If I had to choose an album title to sum things up right now, I'd have to go with Feeling Strangely Fine. I've always liked that album and that title. It's got a funny melancholy about it. I like that.

Mama-Me-a: An Evolution in Pizza
In the beginning, my mom made the pizza. She spread the tomato paste, which reminds me of a great joke- How do you fix a tomato? Tomato paste! Yes, so, my mom spread the tomato paste and sprinkled the cheese and plopped the pepporoni and then put the whole thing in the oven.

Then, the "Noid" arrived. The Noid may have been a symptom of some disease, or a result of stress, but we were avoiding the Noid and our pizzas were arriving in 30 minutes or less. Even as a fifth-grader, I knew this was PROGRESS.

Many years passed and evolution was slow, but pizza started to replace commands. Instead of "Go to Point A for Special Meeting or face consequences", it became "Special Meeting- Come for the pizza." Momma, did not raise no fool and I went. Free pizza kept me in college.

When the free pizza fountains started to dry up, Pappa then entered the scene. That's Pappa John, please. Pappa John and the occasional Gumby he rode in came right to my door. And they had sticks. And some people felt this was progress. This is where I got confused. But since pizza and I were so intertwined by now, I ate when Pappa delivered.

Then instead of getting the sticks, I'd moved to the sticks and I must turn to my grocer's freezer where I find-- pizza. It gets the job done.

I move out of the sticks and into the Big City where I eventually stumble upon a yuppie grocery store. Rather than pepporni or sausage, these crazy yuppies have pinenuts and Feta cheese on their pizza. I, without even realizing my transformation, pick up this yuppie pizza and consume it.

It's all very symbolic. And when I start making my own pizza for my children, I will have completed the circle, the circle of Pizza; the circle of Life.

Smatterings
*My virgin Lemoncello may not have been as ethereal or sexy as Cosmo's, but it tasted both lemon-y and cello-y.

*Eve. She that keeps the hand towel shall go by Eve. I like it.

*My arch rival from the 5k finished ahead of me by 14 minutes this morning.

*I have not lost faith in humanity. Humanity owes it all to Matt.

*With earplugs, the world is a muted place. The world with earplugs is pretty much like now.

*Is actually the new like? Like, Bill says so, actually.

*IDIOT! Napoleon Dynamite, played by John Heder, does some of the best teen angst I've ever seen on the big screen. And he is unencumbered by plot. But we skipped the extra scene. dang.

WhattayameanHALF?
Patience and humility are not my strongest suits. A half-marathon requires both. I watched hundreds of people run away from me from the get-go this morning. Does a marathon take twice the patience and humility? That's going to be a long day.

My favorite part of the half-marathon was the last 5k.
I know what to do with a 5k. I just didn't know what to do with the first 10 miles.

They Might Be Giants, but I was too hungry to find out.

Reason #499 that it'll never work
I know this is not Barry Bonds territory, or even Steve Balboni territory, but somehow 500 posts seems like a big deal. And, well, it kind of has me freaked out. So, I'm trying to play it cool. This is what I do when I get freaked out. I fake it, like everything is better than good, that way you won't know that I'm all jiggly on the inside.

Five Hundred times I have plopped down. Five zero zero times I have spilled my guts to strangers, to friends, to everybody crazy enough to listen. Everybody. And for what? So Daimon can share his memories of Pee Wee Herman? So Clare and I can battle it out over Delaware? So Marilyn can cajole me into making good choices?

Well, yea. A little bit. See, there's a connectivity aspect to this whole blogging world. All of sudden, I'm cyberspace neighbors with all these cool people. People that are super neat, but people who wouldn't otherwise share their lives with me due to something silly like geography or social boundary or just plain shyness.

But there's more than that. There's a therapeutic aspect, a here-I-am-now-try-and-stop-me aspect. There's something good about getting it all down, or some of it down, for the world to see. It's not a "get it all down for I am historic with a silent h", instead it's a look at how alike we are/aren't. Look at how special that makes us.

And of course there's the it's good for the writer bit. It's good for the writer. I mean 498 posts ago I was barely spitting out a sentence and now at half une mille (is my French right? It sounded bigger that way.) I ramble on and on and on. You can't win 'em all, but I'm happy you've stopped in.

Don't forget to stretch before you return for more exercises in the foolery, dave or otherwise.

You get what you pay for
Seriously. Could my unnamed wire-frame mannequin startle me any more?

Confession
I need to tell you something and I'm not sure how to say it. I'm worried that I've started to come off as a little, shall we say, pathetic, of late. I don't want to sound desperate, even if I am. Not that I'm saying I am. I'm just saying. I mean there was that date with tchoukball and the whole running is my love thing, and now this...

I know. I should just come out and say it. It'd be easier on everyone, but what do I say exactly?

I mean, my towel rack has boobs seems a bit on the vague side. Maybe even past vague and well into creepy.

And besides it might not be my towel rack for long. It's just, well, my house is pretty small, and there may not be a lot of other options; and we really do need a towel rack. What I'm trying to say, and I'm doing a really poor job, and you can't blame me exactly because if I don't word it just so, I start to sound a little like Hannibal Lecter. And now that I've gone and said Hannibal Lecter, you're thinking about him and instead of seeing Anthony Hopkins you're starting to see me. So now you think I'm a cannibal, which is totally unfortunate, because I sooo don't eat people. Not at all. I don't even bite. very often.

What I mean is; well, I should start from the beginning. I was riding by this dumpster when I saw her, well not her, I mean really she's an it, you know? And it's not like I stopped then. I just thought "wow" she, I mean it, THAT would be kind of cool to have, especially for free. And trash is generally free. I mean sure it has social consequences, but for the taking, it's free. But I rode on. I rode 10 miles and on my way back, I drove by for another look. I mean if it was gone, then of course I wouldn't need it, fate would've intervened; all the cosmic forces conspiring and stuff, and it was still there.

I left her, it, I meant IT, by the dumpster and went home. And immediately told the housemate what I had found. So he agreed to go check it out and convince me whether taking someone else's trash was worthwhile. He's good like that. That's the sort of thing I trust him to know.

When he saw the wire frame mannequin, he said unequivocally, "I can't talk you out of that."

So it's a towel rack. A towel rack that needs a name. And a better looking blouse.

It don't mean a thing. If it ain't got that swing
I went to an arts festival up the road. Let me tell you about art:

-Digital photography can be art. Me on a a fake motorcycle with a fake Route 66 backdrop- the artiest of art.

-Singing bass- art? or annoying commercial toy? One= the latter. A Volvo covered in singing bass and dancing lobster including an extendable conductor and a lead singing bass with a big mic seems more like art to me. Think "The Little Mermaid" meets the most famous of box cars.

-I stopped by a writing booth.
Guy behind booth: "Interested in more information?"
Me: "yea."
GBB: "What do you write?"
Me: "Uh. Short stories?" Question mark was very likely present, even if the Mexican family standing nearby didn't seem to hear it.

-I stood near Scotty Morris. I was too chicken to speak with him. Scotty Morris is art... if art is swing...for nothing says swing to me like my favorite Swing Band, Big Bad VooDoo Daddy. Zig Zaggity Woop WOOP indeed.

-Speaking of swing, did the rest of the twenty-somethings burn out on swing? Nearly everyone was either 8 years younger than me or 16 years older.

If someone says Pee-Wee Herman, scream real loud
Remember when Pee-Wee said, "If you love it so much, why don't you marry it? huhhuhHUHHAH"

At least I am able to resist tying the knot.

Maybe we can be friends?
I've heard that the third date can be the turning point. Past the first-date jitters, but not to the land of couple-dom, it's often make or break time. Which I can only imagine is all well and good, but not when the date is with a game called Tchoukball.

Briefly, tchoukball is a non-agressive, non-contact team sport with an ideal of creating a harmonious society. It's played with a palm-able ball thrown at nets stationed at ends of a court. Scoring takes place for both teams on both ends. The object is to throw the ball off the net and have it bounce on the ground outside the semi-circle forbidden zone surrouding either net.

Any game with a forbidden zone has my attention. For three of the last five Friday nights, I have been playing tchoukball. On our first date, we hit it off. I was all giggles at learning a new game. It didn't hurt that my relationships with Ultimate and running made the somewhat counter-intuitive tchoukball, a little more intuitive. Within minutes, I was told that I resembled one of the older players of tchoukball. I'd tell you the name, but you wouldn't recognize it and I can't pronounce it. It was probably my skinny frame topped by a buzz and a beard, but I was moving relatively well for a first-timer. After the "feedback" time, a post-game ritual that invovles thanking one another and talking about what we enjoyed and learned, I said goodnight to tchoukball with smile and a promise of another date.

Date two didn't go nearly as well. We had played the 7 v. 7 or 9 v. 9 game with just 10 players the previous week; this time we had 6. The jitters of discovery were gone on this Friday. Instead I had the frustration of a sport that I understood, but couldn't play well. I had come with an agressive attitude, and that attitude had no outlet in a game like tchoukball. I left frustrated and unsatisfied.

Chalking it up to circumstance, I decided to give tchoukball another chance. I wanted to capture those smiles of that first night.

Last night I went to play tchoukball. I had been told repeatedly that if I would play three times then things would really start to click. Things had gone so smoothly on the first night; I scoffed at that idea, but I found out that the wily veterans might just be right. Last night, I played my best game of tchoukball. The net seemed bigger and my throws more accurate. The strange movements went from odd to nearly natural. It was an enjoyable experience, until "the talk." Of course a game doesn't care where the relationship is going. A game doesn't care whether the relationship is nearly over or about to crank it up a notch. It's a game. It doesn't have feelings. I thought it important to point that out both because of the amount of anthropomorphism that this blog supports and because this metaphor starts to break down. So, really at this point tchoukball isn't asking where the relationship is going, but instead Pierre, the coach, the closest thing in my mind to the living embodiment of the game, is asking me about my thoughts on the game.

I've been dreading this conversation since the beginning. I had hoped it would come much later, but it came sooner. I had no choice but to be honest. So when the loaded question, "What do you think of this game?" was thrown at me, I answered. "I like the game. It's amusing. It's got good people. It's heart is in the right place, but I don't think it has enough running for me." The disappointment was obvious, but what could I do?

I don't think this means there will be no more dates, but it changes things. I'm sorry tchoukball, but I just don't think you're right for me. Maybe we can just be friends.

What kind of man am I?
Why, the kind who buys flowers, for his house. And then uses the arguably tacky green plastic pitcher as a vase.
The kind who writes prompt thank-you notes. The kind who sees romantic comedies alone. The kind who reads "Shopgirl" and likes it all, except thinks maybe the end was rushed. The kind who tears out drink recipes from his Cosmo because Virgin Raspberry Lemonicello looks and sounds splendid. The kind who reads Bitch and then suddenly finds himself very concerned about his favorite Slayer episode and what exactly that says about his support of a patriarchal society. The kind that likes to run for a long time, until his lungs hurt. The kind that likes to write when it comes easily to him. That kind that would rather be busy than not. The kind who wants to take road trips and have grand plans, but often doesn't quite get to it. The kind who goes in spurts, in books, in movies, in interests. The kind who owns a banjo and has worn a skirt. The kind who can't think of a thing to say when you ask.

NOT THE GLUE FACTORY
I still feel like I'm teetering on the edge of injury. Not only might each pound of the pavement hurt, but I trot slowly, tediously. I'm bored by my pace, bored by recovery. My owner is nervous. The jockey is off the whip almost completely.

Still, the grazing has been especially sweet of late.

This one goes out to the one I love
Can’t remember when we met. It had to be soon after I could walk. I don’t remember it though. I don’t remember much until middle school. Middle school was when I realized that there was something special. It wasn’t particularly discernible, but a few times in gym class things just sort of clicked.

Then I remember the summer before high school, we had that little fling. Twenty minutes here, twenty minutes there. I was still wearing black canvas Chuck Taylor’s then. I didn’t know what I was doing, but something about it seemed right.
Freshman year was more of the same. I moved to the Pegasus. I don’t remember a lot. I just know that it felt good. It worked. It was special and mine. It got a bit more challenging the latter part of that year. Nothing had changed, but my expectations. I began to see the possibilities. I knew there was more for me.

So we spent the summer together, bounding along. And when school rolled around, we’d hit our stride. The rest of high school together is mostly a blur. We had our tough times-bronchitis, disappointing finishes, fallen, graduated, and worst of all, uncommitted teammates. They were no match for the good times. The pounding, stress-relieving, eye-catching, headline-grabbing, record-chasing, friend-making good times. This was the time. The greatest coach I’d ever had. Fine, fine teammates. And motivation. I wanted it- so much. And we were in it together. We were one. And even when they could touch us, we were untouchable. Even when there were doubts, I had running to fall back on. It wasn’t everything, but it was a good way to spend six days a week.

And college came. Like so many great loves, distance was a strain. Up from 42 miles, we jumped to 50, to 60, with plans to go beyond. Everything went minorly wrong. If it wasn’t my left knee it was my right hip, or pick an ankle. As soon as one thing healed something else went wrong. I met good guys. Solid guys. And guys who could throw a beer can under the wheel of a speeding car. Guys, I’ll never forget. But running was too much. It couldn’t be my all. There were women everywhere, and Fine Arts, and so much more than I’d ever seen before.

Bitterly, angrily after the X-rays and the MRI said “Ain’t nothing wrong that we can see” I called it quits. It was the toughest decision I’d ever made. Who was I without running? I was no one. I called it quits.

Sort of. There were still longing glances, stolen moments, even the occasional weekend getaway. There were still friends to be made on the path. There were still miles that satisfied something inside me. I wasn’t no one. And “quits” was such a strong word. Sometimes I dreamed of a comeback, but I’d made the right decision.

Running didn’t leave, we just saw each other less. Any sport I played, I counted on my love to keep me in it. Usually, and increasingly, she has not failed.

At the end of school, I really discovered Ultimate. Beautiful, beautiful Ultimate- with all the running and the teammates, a flying disc, and all the good stuff, but fresh and new. Running was pushed to the background. Something I did for Ultimate. No longer the primary point, maybe not even secondary.

I had moved on, changed by my love of course, but moved on to something new.

Until recently.

Recently, my friend Matt, he the purveyor of grand ideas, brought the Marathon to my attention. The marathon- that grandest of grand running events. The one the high-school runners talked about. The one that changed the lives of Oprah and Puffy. The one that I always said, “Someday. When I’m ready...”
26 years old. 26.2 miles. It all seemed very reasonable. I was ready. I am ready.

So I returned to my love. I returned hesitantly, but soon the fire was rekindled. All the power, all the beauty, all the running was back in my life. I was changed, but still an impatient lover. Maybe I pounded too hard. Maybe I pushed too much. Maybe I need to learn my limits. For despite, the older, wiser, “bedhead-less” me, the distance again has driven a wedge between us. The marathon is a different kind of run, but I thought... It’s still a run. It’s still a part of me. So I thought...

And then about 2 weeks ago, I felt a sharp pain in my knee. It was mile 6 of 8 on the track. I was too tough, or perhaps too foolish to stop. I finished all 8 and was cooling down, when the pain reduced me to a limp. “OW!” I cried out with all the pain of a scorned lover.

For two weeks after, I didn't run. My enthusiasm has left me. Every step is painful again, and not always in the physical sense. We’re back in that middle-land. That place where dreams can go either way, or perhaps be adjusted.

The marathon is still 15 weeks away. I seem to be recovering. I can attack more slowly this time. Maybe that was a lesson. Maybe this time as I rekindle the fire, I let it burn a little lower, a little slower. This time I put some of that patience to good use.

I want this. I want to be a marathoner, for while I am not “no one” without the label of runner- I AM A RUNNER.

Just so you don't think Cosmo has given me a one track mind

Body as Billboard is freakin' cool. It's got to be; the slogan is "Advertise for shit that matters."

You might not want to check it out if you're at work, or a conservative.

Awkward? Nooo. That wasn't awkward.
1.Person I've never met before: "I hear you're a Keira Knightley fan, how was it?"
Me: "The Cosmo article?"
PINMB gives me a quizzical look: "King Arthur?"
Me: "ohhh."

2. Person I met once, 11 months ago: "You haven't changed a bit."
Me: "What!?"

3.Same person later in the evening announces to the room:"That Dave and I, we're compadres in the dating scene."
Someone else: "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

You want inspiration?
In Cosmo the fantastically fantastic Kiera Knightley says that a guy came up to her in the airport and said, "I'm sorry, but can I kiss you?" And she let him.
She let him!!

Anything is possible.
Dreams do come true.

And yes, I have been known to read Cosmo. Now, I am also fully prepared for mind-blowing sex, what's it to you?

Street journey
Just say the words and I'm ready to pack up and hit the highways. I don't care where we go as long as you go with me and we can be back in time for work.

You be the guy going to Austin and I'll be the guy that doesn't cheat, you know, "because it's your dog." Ok. Maybe not him.

You be Thelma. I'll be Louise. We'll leave out the cliff.

We'll need the essentials:
Beef Jerky
Hot Tamales
Tunes
a camera
Gumby or other rubber doll
and if possible a map and a tank of gas.
Perhaps also sunglasses.

It's midnight. We're 250 miles from Chicago. Or something.

HIT IT!

An unfinished list of things to smile about
a certain blue actress, unread books, rediscovered tunes, spontaneity, remembering her face and smile even if it's the smile with a hint of regret because it's good to see her smile, trips home, direct flights, air conditioning, Camelbaks, making music, words in especially neat combinations, that same actresses's lips, funny people both intentionally and unintentionally, cherries, start-up carbonated juice companies who purport to care, knees on the mend, it's not the end of the world, big blue backpacks, photographic evidence, friends, rain, laughter, phone messages from unknown women, party invitations, a good pen, volunteer opportunities that make sense, co-ed naked runs, memories, cousins that think you're "da bomb" except when you use phrases like "da bomb", flowers, that part of the neck hidden by long hair, earlobes, time zones, incomplete theories, the mockery that can only come from closeness, brother-in-laws who talk a big table tennis game and then subsequently get destroyed by my lil' sister, babies, dancing, the kissing scenes in King Arthur, kissing scenes that invovle me, shiny happy people, figuring out something for yourself, free T-shirts,

symbolism shymbolism
I just changed my wallpaper to a photo of the Grand Canyon. Every time I boot up I feel like I'm going to fall in.

The cold greeting of the big city
The bearded man in his worn brown safari hat and his big blue backpack doesn't quite seem to fit here in the land of mass transit and masses of people. Or does he fit here? Because everybody fits here, when nobody wants to notice.

His steps are shortened but no less purposeful. Do those around him see tourist or local or do they see anything at all?

He sees them. They are black, white, brown, from here, and from out of town. They look worn, and ragged, maybe they'll look better in the morning.

They won't.

It's a land of high heels and pin stripes, but it's a land of tired averted eyes. Sometimes one might smile, sing or cry out, but then they get daggers from the crowd. Who dares invade the solitude of the public commute? Is it a crazy man? Or a bag lady? It's no one and no one cares.

Don't dare mention her painted toenails, or his shock-suspension system. What music throbs from inside the headphones? And where did she get those flared-pink pants? Avert your eyes, in case they see. Avert your eyes. Don't look at me. Or the bearded man in his worn brown safari hat and big blue backpack.

Welcome home to the city, boy. No one cares.

The residue is gone from my childhood home
THE PAST- Only a trip home (the one that put up with me for the better part of 16 years, not 9 months) can have such a dateline. This has to be said now, because this time next week "my room" could be dark blue. And that just might change everything. (How many times in my life did I long for something other than beige? How many?!)

The nutcrackers will be in a box. The medals, from every single high school track and cross country race will no longer greet me when I enter. If Demi Moore is still behind the door in her Groucho Marx moustache and glasses, she will come down. The picture of the yearbook staff lying in the driveway on a couch as our advisor "Hank" shouts from his car will go in the box with the "Mr. Cambia" sash and the Winter Park ID badge. It's all coming down. If I knew where to put it, I'm sure that would be ok.

How can that be ok? Because the residue from my childhood home is gone. Sure, there are memories that only home can conjure up, but this trip is different.

Look at the little arbor day tree that came home in a paper towel and used to be such a pain to mow around. It's now 15 feet tall. The lawn itself; a symbol of the outlet of teenage-interpreted parental oppression has changed as well. I can sweep up grass clippings without a curse, and even enjoy it. Up in my room, there used to be bunk beds. Bunk beds that converted into forts, into ships, and into the occasional "love-den". I stress occasional, because there is nothing like shooting baskets in the driveway to remind me of all the bouncing basketball time spent on the opposite sex. So much hasn't changed. I just don't have a basketball goal anymore. That goal got me through some melodramatically suburban tough times. When Alisa broke my poor freshman heart and when Cassie somehow resisted my charms, and resisted my charms, and by golly, resisted my charms, until finally she resisted my charms and I ended up at the prom with Erica. Young, beautiful, and foolish could probably describe either of us; regardless it sent me back to the driveway. College didn't stop the therapy of the basketball goal. More shots on the visits home through Karyn, and Lucy, and Kim; through Dori and Dori and Dori... You'd think I'd be a decent basketball player by now. It's tough to pull into the garage and not have a bit of that angst settle on you.

The scenery around here will always remind me of so many good times, and a few bad ones, but the residue is gone. When I sit on the bleachers and stare down at my high school track, I don't feel the pressures or the joys that I used to feel. I remember them, but they no longer hang in the air. It's a relief. Between the humidity and the residue, it tended to make coming home a bit too taxing. Finally, it'll just be the humidity.

"Living my life to the limit, and I love it"
The eve of two dash six without the dash is drawing to a close. How does one of such advanced car renting age celebrate the passing of another year? Only the finest, my friends, only the finest-- If I were he, and I am, I would enlist the help of fancy cheese (FANCY CHEESE!), sparkling juice from the likes of izze with those sharply dressed bottles, and j-lo. For who and what could be realer? Ask yourselves that. No, I'm serious, ask yourselves that.

Are you finished asking?

"Baby, don't go."

but I can do the touching and the sheepish grinning
My problem with salsa dancing is in the hips. I've got it all except the hips; and the steps. My problem is the hips and the steps. Oh, and the overthinking. I've got it all except the hips, the steps, and the overthinking. SALSA!

Inantimate objects write back
Dear David,
WHAT are you doing? We're old. We're tired. We don't remember how to work this hard. You left us alone for a while and frankly at first we were lonely, but now we like it. Please go back to using us minimally, if at all. We don't like being taxed. We like to live out our last years as quietly as possible. You don't see us trying to mess with you in your old age, do you?

Please understand, our little hearts can't take this much excitement. If we were alive, we might die.

Sincerely,
Knee and iMac

P.S. Secretly we hate all the attention you give to your Camelback and that damn GameCube. We are launching a passive agressive strike on both items. Watch your backs. All three of you.

A list of things I want to tell you/ask you not unlike the usual things I tell you/ask you except this time in list format

1. Yummy roadtrips. Let's hit the road, Jack, or Clare.

2. If not the road, perhaps a ride on Amtrak would be suitable. We can share a sleeper car. Hmmm?

3. Why do I know more baby shower games than my coworkers? They have babies for crying out loud.

4. I do not live in the city. I promise to stop saying I do. It's a lie. I apologize to the city for this lie. I will do my best to perpetuate it no longer.

5. More silliness. Less of the other stuff.

un conversation avec le pantalon bleu
Blue. Pants.

What's wrong pants? Are you stained? soiled? too short? too long? Are you pleated pants trapped in the body of flat front pants?

Is that why you look so blue? Is it because even as a pair you feel alone somehow?

Poor blue pants.

Let me try. I put you on one leg at a time. You seem ok to me. I'm not sure how to match you to my other clothes.

Oh. No. I didn't mean it like that. I just meant you were unique...er...special.

No. No. Of course my butt doesn't make you look fat. You look great. I'm serious. I'm not even thinking about khaki.

I didn't say khaki. I said, er, I er.


Don't go blue pants. PLease. Blue is part of your mystique. It's more than a color or simple sadness. You are brooding, intense, artistic.

Oh. Blue pants. Don't cry. Please. No one likes wet pants. Not no one. I'm sorry.

OH. Blue.

Crazy drunk subconcious
Chasing us through my childhood home, Matt was gaining on Reuben and me
as we let out peals of laughter.  We raced out the front door and down
the steps.  Psychically, telepathically, suddenly, we stopped where the
steps made a left.  As Matt came upon us, we grabbed him and tossed him
over the railing.  He flew down the hill of the front yard and landed
sprawled face up on the driveway.  I don't remember the sound he made,
but SPLAT could not be too far off.  Reuben and I quickly made our way
down to his covered body and the newly forming pool of blood.  There was
no screaming, only silent fear as a small crowd of indistinct people
gathered.  Uncovering Matt, we found that his head and body were nearly
separate.  We removed body from head, figuring it needed to be done and placing the former out of the way. I gave my sister a shout and instructed, "Get Mom and Dad. Or call
911. Or both!"  She disappeared inside.

Matt's severed head began begging for a glass of water.  With the wisdom
that only comes in dreams, we decided severed heads are better off
without glasses of water.  Minutes passed before it occurred to me that
my sister must not have alerted either party as I'd instructed.  I ran
into the house, found my sister in her old room chatting with her
husband.  Furious and frightened, I cursed in her direction. "FU#$!,
FU**! "What the FU**?!?"

Without waiting for a response, I ran to the phone and dialed 911.

"Help, I need help. My friend is dying."

The dispatcher calmly asked for my phone number.

Stuck in 10-digit dialing mode I gave it, "816-401-   I can't remember
the rest. Oh. GOD!" I searched the nearby area desperately.

"It's ok. I should be able to find you from that."

After a pause she said, "Are you at,"  I heard her voice give me an
address, but I was in too much of a rush to hear it.  "Can you confirm
that?" she asked.

"Yes. Please hurry." I whined.

The next thing I knew we were driving higher into the suburbs.  Reuben
was at the wheel. Kim, Matt's wife, was riding shotgun. Matt's severed
head and I were in the backseat.  The head was not bouncing around on
the seat, nor was it floating.  He just sat normally, staring ahead.  He
was probably not happy with being in the back seat, but he accepted it
without an audible complaint.  At the top of the hill we drove past a
lone white house with a lone tree in the yard.  Turning into a
parking lot, Kim, silent until now, began tearfully telling us that
this same thing had happened to her mom.  Her dad was actually her mom's
second husband as the first one had died in a freak accident.  She began
to wail as the tears spilled from all of us.  "I don't want that to
happen to me."

Recovering his composure first, Reuben made for the nearest hospital as
we all quietly sniffled.  I called my parents.

They were frantic.

"The ambulance showed up and you weren't here. They are going to charge
you thousands of dollars.  You were really irresponsible- leaving like
that with the ambulance coming." They scolded. "You're going to pay the
bill when it comes.  We aren't."  The rant against me and my lack of
sense continued, but somewhere during a story about the man in the
ambulance with a bad back I put the phone down.

 We piled out of the car and rushed into the mall.  I was in the lead and
knew exactly where I was headed. I even managed to do a little
fast-paced window shopping.  Increasing the pace, a full-bodied Matt
overtook me muttering, "I've got to tell them I wasn't murdered."

Then I woke up.  

76,000 trombones
In terms of music I was stuck on "Oldies 95" all through my teens. In college I advanced all the way to the mainstream alternative radio stations. In the last year or so, I've discovered that there is a heckuva lot of cool music out there that I want to hear. I'm trying not to panic while I decide how and how much energy I am going to use to attack this particular phenomenon.

Some artists I am not buying at the moment include Modest Mouse, (They've actually lost a coin flip for 3 days running. "Heads I buy the new CD, tails I don't." TAILS. Every day. What are the odds? Please don't tell me, Rob. It's an expression.) Dashboard Confessional, 12 cents for Marvin, Death Cab for Cutie, The Pink Panther Penthouse Party, Glenn Miller, Fats Domino, Alison Krauss, Bela Fleck, Belle and Sebastian, Wilco and Josh Ritter.

I know that everything sucks
YEA! This Reel Big Fish song kind of sums up my mood for the day. I'm boppin' and singin' that everything sucks so much that I almost forgot to notice that I'm in a fabulous mood. That's part of the beauty of ska music. With the horns and the "dance-your-crazy-dance" sound, they can say just about anything and it makes me want to nod and say "Yea! Right on Ska-band! Everything does suck! Let's keep it sucking! WOOHOO. I didn't need that leg anyway."

I'm chatting with my-se-helf hooHOO.

Hey you in your new blue pants and your sharp red shirt. You're sexy.

Me? I'm not sexy. I'm just chowing down on my Spam and brown rice trying to plan an evening.

Nah. You're cherry man, you're one small leap away from having it all. You're going places.

Come on. I'm not going anywhere. I've still got pictures to develop and bikes to paint. I can't go anywhere yet. I need a Presta valve.

Aw, babe. You can do it all, man. You're running around. You're robbing banks all whacked out on scooby snacks.

Are you sure it was "whacked out"?

Are you sure it wasn't?

No.

Ok then.

Can't afford to go. Can't afford to stay.
When did camping become a 30-dollar-a-night activity?
I thought it was just KOA with their overpriced ground space, but it's almost everybody. I just want some ground, people. I just want it for a night or so. Why, they're selling whole mountains for cheaper than they rent tent sites. No wonder people are falling asleep at the wheel. They can't afford to pull over. Next thing we know gas prices will be more than 2 dollars a gallon, or, uh, more. Talk about intense, no, wait, that was the first bit.

Maybe everybody should just stay home. Too bad we can't afford rent or a mortgage either...

One more for the kiddies
So I've made eye contact with this woman three times already. The third time she says hello and I might have said "hi" back or grunted or given her a nod. Then I see her a fourth time and we make eye contact again.

She says, "See you later."

I can't just leave it at that. Four times we've made eye contact. I've fallen in love, gotten married, had babies and been tragically widowed in less eye contact than that.

So I throw out a question for her, one that pertains to the context of our setting. She answers and asks me the same question. I answer. She tells me about the setting last year. We laugh, sorta. And then we say see you. I don't know that we will though.

As I drive away, I'm thinking about the "Celestine Prophecy" and I'm wondering. Was I supposed to talk to her to find out that it rained at this time last year? Or did I just miss something bigger?

And then it hits me. And then I forget what hits me. And the next thing you know I'm blogging about it and you're reading it and searching for the punchline or the moral and find...nothing.

Sometimes that's the way it is kiddies. Sometimes that's the way it is.

Is that how distance runners get their thrills?
I raced a 5k on Sunday. Pre-race I had talked myself into slowing the pace down to just get a feel for what it would be like to run with people around- like it will be in the marathon. I was even prepared to run my slowest timed 5k ever.

"Ready. Set. GO!" I sauntered off the starting line somewhere near the middle of the pack content to let the leaders leave me far behind. Not real content though. I slowly picked up the pace as we cruised along. I was picking off people left and right until I moved into some open space. The leaders were out of sight on the windy roads, but I had found a more suitable, not to mention more familiar and eventually more physically painful, pace and so I focused in on the back of an older gentleman in a white jersey. I noticed that he looked at his watch as we crossed the mile. I thought I might just speed up and ask him what we ran, figuring I could add 5 or 6 seconds to his time. The move proved a difficult one. Actually, it didn't really materialize at all and near mile two I had lost a few seconds on the fellow.

About that time, a club runner came up on my shoulder intent on passing me. Still feeling relatively strong, I was just as intent on not letting him pass. He surged up into my peripheral vision and I surged forward. He let up slightly and I let up slightly. He surged again, not into my vision, but I could hear him. So I surged again. This time I didn't stop my surge until he was out of earshot. I never looked back, but the next time I looked up I was near the man in white. As we neared "Heartbreak Hill" I overtook the gentleman. And then the heartbreak began. I slowed and he passed me. Inside my head it sounded like a convention for losers "I don't care if he beats me. I don't care if everybody beats me. Who cares?" My pace slowed accordingly. White jersey man began to pull away, when some positive thinking kicked in. "I CARE. LET'S GO." I charged up the hill after the man. I passed him again and again I slowed.

As we crested the hill there were 300 meters left. White jersey man was closing on me again. My legs were slowing. I dug down once more and got my legs moving as fast as I thought they could go for 40 more seconds. I didn't catch the next guy, but I pulled away from my rival for the day.

I'd improved on my previous 5k time because of those two guys, my training, and perhaps because of a slower start.

5k's are familiar territory, though. I've got a lot to learn before the marathon. Like patience.

This quote about s-e-x amuses me
From Middlesex by Jeffery Eugenides, “So do boys and men announce their intentions. They cover you like a sarcophagus lid. And call it love.”

Knitting is being compared to golf on NPR
Something about fetishes. I'm very confused. I might have understood if it had been about frustrations.

Now you have more time to train, Justin

Special Message to Justin
It's time. Or it will be the weekend we celebrate our independence. Any chance everyone isn't leaving town?

Now, that's MANly
With care and skilled hand, I managed to take my bike from nearly inoperable to completely inoperable. I'm dirty. I'm sweaty. And I have no idea how long it will take me to put the thing back together again. Assuming I can.

Father's Day is Sunday
My pappy, as I've never called him, is a rather smart man. I read something today that said at about age 6 you realize your dad doesn't know everything. I think it took me until at least 13, and sometimes I still forget. At 13 I was in my dad's science class, he being a teacher at the middle school and me being a student. It wasn't his class that made me question his wealth of knowledge. It was Algebra. He could do Algebra, certainly. Every so often though it took him some time to figure it out. Ten years of school and this was the first time my father had paused to figure something out. That's smart. He could probably kick your tail at Scattergories.

Dad is an athlete too. He might tell you that he wasn't. He sat the bench in high school football. He wrestled, or played table tennis, or racket ball, or whatever else they needed another man for to score another point for his fraternity. There were no letters, no accolades, no trophies to show off. Like the tortoise and the hare fable, the longer the race went on, the closer he moved to the front. The star athletes developed their beer bellies and love handles and soon just stopped playing. Their exercise was swinging a club and riding a cart. His was riding a bike. Everyday. To and from work. And so his average basketball skills suddenly seemed top notch, especially since few other dad's even found their way outside. And still he rides into retirement, still able to hop off and get in a basketball game, or go for a run, or most anything else. His game hasn't fallen off much as far as I can tell, but everyone else around him has.

Dad is part nomad. He likes to go. Camping is the cheap way to spend the night on your way somewhere. My uncle tried to explain that he and my dad had differing opinions on camping. For Dad, it's a means to an end. For my uncle, it's an end. I told my uncle that I understood, but that my dad's opinions had a funny way of becoming my opinions. And they have. My approach to sports, to camping, to religion, and probably to life are pretty similar. We have a few differences, but they seem to get fuzzier the farther along we get in this little journey.

Dad is clever. It's a kind of a bad pun, silly poetry sort of clever. The kind that's sometimes too clever for it's own good. That may seem familiar to you.

Dad can teach. There's a reason we share so many opinions. He's been teaching me since before I knew it. He did it with style. Some of the kids fondly called him "Crazy A". He liked his experiements, and his accents. I remember a Swedish Cross Country skier teaching us about force. And I'm pretty sure the lesson on hypothesis was set to the tune of "Things that make you go Hmmm." Thank you C&C music factory. I was bound to pick up a few things along the way.

Was dancing one of them? Dad can dance. This is a more recent development. Last weekend as I'd ask a young woman to dance, I'd have to point to my father and say, "I can't dance like that, you know?" The young ladies didn't seem to mind.

Maybe it's because I've started to look like him too.

Wanderlust settles at slightly above normal
After a room rearrangement and some chats with my friends here, I've decided that I'll stay until past the end of this week. I've got my eye on the mountains though. I'm not sure which range, but I'll tell you it's West of 'ere.

Sisterella
As she stood up in that gazebo holding hands with her soon-to-be husband, it all looked so natural. The strapless white dress was her innocent skin. The veil and the tiara a part of her hair as far back as I could remember. Although the bridesmaids and groomsmen have two, three, or ten inches on the couple in the pictures, that day no two were taller. They fit like they'd always been together at once larger-than-life and tiny perfect puzzle pieces. Smiles shown like sun and stars. My beautiful little sister was growing a family before our eyes and connecting each of us as she did.

The night before at the rehearsal dinner, almost everyone cried, but on this day fewer tears fell. It was quiet, a calm sort, perhaps the sort that only an outdoor wedding not far from the Rockies can have. The earlier rain shower which had elicited some sobs itself, now did seem to bring "good luck" as so many claimed it would. For what better luck than to watch two wonderful kids become one wonderful couple in front of friends and family.

The reception was in the style one would expect of those less accustomed to the grandeur that the ceremony had promised; for ceremonies are about an elegant ideal of love, but receptions are about a crazy little thing called fun. The transition from elegance to fun was a touch rough, but when the crowd finally found its middle-class stride it soared. Through country and R and B that crowd took Backstreets all N'Sync. They swung until they landed right back in the land of elegance, or as close as anyone can get when they take away the whistles. And so,
with all the trappings of a fairy tale, their court cheered as the Mr. and Mrs. kissed and were carried off in a horse drawn carriage.

Wanderlust levels fall to hot pink
It will now take a serious job offer or marriage proposal for me to move immediately.

Hypothetically, how did it go?
Perhaps the expectation level had already risen a tad too high when I returned from her place of employment, flashed my poolside family a thumbs up and then cowered as they erupted in cheers. The whoops were deafening as they bounced off water and tile.

I slept fitfully and no one will ever know if it was because my sister was about to get married or if it was due to the date that may or may not count. Looking back, I'm a little embarrassed that it may have been the latter. A crush that lasted longer than a Metro stop has to be some sort of modern-day record for me. Admittedly, it was probably fueled by the fact that for once I had taken at least some action rather than sitting silently averting my eyes. Or maybe my mule into the Grand Canyon had jarred feeling loose again. Whatever it was, I created a drama that wouldn't unfold, at least not in a night where the eyes were deservedly on my sister and her new husband.

Once seating worked out and the lovely woman was eating dinner beside me, my conversational wizardry was unable to hold her interest for long. I was painfully aware that I was no match for her orthodontist*. When the much anticipated dancing finally arrived, I had already conceded that there was no reason for me to hang around her end of the dance floor and hope like a 7th-grader that maybe we'd dance. I felt a twinge of guilt that soon passed as I managed to find dance partner after dance partner. In a rare move for me, I abandoned "riding the pony" and the infamous "Stayin' Alive Disco manuever" for partner dancing. The moments of silliness were still there and I stepped on more feet than usual, but I had a good time and I have to think that others did too. I rhumba-ed with former neighbors, tango-ed with long lost pals, dipped cousins, do-si-doed Uncles, butt-bounced Aunts, and spun anyone I could, even the beautiful bride.

Lest you think I completely forgot my date, I did squeeze in one, a little swing that made it all worthwhile. Somewhere there while we were spinning to Glenn Miller, I caught that smile- the real genuine fantastic sort of smile that melts yours truly. How did it go? In that instant, with those big brown eyes about to spin away and those fine pearly whites gleaming (my thanks to the orthodonist after all) it went splendidly, thank you.


*That's no metaphor, he was the Maid of Honor's Dad.

Warning: Wanderlust levels very high
I'm about one big reason away from packing up and moving out to Colorado, or other locale with big sky.

Does it count?
Fort Collins, CO- In 2004, I have been challenged to go on a date. It's June. Six months have passed, six months are left. Let's check in.
First, we have to ask, "What is a date?"
Or as my young cousin who I call Tedward would say, "What isn't a date?" He's very helpful that way. A date isn't two friends going to dinner and a party. A date isn't making a dancing buddy while watching a Denver-based band "12 cents for Marvin", no matter what that dancing buddy looks like. That does seem like it's getting closer though, doesn't it?

Here's a hypothetical for you:
Let's just say that two people were going to the same wedding at the end of a week. And let's say that one of them is really cute, gorgeous even, and the other one is me, and all of the good that comes with that. And let's just say that the me one overheard a conversation that involved the gorgeous one trying to decide if she should bring a date to the wedding. And let's say that the me one jumped in and said, "I'll be your date." Moments later the me one realized that perhaps, asking would be a better tactic and amended the previous statement by shouting up the stairs, "K__, will you go to the wedding with me?" And let's say that K__ said, "sure." Then we'll say that my sister chimed in and said, "You can still bring someone if you want." Then after the door was shut the me one might have said sarcastically, "Thanks, alot. As if I don't have enough trouble anyway."

Is it a date, hypothetically of course?

It could be the brewery tour talking
Fort Collins- I went through my old home town of Granby and it brought back a lot of memories. Like the time I walked half a mile to 7-11, just so I could call the stupid phone company and tell them to fix my phone. Or my first visit to the local bar where a 60+ year old local schooled my new friends and I in pool. Or the time my friends stole a golf cart and ended up in prison for Grand Theft Auto. It felt a little like my insides were exploding part of the time. Then again it was nothing like the rampage of this angry Granby resident.

Creepy guy at the mall?
I spent a fair amount of time at the mall this evening. I divided my time between three pursuits: 1. Pants shopping 2. People watching 3. Shake drinking.

1.I am finding it very difficult to find pants that fit at the right price. I am having the same trouble in other areas of my life.

2.I've been noticing heels lately. I don't know if there is an outburst in heel wear, or if I'm suddenly aware of it for different reasons. Are there more summer heels than winter heels? Does ice have anything to do with that? I would like a grant to study heels. I'm not clear what they do exactly. I mean I can see the vertical assistance they provide, but I sense that their appeal goes deeper than that. How much deeper? or how much shallower? I would be interested to compare men's reaction to women in heels vs. women in flats. I'm not sure how I would study this exactly. I then would like to study whether the height of the heel affected perception. This all sounds very foot fetishist, but it isn't.

To prove that I didn't just watch heels, I would also like to mention the middle-schoolers who congregated in front of the bench where I rested. Middle-schoolers are like real people, only smaller and with funny attitudes. Hmm. Amend that to middle-schoolers are like real people, only smaller.

3.Your milkshake might be better than mine, but mine cost 6 bucks. That's highway robbery.

Making up for lost time
I finished Middlesex last night. I slogged through three-fourths of the book, but when I finally hit that last fourth it was great. I can't decide if it was good on its own and I should recommend the last fourth, or if it was good because I battled for so long. All I know is hermaphrodites. I also had a quote from the book I wanted to share, but I can't find it. It was something about men showing their affection by trying to crush women, only it was much better than that.

Imposters
Kate alerted me today of someone carrying on with my name and a mullet. This just won't do. Although, the photo which now decorates the fridge has already received big laughs. Thanks, Kate.

Things that deserve their own posts but have not received them
*My younger sister is getting married next week. It doesn't seem real.
*World War II vets
*Couscous Medley
*The guy that won that Sports Channel Job and went to a familiar university- I've played Ultimate with him. in Texas. without a shirt. Or anything else.
*The price of convenience
*A positive rant. There has to be something...

So this is how it's gonna be
I joined a very low key, come-if-you-want running group at work today. We ran pretty slowly, but having company was really nice. There was one little topic that made me uncomfortable. It's not really their fault, but it went like this.

"So, like, have any of you guys ever run a 4-minute mile?"
At this point we must be churning along at 10 minutes per mile.
We let out a small chorus of nearly scoffed No's.
"Have you been close?"
I kind of mumble, "relatively". I think I was ok with leaving it at that until somebody said "Under 5." I don't know if it was his statement or a question, but I couldn't leave it alone anymore.
"Well, yea, under 5," I said.
"Yea?"
"4:18," I said. I'm proud of the time, don't get me wrong. Those of you that knew me back when, know that's three 100ths slower than I used to say was my best mile time. It's just... I don't know what I'm feeling. And I don't know when it became not ok to be really proud of what I have accomplished.

Look Marathon,
I respect you. I understand that you're 26.2 grueling miles. I used to fear that, but it's not so much the distance I fear anymore. I mean, come on, you let P-diddy and Oprah finish, so given enough time I'm pretty confident that I can finish. It's just that I want to do more than finish. I want to shine. I want people to say, "that was your first? wow."

Here's the thing. The marathon is not a mile. It is not a 5k. I might be able to gut out a marathon, but it won't be pretty that way. So, I've got to plan ahead. I've got to be patient. And, my gosh is that hard. It's what planning a career must be like, or maybe getting married. It's not something that just goes "POOF" (unless you're in Vegas, maybe I should run the Vegas Marathon). I'm not that great at planning ahead or being patient.

So Marathon, if you can help me out a little, keep things interesting, make things fun. I would really appreciate it. That way when I crush you or you crush me, we can still be friends.

Spinning my wheels and shuffling along
Perhaps cross training on the bike was not so wise after the mule ride.

The mule ride?
You know the one.
It descended into the fiery pits of hell.
No. No. NO. Not that mule ride. The one that descended into the Grand Canyon.

Ohhh. Yea. So I've just seen the sun rise over the Grand Canyon. It's pretty neat,though I hear it does that almost every day. It's funny though, when that bright shiny orb becomes fully visible people stop squinting into the sun and start to look around at one another. They don't look directly at each other for fear that they will burn their eyes and go blind, but there is a certain restless wandering of the eyes and body. They, and me for that matter, are starting to wonder exactly when sunRISE ends and becomes just plain sun. It turns out, that's very much a personal decision.

Jack Palance, or his third cousin twice removed, introduces us to the mules and the dangers of the Grand Canyon. "This is not a ride at Disney World" he tells us. 45 minutes of safety dance, er talk, later and he's put the fear in me. One woman nearly backs out. My heart titters a bit, but I steel myself, pump testosterone through my veins, and await my mule assignment.

Randy, the guide, just got out of jail yesterday, Jack's cousin mentions in passing. Randy laughs it off and tells us, "You're going to have a good time if you stick with me. I have a great sense of humor." Sticking with our guide was the gist of the previous 45 minutes; I'll be stickin' I think.

Nora lets me on and we begin our day together. Nora is an ass. Well, not entirely of course, she's also part horse. I spend the first half an hour, taking quick glances at my vast surroundings and long hard stares at my clenched fist on the saddle. Sometimes Nora trips and stumbles a bit. Sometimes Nora thinks the easiest path is also the one that puts my side slightly over the edge of a large precipice. This takes a little getting used to, but eventually I do. I start to look around more. The Grand Canyon is big. I might have guessed from the name. It's really so vast, that I don't think I was ever able to grasp it's size.

We're clomping along when all of the water that I've been drinking from my canteen realizes that in a dry heat, it cannot escape from my pores. So, it wants to escape the other way. It really wants to escape that way. And I'm bouncing along, clomp,clomp, just bouncing and trying to figure out how I'm going to let the water escape. I hate to stop our procession. Maybe I can hold it. Bounce, bounce, bounce. I have to go. BAD. At the next turn, I'll ask our guide to stop. Bounce, bounce, bounce. The next turn, er, the turn after, er, bounce, bounce, bounce. It'll dry quickly if I just let loose. No. That's ridiculous.
"Randy. I need to relieve myself."
"Can you hold it?"
"I've been trying."
"We'll stop up ahead."

This is the most Randy has said. I don't find it funny. When I dismount though, oh man, what a relief. I empty a canteen on the trail. It'll dry soon. I'm serious, I'm pissing like a race horse, or at least a Grand Canyon mule. It's impressive. Not really, but at least I proved that I really had to go. And I proved it to everyone in my group, because I basically just turned and went. Ok, that's enough...

So, there's more canyon and there's more bouncing, but now it's all very vast and beautiful and enjoyable. We get to our stopping point and I tell Randy, "When do I get to hear that sense of humor? It's been pretty subtle so far." I think people who claim they are funny, should have to prove it. Randy makes excuses. Maybe he's having an off day. It turns out, it is his first day back since he got out of jail last week. I'll cut him some slack. I'm sure he kicked the crap out of one of those wimpy park rangers. They're hard on the locals, he tells me. I don't think I offer the necessary sympathy, but he lets it pass. We've come down 3,000 feet. It's 1,400 more to the river. We turn and head back up.

More bouncing, more views. Uphill is easier than down. Or else I've got the hang of this whole thing. It's also like being on a whole different trail. Looking up at the Grand Canyon does not reduce it's Grand effects, but it's different.

My thighs are chafing. The middle of my back is starting to hurt. Nora is starting to drag a bit. I have to use "the motivator" a little more often. The rest of my group is too tired to even use "the motivator". And so they fall farther and farther behind. The view starts to look the same and the whiners start to get louder. I'd like to use "the motivator" on a few of them.

I AM TRYING TO ENJOY A GRAND CANYON EXPERIENCE HERE. PLEASE SHUT YOUR GIANT HOLE SO I CAN ENJOY THIS ONE.

I say nothing. I can understand their pain. It's hot. My back hurts. I'm ready to get off the mule and my ass, but I'm not whining. Geez.

We make it to the top. I say goodbye and thank you to Nora. I graduate as a Master Mule Skinner of the Grand Canyon. It is the greatest honor since the last not great honor I received. I have the certificate to prove it. Better than that, I have an experience. I took a mule part way down the Grand Canyon and I survived. I never could wrap my brain around the size of the G.C., but maybe I'm not supposed to. Maybe that's what makes it a wonder of the world.

Life. Love. Yeah.
This is absolutely beautiful and got my heart pounding. In case you were wondering- there's no way it's me, because I don't know this woman. The thing is, some day for someone it's going to be me. At moments like this, that's just cherry.

At the end of the Spotlights
Unsure of what to do and where to go next, I spotted the universal signal for overhyped event- the dancing spotlights in the sky. I was a moth and the spotlights were, like, um, spotlights...

New Orleans has Bourbon. Austin has Sixth (Texas, because Austin, MN has the SPAM museum). From my limited research it appears that Tempe, AZ has Mill Ave. I fluttered my way through a wide variety of Westerners on Mill. There were middle-schoolers, fully sluttified. There were middle-aged tourists. There were motorcycle enthusiasts and their jealous girlfriends. I saw bicycle cops busting drivers with fortys. I can't confirm it, but I am sure someone must have been cruising. And as to be expected when you line a street with bars, there were 20-somethings. I flew through all of this with only the occasional glance at the bumper crop of plunging necklines and small-of-the-back tatoos. When did the unmarked back become the pleasant surprise?

Drawn to the light, I finally arrived at the source. My pot of gold was another bar. I knew it would be and yet somehow I was disappointed. It had a name like Froggy Frog's or The Beach Bash or something else unmemorable. The music pulsed and the lights flashed. I stood in the courtyard and looked in, wondering what the cover charge would be. Inside hot women gyrated. Don't worry mom, it's a dry heat out there.

I didn't know what to do. What could I do with a pulsing, flashing, gyrating place like that? Feel the same way I feel now, but have paid 10 dollars for it. I thought of the moth and how it circles the light, until it's crashing into it and bouncing off, probably dying before the light even goes out. I didn't want to be the moth. I turned away from the bright lights with one last look at the gyrating and went to get a scoop of ice cream.

Put that in your mobile and smoke it

Dear cell phone (ab)users,

I will grant you two things:
1. Cell phones can be useful in emergencies.
2. Cell phones can be useful for meeting (or not meeting).

Now, I rant.
I am sick and tired of hearing your personal conversations. I don't care what errands you have to run. I know what station we are approaching. I'm terribly sorry that your sister's husband kidnapped his child. I'm even sorrier that I have to hear about it. Please feel free to argue with your boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse/mom/dad in my presence. I don't mind. The more emotional you are the better. It would help me enjoy the soap opera that is Y-O-U even more if you could be physically violent. Pound things, yell, act like we're in your home. It is a small world after all.

I find that when you leave a party, a lunch, or a dinner because you have to answer your phone, it is a reflection on your disinterest in me. It's fair. I'm not that interesting. Neither are you, and you certainly aren't interesting enough for people to need to talk to you RIGHT NOW. They'll leave a message. Get over yourself.

If you decide to make calls in my presence, please have the courtesy to 1. move away from me or 2. let me know you will be placing a call. This way if I start to tell a story I won't be interrupted by the sound of your voice or I won't suddenly drive off the road because you started saying "Hello!" in your professional voice and scared the beejeezus out of me.

If you call me once because you are stuck in traffic and you want to hear my voice or you were thinking of me, it's kind of cute. If you do it often- stop. If you cannot carve out a little time in your busy schedule to talk to me, what you have to say cannot possibly be that important to me. If it is, please write me a letter instead. You keep pens in your car, don't you?

If you are somewhere with people that I love and you just know I would wish I was there; you're probably right. A call, however, from a noisy bar is not the same as being there. It's a lot closer to the opposite. Skip the call and tell me about it later. We can reminisce about those special people and have a moment.

If you are about to lose service, but decide to call me anyway, please realize that when the phone dies I will scream and curse you and you'll have no way to defend yourself.

If I call you and you're really not available to talk, don't pick up the phone. I too can leave a message. Let me give you some possible places where it's ok to let my call go to voicemail. Say you're 1. at a movie. 2. having sex 3. at a movie having sex. 4. At a concert 5. Any other place where you might be unable to hear or talk at this moment. Don't pick it up. Our friendship can survive the extra two hours of not speaking. In fact, if you let it go to voicemail I can pretend you never got the message when you don't call me back. If you talk to me, I'm much harder to ignore.

Cell phones are becoming like cigarettes. If I see one in your hand I feel a little disgusted by you. I know all cell phone users are not bad people, just like all cigarette smokers are not bad people. Second hand cell phone use, like secondhand smoke, is a killer. And when it's not, it's annoying the beejeezus out of me. Keep it up and I'll give you an emergency to call someone about.

Good morning suckers
or I am not on E
Warm and pretty wanes
rising sun
screeching cicadas
The Aliens landed in my backyard.
I remember
walkin' banjos
and talk
more talk
a whirlwind of talk
and then silence
Yellowy green
Salty and sweet
I feel
warm and pretty
tired and close.
My chums,
I think
I love yous.

What have I done?
I don't have Ultimate this weekend. I've "given it up" for Marathon. Is running my lent? How the heck do you spell lint? "Given it up" is in quotes because I am beginning to doubt the wisdom of that decision.

What have I done? I've freed up my Saturdays, so I'll have to plan them better. This one had a little too much lounging and way too much Sex and The City. Tonight, when I go hang out, there is a very good possibility that I won't be exhausted. I'll have to think of new excuses for my social awkwardness. I haven't seen anyone all day. I opened the door once and stuck my head out. What have I done? NOTHING. I don't like it at all. Lucky for me, there's another Saturday coming up next week. Next week I'll do it better.

Just one more, for now
Picture me in a long dark hallway or a cave. You're up close, level with my face and then you pull back and up; it's dark, but you can still see me as you drift away and I scream, "What am I supposed to do with that?"

More questions. Some answers
Why is argyle sexy?
Why is paisely in?
Who's better than Netflix? She is.
Have I been engaged?!? Um. Not that I recall.

Answers not required
Do you ever have moments where your past and future seem to be glued-together velcro slowly being pried apart? Where your heart seems to molt like so many cicadas? Are you afraid that it will only molt once?

Do you ever look back at the pieces of your life and notice the way one thing does seem to lead to another? And that things really are ok? As promised, I remind you.

Does it ever seem like nothing can ever be as good as it was, except for that one thing which will make everything perfect? And aren't you afraid that while you're looking forwards and backwards you'll miss what's perfect right there in front of you? If you stand on the corner and wait until all of the cars from your past have passed and all of the cars of your future have not yet come into view, will you ever cross the street?

And is it just me or is the ticking of the clock getting louder? Are the days getting longer and the ways to waste them, not in the sipping lemonade and reading a book sort of way either, getting more numerous?

Is there a lesson in that?
Mean Girls wasn't very good. Saved! wasn't very good. They both were teen comedies. They both had a moral that boiled down to "Can't we all get along". Mean had Lindsay Lohan. Saved! had Mandy Moore. I no longer like Mandy Moore. I still like Lindsay Lohan. Saved! dealt with teen pregnancy the way most people deal with pimples. Mean dealt with anthropology, sort of.

All of that to tell you that I liked Saved! better. Not because it was good to see the elder Culkin kid working either. Saved! didn't try to be more. It didn't suggest that it had greatness inside, that it could be funnier, more moving, or in anyway better. It was what it was.

Glossing over the teen pregnancy thing did bother me a bit though...

Bright lights, tight pants
I'm so surburban it hurts. We can pretend that I live in the city, one that purports to be edgy and hip, though the Philadelphians may disagree. I don't live in THE city. I live in a suburb. And even if that suburb is hipper and happeninger than anywhere I've ever lived before, it's still SUBurban. The urban areas have night life. The urban areas have people in tight pants mulling. Suburban areas lack the tight pants element even when people mull at all.

That's no excuse. I live close enough that I could get out there and be part of the purported hipness, at least stand on its outskirts instead of just reclining on my couch in the outskirts.

Should I move? Even if I was in the tight pants zone, I'm not sure I would get out. The tight-panted seem to be partaking in some combination of the following: smoking, drinking, conversing. I am not particularly fond of combining those elements. So I would end up in my little city apartment, and if I paid an arm and a leg (more like all of my limbs in this area) perhaps I could poke my head out (since that's all that's left of me anyway) and watch the tight pants and their smoking, drinking, conversing good time. But I wouldn't. Generally, that's not how I have a good time.

So, what's the problem? There are so many women my age out there. And so few in here. I briefly considered converting the house into a speakeasy complete with secret knock, but Spoilsport said they'd only come here to smoke anyway to escape the local ban. So, I'm stuck. I've got nothing to lure the tight pants out of the city and no tight pants of my own (metaphorically speaking).

I'll be sitting in my rocking chair on the front porch if you need me.

The Greatest
In Ultimate, a player may leap from inbounds, grab a flying disc and throw it back into play before he/she hits the ground. If that disc is caught by a teammate the player has completed a "Greatest".

I've never completed a Greatest, but I want to.

Sunday afternoon I had already sweated buckets as I charged back, forth, to, AND fro chasing that 175 gram disc. It was reported from the sidelines that some were questioning whether the guy in the red shirt ever stopped running. I try not to. It's what they pay me for, after all. (They don't pay me.) Hot days are hard on me. The team had been playing well, but we were starting to get tired. I was being covered by a young man they call "Scrapper". A pass went up to our Captain on the home sideline. He snatched it out of the air. While he was turning up field, I faked hard toward him and then propelled myself toward the back corner of the endzone. I had a good two steps on Scrapper. Our captain zipped me one of his trusty lefty backhands. Tired minds and tired muscles can destroy things like trusty lefty backhands. The backhand was going to be reachable, but not before it went out of bounds. I could see the back cone out of the corner of my eye. I planted my foot and leapt out after the disc. As I took off, my calf muscle seized up in a cramp. I grabbed the disc and snapped my wrist to send it flying back into play before I landed on the ground. The disc went up and then trailed away further out of bounds. I watched it flutter away in the wrong direction and then like a baby suddenly realizing that his pacifier is missing, I collapsed to the ground seized by the pain in my calf muscle. The Greatest attempt was now just a pain in my leg.

Everyone is on top of the world, except the miners
Parking garages have somehow managed to become a place of solace for me, and I don't even know what solace is. At night, when everyone has gone home to park in their driveways or use the valets, many a parking garage stands empty or nearly empty. Empty parking garages are almost as lonely as full ones. The wacky thing about parking garages is that they are buildings built up, up, up so that you can park. your. car. Massive structures of steel and concrete and neon are built only to hold our massive steel and plastic vehichles that are made to move. Like so many of us, many garages do their job during the day and sit empty at night.

If I climb to the top of a parking garage I find more than a bunch of parking spaces. I find a new perspective. I can float above the trees and find my home below. If I look carefully through the construction I can see the whole world. I can watch all the little people and the little paths they take. I don't have the patience to linger in the home of so many spaces, but for a moment I can be right when I think, "I'm above this."

This is my fictionalized version of Rob’s version of his recent business trip.


The Rob Show heads south
We join Rob cruising south down I-95 in the left lane. He’s at the wheel of a big white van, gummi worms in his pocket and a handful of Runts in his mouth. Some men his age would not be comfortable at the wheel of a van, but Rob has been driving vans since they dominated the soccer mom scene. When soccer moms left for SUVs, Rob stayed with the van, so he’s no stranger to this mode of family transportation. Instead of a family, today Rob has coworker Shelly riding shotgun. Shelly is the Mary Tyler Moore to Rob’s Lou Grant, except in this sitcom Lou is the title character.

Four lanes, a white van, the rising sun, Rob and Shelly heading south to Raleigh, North Carolina. Four lanes, a white van, a black cat streaking across their path on this morning run to Raleigh. An omen of things to come? Rob and Shelly exchange nervous glances. Rob grabs a handful of gummi worms and mixes them with leftover Runts. He gulps them down, then washes it all down with a nice hit off his 44 oz. Mountain Dew. Ah, mornings. “Nothing to worry about,” he tells Shelly. “Gummi Worm?”

Shelly politely declines and the white van hurtles on. In less than 2 hours they’ll be in Raleigh and ready to join forces with other workers who are setting the stage for the Bike-across-part-of-NC or some other worthy cause. Even Rob isn’t sure what he does, but he does it well and that’s why they send him to places like Altoona, North Carolina.

“I thought we were going to Raleigh,” Shelly says to Rob.

“We were, but the signals got crossed and the event actually starts in Altoona. It’s only 45 more minutes off the highway.”

One lane, gravel road, Shelly and Rob bumping their way to Altoona.

Less than 2 hours turns into less than 5 hours. Eventually the van pulls into Altoona. Rob is famished as he is wont to be. There’s no time for him to eat. The local events coordinator needs his assistance. It should only take an hour. They just need to put up some signs for tomorrow’s Bike Ride for the Children, so the riders know where to go- then Rob can eat, no problem.

Small problem; an hour turns into 3 and by this time its midnight, which means Rob and Shelly have not only endured a hell of a day, but they also seemed to have lost like 6 hours of the day with no explanation. Finally they get the signs up and now all of the bike riders will know exactly where to go during their Ride to Stop War. Rob and Shelly are weak with hunger. They venture into Altoona and after circling both streets repeatedly they realize that there is nowhere to eat. Rob pulls out the last of the gummi worms and they share those while they search for the hotel that will supply their beds for the next few hours. Don’t forget they have to be up for the “Ride to Prevent Scioraisis” by 5 am, because they need to work the registration tents. Rob and Shelly haven’t forgotten. That night Rob sleeps like any loyal husband away from his wife. Shelly will claim she heard tears, but Rob will deny it.

Up at 5 am, the white van heads to the local high school track where they are to set up the tents. One small problem- the sun is not up yet. There’s no light pollution in Altoona. It’s black as that cat they saw on I-95. A crafty events veteran pulls his Chevy Malibu onto the infield and turns on the headlights. Rob leads the troops as they fight to the back of the trucks to remove the tables that have to be set up first.

“Who packed this?” Rob mumbles to himself. Eventually, the registration tents get set up, despite the Mailbu’s tendency to automatically turn off its lights repeatedly. The sun rises and the first of the Bikers to Save the Whales arrives chomping at the bit to start the event.

Rob’s troops have to turn away the early risers.
“The event starts at 7:30,” he calmly explains.

The early risers hem and haw, desperate to start so that they can reach the end sooner and Protect the Forests faster.

Shelly explains the course and the riders head off, just as God turns on the showers. Rain. And lots of it. Bikers, hundreds of them, are getting soaked by the downpour. Rob and Shelly don’t have time to worry. They hop in the white van and head to the first tricky check point. Their responsibility is to make sure that the riders who want to ride 100 miles go to the left and the riders who want to ride 60 miles go to the right.

It takes them 35 minutes of winding through the nonexistent suburbs of Altoona and the pouring rain of North Carolina Spring time before they make it to their check point. Standing drenched in the rain they direct the riders who haven’t already passed. The weary looking get “Go Right. RIGHT!” The speedy, and those with especially attractive calves are directed to the left. The rain pours on.
More than one Southern Gentleman stops to ask if Rob and Shelly need a lift. When they decline, the gentlemen turn gruff and peel away, angry that they don’t get to use their Southern charm and manners to save a few Northern fools standing out in the rain.

Finally, the last of the riders have been set on their course. Back to the white van the two wet coworkers head for that evening’s camp. They wind through North Carolina. Shelly works the maps and Rob coaxes the van to the next town. And through the next town. And through every small town in North Carolina. When they finally arrive, Rob figures they have an hour to rest before the riders pull in. He parks the van and notices a pack of riders coming up the hill. So much for that hour. He then walks to the camp and realizes that pack is the last half of the riders. The big guns have beaten them to the camp.

Dinner would be the ideal task, but instead Rob, Shelly, and the NC crew have to figure out how to cram 400 bikes into a gymnasium that could easily fit 200. Eventually they manage to balance the bikes against walls, against chairs, against lockers, and in locker room showers until all 400 are protected from the elements.

The rain stops.

Rob and Shelly could stay with the riders for a big Spaghetti dinner, but instead choose to take the van to the nearest greasy spoon. After some searching they do manage to get food, but just barely.

They squeeze in to Charlie’s or Fred’s or Derek’s at 10:25. The doors close at 10:30. The host already had his tennis shoes on. The waitress is none to happy to see them.
She no more than hands them the menus then asks, “Do you know what you want?”

Rob wonders where the Southern hospitality is now. The waitress grabs the menus and asks again, “Do you know what you want?”

“Trout” Rob says.

“And to drink?”

“Sam Adams?”

The menus and the waitress leave. Shelly ordered, but she’s not the main character here. Her scene is coming. Relax.

Another waitress comes back with the beers. She slams them on the table, peanut shells scatter and she says gruffly, “That’s last call.” They never see that waitress again.

Rob’s trout arrives. If it wasn’t hot, he would’ve wondered if it had been cooked at all. The head is intact, the fish skin is intact. Looks delicious, he thinks, if you’re a cat.

Rob and Shelly survive dinner and head to a local motel.
They see “No Vacancy” after “No Vacancy”. Finally when they arrive at the Eager Beaver Lodge or Muskrat Love Motel or the Flying Crow Hotel they have found a place with some rooms. While securing their rooms, Rob asks, “What’s going on in town?”

“Why, it’s the Putt-Putt tournament, honey,” the woman behind the desk explains as she points out the window. Rob looks and sees a crowd brandishing their putters up on the hill. No one knows why they were on the hill with clubs in the air at that hour. Somethings just don’t get asked. Other things do.

“You mean mini-golf?”
“Sure. Now, here’s what your room will look like,” she says as she opens a door nearby.

Rob should’ve been tipped off by this strange display, but the room looked normal and he was exhausted.

The kind woman leads them around back to their rooms as she explains that she and her husband had just bought the place and had it cleaned, so everything should be in great shape. She is altogether too pleased with herself, but again Rob is too tired to care.

“Your rooms,” she says as she gestures a bit too majestically for a woman with a hairnet. The woman looks in her hand at the keys and suddenly crosses her arms, handing Shelly what logically would’ve been Rob’s key and handing Rob what had seemed to be Shelly’s.

Odd, very odd, Rob thinks. He soon finds out why-- his room has the unmistakable smell of urine. Shelly says her room is ok.

Sitting out on the sidewalk between the rooms, Rob and Shelly fight off a few bugs and lament the unbelievable weekend they are having.

Rob’s keen eye spots a strange object over by the dumpster. He stands up, walks over, and has a look. A snake!

“Shelly, I think there’s a snake by the dumpster.”

Shelly comes over to confirm the snake’s presence. Neither can confirm whether the snake is still breathing, so they leave it alone by the dumpster and return to the concrete between their rooms. Not 3 minutes go by before several small toads hop up next to Shelly. She stands up in a huff, says, “I’m going to bed,” slams her door and leaves Rob out on the concrete alone.

He soon follows suit, choosing the bed that smells the least like urine and falls into a slightly satisfying slumber.

The next morning comes quickly. The pair head back to the camp to help extract 400 bikes from a gymnasium. The worker bees are up before the riders and they begin removing bikes as fast as they can. Bikes spill out onto the lawn, placed haphazardly wherever there is space.

“Whatever happened to kickstands?” Rob wonders aloud.

The Bikers for United Way wake to find their high-dollar two wheel machines scattered in the grass. They are visibly and verbally upset. “Why didn’t you put them up on trees?” they whine.

Rob looks at the 3 trees within 100 meters. He looks at the hundreds of bikes. He smiles apologetically but says nothing. He didn’t get this far by being a moron.

The riders settle down and head out on their way. Within ten minutes, the rain starts up again.

“You bastard,” they curse at Rob, God, and each other. “If only you hadn’t made us care so much about diabetes and bike riding.”

Wet and weary, the riders carry on. Meanwhile Rob and Shelly realize they have descended even further into the depths of North Carolina. Even if the Carolinas had decent highways, it would take them 7 hours to get home. Realizing this fact, Rob and Shelly manage to sweet-talk the other workers and head out.

“I’m never going on another business trip,” Shelly says as they near home.

Coming Soon
Look for the director’s cut at Candy and Monsters

The hand of fate
won't carry me now. I, and my esteemed Smithmates, will be running in the Marine Corps Marathon come this fall. Dust off the running shoes and put the disc down, because it's about time to get serious. This guy who doesn't plan for the weekend is now looking to create a plan that lasts until Halloween. Holy Commitment Batman!

Misty black and white hued memories
My VCR is on its last legs. It has taken to playing everything in black and white, when it plays at all. Black and white TV always reminds me of black and white TV. When I was just a wee lad, we had a black and white TV in the basement. Day time television posed a challenge for my mother and me. I wanted to watch "Sesame Street" and she wanted to watch "All my Children". Neither of us wanted to watch the other, so we took turns watching our show without color in the basement. I don't remember having a problem with that. I can't remember how the seating arrangement worked down there, but I can imagine that I plopped down on the "Sit 'N Spin" or bounced around on that big yellow ball with a horse head and handles while I watched that big black and white bird and his neighbors. For some reason I also remember grilled cheese sandwiches. They were in color.

Growing Pains
Last week I may have suggested that there hasn't been much growth in the last 10 years. My lack of growth might be an exaggeration. I've learned a trick or two. Why, I can make grocery store brownies without help from my mom. And while 10 years is longer than I've known most of my readership, I'd like to think I've learned a few things since I met you. Maybe not a whole lot, but a little. Sure, there are lots of things the same. Yes, I may not be "growing up"(yesterday's post)as fast as some of you, but I'm not stagnant.

As a friend of mine, I trust that you'll call me out when you think I'm not being true to myself, but by the same token I trust that you won't always see me the same way, that you'll give me a chance to change. I might be slow, but I can be better.

Pants, or the lack thereof
I'm very sad that I missed NO PANTS DAY! I've been known to celebrate in short intervals, but never for a full day. Maybe next year we can celebrate together.

Out wit' da boyz
I've these little homies who just like to chill like ice cold milk. Me and 'bout 9 of them hooked up tonight and did some serious couch cruising. Keep it real, E.L. Fudge.

Fufu
Wasn't there a bunny that went by this name? I had fufu as a side dish for dinner. It was kind of potato-like, but also a lot like mushed- together bread.

Subpar expectations
Expectations seem to be playing far too dominant a role in my everyday experiences. If I expect a movie to be good I hold it to a higher standard. Movies that shouldn't be good end up being pleasant surprises, and movies that should be good end up as crap. This goes beyond movies. Let's look at weekends. Somewhere along the line weekends have become an expectation fest. First thing at work on Monday, everyone is asking "What did you do this weekend?" Isn't part of the joy of some weekends that you didn't do nothing? Or Ultimate. I now expect to catch everything. I make a nice catch and I barely pat myself on the back, but if I drop it- I'm extremely disappointed. It can even taint my enjoyment.

Maybe it's time to expect a little less. How's that for a new motto?

Is there anything left to say?
The finale has been disected, discussed, and destroyed everywhere I look. It's probably all been said, but just in case I thought I'd add:
-I thought the skirt-boot combination that Rachel wore was killer.
-Remind me again why Ross couldn't give up his life and move to Paris?
-I just wanted to cry. Why couldn't you make me cry? Stupid TV and its uselessness as a substitute for real connections and emotions.

I'm awesome. Don't make fun
Ten years ago yesterday I drove to and from piano lessons with my pink learner's permit folded up in my pocket. I didn't "kill" the manual transmission on either trip and I was very proud.

Ten years ago I was just starting to run. I didn't even know what Ultimate was. The previous winter I went on my first ski trip.
Ten years ago I was a debater. My friends stayed over and we played video games. We took standardized tests. We mowed lawns for money. Ten years ago I was in Health class and I hated it, but Ace Ventura was brand new and I loved him. I had a friend called "Tequila Styrofoam" when I was "Chocolate Cellophane." Ten years ago, summer vacation was just around the corner, once I survived finals. I was headed to Science and Math Camp, Iowa, and the Megamall in Minnesota. Ten years ago the world was driving, running, and women in that order. Look how far I've come.

At least I got the driving thing down pretty well.

Work- it's not just for the dimwitted anymore

"I'm thinking of renaming the 'My Documents' folder in your honor, sort of a memorial."

"But, I'm not dead."

"I know. That's why I've named it 'The Big Jar' for now. So when someone asks me for something I can say, 'hold on, let me look in the big jar.'"

Good mooorning Mr. Orkut
Before I block this memory out too, I wanted to mention a question from Orkut that I found particularly insightful.
Orkut sez, "What have you learned from past relationships?"
And I sez, "Don't be an idiot."

Again I lie, since I'm still an idiot.

Thanks Universe
“Tell me a story,” she said. I blanked. Suddenly the only thing that had ever happened in my life was happening right now. I’d never been hit by a chair lift. I’d never lived in a house with so little heat that we lounged in our stocking caps. I’d never pretended to have frostbite, or run away from home, or laughed, or cried, or even been outside this Tex-Mex restaurant. For 25 years, I had worn this Hawaiian shirt and sat in this booth and looked into those sharp confident eyes and seen that bright white smile widen as I searched the empty recesses of my mind. The flower in her hair didn’t know my history. The chips and salsa offerered no help at all. I was caught completely without a story.

The Universe (where time is not linear, I remind you) seized the opportunity to give me a story. I wouldn’t know it for another 20 or 30 minutes, but the Universe had set its many gears in motion. “This poor young man needs a story,” bellowed the Universe, “and we’re just the ones to give it to him.”

Give it to me they did.

As Diana(she’s the "she" of that soon-to-be-fateful request) and I returned to where I had parked my trusty Saturn, I discovered that it was missing. I stared across the street where it had been parked some hours ago.

“My car seems to be missing.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. It’s missing.”
I stared some more. It was not reappearing. It wasn’t hidden by the only other vehichle in the lot.
“This is a very elaborate prank?”
“No.”
More staring. Little to no reappearing.
My mind now began to process some things.
“There’s a BMW dealer down the street, so who would steal a ‘92 Saturn?”
“You’re not kidding.”
“No.”

Closer examination reveals a towing sign with a phone number. I make the necessary call, get the good news that my car was not in fact jacked, only towed. Meanwhile, Diana is going to get her car so we can retrieve mine. She returns on foot and asks, “What kind of mood are you in right now?”

I’ve been towed before. I’ve just been told that the release fee is just under $100. That’s the cheapest fee I’ve ever heard. This is Northern Virginia. The tap water costs just under $100, yea, so I’m calm.
“I’m pretty calm.”

“Then you might think this is funny.”
My mind races (yea, I know, I know, blank when I need a story, but racing now). “Your car is gone?” “No.” “Your car won’t start?” “No.” “You don’t own a car? What?!”

“My keys are locked in the apartment.”

“Now, I’ve got a story.”

Conversation is not an art
It's a war. I thought I was a conversational sniper in that war, but I'm not adept enough to be a sniper. I'd say I'm more of a guerilla soldier. One or more armies are marching along to do battle or are already engaged in battle, when I leap from behind the trees and fire off some shots. Maybe I hit. Maybe I miss. Usually I don't know since I'm scurrying back into the trees to hide out until my next opportunity arises.

My superpower
When I first saw a poster of ScissorFight, which is a cherry band name, I said, "Are they from Nebraska?"

For a day I thought I had discovered my calling. I could look at people and determine what state they were from. Then I found out ScissorFight was from New Hampshire. That wasn't supposed to happen. Maybe if I'd seen the lead singer's beard--it's so totally Manchester. What was I thinking? The bass player's John Deere cap distracted me. The song lyrics "Getting down, up in the country" would've helped too, but then it wouldn't be the same, would it?