIE.

D: Really?

Q: Yes. Aren't you seeing it?

D: I'm seeing that this interiew had a pretty strange agenda.

Q: My hair is pretty short. What do you think of me?

D: I think we're done here.

TV on DVD
I've been watching Sports Night on DVD and I've noticed some things.

1. My office lacks the witty banter of a well-scripted show. It's not the one-liners so much as it is the follow-up.

2. My job lacks the appropriate supporting cast who love their jobs, and wacky me.

3. DVDs lack commercials. I don't miss commercials, except when I have to grab a snack. Maybe it's ok to ignore your sequence.

4. The woman who plays Natalie needs more television parts. Someone employ her. Cancel a reality show if necessary.

5. No TV is a fine thing for a home, but sometimes mindless escape is really great.

YOU CAN'T HAVE MY PANTS!

I think* this will be the battle cry of the next great revolution.


*Generally, I don't get paid to think.

Stuff that made me smile
or laugh really hard.

The first two are probably not worth the wait if you have dial-up. I'm sorry I've become one of them. Go to the last link to feel better about yourself.

There's My Gay Boyfriend, which is pretty much hilarious.

There's Kittens singing Independent woman and playing instruments. Funny, though I'm not sure it ever ends.

This isn't as funny, but I think it's an error message we all need to see. Don't be afraid. You deserve the praise.

That big hole
I've got a little business trip coming up in a few months in Phoenix and I'm thinking, "Do I know anyone there?"

Tonight it was suggested that I rent a convertible and drive to the Grand Canyon once business is finished. On the surface this seems like a remarkably good idea. Below the surface, this seems like a remarkably good idea. We're talking sun; we're talking convertibles; we're talking wonders of the world. This is something I can totally get behind, but, and you knew there was a but, I don't know if I can do it.

What?!?, you're saying, but you're pretty adventurous. What about that wonders of the world talk?

And I know you can picture me cruisin' down the highway in a convertible, desert wind blowing through my thinning hair, Christie Brinkley pulling up along side in a Ferrari. I can picture it too and it looks pretty good.

But, and you knew I'd get to the but eventually, I made plans to go to the Grand Canyon with a girl. A girl? you say, p-shaw, you say.

It wasn't just any girl. I loved that girl. I loved that girl like no other. She made me crazy, and we never travelled particularly well together, and we haven't spoken in months, and it ended so long ago that it's supposed to really be ended by now, but if I do this, then it might really end.

It wasn't supposed to ever really end. It was supposed to be happily ever after and the craziness was supposed to take us places like the Grand Canyon, where we could rough it and be together and be ridiculously happy even when we were driving each other up the wall. Because we were together and together was more important than our differences of opinion. Together we were stronger, smarter, better. And even in the moments where we ended up weaker, dumber, and worse, we had each other and there was something beautiful and pure about that.

And maybe that's exactly why I should go. Or is it exactly why I shouldn't?

A new frontier
In the last month I've made a life-altering discovery. It's called Saturday morning. Admittedly, I remember hearing about Saturday mornings in college, but I thought they were myths. A fairy tale invented by those coming down after a lenghty Friday night.

Because there aren't very many of you and because I know we can keep a secret I'm going to let you in on my discovery.

Saturday mornings are real and they're fantastic. They're full of freedom. The day is laid out before you and it wants to be molded into whatever you want it to be. And the best part, and this is the reason we have to keep the secret, is that not many people know about this time. They're still in bed. So even as you experience this fantastic time, try to keep it down. There is no sense in waking "them". You can scream in ecstasy later, for now try to enjoy your freedom more serenely. Bake some cinnamon rolls, go for a bike ride, get an oil change (Cartoons don't count, though they can be satisfying for different reasons.) The key here is to accomplish something. Because if you get something done, before the rest of the world gets up, you'll feel good knowing that you've already got a notch on your belt, while "they" are still wiping crusty sleep from their eyes.

Saturday mornings- now with more freedom.

I guess most of us keep going through it because we need the eggs.
-W. Allen

I'm tired of being afraid that I'm going to miss something.
It's time you were afraid that you're going to miss something.

The girl of my dreams this week
or I'm still in 6th grade, but looking forward to 7th

I asked her a simple question, "Do you have postcards?"

She looked at me quizzically and then said "No". And at that moment I discovered two things.
1. They don't have postcards at CVS.
2. Mary, behind the counter, has beautiful eyes.

I left, but those eyes kept my mind occupied. I wouldn't mind another look.

2 hours later I returned to CVS. I was going to tell Mary that she had beautiful eyes.

I marched up to the door of CVS and immediately turned around and took two steps toward the street. I steeled myself, turned back and walked through both doors of CVS.

I saw her at the counter reading and immediately turned around and walked right back out the doors. I stood outside CVS, hovering, shifting my weight from the "going-in-to-CVS" foot and the "going-back-to-the-car" foot. The car foot won that battle. Defeated, I walked back to my car.

I unlocked the car, sat down, and made fun of myself. "David's afraid of girls" I chanted disgustedly.

I got back out of the car. Locked my door and walked back to CVS. I got to the doors, paused, turned on my heels and headed back to the car. I couldn't do it. It was too embarrassinng. It served no purpose. It was silly.

I got halfway back to the car, turned on my heels and headed to CVS. It's a beautiful day. This girl is stuck inside. What harm can it do to tell her you think she has beautiful eyes? Just do it, wimp.

I paused at the doors. I took a deep breath and I charged inside. I walked up to Mary. Looked her right in the beautiful eyes and stuttered, "I was in here earlier looking for...uh...postcards."

"Yea." she said, wondering what my point was.

"I just came back to tell you that you have beautiful eyes."

And then the eyes and a smile to match suddenly lit up as she said "Thank you".

I smiled back. Tugged at my safari hat, and said, "Have a good day," as I bolted out the door and back to my car to celebrate my victory.



That should be the ending. It isn't.

More or Why can't you just let things go?
Fueled by this triumph and intrigued by the matching beautiful eyes and smile, I've let the vision of Mary carry me through the week. Eventually I convince myself, why should this stop at a compliment? Why not see if you can get a date? Because of course, a girl with beautiful eyes and a beautiful smile that you've exchanged less than 20 words with is going to want a date. Oh yea, and have I mentioned that this girl is in another state? She is.

No matter. The Internet is a magical tool. I find the CVS in another state and I write down its phone number. I would return to the scene, but that seems especially overzealous. No need to get completely carried away...yet.

After careful planning and consideration of how to best not sound like a total psycho, I call CVS.

"CVS. This is Barbara"

"May I please speak to Mary?"

"No one by that name works here."

"Short hair- worked on Sunday?"

"No."

"Oh.
Thanks."

The sticker is mine
Maybe it's because I expect a Sousa march to be playing in the background, but voting never lives up to the hype. In a fit of guilt and some vague ideal, I managed to saunter to the ol' polling place and get my vote on. I don't know why, well other than the guilt and that vague ideal. I'm sorry, but I don't see how my uninformed vote in a primary really helped anyone, especially "Uncommitted to any Candidate". I didn't even know he was running.

Why does voting always feel like picking the best booger? They're all kind of gross, but the big one is probably the most satisfying pick (at least it might win).

But "yay!" I say with all the democratic sarcasm I can muster. I rocked the vote. I got the sticker. E plurbus unum, life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and all that other rhetoric that means something until it becomes a sound bite just like everything else. Deep down they've probably got someone's best interests at heart, but are they mine?

Play it John Phillips. Play it loud.

Everybody isn't doing it
Just because blogs blow my mind every two seconds, it appears that I'm in (probably we're in, if you're reading this) the minority. The AP will tell you that between 2% and 7% of adult Internet users have blogs and of those only 10 percent update daily.

Tell-a-Clare, I spent the night in Delaware
Somethin’ ‘bout a college town,
the other side of M, D.
Spent the evenin’ waitin’ and scrabblin’
with my extended family.
I do like those college towns.
Eye candy for all to see.
That First State t’ain’t far from here,
and them goods are tax free.
Something ‘bout a college town
they do love a hippy.
The rest of Delaware, well I can’t say,
‘cause I’m part of the conspiracy.

Coming clean
For a second there I was starting to think I was becoming pretty hip. My CD player is spinning The Postal Service, Josh Ritter and the newly beloved Hem. So, I'm thinking, "I'm grown up. I've got these sophisticated indie music tastes now. I'm enjoying the subtleties of lyrics and the powerful harmonies of instrument and voice." And then it hits me, I'm not hip. Because, I'm wailing, I'd warble if I knew how, but I don't, so I'm wailing, in my finest falsetto, "LET THE RAIN FALL DOWN" and I'm loving it. The hipsters can't handle Hilary D. They don't even try.

And that's why they'll never be as cool* as me.


*They will also never be as cool as me, or I as hip as them, because they no longer use the words "cool" and/or "hip". I would tell you what they do use, but they won't even look at me.

Proof that I am not meant to run an all-night diner
I don't know how to cook bacon.

Proof that I should not give up dreams so easily
The bacon comes with cooking instructions--that is cooking, frying, and microwaving instructions.

My friends
are rock stars. They're out there doing it and if they aren't huge by the definition that most of the world will give you for "huge", they're huge to me.

They're making things happen. They're becoming Masters of Creative NonFiction and Masters of the Universe. They're changing the way you read the paper and the Internet. They're making families and saving kittens. They're buying houses and growing roots. They're searching for happiness and figuring it all out.

It's amazing to me. And it's so cool that I get to watch, to participate, to help take over the world.

Rock stars. Solid and Far out.

A chance of a hint of something I might like to do
I went to a little presentation on Personas today. "They" swear they're different than just thinking about demographics, but I'm not convinced it isn't just a different way of thinking about the same things. However, demographics are kind of interesting. Web site behaviors- kind of interesting. Some sort of demographic, marketing, website reasearch gig? maybe? Might satisfy my "group dynamics" urges and my "paycheck" urge.

No one get carried away yet. I'm not making any changes until I'm good and ready.

Do you realize?
-That Sex and The City (everybody else is going to blog about it) is over and I've only been a fan for two months and I still almost cried.
-it was the Miranda stuff if you wanted to know what got me.

-That this was one of the most satisfying weekends in a long time and I have a funny feeling most of that satisfaction came from a punishing 18 minutes.

-That Do Topia only represents a fraction of the nonsense that comes out of my brain, but my kind housemate is generous enough to listen to a big chunk of the rest of the nonsense.

-That I fully expect tomorrow to be just another manic Monday.

Slow twitch muscle fibers
Ah. Race day. It's been more than 2 years since I've had one. Bits of running have been mixed in with a steady diet of Ultimate; game day had replaced race day. Not today.

Today the old routines came back like the last race was last weekend. The old routines still work. I left the warm-up "I'll- never -run- faster- than- molasses" jitters after a nice stretch. I would at least beat molasses today.

I eyed my competition wavering between confident "Whose ass will I kick today?" and supremely unconfident, "Do I remember how to do this? Everyone looks like they are going to kick my ass."

I had moments of zen, peaceful calm as I touched the grass and eyed the Potomac river on three sides of this penisula 5k. Those moments alternated with something more like wild drunken butterflies in my stomach. The zen was pleasant, but the butterflies were more familiar and thus a greater comfort before the race.

The flag dropped and we took off, or rather plodded slowly off. I'd forgotten the starting pace of the average road race. I have never been much for plodding and so I began to eye the leaders and move with them. Since lately I haven't been much for training, this strategy worked for something like 600 meters. By 800 meters I had what is commonly called the "Gut Check." I know it's been a while since I raced, but I distinctly remember the gut check coming at 2.5k or 4k, not this early, not this early at all.

I've got guts and I checked them, and I checked them, and I checked them some more, at one point I even checked them in my throat. The guts checked out at acceptable levels, but would appreciate not being checked so often in the future.

I struggled all the way to the end, battling it out with several runners and my arch nemesis-- me.

It wasn't the fastest race I've ever run, nor the smartest, nor any other -est that I can think of, but MAN was it satisfying.

That's not the deal
Just make it past Valentine's Day I told myself. I just miss her because everyone is falling all over each other with candy and flowers. It's a symptom of the season. The season, yea, I just miss her because it's cold and dark. There were always nice moments in the cold and dark. Love hangs better in the crisp night air.

Wait until it gets warmer, then it'll be fine. Warmer? Like spring time? The season for falling in love? The season when short shorts make their triumphant return? No. No. after that.

Oh, summer then? It'll be fine when summer hits? When I'm on the beach sipping lemonade and rocking silently on the front porch of a cute little inn farther north sharing the sunset with yours truly? Or when I walk the scorching streets, disc in hand, knowing she'd throw with me?

Fall? How about Fall? When I'm out looking at the leaves change color? Out on a Sunday drive stopping at the overlook and exchanging smiles with myself in the rearview mirror? That Fall?

No. No. The next one? That's winter again. It's cold and dark again.

Yeah. I know.

Blogging adds 5 kilos (11 pounds, if I must) to your weight
In a recent scientific study involving the exhaustive survey of someone, as well as extensive field research, or at least searching in a field, Scientists, or men and women with white lab coats, determined individuals appearing on blogs, like those before them who had appeared on television, are saddled with a perceived addition of at least 5 kilos (11 American pounds) to their weight.

Men and women in white lab coats are unclear as to what causes this paradigm shift, or even what a paradigm shift is. They have, however, confirmed that a paradigm shift sounds "pretty nifty".

Survey results did reveal that the additional imagined 5 kilos were also accompanied by a perceived extra level of cuteness. More searching in fields is in progress, but for now the men and women in white lab coats are content with the assertion that "blog writers are perceived as cuter and chubbier than real people".

I, for one, look forward to the outcome of further study and urge you to support this research in whatever means possible.

It's hard to be a jerk...er...coach
The point I was trying to make was "Be patient. Don't just throw the disc up and expect your teammates to bail you out." It's not an easy thing to tell someone, so when I caught the swill, I immediately threw it away. It was a statement, "That's not what we wanted." I'm afraid my young friend heard a different statement, a "You must be perfect" sort of statement. That's not what I meant. And when we exchanged the loud words that's what I tried to explain.

By the end of the game, he had stopped throwing it wildly.

Did I win or lose? I got the results I wanted. Was there a better way?

These are troubled times
It only dawned on me at dinner tonight. I have reached a troubling point in my life. My memory of leaner times is starting to get fuzzy. It's getting harder to recall a time when I did not have the luxuries that I do now. I can only vaguely recall a time when my only condiment was BBQ sauce. Now I'm free to choose amongst Heinz 57 sauce, BBQ sauce, ketchup, mustard, and of course salsa. I have 4 varieties of salad dressing that go almost untouched. I seem to recall a time when meat was a biweekly extravagance, and now, NOW I buy myself ribs to eat on a whim. I haven't touched Ramen in nearly 10 months. So the Ramen baby can't be mine!

I've reached a comfort level. If not in the lap of luxury, I must be at least near the kneecap. I have the money to buy two mustards, but it's much easier to go to work fighting for just one. So the trouble, you see, is what am I fighting for? Is it to maintain this "rock 'n' roll" lifestyle? The one which sees me aimlessly careening from movie theater to movie theater? The lifestyle which affords me the occasional book or CD not borrowed from the library, but actually purchased? Is that enough to sustain a man? How can two mustards and ownership of books and music drive a man the way survival does?

They can't. That's why I'm going to become a Friend of the AFI Silver Theater. Because if I can't figure out what I'm fighting for, the least I can do is support the cinema and escape to a darkened theater.

The difference between a good day and a bad day can be determined by how mud and grass got between underwear elastic and skin.

Today it was diving in the mud and grass.

Today was a good day.

No Humpty Dance for Dave
I was trying to figure out what to wear out to see Digital Underground, they of Humpty Dance fame (and little else no matter what the radio and print ads have been trying to say all week.)

That's when the personality of my evening started to sink in. I'd be 1. at a bar and 2. listening to Digital Underground. I know I complain that I want to "DO SOMETHING", and it would be nice if this involved trying new things, but bars aren't new and DU certainly isn't new, are they retro yet?

I've been to bars and I can't remember too many that I've enjoyed. Perhaps a few in New Orleans, but that was more due to the quality of the company and the otherworldy scene that is Bourbon. If I wanted to be at a bar on Valentine's Day, I should at least go to the new Coyote Ugly where the single ladies are getting in free (not to mention dancing on the bar). No. So why go tonight? Valentine's Day pressure could crush a lesser man and it could seriously injure me.

Go for DU and the Humpty Dance? I've seen them. I saw them in a tavern in Frasier, CO. And at that time, I was mildly excited to take my chance to do the hump. I know it's only been a couple of years, but it felt safe then and still feels safe now to say, "once with the big-nosed man is enough."

I think I got a real Valentine
It was a bit of a hurried morning, but I felt compelled to wear my Smooches tie, you know, the one with all the smooches on it. It seemed appropriate, because I'm not anti-Valentine in any way. I hope that's not the impression I gave. I like love, love love even. I'd tied the smooches tie on and suddenly that didn't seem enough either. Forget casual Friday, this tie would look great with my used car salesman sportcoat. Sportcoat on and I'm out the door.

I hit the end of my driveway when I remember that today isn't just a casual Friday, today is "Clean-up Friday". We'll spend the day undoing the dirt that we've spent so long creating. Should I turn back and ratchet down the outfit a few notches? I don't think so. If anybody asks, I'll just say, "I think I clean up quite nicely, thanks."

I get to work and in about the time it takes a bull rider to become a champion, I get "It's clean up day. Why are you so dressed up?"

As promised (I don't tire of my own jokes easily) "I think I clean up quite nicely, thanks."
I get some laughs, but what does this have to do with the Valentine?

The Valentine. There's cleaning, there's working, and then there's sticking my hand in my sportcoat pocket. I feel a piece of paper. I don't remember the last time I had my sportcoat on. What could this be?

I pull it out and unfold it. In Memory of Marian Inez Schmidt it says. Grandma. She always remembered to write- birthdays, postcards, Valentine's.

Happy Valentine's Day to you too, Grandma.

Ways that my house is not like my Res. Hall
*I have to walk outside to do laundry.
*I have condiments, lots of condiments, and they don't all come from Taco Bell.
*There is very little chance that a girl is going to knock on the door before I go to bed.
*There is very little chance that I will run into Johnny in my bathroom.
*The urinal in my bathroom is not out of order.
*No one writes messages on my front door, and if they did, I'd probably call the cops.
*My front door reflects my personality in exactly zero ways.
*The people at the front desk are way too quiet.
*We don't have enough fire drills.
*I cannot knock on doors and create a game of frisbee, or soccer, or anything, except maybe cribbage. Reuben, are you up for cribbage?

Ways that it is
*I just had a long spontaneous conversation with my roommate.
*There is nothing good to eat here.
*I'm up and it's quiet.
*I could go to Dunkin' Donuts right now if I wanted to.
*Ron's Country Boy is still not open, no matter how hard I wish.
*Green Naugahyde-still a chick magnet after all these years.

The pressure is mounting
Mom sent me a cute little article about this couple getting married. They met on their morning commute on the subway. It's not enough to let me infer that I could meet someone on my morning commute. She writes, "It could happen to you" in the margin. Thanks Mom. I'm Nic Cage and I was married to Rosie Perez, but now I'm in love with the waitress who I promised 2 million dollars.

My aunt sent me a Valentine in the mail--very sweet. The message to me was surely innocent, but it says "I hope you get a real Valentine." I thought this was a real Valentine? Now I have to hope for a real one? Will I know a real one if I see it?

My coworkers were talking this morning. I'm overhearing. I'm always overhearing. I know so much about everyones' personal business that it's probably dangerous. Married, motherly coworker says to younger (there are a few of us) one, when are you going to marry that girl and have babies? He answers glibbly and walks away.

It's coming. I know it. This woman has never acknowledged that I have a life outside of work, but I can tell that is about to end. Seconds pass. Maybe I'll get out of this after all.

The turn. The look at me. "And you? When are you going to get married?" ME? I've barely managed a date in this millenium. I have a new found fear of women. MARRIED? Why ask me that now? Right before Valentine's Day? You've never cared before, but two days before V-day and suddenly you're interested? Why do you hate me? Is it because I'm not going to be buying any high-priced jewelry or flowers for the weekend? Is that it?

"Dunno. I've got to get a date first."

Indeed.

Self-esteem is on the rise
It started some time yesterday. I returned to college, not my college, but A college for a little Ultimate. It often starts with Ultimate. There they introduce me to new kids as "Super Dave" or decide I should be called the blasphemous "Davior". It's kind of nice, but kind of silly too. The thing that got me going yesterday was the collective "OOOH" as I made a grab around a guy. He wasn't really looking, but to everyone else it kind of looked like I went through him. A good start.

Then, today was evaluation day at work. Evaluation day can be a scary day. I was a little nervous, for the unknown, if for nothing else. My supervisor was nothing but complimentary. I even had to press to find anything to improve on. She was barely able to throw me a bone on that one. My coworker did point out that my supervisor doesn't really have time to notice when I screw up anyway, but those comments can be ignored when self-esteem is headed up, up, up.

Then more Ultimate. And a run. They don't call it Do Topia for nothing. (They don't really call it anything, unless "they" are Dave and Dave's Grandma "DG", then they don't. Which is what I said. I'd be worried you weren't listening anymore, but I am not in a self-doubting mood.)

Oh yea, and let us not forget my marriageability.

An unfinished song of admiration
There are places in this world where the banjo and the guitar combine forces to make rollicking good music. Matt's living room is not currently one of those places. I picked "Bile Dem Cabbage Down" and "Goodnight Ladies" and even "Cripple Creek" to the best of my limited abilities and when Matt wasn't playing "Boyz in the Hood", he strummed and concentrated and considered to the best of his ability, but my banjo and Matt's guitar did not seem to come from the same string family.

There was one moment where I was picking softly and Matt was strumming softly, with the heat pouring loudly out of the vents it almost sounded like something- not a song really, or shared notes so much, but more like a feeling. My little banjo and his guitar shared a feeling. They looked into one another's stringed soul and they thought, "someday we could make music together." And then the heat stopped roaring, and the pickin' and strummin' were again the focus. Poor banjo and guitar had lost that feeling.

I heard it though. Matt's guitar and my banjo may someday meet again, and if nothing else we'll play our songs with shared passion and volume. Together, we'll make beautiful music separately.

like totally
50 degrees is like twice 25. It's shorts weather. Hello spring.

One "word" review
Scarlett Johanson: MMMM.

Leonardo Nam: ha-ha.

The Perfect Score: Yay.

What am I so afraid of?
On the way home from places tonight, I was switching between the Techno-Trance and the Bluegrass. Back at the ranch, Josh Ritter and The Postal Service spin often when the radio ain't blasting the radio hits. All that to say, eclectic music tastes aside, nothing continues to evolve and move me the way that Hem does. Concert in March. Let's go 'cause I think I love Hem.

Is it me?
A friend of mine told me to read "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" because it could've been my book. I have tortured myself wondering what she meant.

Is it me because the author plays frisbee, loves the way he plays frisbee, will talk endlessly about the way he plays frisbee? Or is it me because he likes streaking or thinks that streaking and public nudity make some sort of statement, not quite sure of the statement, but some statement? It can't be me because of the heartbreak, I've never known that sort of soul-ripping loss. But he could be me because he runs from problems, runs across the country chasing what isn't there.

Did she mean it was me because of the self-absorption? Because I would write a book about me and only me and if I included you in it, you would only be reacting to me or an anecdote for me. Lori says it's ok, and maybe it is, but I don't want you to call me self-absorbed, that's only something I can call myself, and even then only through clenched teeth. Who is she to say something like that about me?

Then again, maybe she just meant that I could write a book, should write a book, with my voice, and even if it was self-serving might sell a few copies, might make somebody laugh or somebody cry. Or maybe she just meant I'd enjoy the book.

I did, so thanks.

Reality?
Why does this battle for the democratic nomination remind me of reality TV?

Friends
Sister: My friends don't have blogs. They're not computer geeks like your friends.

Me: My friends aren't really computer geeks, well, some of them are, but that's not why they have blogs.

Still me: It's just that my friends are more self-absorbed. *

*I actually said something like "journalists" or "writers" or "like to write", but self-absorbed is my new favorite description, which you would care about if you weren't so self-absorbed.**

**I don't really think you're that self-absorbed. I'm trying to be funny here.***

***Besides self-absorbtion, I am also enjoying the "footnote asterisk." Don't ask me why.****

****You could ask me why, but I don't know the answer, so it wouldn't really be worth it.

It's time for a fake conversation that seems all too real*
Hi J-Crew girl,
I know we've never met, but I've thought about it and it seems like it might be a good idea. I mean it kind of sickens me that you would pay 68 dollars for that shirt, but it is cute. I'll give you that. And those chinos, they're just to die for. What are chinos again? No, but I love them. I mean they look great on you, so maybe they are worth it. But they intimidate me. I'm not used to fancy shirts and fancy pants. The next thing you know you'll be shopping at Baby Gap and the sucking sound you hear will be your checking account emptying.

Yours is empty already?

Credit debt?

Reeeally?

I would have never guessed. Still, cute outfit.

Do I want to go out for drinks?

I don't drink. It's expensive and kind of pointless and yea, I just don't really do it.

What do I do? Like, jobwise? It's hard to explain. Most of the time I don't know myself. It's got variety though, I'll tell you that. I'll tell you that. You?

hmm. Interesting.

For fun? Me? There's Ultimate.

Yea, it's frisbee.

No. No. It's quite active actually. There's a big scene here in town.

Do I always repeat everything that's asked of me? Not always. It gives me a little time to think. That way I can be kinda clever, you know?

I did start.

No, really.

Bye then.

Nice meeting you too.

*except for the part where I am talking to a strange girl and the part where she asks me out for drinks.

And I swear
Today my brain has not shut up. Where usually it's content with a song and the mole of some soon-to-be-forgotten girl, today it was chattering away profanely. So pardon my beeps as we join my brain in search of the local post office.

"Where the BEEP is the BEEPing post office? It's got to be around here somewhere. Who the hell needs so many BEEPing hair dressers? It's not BEEPing here. BEEEEP. I'll cross the street then. Why the BEEP are the buses trying to run me over. I'm not even in the street. Well BEEP them. What are you looking at, woman?
Quizno's. huh. I didn't know that was here. FINALLY, there's the BEEPing post office. Why does it say closed? It's not even 5 o'clock. Mother BEEEEP. Oh, that's 'closed from 2 to 3:30', my mistake. (Approach door, stop.) I don't feel like dealing with postal workers. BEEP it. (Walking away) That guy probably thinks you're leaving. He thinks it's closed too. Who cares what the BEEP he thinks?
Would you please knock off the profanity? You're like a BEEPing sailor. DAMMMit, don't you ever shut up?"

And then I had to walk the rest of the way home. It's hard escaping your own mind. Apologies to the children and the offensive, er offended, er sorry.

Super Trends
or
I learned it from Henry Hager
My advertising professor, the best one I had, the only one who actually made me want to be in advertising, once said, (He never said anything only once but it makes the story flow better) "Three things sell- Animals, Babies, and Sex."

Let's look at that Super-est of Bowls, shall we?
1.There were animals- donkeys, bears, etc. etc.
2.Were there babies? There were kids at least (Soap in the mouth for Chevy was my favorite commercial.)
3. There was sex, or at least nudity, and the web and the office are blazin' with talk of it. (Who says advertising has to be in the paid spots?)

The sad part
or
You can't blame this on Henry
For all the controversy that the nipple is creating, the streaker got lost in the shuffle. How can streaking return to favor if dumb halftime acts are going to upstage it? HOW?!

Gene Hackman's been there
All I really knew about the restaurant that I was going to last night was that I was getting 7 courses and there were belly dancers. Imagine my dismay when we arrived and people were waiting outside looking ready to enter a club. I don't go to places that are ICE COLD, especially when it's ice cold outside. Fortunately, being in a throng of people was warming. Eventually we made it through the little door within the door-- it was very Wizard of Oz that way--where we got to wait a little more.

Once we got through the initial shock of all the people waiting, and the door within the door, and the internal waiting, we sat down to what I can only call a typical Moroccan meal. Now that I think about it, the meal was EXACTLY like every other Moroccan meal I've ever had. I've never had another Moroccan meal.

The seven courses were all quite tasty. There was some good bread and an excellent coffee cake made slightly odd by the inclusion of chicken, and then a whole chicken, and then things started to get really tasty. There was candied lamb, and couscous with squash, and fruit and nuts, and little pastries with sweet hot tea. I may have been able to continue eating at the pace we were on for about 3 years shy of eternity. My rear end would not have enjoyed the continued sitting, however.

Nearly all of this was finger food, but the belly dancer wasn't. I'm not sure what I had expected here, but I was very willing to sit back and watch the undulating woman. You don't, or at least I don't get those opportunities very often, or certainly not often enough. It was fairly mesmerizing. I was slightly disappointed by the belly, though I admit those expectations were probably a little too high. I guess I just figured someone featured as a belly dancer would have an incredibly belly-licious, um, you know, belly. Hers was nice, but easily overlooked if it hadn't had a spotlight on it. There was a sexy little scarf number and a sword-balancing number, but to be perfectly honest it all kind of blurs in my mind into one giant Moroccan shimmy. Then again, isn't that what Ameritesh or Jamertesh or whatever the place was called, really all about?

This is January
or
Takin' the Tide for a Ride
I have one real complaint about my home. The dryer here sucks. It doesn't dry. It has ONE job, and it fails to do it. It's worse than a weatherman. Well I've had it up to here with the dryer. Actually slightly lower than that, but it annoys me. Today I decided I'd show my stupid dryer a thing or two-- I'd go to a Laundromat. I'd do all my laundry at a place that didn't require multiple dryings.

And you're thinking, ah but the coins and the inconvenience of taking your undergarments out of the house... well, that's the other thing you should know about my dryer. It's coin operated and it's 50 feet from my house in the basement of my neighbors. So, forget that.

I pile my clothes into the car and head to the laundromat. I'm going to defeat my dryer once and for all, at least for a week. This is when the trouble begins. The first address I have for a Coin-op has no coin-ops around. There aren't even businesses around. If this address is correct, I'll be doing laundry in the basement of someone's house, and we already know that's not working out for me. I'll go to the other address I have, it looks like it's only 5 blocks from here. And it is, if each block is a mile. Sonofa!

At least I'd made it to a Laundromat. When I was younger, my parents used to stop on vacations at laundromats. We'd spend a while puttering around a slightly odd little place filled with washers and dryers quietly churning away with an occassional passerby wandering in to launder with us. That's what I was picturing.

This laundromat was a zoo. There were people everywhere. It smelled funny. How does a laundromat smell funny? People are cleaning. There were no seats open and so my dream of reading would've been a standing room only dream.

Why were my dreams ruined? It could have nothing to do with the fact that the laundromats from my memory were in little towns some day during the week and here I was just outside of the District in the middle of a Saturday, could it? No. I didn't think so.

I stared at the washers briefly. I looked at the dryers and I looked at all the people staring at their whirling, twirling rainbow of clothes and I decided that this wasn't worth it. The clothes went back into the car, and I went the 5 mile-blocks back to my home. I'm still debating whether clothes that have been for a Saturday drive can be considered clean. We all know they aren't getting any dryer.

Baby, it's cold outside
1. I should not be allowed to read about hypothermia and then spend large quantities of time underdressed in the biting cold. I THINK I'VE GOT IT!

2. The best time to see the monuments is on a Friday night when it's frickin' freezin' outside. NO LINES!

3. Ben's Chili Bowl does not mess around when they put onions on your chili or cheese on your fry. THAT'S RIGHT!

4. Maybe it was the snow, maybe the cold had gone to my head, but the Korean War Memorial really hit me hard. Those guys were my age and they're trudging along through the snow and the cold and they're miserable and they're going to die and for what? FOR WHAT?

A little lonely poem
If you were candy I would eat you.
If you were juice I would drink you.
If you were a hat I would wear you.

But you're not.

If you were mine I would love you.
If you were gone I would miss you.
If you were close I would kiss you.

But you're not.

So here I am eating
and here I am drinking
--all alone.

And there I go loving
And there I go missing
with my hat on my head
and no one for kissing.

They have ways of looking that up
On the track snow is gone of Hello Starling does Josh Ritter say, "Confectionery ass"?

-If he doesn't, he should, that's a delicious lyric.

-If he does, eww. gross.



Yes, they do
And no he doesn't. He says, "you were beautiful when I first saw your feathers and confectionery airs".
False alarm. Please return to your seats.

GlowStick Shower
Taking a shower by the UFO green light of a GlowStick is both eerie and beautiful.

Shaving by that same light is a bit unwise.

Elbows:sore; Heart:soar
There is something very special about a group of men (in this case it was men, but women would have been special too) who will get together on a frozen lake covered with 4 inches of snow to throw a red light-up disc between 8 glow-stick cones. I tip my frozen hat to those gentleman for making my Monday.

Passing it on
Good Grief! this is cooler than cool, Charlie Brown.

Dean's Yargh! to music. Lots and lots of music.

End of the World as we know it. (This is actually funnier when The Ranman tells it.)

Thanks to Lenar, PLU, and The Ranman.

My night at the movies
I was off secretly to Win a date with Tad Hamilton. By going alone, I figured I could get away with seeing this flick, without actually admitting it, if necessary. One review I read said it was like a 90 minute date with Kate Bosworth. I could think of worse fates. The other review said freezing to death was a better way to spend my time. I was going to ignore that review. Halfway to the theater, I ran into some ice covering the side walk. I had just heard a woman slip on the patch and so I eyed it carefully. I picked a spot that I thought I could land on and slide to safety. I leapt, but there was no sliding, for this was not ice. This was slush. And my shoes were now soaked. The woman's scream that I thought had been a slip, now made sense. It now seemed possible that by seeing Tad Hamilton I might both freeze to death and see a bad movie. A fate I was unprepared for.

Upon my arrival at the ticket booth, I figured I'd freeze my feet, but at least I'd see a movie my parents had liked-- Something's Gotta Give. My mother had mentioned that perhaps I wouldn't like it, something about it being geared to an older audience. I'm always a little leary when my parents like a movie, since our cinematic tastes don't seem to converge all that often. In this case, I had nothing to worry about. Jack and Diane go great together. This is such a sweet love story. I ate up. Granted, it could have been the 70 year old woman in me, but I really think this has a broader appeal. It seems to me that if you like the romantic comedy and Jack nor Diane bother you-- this is gravy. It's got jokes. It's got cuteness out the wazoo. It's got emotion. It's got seniors in love. You like seniors in love, don't you? Call me what you like, but there's something about love at that age. It seems like what we're all looking for-- Maybe not Hef, but most of us. A lot of us? Some of us? Me. I'm looking to be in love at that age. I think it's a beautiful thing.

AND, Keanu Reeves nor Amanda Peet are on screen long enough to be too annoying. So don't let that stop you. Also a beautiful thing.

Every party needs a Poopah
Someone has to sit apart from the group and tear carniverously at the pork ribs, while cornbread crumbs dribble down his beard. Someone who'll wash it all down with lemonade and lick the excess BBQ sauce from his moustache like so many bearded animals. And then with nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing, he'll try to find a way into the conversation when he shouldn't. He'll make the sort of snide remarks he should keep to himself, loud enough to stop the conversation, for a moment, before receiving the shaking head and fluttering eye movements of dismissal. Then our poopah can return to the book he is only halfway perusing or the other conversation he is only one quarterway involved in. This is the awkward exsistence of the Poopah.

As the night wears on, and the laughs around him grow heartier, his strength lessens. At the crossroads of fun and enjoyment, the poopah grabs his coat and bounds offroad to the valley of grump where he can be alone. This particular poopah manages a goodbye, but one that leaves his irksome presence lingering. It is not only the poopah who suffers from this existence, but partygoers everywhere.

The illusion of posting
Sometimes you gotta know when to point people elsewhere-
*So if you've missed the sound of Kella's voice: read this. It's like she read it aloud.
*If you're looking for something to cheer. Try Kristin.
*Need a funny dmv story?
* Wonder who answered all of yesterday's questions? It was Rob. But was it fair Rob or was it dark pensive Rob?

Some questions for you
*Why do Thank-you notes come in packages of 8 and buns in packages of 10?

*Why doesn't Tupperware tout its burping abilities anymore?

*If a stitch in time saves nine, what saves 6 and 1/2?

*How can you feel so alone in a big city and so not-alone in a cabin in the woods?

*Why do the people you love drive you so freaking crazy?

*Who did those stupid Hallmark ads (for the kissing dolls)? And worse who let them?

*Who titles a good book "The Secret History" and expects people to buy it? (Someone wiser than me perhaps, since it was a bestseller.)

*Is there any significance to the fact that my questions involve marketing, relationships, and ridiculousness?

*Where have all the cowboys gone? Deh doo Deh doo dehdoo dehdo

January birthdays
You're probably not getting a card if you're on this list, but the thought counts? right?

Happy Birthday to
One N Jen,
Commander,
Fres,
K-dogg (now called "Poochie"?),
AND
Matt.


If you're not on this list then maybe you'll get a card. That's right, go stand by the mailbox.

The best part about the trip
One might argue that the Perfect Pancake Pyramid was the pinnacle of this excursion, but I am going to have to argue for location. Never before have I been able to roll out of bed, layer my clothing, throw my board on my back, and walk to the hill. It was a long half mile up hill, but I found it very satisfying to be heading up just as the sun climbed into the sky. I seemed to be alone, save an SUV or two passing by. I may never board in the backcountry. I'm not even convinced that's something I want to do, but to be able to walk to the snow, snap in, and "shred" was something special. The fact that I had my shoes lashed to my back in my bag and I was able to walk back home that evening after a long day of ripping up that little hill was just icing.

Now, this sounds like a ski trip. And makes my heart pound.

Don’t call it a ski trip
It seems I now take a new breed of vacations. These vacations involve cabins, geographic entertainment, and larger quantities of friends. I am not sure when vacation came to be defined this way. Since I’ve been taking vacations sans parents, vacation roughly translated into piling into a car, driving for 6 or 8 hours and staying in a seedy motel or with friends. If it was a ski trip, we would then drive an hour or more to go skiing. And we would ski. We wouldn’t discuss the possiblity of skiing; we might grumble about the price, but we would pay it and we would be as close to the front of the lift line as we could manage in our already exhausted state.

This revised version of a vacation isn’t like that at all. In this version we all have separate rooms, with our own beds and a kitchen more equipped than our own, or at least my own. There are people, my friends, who don’t plan to ski at all. And some who may or may not ski depending on their mood. This cabin has a view and watermelon knick knacks. I didn’t used to stay in places that had knick knacks, I stayed in places that might or might not have rats. On this vacation the inability to move due to a hard day on the slopes is not our main plan for the evening. It seems that most cabin dwellers plan to be well rested and refreshed all weekend long. We’ll play games, the old-fashioned kind, we’ll read, or we’ll sing loud off-key songs. Even this new version of vacation has its abrasive moments, though fewer than I expected. On this vacation, we’ll cook meals, actual meals like pasta and garlic bread or hot dogs with mac ‘n cheese--not elaborate meals, but meals that did not come from South of the Border or require a lay-away plan. And when the meals are over, people will clean up, not “people”, like housekeepers, or elves, but people who made the meal or who ate the meal.

It’s quite impressive really, but to call it a ski trip doesn’t convey an accurate picture of the experience. We’ll call it a cabin trip, or that “Trip near the hill that had fake snow.” Maybe we’ll just call it fun and relaxing. That seems fairly accurate.

It's a whole new outlook
I've decided to stop living my life for me. From now on, it's all about the blog. If I'm in traffic and I get cut off, I'm going to think, will it make a better post if I shout dirty words or just go ahead and ram the sucker? Instead of doing things for me, I'm going to do them for you. Or at least for your entertainment. Think of me as the "Real World" online. I've dropped the pretense, see. I'm Real with a capital "r", a capital R followed by two small rr's. To Rrreally get things Rrrolling. I think the extra r's add zest, don't you? When I'm faced with the truly tough decisions--I'm going to serve them up like Comment Pie. Haven't tasted Comment Pie? It's a little like jello, but jigglier.
Then, you my readers, can guide me on the right path. I know you're up for it. I can see it in your eyes.


Where are my glasses?

Today's words to live by
"People who don't know where they're going, usually end up somewhere else."
-from some song

Desolation Row, this isn't
Rue de la Hyperactivite it just might be. It's arts night at the carriage house. Besides finishing a book and posting more than you wanted to know, I have also: sketched a pair of jeans, introduced myself to a new banjo technique (melodic style), tested out my acting ability in preparation for a Murder Mystery Game (Should I be a high-pitched squeaky marginally British old woman or a breathy deep voiced old woman? Neither was particularly good looking.), made myself lunch complete with love note (Dear David, Have a good lunch. Love, David) and managed to find time to dance, sometimes with my banjo and sometimes by myself.

Answer:Question
Last week I read the answer: 42
This week I read the quetion: Why are girls weird? from Why Girls are Weird by Pamela Ribon. The only thing this book lacked was an editorial assistant struggling to be a writer in New York. Pamela did an incredible job of creating a brand new cliche- struggling blogger turned author. (Or online diarist turned author, what's the dif, eh?) It left me feeling much like a stack of Cosmos would-- slight headache, slight case of vapidity creeping into my brain.

I can't fault her for trying. And you'd think that blogs, quarterlife crisises, and boy-girl drama would be right up my alley, but it seems you'd be wrong. There were a few moments of nicely written prose. The ailing father pulled at me a bit and the sisterly banter was good for a laugh.

Still, while I dig blogs, I figure some things are better left unbooked.

Think warm thoughts
When I feel the cold wind blow through my shoes and thin black socks, I smile and think, "Somewhere in Virginia they are making snow. right now."

Ignore past thoughts
When I feel the cold wind blow through my shoes and thin black socks, I try not to think, "Somewhere west of here, Mother Nature is making snow and she's dumping it on a giant slope."

Sometimes I feel lonely
Sometimes I don't. Tonight it's the latter. Why? Because I have no clue what I'm going to eat for dinner, but when I decide- I'll have it. No one will argue. No one will complain. No one will say, "Come on, we just had that" or "I don't like that." It will be dinner and it will be mine.

Icy Anticipation packed with Trepidation
The snowboard is out. The goggles are on. The "Best Ski Resort in the South" is softly calling my name. "Come to my icy hills. Let your board free."

"Yes, Wintergreen. I hear you Wintergreen. Your wish is my command." "But I'm nervous Wintergreen."

"Why? Don't you like to rip?"

"Yea. I'm afraid you might suck."

"I don't suck."

"How do I know?"

"Check out the $52 lift tickets."

"Maybe you're compensating."

"For what? I've got it all- skiing, golf, tennis..."

"All. What about snow? elevation? powder? mountains?"

"When I said all, I meant besides that. I've got 5 chair lifts. One of them even seats all your friends.

"I have more than 6 friends."

"I see you've done your homework. No matter, you won't have that many friends when the weekend is over.

"You're going to kill my friends?"

"No. They'll kill you. Have you ever been skiing with you? It's obnoxious.

"How would you know?"

"Mountains talk"

"You're not exactly a mountain."

"You're not exactly a molehill."

"What? You're not making sense."

"I'm not the one talking to a mountain."

"Shut up. You're not a mountain."

"Is that all you've got?"

"No. I just don't want to hurt your feelings."

"I'm tough. I'm made of stone, you know."

"Funny, I thought that icy exterior might house a softer side."

"It's not exactly funny."

"No. You're right. You're pretty sharp for a land mass."

"Thanks."

"Maybe we should put aside our differences. You know, be friends."

"All right. I'll try. But don't come crying to me when you catch an edge and go flying down the hill, sliding on the ice."

Introspection Week continues, now with assistance
Kim decided and so far I can't disagree that I am basically made of two people- "Dave" and "Dave's Grandma (DG)". "Dave" is the zanier side and "DG" is the more conservative side. Neither is particularly persuasive, so whoever is in charge sets the tone. For instance if "Dave" is in command on a given day and decides that I need to wear a kilt, no amount of pleading from "DG" is going to talk me out of it. Likewise if "DG" takes charge and decides that I will not be drinking on this particular evening, I have no chance of imbibing anything, no matter what "Dave" or my peers have to say. This theory works remarkably well and manages to explain a good chunk of my behavior. I contend, with Dave and DG's agreement, that occasionally they compromise and something not of the extremes happens. I do not, however, have any idea how Dave or DG takes control on any given day. Back to the introspection...

There has been a lot on my mind lately
I spent much of the last couple of days worrying about why I was worrying about two things.

1. Why do I care if someone goes on a ski trip and doesn't want to ski? I gave this a lot of thought and came to the conclusion that I care because since childhood I tend to bond by doing, through activity. I made friends with the kids who played kickball with me. I didn't know what to do with the kids who didn't. I've outgrown that a little bit, but not as much as I thought.

2.Why am I so worked up about Tequilamock... copyright fight? I still don't know. Maybe it's about soul and it's about motivation. You can't take somebody's soul like that for no conceivable reason. At least if the guy was gonna make a few bucks off the deal I could understand it, still despise it, but understand; but to just out and out steal someone's (or several someone's) words just to impress his mom or something. What the @#%? Obviously I still don't have a handle on this one.

Then last night I found something else to occupy my mind.
FIRE.
I was talking to a friend on the phone and said, "I think there's an alien landing on my street." Then I saw a flash of orange. "No, more like a fire." Some more flashes and a funny humming sound. "I think we're going to get cut off. I'm ok. It's not my house. It's next door. I'll be over soon."

CLICK

The power was out for about 3 seconds. When it came back on I snatched up the phone again and sort of stared at it wondering who to call, since I now saw smoke. I ran over to the bookshelf and grabbed a phone book. I tossed the book aside and called 911. Someone had already called them.
Fire trucks showed up, blocked off the streets, and I left deciding I didn't want to be around if my house was to burn.
It didn't. And today I see no traces of the whole ordeal.

Crazy
I hate to go back to this and post some more, but the more I think about this the crazier I become. What if someone like this moron is out there stealing my life and screwing it up? Or worse, what if they are stealing my life and doing a better job of it?

I know you're thinking, "trust me Dave, no one wants to steal your life," but...but... they might. And some of you must be thinking "sheesh, I thought when Reuben got back we could return to the witty one-liners and I wouldn't have to read so much. I don't come here to read. I come here for nonsense."

Well this is NONSENSE, it's just taking me longer to get there!

It doesn't stick
With very little ceremony I have changed wallets. The little money I have fit quite snugly. Credit card, bank card, Safeway card, college ID--check, check, check and check. The list of things to do before I die- check. Thirty- someodd of my own business cards? What? Why? I cut that down to a more manageable fifteen, making room for at least another fiver. All right fine, I cut it to twenty. I just wanted to say fiver.

And the last piece to go from the old wallet was a tiny square of tape that had been over the logo for quite some time. Now nearly as brown as the wallet, no trace of "I love you" remained visible, and once removed, I found out no trace of the sticky stuff was left either. I don't remember exactly how it got there. Something about a borrowed set of keys in a res hall mailbox. I doubt she even knew it was there, I forgot a few times myself.

What am I supposed to do with a little brown piece of paper? I hate to throw it away, but it doesn't stick, so I can't really keep it. It doesn't stick.

You can copyright this drivel?
And according to Julia maybe you should. Wild.

My apologies to the frog

"Hardcore Collection" to the tune of "Rainbow Connection"

Why are there so many sites about pornos?
And how much they are to buy.
Pornos for cruisers, but not just losers.
And pornos leave nothing to hide.
So we've been told and some choose to believe it.
I know they're wrong, wait and see.
Some day we'll find it, the hardcore collection
the perverts, the psychos, and me.

Who said that every wish would be heard and answered
when wished on the pooorn star
Somebody thought of that and someone believed it.
And look what it's done so far.
Why does the groaning keep us downloading
And what do we think we might see?
Someday we'll find it, the hardcore collection
the perverts, the psychos, and me.

All the web under it's spell
we know that it's probably tragic---

Have you been half aroused? And have you heard voices?
I've heard them calling my name.
Is this the shrill sound that calls to our failures?
The voice might be one and the same.
I've heard it too many times to ignore it.
It's something I shouldn't have found.
Someday I'll regret it, the hardcore collection
the perverts, the psychos, and me.

There is more
It's called dinner. What a difference a meal makes.

Thinking. The first mistake.
What is it that makes me think that there must be more? Always more. Five lazy days into a new year and already I'm wondering, "Can this be all there is?" Maybe it can. And why not? Four lazy days into the new year and I was just fine with that. What a difference a day makes, indeed.
This is the problem when I stop to think.

You'll have to excuse me now, I have to get back to my life of distractions.

45 seconds of service
The local KFC/Taco Bell drive-thru has instituted a new "45 seconds to take your order" policy. I support efficiency, but not at the cost of stupidity. We pulled up to the talking box and heard Barry White or reasonable impersonator say, "Welcome to KFC/Taco Bell where we take your order in 45 seconds". Then the recording cut away and frantic order taker female (FOTF) took his place. FOTF shrilly asked, "CANITAKEYOURORDER?" Hold on, let us look at the menu. "THENBACKUPPLEASEBACKUP". So we backed up because no one was behind us. I couldn't really see the menu anymore, but at least FOTF wouldn't be punished for taking a slow order.

We made our selections and pulled back up to the box. I ordered a Santa Fe Gordita and FOTF replied, "WEDON'THAVESANTAFE. HOWABOUTSUPREME, SUPREME? SUPREME?" I was saying "Baja", but FOTF was too busy auctioning off supreme to hear me. I might have wanted more to eat, but by then I was so unnerved that I couldn't remember what. I think they also promised to have our order out in a minute, but the woman in the window had a much more relaxed approach. I bet they haven't figured out a way to time her yet.

Backlash in the information age
*Even an antenna doesn't help the TV reception- I blame the cable company conspiracy.
*My land line seems to be for wrong numbers.
*My email account is for SPAM.
*And my blog is so last year.

Book Review: Horse of a Different Color--Lame.
I really enjoyed Seabiscuit, so I figured I'd give Horse of a Different Color a try. This book focuses on the money and the dumb-luck of the breeder (and author) of Monarchos, Derby winner from a few years back. The author uses self-depricating humor and name-dropping en masse to turn an undoubtedly exciting story into a painful, annoying tale. In a few paragraphs of unwisdom, author Jim Squires mentioned Seabiscuit, only compounding my fury at what this book is not. Instead of interesting characters (although I imagine they were there, Mr. Squires just didn't let us know them), we got names and generalities. Instead of heart-pounding tales of horse races, we got ho-hum descriptions of only two races.

I will admit that there were a few worthwhile pages. I was unaware of the foreign interest in horse racing nor the internal politics of racing and breeding, but I would have rather read that in a short magazine article.

Maybe this book is selling to all the hopeful newspaper editors turned lucky breeder. If that's not you, I'd stay away.

New Year's Day- Start a resolution
1. Stop and smell the flowers-- done. United States Botanical Gardens. Particularly enjoyed the orchids, the cacti, and the trains.

2. The pursuit of happiness and other inalienable rights-- examined. The National Archives is not a crowded place on New Year's Day. I am however worried about that fourth one in the Bill of Rights. I'm not sure I still have privacy regarding my personal effects since they went through two X-ray machines. This erosion concerns me.

3. Do something for you- How about Chili and a milkshake for brunch? Yep-pers.

4. And we're off. Come along, I think it's going to be quite a year.

New Year's Eve- Football and Sex
Feeding off the lowered expectations of him and others, I decided that New Year's Eve didn't have to be about expectations and a lot of silliness, it could just be. And be it did. Finding no Tiger fans, I made my way to a sports bar that didn't charge a cover and I watched a telling half while eating. During commercials I watched all the metrosexuals and their high-heeled womenfriends getting ready for the night.

Heading to the only party that had materialized for me, I joined some friends for a quiet viewing of Sex in the City as we waited for the ball to drop. I liked Sex; so much so that I stayed up until 5 am to watch a Season 6 marathon to top off the start of season 5 I'd seen earlier. I'd been told before that I should watch the show, but I guess it took the end of '03 for me to be ready. It does require a certain maturity.

Let me tell you why life is good
I got yelled at by a volunteer and all the boss said was, "you're going to have to try much harder than that if you want to get fired."

I came home and made my dinner.

I called my friends and talked about the Holidays.

Kim invited me over and I hung out with the Smiths for quite a while. They're better than apple pie.

I came home again and my cousin asked me which Ultimate disc she should buy. Can you hear my heart sing?

I exercised. I'm reading a book that I don't think much of, but it's better than not having a book at all.

My leftovers at lunch were better than dinner last night.

I don't have to wear as many clothes because the housemate is out of town. (FYI: I'm fully dressed in a comfy pair of sweats and a long sleeve T-shirt at the moment.)

My toenails are so happy they have their own happy faces.

My new tie looked so spiffy with my new shirt and my new pants.

I can't sleep, so I have more time to blog.

One more day of '03 and then we're on to '04-- the year of the Dave

What the ?
Cheering the Tigers to victory is proving to be more difficult than I expected. I either pay $25 to watch it in snooty VA or I don't. There's got to be another option. Must think harder...

I reckon irons are for making waffles and making wrinkles.

I figure if I was being chased by a bus I would slip into a parking garage and watch the top half of the bus get totally destroyed by the concrete level above.

Yea. That'd be sweet.

Single serving day
As I slid into my middle seat on the plane, the window occupant said, "Hi, I hope you're interesting." I said, "Well, I don't know about that."
When we landed in Charlotte, we were still talking. Does that mean I'm interesting?

Stop the screaming
I met the offspring of one of my best friends tonight. Two undeniably good-looking people produced, not surprisingly, one undeniably good-looking baby boy.

His was not the screaming that I wanted to stop. That would be the other guys. It's strange to say, but Brian's friends, my friends I keep in touch with through Brian, have grown up, but they haven't stopped hurling insults at the top of their lungs. Some things change and some things never do.

There's something in my eye
My dad gave my mom the runaway Christmas gift hit; he converted old home movies from the 8mm to VHS. So yesterday, I watched as my parents got married, had a son, and had a daughter to the sounds of generic piano music. I watched little David try and steal the spotlight back from his new little sister. It was all very cute and made everyone a little misty, but what got me was a noise my Grandpa A. made.

The film showed one Christmas about 1983, I received a new toy and excitedly raised it up for my Grandpa to see. On the screen he puckered his lips in mock-thrill. In my head I heard the little "Woo" that always used to accompany it. From that point forward I couldn't get the tears out of my eyes. I rememberd the traps that Grandpa S. used to put me in with his feet. It all made me miss my grandparents terribly. My sister asked me if I wished I was a kid again, but I don't. Sometimes I miss that innocence. Little David jumping wildly on the screen Christmas morning, while little Becky rubbed her eyes trying to wake up.

I'm so lucky to be in such a wonderful family. I wish I had more time with my grandparents. I just barely got old enough to appreciate them as they were getting too old to let me. There's something in my eye again. I want to enjoy the time I do have with my parents and my aunts and uncles, who turn out to be real people after all. I'm looking forward to June, when all my cousins (all 4 of them) and I can wreak havoc on some dance floor in Colorado as my sister and her fiance tie that knot.

The story of Casino Santa with commentary
Casino Santa is a recent addition to folklore. While the real Santa has European ties or Coca-Cola ties, Casino Santa has Mob ties.

Like Claus, Casino Santa (C$ from this point forward), comes around once a year. He just happens to arrive 2 nights before the other fat man. Instead of a sleigh, C$ rides in a black Lincoln with tinted windows. Instead of hearing bells, you might hear the holiday peel out and the next day find fresh skid marks. These are all clues that C$ has come for a visit. Look closely at your door and you will probably notice that the lock has been jimmied. Do not leave out cookies for C$; they are not good for his diet. C$ prefers a glass of Chardonay and your silence.

Like the other Santa's, C$ keeps a list. Some historians have called it the "hit list", but authorities will not comment on this accuracy. If you've been good to your word and kept your mouth shut, C$ will leave you some nice shiny casino coins and a pair of socks. The coins are for spending at one of the local casinos, to be supplemented by your last paycheck, of course. The socks are a subtle reminder. They say, "F*(* up, and we'll slide you right into a pair of concrete shoes." Stay on your best behavior and you can wear the socks with little concern. Anger C$ and you will pay the price.

Do not think C$ is an evil man. It is mere coincidence that his intials are an anagram of SIN CAO SATAN which roughly translated means "Come sin with the devil." C$ brings jobs to many of local workers. He gives money to the local schools and he gives riverboats to the local rivers.

You are probably better off if you don't meet C$. If you do happen across him, smile, do not comment on his weight and do not ask why his thugs wear elf shoes. Just smile politely, avoid making deals and leave as fast as possible. As C$ would say, "Merry F-ing Holidays suckers."

Small town corrections
Last Thursday I said that Joe's Place was the only restaurant in Idalia, CO. I have now been told that I am wrong. Joe's Place is not even in Idalia. The two restaurants in Idalia are The Route and PrarieVista Cafe. Do Topia regrets the error.

Ch Ch changes
I'm home, er, I'm at my parent's house that used to be home. Some of my residue still hangs around, but it doesn't feel like home. It feels smaller. I felt almost claustrophobic wandering around the house this morning. (This comes from a guy who lives in a carriage house). It could be the clutter, I decided. Some of it is Christmas clutter and some of it is sister clutter. The former I could do nothing about, but the latter I picked up and organized a little bit, got some of the clutter out of the living room. When my mom realizes that I picked up things unprompted in her home she will probably have to sit down and gasp for breath. But don't worry, she will survive. It's not like I dusted or cleaned the toilets. I'm not drunk, I'm just a little claustrophobic. (I am not implying that I only clean the toilets or dust when I'm drunk, even though I suspect my mom thinks they occur with the same frequency.)

In an aside I am also trying to avoid the sass that gets me in trouble while I'm here. It's worked so far. So far being the three hours between plane arrival and bedtime.

There are some things I think you need to know

*I sing in the car. I sing in a piercing falsetto-- the higher the better. Sometimes even when I don't need a falsetto, I use the falsetto.

*I talk to Orion. Not the cat in Men in Black, I talk to the constellation. He's been there for me through some lonely nights. He used to hang over my little Colorado town. That's where we began speaking.

*I'm into guilt trips. I don't like them that much, but I use them. My favorite at the moment is, "You'll ruin Christmas."

*I get uncomfortable when someone gets left out, so I lie to people about what I'm doing "this weekend."
*a) I often get caught in those lies and I look like an idiot.

*I like to do things that everybody else isn't. I try not to let that be my only motivation, but it can be a strong one.

What is real?-- online book review
If you're a reality TV fanatic, or even if you've secretly seen a few episodes, but refuse to tell anyone, you'll probably enjoy Lizzy Hated Pantyhose. This online novel is well-written and entertaining. It manages to celebrate reality TV even as it pokes fun at the genre. The Tyrant tells us that it's a first draft, but I found that hard to believe.

It has a few dud jokes "you might remember me from such TV shows as..." being the most repeated dud. It starts to drag a little with the introduction of America's Top Model but by that point I had to find out the ending. The main character was a little too versatile for my tastes, but maybe reality TV watchers have a knack for slipping into their favorite shows that I don't know about. My biggest regret about the whole experience was that I couldn't curl up under the covers with my iMac. Online novels are a pain in the eyes, but this one is worth a look.

Don't believe me? Ask Clare.

Cruisin' I-60-- Dotopian review and promotion
If you look at the DVD cover and Amy Smart you might think Road Trip. If you look at the rest of the cast you might think Back to the Future (same writer). If you combined the two, Interstate 60 is about what you'd get. It's perfect if you're looking for a comedy that's not too brainy, but has a some quaint social commentary, some great wisdom, "It's inevitable if it happened", and Michael J. Fox, not to mention a few laughs, a couple of surprises, and a happy but predictable ending. Go ahead, take a little trip on I-60 with the top down.

Holiday Oddities
Oddity 1: I made it to the dance floor at the work holiday party yesterday. My Electric Slide went pretty well, but then they asked for some "right foot; left foot; crossover, crossover" jig and it wasn't working for me. A very large woman who had been instructing me became displeased with my performance and began to grab the back of my pants/belt and move me to where I needed to be next. I like a little help, but usually prefer it to stay off my rear end. Intimidated and uncomfortable, I left the dance floor.

Oddity 2: In a bold gesture the party planning committee decided monetary door prizes was the best way to get people to stay for the whole party. Because we had to be present to win, we spent the last 45 minutes to an hour grumbling, "Where's my money?" Holiday spirit out the wazoo.

Oddity 3: DJ peanuthead (not his real hip hop handle) kept calling for all the fellas to get out on the dance floor. I'm not sure he realized that we made up only 25% of his audience. Even if we had all poured onto the dance floor he would still be wondering where we were.

Oddity 4: Never before have I so hoped that a movie would end and yet not ever end. Thank you Peter Jackson.
Sorry tushie.

Oddity 5: Odd is the new word and there are new numbers, but always odd.
Always odd.

E a O 's
Of the 1 restaurants where my sister lives, the interesting ones are listed.
No wonder tourism is so H-O-T.

If I was a freak show,
I wouldn't sell many tickets.

Little oddities I have noticed today:
*Generally, I loathe myself on the first 3/4 of my commute home. We're talking all-out "you've never done anything right in your life" loathing. And then it disappears- just like that.

*There may be no such thing as a free lunch, but the three I haven't paid for this week sure were nice.

*It's not my fault. It's the beautiful women.

*Jealousy is an icky pointless emotion as far as I can tell.

Good night Ladies
is the other song I know, but here's Bile Dem Cabbage Down.
Have a listen!
audio post powered by audblog

Look Mom! Sound!

Tracing the arc
Nervous about leaving my heart on top the screen, I would also like to point out that I think Do Topia has become more inclusive in its definition of family and love. I think that's nice.

It's either very important or not important at all
I was happy, but lonely until I got to making my daily blog rounds. Now I'm sorry and reflective. Maybe it doesn't matter what I think, but blog family, DC family, family family, and even the nonreaders, you should all know that I feel very lucky that you're MY FAMILY.

In an effort to make my New Year's Resolution more impactful I have taken to
drinkin', cussin' and womanizin'.

Merry FAKE Christmas
It's what Christmas is all about, minus the religion...
Last night and today, I had the joy of attending a very merry FAKE Christmas. It included food,
holiday cookies, board games, my DC family and lots of frankincense. I lied-- there was no frankincense. However, there was snow and Christmas songs. We got to sing "I'm dreaming of a white FAKE Christmas". And our dream came true! We also got to sing "I'm dreaming of a Dirty Christmas", but that's a story for another time.

Last night we all cuddled up on the floor to watch "Coupling" as Christmas tradition dictates. Then we fell asleep at 3 in the morning and hoped that the sugar plums dancing would not prevent Santa's arrival. I don't remember exactly how slumber parties and Christmas go together, but I'm sure that even Santa has to sleep.

Lucky for us, Santa did come. He skipped munching on the cookies and I think maybe he brought us bagels and oranges. He didn't cut the oranges though, Rob had to do that. Santa also made us coffee, but it was a bad batch.

Then we opened presents. FAKE Christmas ended, and the children were joyful.

Now there's no reason to ever leave the computer
Ultimate-the computer game.

(It's tough, but not nearly as satisfying.)

The Amazing 5th Wheel
I found myself feeling remarkably like a fifth wheel last night. Let me state perfectly clearly: "The 5th wheel for me is a very lovely wheel." It means that I am hanging out with four of my fabulous friends. The funny thing about last night was that I wasn't with two couples. I'm very comfortable as a fifth wheel and last night was no different. It surprised me, but I was almost relieved to fall into that role. Odd.

His Majesty awaits his food
I have never had as many managers and waiters speak to me as I did eating at the Austin Grill. I got the wrong order and sent it back to the kitchen. I wasn't even hungry and not the least bit worried about it as my friends began to eat their meals. I had really come to hear the live music. A manager came over and he addressed the table, but he seemed to be looking at me. "It'll be out shortly," he said looking at me. I couldn't figure out why he seemed to be focusing on me. How did he know that I had asked my friends to come to his restaurant. Then as he left I realized he meant my food would be out shortly, not the music.

My food wasn't out shortly, but I didn't care. The Austin Grill cared. Another manager came over and said, "Where's your food?" and then scurried off to take care of it. The first manager soon returned and looked at me horrified. I joked, "It was great. I ate it really fast." He said shaking his head, "I'm sorry. I'll go check on your meal."

Most of the table finished their plates when a waitress arrived with my order. After a single bite that I hadn't chewed, she said, "Is it good?" It had barely had time to hit my taste buds, but I said "yes." It was good. The Austin Special may be the best meal the grill serves.

We listened to Elizabeth McQueen play her live music and I ate. Then I took a bathroom break and when I returned we had lots of free desserts. When the bill came my meal was on the house. Three more people apologized.

Delightful. I think I'm going to get the wrong order every time.